let's go to the sea

As you sliced down another beastman in your wake, saving a soldier’s head in the process, an armoured figure manifested behind you, throwing an arm around your neck and pulling you back into their chest.

“My, my, what do we have here?” Sleipnir’s voice tickled into your ear as you squirmed.

“This isn’t the time, they’re advancing-"

“Ah, ah, ah,” He tsks. “My liege has bid me to remove you from here at once. Come.” You hadn’t tried to hide yourself away in the depths today, instead simply returned to your chambers, changed out of your armour and into one of the many dresses Barnabas had commissioned for you – all in a complementary inky blue and black to match his own threads. You sit down on the edge of your bed, take a steadying breath and await the inevitable summon by the Lord Commander to atone for your disobedience.

You fiddle with the crystal-infused bracelets around your left wrist – one on each, crafted with orichalcum. The only thing that could break them was Odin’s grip. You’d tried to remove them of course - trying to slip them over your hand using all methods of slick – water, soap, oil… and blood, from when you’d tried too hard.

They hurt. A dull, constant ache from being cut off from your ability to manipulate aether - something you’d done for years for the people of your village, with the blessing of Leviathan.

Not that you’d ever primed, though.

Being the Dominant of Leviathan was something Barnabas appeared to deem you unworthy of, but one that you could prove yourself under his tutelage and care. You hadn’t had much choice in the matter – it was come willingly, or come unwillingly and watch your village be razed to the ground. The bracelets come off only under his watchful eye on very rare occasions, and always sealed back on before too long under his heated palms – no trace of the crack that was once there, the seams perfectly melded once more.

Years you’ve been here, studying the religious word, tutored in the blade by Odin himself, and Sleipnir when the king was preoccupied with other duties. You were taken through daily grueling training regimes, before you began to take on opponents from the Waloeder army itself. Never to kill – Barnabas was clear about that – but to test your skill for the day you will face Mythos. But until then, there was never any talk of you being sent out to battle, despite the amount of times the Enherjar had set sail with bloodshed in her sights.

And though the result of your training over the years is clear - your prowess with the blade, your form complimented often by the king - you were still banned from the battlefield, even when the conflict is on the doorstep, the enemy hammering upon the very doors of the keep.

Whispers of Ultima in your ear, your part in his grand plan, yet never allowed to meet.

Benedikta, on the other hand, is often sent out on missions – the latest being to get Hugo Kupka on side by any means. She is not fettered either, using Garuda’s strength at will, even to send strong gusts to try and topple you in the courtyard for her own amusement.

“You, little lamb, are too delicate,” she’d pinch at you with her words, then grasp at your wrist in amusement, squeezing at the bracelet as if to dig it into your skin. “Not to be trusted with your own power, hm?”

She was sent out with her own men – a troop she’d hand-selected to serve by her side. Complimented by Barnabas on her return for her exemplary work, rewarded with a feast, toasted with overflowing cups of wine.

Should you want to be praised by your captor? Was he even truly that anymore? You hadn’t tried to leave once. It seemed pointless. But, after so many years in his company, you’d be a liar to ignore the gnawing ache to be accepted by him.

A cursory knock announces Sleipnir’s arrival. You get to your feet and open the door, stepping out without being prompted or coerced. He bows – mockingly perhaps, but you could never really tell – and nods at your attire in approval before he grabs you by the crook of your elbow in a pincer-type grip. He doesn’t need to tell you that you’ve been summoned.

You walk in silence for a while, his grip remaining firm, until you break the silence, noting you are not heading to the throne room.

“Where are we going?”

“The king has requested your presence in his chambers, my lady.”

That makes your stomach squirm – you’d never been summoned to his chambers before. “Don’t coddle me, Sleipnir, how bad is it?”

He looks over to you and smiles, as if you’d told a joke. “I’d advise holding your tongue, my lady, or I fear you may well lose it.”

“Ah.”

You reach Barnabas’ chambers at the top of Castle Black all too soon and Sleipnir pauses, letting go of your elbow but then his fingers immediately begin to fiddle with your hair. Your braids had loosened from the exertion in the fight - it would be unwise to greet your king unkempt.

“There.” He concludes, happy with his work. “This is where I must leave you. I do so hope to see you again, my lady.” He smirks, holding an arm across his chest as he bows. His final act is to knock once upon the heavy oak doors before he opens them and shoves you inside before you can show any hesitation.

Barnabas Tharmr, Warden of Ash, King of Waloed, Dominant of Odin is sat on his bed, facing the window away from you. From his stance, you can tell he has his legs spread wide as he leans back, his arms propped behind, keeping him upright and his fingers are gripped tightly on the inky blue satin sheets.

The door behind you closes and your heart feels it might beat out of your chest in trepidation.

Barnabas leans forward then, lifting his right hand in the air, snapping his fingers once – the sound echoing around the chamber like a bolt - before pointing down at the floor in front of him and lowering his hand once more.

You walk around the bed then, obediently, and kneel at his feet without looking at him, tucking your legs beneath you, bowing your head down low as if you made to kiss his boots - the way he demands and expects to be greeted.

“You, little one, defied my orders.”

You take this as the moment pertinent to Sleipnir’s advice from before, and remain silent, staring at his legs instead – leather splattered with dirt from the ground and the blood of his enemies. He can’t have been long back. The man is all leathers, belts wrapped around his thighs and waist, some embossed with silver. You wonder how long it takes him to dress in the morning, whether Sleipnir assists.

“I was abundantly clear that you were to remain inside, little one.” He knows that nickname irritates you – it has done for years – it belittles your place in his court, so he delights in using it. He refuses to use your name, or maybe it’s just been so long he’s forgotten. “Yet what do I find? You, on the battlefield, swinging around the very blade that I crafted for you, that I gifted you, that I taught you how to wield, sullied with the blood of beastmen that I bid you stay away from.”

You still hold your tongue.

His hand grips your chin then, tilting your head up to face him with a jerk and your eyes meet his – full of disapproval.

“Speak.”

“I could not sit idle any longer.”

He barks out a laugh as he lets go. “Idle? Whatever do you mean, little one? You have your duties to attend to within the castle.”

“But Benedikta is-”

“You are not her.” He leans down over you now and your eyes are drawn to a dark patch on his shirt – he hadn’t been wearing armour on the field, too cocky. “I will not entertain this foolishness again.”

He moves back slightly and you see the sliced flesh, blood oozing from within.

“You’re hurt.”

“I was distracted.” He growls in annoyance, tugging his shirt to cover the wound from your sight.

“By me?”

He doesn’t reply.

“You need to take care of that.” You press. “You’ll bleed out.”

He smiles, almost as if he’s amused. “And you would care if I did, little one?”

Would you? If Barnabas perished, would that mean you’d be free to return home – or whatever was left of it? Your questions about how your village fared were never answered. Would the bracelets cease to be, or would you spend the rest of your days with them trapped around your wrists?

But there it is again, that gnaw to be accepted, praised, cherished… Barnabas had slowly became your whole world, after all.

“Yes.” You whisper. “I could… I mean, if you’d permit me, I could...”

He snatches your wrist quickly, his fingers pinching around and there is a crack which makes you flinch. You expect pain to follow, that he’s lashed out and broken your wrist for even daring to suggest such a thing – that Odin would need healed of all things – but there is only a clatter as the crystal-infused bracelet hits the stone floor.

The second one follows in quick succession and it’s as if you’ve taken your first breath of air, that hollow ache in your soul finally filled once more as your connection to the aether is restored.

Barnabas presses a tender kiss to the wrist still in his grip and it makes you shiver. “They will go back on as soon as you are finished.” The statement cuts through your euphoria.

“Of course.” You nod. “Could you lie down, please?”

He does rather dramatically, it must be said - falling flat on his back on his bed with his arms spread. You get to your feet and climb up, kneeling besides him and hover your hand above his chest, hesitant.

He smirks. “You may touch your king, little one.”

You tug gently at his shirt, revealing the full severity of the wound at last. It is a nasty, lengthy slice across his chest, blood seeping at pace, but Barnabas doesn’t even seem phased.

“It’ll leave a scar.”

“Good. It will serve as a reminder to us both.”

You flex your fingers, drawing in the aether around you until it manifests into a glimmering liquid in your hands – the healing waters of Leviathan. You smooth it onto his skin and if he feels any pain from your touch he does not flinch. You then press down your palms on top of the injured flesh and will it to heal.

It only takes a moment – the flesh knitting together under your touch, leaving pink, puckered skin, and then all that remains is the slick of blood.

“It’s done.”

He hums a moment, looking wistfully up at the ceiling.

“Mother would kiss it better.”

You feel your cheeks flush. It’s a command, albeit very thinly veiled. You wet your lips with your tongue and lean down, placing a hand back onto his chest to balance yourself and kiss the new scar, softly, blood and all.

As you sit back up, he follows you, catching your chin once more and swipes his thumb across your lips.

“A little red upon your lips is most pleasing, little one.”

He holds your gaze for a moment and you know what it means. You lean over the side of the bed and pick up the bracelets, presenting them to him.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, pressing one around your wrist. You don’t know how he does it – perhaps in the same way his beloved sword manifests - but within a second the bracelet is sealed back on. There’s not even a seam from where it was snapped. The second follows quickly and you wince as the connection to the aether is once more is severed – a stolen breath that you’ll never quite catch.

You expect him to dismiss you now, so you hang your head low, awaiting your instructions like the loyal pet you’ve become.

“Tell me - do you truly not know why I forbade you from the battlefield?”

You bite your lip, fists clenching. “I am not worthy of the power of my Eikon, I know, but how am I meant to earn it if I am not permitted to…?” He grabs you by the chin again, tilting your head up and silencing you with a squeeze.

“I have no doubt of your prowess with the blade – I taught you myself, after all.” He boasts, releasing your chin then only to cup your face with calloused fingers. “No, I forbade you because they are not worthy of you. I will not have you mingle with those below your station.”

“My station?”

“You are a gift from the Almighty. I would not be so careless with the treasure our lord has bestowed me. I vowed to keep you safe under my watch until Mythos is ready.”

“But Benedikta can-” You try and back out of his grip but his hands remain firm.

“Ah, little one is jealous,” he grins, amused. “You have nothing to fear. Whilst she occasionally warms my bed, it is you who warms my cold heart. I beg your forgiveness for not making that abundantly clear, but allow me to rectify.”

Before you can question, one arm drops to around your waist, the other to the back of your head and he pulls you forward, crushing his lips to yours. Your hands press up against his chest, ready to push him away.

You should push him away, but you don’t.

You definitely shouldn’t kiss him back, but you do.

You can feel his victorious smirk in his kisses – he has you exactly where he wants you and you don’t mind. It’s nice to be held, to be wanted…

He bites your lip, not enough to draw blood, but enough to make you gasp and he takes advantage to slip his tongue in, running his fingers up and down your spine, making you squirm.

“Do not worry, my lady,” he pulls back, keeping his fingers dug into your scalp, a possessive look in his eyes. “I will make sure you do not sit idle again.”

--

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It was raining. Drops fell through the jagged holes in the ceiling of the abandoned building, wetting the floor in uneven patches. It was dusk, a gloomy gray light cut with the golden candlelight coming from the candles scattered across the floor. You wished your colleagues had shelled out for a nice hotel. Heck, you would take a motel, anything with four walls, a roof, and wifi. But alas, the members of the Phantom troupe who were assigned to find shelter were the most dramatic ones(Chrollo, Feitan, and Nobunaga) and not any of the ones with common sense. 

And so here you were, hunched over your laptop. Gloomily watching the battery slowly tick down the hours until you would need to charge it at a net cafe, and occasionally moving to dodge raindrops. The sound of your fingers hitting the keys fills the large cavernous room, interspersed with the turning of pages and the occasional fluttering of cards to the ground.

There wasn't much to do, in the random abandoned lot the spiders had decided to hunker down in. You could sleep, you supposed. But the only other two people occupying the room would probably sabotage that. You would wake up with clown makeup(the actual clown makeup, not the stuff Hisoka wore) and a card tower balancing precariously on your stomach. And you would know, it had happened before. Your only other option was taking the forty-minute trek into town. Through the rain, which actually sounded more unpleasant than the clown makeup. At least that stuff came off. 

The sounds of Hisoka’s cards falling to the ground punctuate the formerly peaceful silence, and you sigh, watching your battery move to ten percent. Maybe it would take pity on you and that ten percent would last the rest of the night. A card wizzes by your ear. You don't even flinch.

“I'm busy, Hisoka.” You say, not even turning. He's probably where he was when the rest of the phantom troupe members left earlier, sitting cross-legged on the rock floor, making card towers.

“You don't look busy~” Hisoka says, from behind you. Another card lands beside you, this one a foot away from your thigh. You lay stretched out on the floor, propped up uncomfortably on your arms, occasionally typing on your computer. Every couple of minutes you obsessively switched positions. You got antsy after sitting for too long. 

“I'm working.” You say in return. Hisoka hums, and you imagine him tilting his head in confusion like a cat. Actually, you're watching a show. Muted with subtitles, because you forgot your headphones and you don't want to venture into the storm to get them. But that's none of his business.

Your battery ticks down to seven percent. Chrollo, sitting dramatically up on a rock at the front of the building, turns a page of his book. Another card wizzes by you, this one hitting an inch or two away from your computer keypad. You roll your eyes.

“Stop that.” You say, annoyance leaking into your voice. Hisoka chuckles. 

“But I'm bored~” He whines, sounding closer than before. You roll your eyes.

“Build another card tower.” 

“I'd rather not,” Hisoka returns, and another card flies by, this one dangerously close to your computer screen. “Bothering you is much more entertaining.”

“Careful!” You grumble. Your computer battery blinks, five percent taunting you. “If you break my computer you have to buy me a new one.”

Hisoka's response comes in the form of another card, this one landing a centimeter from your keyboard. Fed up you turn, glaring at the clown sitting behind you.

“Fuck you Hisoka,” You grumble, “just let me waste the rest of my battery in peace.”

He doesn't respond, just smiles at you. You hate to admit you find him attractive. He’s definitely moved closer and now sits perched above you on a rock, leaning back casually, hands lazily flicking cards about the hideout. 

You wished desperately that you had just taken a normal job, maybe as a receptionist or a waitress, and not decided to join the spiders of all things. You blamed it on your terrible taste in men. And your sister's ex-boyfriend. Because maybe, after your sister had come crying to you, telling you that John had cheated, you had immediately gone to beat him up. You had ended up beating him up pretty bad and went home and that was the end of it. 

Until you woke up the next morning, saw the spiders sitting in your living room, and dropped your coffee. After you cleaned up the mess, they informed you in various volumes, that because you had defeated one of their members you had to become a member. You had initially declined, and then you saw certain handsome men in spirit Halloween costumes and you folded like wet paper. So here you are, kind of deeply regretting your rash decisions. 

Chrollo turns another page. Water drips from the ceiling and hits your nose. You jerk back, turning back to your computer. Which is dead. Or course.

Grumbling, you slam the computer closed and lay back on the ground, letting the stone cool you down, and listening to the rain as it hits the building around you. It's peaceful, the smell of fresh rain, intermixed slightly with two different types of cologne and the faint smell of mildew. The rain calms you down from your annoyance, the cold sinking into your skin and putting a damper on your annoyance.

 If only you could find it in yourself to truly hate Hisoka. He was a nuisance, constantly inconveniencing you on a daily basis, and jokingly flirting with you because he knew it annoyed you. And you would get so fed up and upset and then he would smirk and you would see his stupid handsome face and you just couldn't bring yourself to truly hate him. 

His joke flirting actually kind of hurts you, because you know he's only doing it as a joke. You know he doesn't actually think you're attractive. Neither does Chrollo, now that you think about it, but at least he didn't give you false hope. He was straightforward in his dismissiveness. 

You sigh, and turn onto your side, already antsy. A breeze gusts across your face. A warm breeze.

The smell of flowers and blood hits your nose. How odd. 

You knew there were patches of greenery outside of the building, and there were probably a few inside as well, but blood? As far as you knew no one had died here yet. You sniff harder, your brow furrowed in confusion. And then a hand lands on your side. Your eyes fly open in shock, and Hisoka grins at you from his position mirroring you on the floor, about a foot away. You shriek in shock, as Hisokas hand strokes up and down your waist and hips. 

“You're loud.” He says, his mouth curving in a smirk. It sounds suggestive, but everything he says sounds suggestive. Unfortunately, he looks even more handsome up close. 

“You scared the crap out of me,” You grumble. “The hell Hisoka.”

“Oops, sorry.” He says. He doesn't look sorry and his hand is still stroking your side as you lie side by side on the cold stone of the floor. You hate how much that hand makes your stomach flutter. Rolling over you purposely trying to ram him onto his back. Maybe his stupid hair will get crushed. 

But alas, his body is a brick wall, and of course you only succeed in crushing your front into his muscled chest. Your face flushes, hidden where it is in his pecs, and you try to pull away. But an iron arm is holding you against him. Against all reason, you can hear his heart beating evenly in his chest. Your own skips around, propped up by the butterflies in your stomach. You wiggle, trying to escape but only managing to free your arms from his iron embrace. 

“My my, how eager.” Hisoka coos, probably about to say something equal parts annoying and mortifying. “You could have just asked.”

You dig your fingernails into his shoulders, trying to unsuccessfully pry yourself away from his body. Hisoka only chuckles.

“Fuck you,” You say against his chest. 

“Mm, maybe later.” Hisoka hums. You sigh.

“Chrollo? Your subordinate is suffocating me.” You grumble. You can't see him from here, but you assume he's still sitting on his big boss rock. He chuckles, and you hear a page turn.

“Let her go, Hisoka.” He says, sounding way too amused for your liking. Hisoka obliges, but not before his hand finds its way onto your ass. You kick his leg, and hold back the urge to ask him to do it again. Chrollo has put his book down, and is now watching the two of you curiously, illuminated by the candle sitting a few inches from his weird leather coat. Why both of the men in the room with you dress like absolute weirdos, you’ll never know. 

“You just let me squirm for a while, huh.” You grumble at him. He smiles

“You seemed like you were enjoying it, I didn't want to interrupt.” He replies, the candlelight flicking on the pale skin of his abs. You always wondered why he chose a leather jacket without a shirt, but you weren't going to ask and embarrassed yourself. He's snarky tonight for some reason. 

You flush, hiding it with a glare. 

“I was not enjoying anything!” You say, at the same time Hisoka unhelpfully chimes in with, “aww, don't be jealous Chrollo.”

You shoot Hisoka a weird look, but Chrollo only laughs. The sound echoes in the like twenty feet of space between you and Hisoka, and Chrollo on his big boss rock.

“Stop looming over us like that.” You say, flopping into a cross-legged position across from Hisoka. He's pulled himself up from the ground and is shuffling his cards in his hand. “If you're gonna talk you have to come down.”

Chrollo laughs. “Sure dear.” He says, and you watch him jump gracefully down from his perch and join the two of you on the ground in a little circle. 

Hisoka hums quietly, playing some weird nonsensical card game. Chrollo has opened his book again. You're the only one with nothing to do. 

“What are you reading anyway?” You ask the man beside you. Chrollo, sitting a foot away from you, looks up. 

“The Divine Comedy.” He says, flipping the heavy cover to show you. You roll your eyes so far back into your head they just might get stuck there. 

“How dull,” Hisoka says, and for once, you find yourself in complete agreement. 

“I shouldn't have asked, huh.” You mutter, settling back against a rock with a sigh. Chrollo raises an eyebrow.

“I take it you aren't a fan?” He asks, closing Dantes' glorified fanfic and placing it beside him. You roll your eyes with a sigh.

“Too long. Boring. Would rather read Crime and Punishment, at least that has a romance plotline.” You say, picking dirt from under your nails. “Do you even read, Hisoka?”

“Of course,” Hisoka replies, gathering all of his cards from their nonsensical placements. Cautiously, but too curious for your own good, you raise an eyebrow. He smiles at your silence, shuffling the cards in his hands. “Aren't you curious?”

“No,” You lie, watching him shuffle. You are curious, but for once you decide to hold your tongue.

Hisoka starts dealing three piles of cards. You eye him suspiciously.

“What are we playing?” You ask cautiously. It's always a good idea to air on the side of caution with Hisoka. The man just oozes sketchy vibes.

“Strip poker,” Hisoka replies. Your mouth drops open.

“Hell no.” You say. Hisoka pouts, looking almost harmless. Almost.

“You scared?”

“Fuck you.” You return. “No way in hell am I betting against you.”

It seems like an extremely unwise idea to play any games that have anything at all to do with lying or gambling against Hisoka of all people. You were totally going to lose. 

Hisoka tilts his head. “I'm disappointed by your cowardness” He coos, setting his deck of cards on the ground gingerly. “You're just as dull as him.”

He's goading you. You know it, you can feel the smart voice in your brain telling you to ignore him and turn around. But he gets you.

“Fine, whatever.” You say, picking up your cards with a sigh. “This is a terrible idea.”

Out of the corner of your vision, you see Chrollo also pick up his cards. You raise your eyebrows.

“You're joining us in this tomfoolery?” You ask, genuinely pretty surprised. Chrollo smiles. 

“Seems fun,” he says, a faint light behind his eyes that you can't place. You sigh, watching as Hisoka finishes dealing.

“This kind of thing seems pretty on brand for him,” You say, gesturing at Hisoka. “But you Chrollo?”

Hisoka makes a fake offended noise, and you roll your eyes. Chrollo simply smiles.

“Maybe I have ulterior motives,” He says. Turning his attention to Hisoka, he continues, “Five card draw?”

You catch on to that sentence, but you hurriedly move along when Hisoka nods.

“Yes, the person with the lowest hand gets to strip,” he says. 

Maybe you're imagining it, but you swear he's just looking at you when he says that last bit. Perhaps a prelude of things to come. You sigh, taking a look at your cards. This is going to be a long night.

○○○

“Gimme three cards,” You say, fiddling with your necklace. Hisoka takes a large swig of beer and tosses three cards your way with a grin. So far, nothing too bad has happened. Hisoka had lost the first round, betting on nothing while you escaped with two pairs and Chrollo won with three of a kind. Hisoka had taken off one arm badly, the other one still sitting unevenly on his arm.

You had lost the next round, and taken off your earrings.

 Chrollo had followed with two losses, losing his weird earrings that looked like Christmas tree ornaments, and the useless belt hanging from his coat. You had just lost a round, taking off your white kitten heels. 

So far you were sitting pretty, although you were wearing the least of the two men, with a zip-up hoodie over a sky-blue tank top and jeans. So far Hisoka was the one with the least losses, but you doubted anyone was surprised about that anyway. If you were ever gonna go to Vegas you would take Hisoka with you, and the two of you would be walking out bathing in ritches. 

You have a good hand this round. A straight is pretty hard to beat, and even if you didn't win you would probably get at least second. Privately, you hoped Hisoka would take off his other armband. It was starting to annoy you. 

“Four cards please Hisoka,” Chrollo asks. You hide your grin behind your cards. You can taste victory on your tongue, along with cheap beer. Hisoka trades out two cards, grinning inscrutable in your direction.

“You have a good hand, right Name?” He asks, crumpling up his empty beer can and tossing into the small pile the three of you had been adding two. You roll your eyes.

“Maybe I do, maybe I don't.” You say, holding your cards reflexively against your chest. “I'm not gonna tell you.”

Hisoka carries on, smiling a little too much to be friendly. 

“Your face, although very pretty, tells me everything I need to know.” He coos, leaning towards you with a smile. “You really should work on that poker face.”

You roll your eyes. Hisoka just smiles. Chrollo ignores both of you. 

“Done?” You ask. “Let's reveal our hands already.”

Hisoka is just trying to shake you up, it's obvious. It's all the man does for god's sake. 

“Turn on three.” Chrollo says. Your eyes come to him, catching on the small drinking flush on his cheekbones. His hair is drooping from its gelled place, a few strands falling over his forehead. Hisoka, on your other side, also looks a little unhinged. More than usual anyway, with a feral light in his eyes. He never looks away from you, even as Chrollo speaks.

“One, two, three.”

The three of you flip your cards and your heart sinks. Your straight is the lowest hand on the table. Hisoka smirks, a royal flush sitting proudly in front of him. Chrollo has four of a kind. Your jaw drops in disbelief. The odds of that are absolutely insane.

“What the hell,” You say in shock. “I cant fucking believe it. I thought I was set.”

Chrollo chuckles quietly. “You must have gotten unlucky my dear.” He says, taking a small sip of beer. Hisoka smiles.

“Don't be too sad Name.” He says, gathering the cards back into his hand. “Now put on a show for us, okay?”

You roll your eyes, shrugging your sweatshirt off and onto the pile of your already discarded clothes.

“That's good enough for you, creep?” You ask, rolling your eyes again. You've been doing that a lot lately.

“I suppose it'll do for now,” Hisoka sighs, dealing the cards out again. Chrollo chuckles. 

“A rather lacking show, don't you think?” he says, picking up his cards. You shoot him a confused look.

“Your acting weird today, Chrollo.” You say, eyeing your hand. Nothing good. 

“Am i?” Chrollo says vaguely. “Whatever you say dear. Another beer, Hisoka.”

Hisoka chuckles, lobbing a beer at Chrollo, who catches it in his free hand.

Hisoka loses the next few rounds, discarding his arm band and both of his shoes. Chrollo then has to discard a few of his weird bobbles and chains, and then his shoes. You're all dangerously close to losing an important piece of clothing now. The tension in the room is rising, along with the intoxication level. 

You sigh, feeling not drunk but pleasantly buzzed. You can tell Hisoka and Chrollo feel the same. 

And then it happens. You lose the next round. 

Staring sadly at the shitty hand in front of you, you calculate your options.

You can take your shirt off, leaving you in your bra, pants and underwear. Or you could take your pants off. 

“Come on now, move along.” Hisoka coos, words somehow sounding more suggestive than normal. You roll your eyes, pulling your shirt over your head and tossing it into the pile of your discarded clothes with a frown. You hope they assume the flush of your cheeks is from alcohol.

Chrollo coughs a little, tossing Hisoka his hand and averting his eyes almost politely. Hisoka just stares shamelessly, at your boobs, cupped in your light pink lacy bra. You flush.

“Stop staring, creep.” You toss your cards his way. His smirks, dealing three hands again.

Hisoka loses the next round. You giggle, shouting payback until he takes off his shirt. You swear you're not looking at his chest or anything. Chrollo loses his jacket next, and you swear the universe is taunting you as you sit there, almost bare next too to really attractive shirtless men. 

You lose the next round, leaving you on the cold stone floor in your matching underwear and bra, trying to hide your embarrassment. 

The stone is cold, but it doesn't nothing to cool the heat you feel running through your veins, gathering in your gut as Hisokas pale hand deals out the fateful cards. 

The air is filled with an odd tension, something simmering under the surface. For once, everyone is silent, the only sound is the cards hitting the floor crisply. You find yourself mesmerized by the movement, the muscles of Hisokas arms as they ripple, as the cards hit the floor. You kinda wanna kiss his muscled arms.

“See something you like?” Hisoka coos. You flinch, looking in the opposite direction. It isn't any better, now all you can see is Chrollos bare chest. You choose to look down at your cards. The room sinks into silence again, Chrollos pants rustling as he shifts positions slightly, flicking three cards down onto the ground.

You choose to trade two, hoping for a full house. And miraculously, you actually get it. Hope fills your chest as Hisoka and Chrollo trade their cards. Maybe you're safe after all. 

Candlelight flickers, the moonlight pouring in through the large windows onto the three of you, sitting in your circle, clothes littered around you. Your body thrums with head and suppressed arousal, and your nipples stand in the cold night air. You wonder if they think you're pretty. You wish they did. A breeze blows through the building and you shiver. 

“Reveal your hands on three.” Chrollo says, his voice hushed. Hisoka nods, for once not saying anything. 

“One,” Chrollo counts. Hisoka shifts, hands rearranging his baggy pants. His eyes burn into yours, the rare yellow color clouded with something you can't place. He looks feral, his hair falling slightly from its usual style,a  few strands brushing his forehead and the tips of his ears. You feel breathless.

“Two,” Chrollo says. You jerk your eyes away from Hisoka, looking at Chrollo. It's not much better over there, but at least he isn't looking at you. Eye contact is too much for your sanity. He's just as strong as Hisoka, but his build is more lean. While Hisokas shoulders taper into his small waist, Chrollo's body is more of a straight line. You resist the urge to stroke down his visible abs. The air feels hot suddenly, as Chrolllo opens his mouth one final time.

“Three.”

Time seems to slow down, as each person reveals their hand. A full house, sitting in front of your bare knees. 

A straight flush, sitting in front of Chrollo.

And a royal flush, sitting in front of Hisoka. 

Time seems to still for a moment as each person takes stock of the hands, takes stock of who lost. And then they turn to you. 

“I don't have anything left.” You say, your voice pitched soft. 

“You sure?” Hisoka coos, sliding along the floor slowly. Closing in on you. You laugh nervously, pushing a strand of hair behind your ear, trying to remain nonchalant.

“Was this all a ploy to get me naked?” You joke, avoiding eye contact. Hisoka chuckles. Chrollo remains silent. You can feel their eyes on you, tracing your body, catching on the lace hiding your privates from view. 

“Wasn't it obvious?” Chrollo says, a slight tremor in his voice. Your jaw drops open. 

“What are you talking about?” You ask. The tension still lingers in the air as you look up at Chrollo, taking in his appearance. He looks slightly disheveled, an almost invisible flush sitting high on his cheekbones, a flush on his neck. You trace it down until it disappears, and then find your eyes dropping down farther and farther until they land on the bulge in his loose pants. You swallow your shock.

“What,” You start, and then jump a little as a warm clawed hand traces your shoulder. Hisoka has crept behind you, his bare chest a few inches from your back, his hands tracing your shoulders. He bends down, and pressing a light kiss to your neck.

“What's gotten into you guys,” You ask, voice shaking as Chrollo moves forward, crouching in front of your body. His hands stroke up and down your legs, stopping just shy of your thighs. Hisoka chuckles in your ear.

“You're quite naive, you know.” He coos, one hand reaching down to flick the clasp of your bra. It comes apart seamlessly, and Hisokas hands tease the straps, the only thing shielding your boobs from hungry fingers and eyes. 

“He's so obvious, too.” Chrollo remarks, fairly casual as he presses a kiss high on your thigh. You muffle a whimper, biting your lip. He was quite physical with you. But you always brushed that off as Hisoka being Hisoka, and nothing more. Maybe you were a bit too hard on yourself.

“Why didn't you just ask,” You whimper, as Hisokas teeth scrape your neck. He leaves a hickey under your ear. 

“Already tried that.” Hisoka hums. Chrollo chuckles, hands smoothing over the delicate skin of your thighs.

“You're always so eager to reject me,” Hisoka teases, pulling your bra off with a flourish. “So mean.”

His hands whined around, nails scratching your nipples as your boobs are exposed to the cold air. 

You whimper, back arching and hands scrambling to grab something, anything. You land on Chrollo’s hair, yanking it a bit as Hisoka teases your nipples. Arousal is running through your body, and you accidentally shove Chrollo’s face into your thigh as one clawed hand grips your hair, pulling your head back.

Chrollo’s hands grip your hips, studying himself as your hands lessen slightly, allowing him to pull away from your thigh. His hair is a mess, black strands knotted in your hands. He looks a bit desperate. 

“Look at you,” Hisoka coos, clawed hand tracing slowly between your boobs, tracing up the pulse point of your neck, thumb smoothing over your lips.

“So pretty and eager for us.” 

You grumble, trying to protest, but HIsoka silences that by shoving two fingers down your throat. You give in, sucking with a whimper.

“She likes that,” Chrollo says, tossing the words upwards at the clown behind you. “She's soaked through her panties.”

You whimper in mortification, as shamefully your pussy pulses with heat. Chrollo's hands work your underwear down, pulling them off your legs and bearing your wet pussy to the cold air and Chrollo's gaze. 

The cold air hits your clit and you tense up, about to protest. And then he slips two fingers inside of you.

It's embarrassing how easy they go in, the squelch that echoes in the air. Chrollo hums in appreciation.

“She's so pretty like this.” He says, fingers fucking you open gently. You whimper in response. Hisoka chuckles in agreement.

“Indeed,” He says, the words almost a moan. “Irresistible.”

His fingers fall from your mouth, a trail of spit following as he pulls away. He pinches a nipple, drawing a moan out of your throat. 

“Wait,” You murmur, reaching back to grip Hisokas vibrant red hair. “Want you to fuck me.”

They both pause, tension hanging in the air as you tremble, your pussy throbbing. Chrollo pulls his fingers from you, the sound echoing in the silence. 

And then, your world spins. You're on your hands and knees, the stone digging into you. The cold leaks into your skin, not able to dampen the fire of arousal running through your body.

“Fuck thats hot,” You groan, looking up at Hisoka, who kneels before you. He chuckles, hand caressing your blissed out face. 

“You're a little whore, aren't you.” He purrs, gripping the side of your face. You get the full view from here, able to take in his pale abs, the large bulge in his pants, and his disheveled appearance. He looks radiant.

“Mmm,” You murmur, not agreeing or disagreeing. 

“Condoms?” Chrollo asks from behind you, hands smoothing over your bare ass. You giggle. How gentlemanly, but at this moment all you want is to be fucked out of your mind. 

“Dont care,” You grunt, taking a moment to suck Hisokas thumb. His pornographic moan is a reward. “You guys clean?”

“Yes,” Chrollo says, and you hear the clink of a belt behind you. You whimper, your pussy throbbing desperately. Hisoka chuckles.

“Yes,” he coos, and you watch eagerly as he pulls himself out of his pants. “Now put that pretty mouth to use.”

You whimper, obliging him and wrapping your lips around the tip of his cock. He's big, thick, stretching your throat out as you do your best to take him in as deep as you can. He winds a clawed hand in your hair, gripping your head and pushing you farther onto him. Your so distracted you forget about Chrollo, until he abruptly shoves his cock into you pussy.

Your back arches in response, a gargled moan muffled by Hisokas cock shoved down your throat. Hisoka yanks your hair and you moan. 

“She liked that,” Chrollo grunts, his voice as controlled as ever. If you pay close attention you can hear a roughness in his voice, a sign that hes trying to disguise how affected he really is. But your too busy moaning like a whore to pay close attention.

“Did she?” Hisoka grunts, his breath coming in ragged pants as he grips your head, fucking your throat like a toy. “You like being fucked like a whore Name?”

“Oh god yes!” you moan, back arching. You can feel an orgasm on the horizon, looming as you get controlled from both ends. 

Chrollo winds a hand around, rubbing your clit with his thumb.

“Gonna cum,” You moan shakily, hands scrabbling at the stone ground. Hisoka chuckles dangerously, hips stuttering into your mouth.

“Already?” He almost laughs, sweat wetting his hairline. Chrollo speeds up, timing his thrusts with Hisoka. They drive you insane. 

“Can i cum?” You beg. Chrollo lands a slap on your ass and you clench around him.

“Hmm, I don't know.” Hisoka teases. “Should we?”

Chrollo chuckles roughly, hips stuttering slightly in between steady thrusts. 

“I think she deserves it.” He says. “She’s been so good.”

You whimper, holding back your orgasm as they speak over you. It's arousing, and you hate that. Hisoka chuckles, gripping the back of your head and abruptly shoving you deep onto his cock.

“Fine then,” He teases, “go ahead. Cum.”

You obey, your orgasm overwhelming you. Stars bounce in your vision, your body trembling as you cry their names and nonsensical words onto Hisoka’s cock. 

Faintly, you hear groans, and Hisioka cums down your throat, the salty liquid flowing down your throat in spurts. You do your best to swallow it all, orgasm still hitting you as Chrollo cums into your poor pussy. 

When your orgasm finally subsides, you find yourself laying on your back between them, cum dripping from your abused pussy. You sigh.

“Where am i supposed to clean up?” You ask, voice still raspy from moaning. Hisoka chuckles, running a hand through your messy hair.

“Oh dear,” He purrs. “Did you think we were done with you?”

You look at them, watching as arousal floods their bodies, as that light comes back into their eyes, and sigh.

Its going to be a long, long night. 

....

You sat a little straighter again, frowning at him as he huffed. “Don’t look at me like that, it isn’t fair.” You sighed, your frown only deepening. 

“What isn’t fair is having to try and get myself off for the last three nights.” You shot back, rolling your eyes as you went to stand up, only for a phantom force to tug at your waist, yanking you back down to his lap. 

“Have you really been that desperate?” he cocked his head a little as he teased and you felt your skin heat up under his gaze, nodding shamefully as you tried to avoid his eyes. 

His hand cupped your jaw, forcing your head back up to look at him as he caged you on his lap. 

He looked at you expectantly, not moving nor releasing his grip until you nodded against his palm, eyes pathetically pleading. 

That seemed to appease him. His fingers dug harder. 

“Will you be good, hm?” 

Your nod came more frantically this time, a whine with it as his thumb brushed your lip. 

“Good. Turn around, then.” 

You were familiar with this game. You’d get needy, Isaac would give you almost what you needed — that being just enough to keep you quiet for another few hours  — as he continued to work. 

You settled back down accordingly, balanced on his left knee as he spread his thighs, having already gone back to writing some equation in his journal. 

His left hand, however, wasted no time wrapping around your waist. Deft fingers trailing around your hip, across your stomach, down over the waistband of your skirt as your thighs parted in desperate invitation. 

It was astonishing how little it affected him, even as your breath quickened, hips squirming against his thigh as his fingers trailed painfully slowly along the skin of your inner thigh,  the calluses from working with his machines scratching along the skin deliciously. 

His sudden pinch pulled a yelp from your lips, your thighs closing around his hand momentarily as the skin burned. 

“Stay still,” he warned,  baring you next to no acknowledgement as his pen continued to scratch at his page, “or I stop.” 

“Yes, Isaac.” Your thighs parted again as you settled back against his shoulder. 

His fingers dragged slower this time, two fingertips just barely ghosting the skin, irritation flared in the pit of your stomach yet you daren’t move lest he stopped again. And you would be back at the excruciating beginning. 

Then, at last, they brushed the edge of your underwear, the fabric still sodden from your poor attempt to appease yourself that morning, having dreamt of him all night. Even in sleep, his shadow stood out amongst the others, torturing you sweetly, until you woke up near mad. 

The smallest ‘tsk’ beside your ear told you he knew, the wave of disappointment so palpable it had you whimpering. 

“Let me guess, your own hands are no longer enough?” 

You knew better than to ignore his taunt, your head shaking furiously, dropping back against his shoulder as the slightly dampened pads of his two middle fingers pressed the fabric against your cunt firmly, the glimmer of friction already setting your ruined nerves alight. 

“N-no. Only yours.” 

You hated how it wasn’t a lie. 

He said nothing else, but huffed. The indignant sound something between pride and pity. 

It took all of your strength, when he finally yielded, to not buck your hips like something in heat. His rough fingertips dragging your negligible covering to the side and pressing directly where you needed him most. 

As if to further your torment (for it was his favourite pastime) he lingered there for a moment more, not moving, nor twitching, even. Just a steady pressure as he focused on the answer to his equation. 

Then, mercifully, one small circled followed another, distracted at first, but becoming more focused as your breath quickened. Your hand gripped his wrist in some poor attempt to keep yourself still, terrified he would stop, nails digging into his skin deep enough to leave crescent evidence beside his veins. 

“F-fuck–“ the word spluttered past your lips as his fingers delved downwards, pressing into you with no resistance, curling immediately as if to hold you in place cruelly, his palm flat against your clit, coated with your slick in an instant as you bucked against him. 

It was involuntary, base. A whine ripped from your throat as he hammered the pads of his fingers against that soft spot that had your eyes rolling back, head dropping against his shoulder. 

But the next breath caught in your throat, panic settling in beside pleasure as invisible fingers clothed the expanse of your throat, pressing down just enough to make each racking breath that little bit more difficult, especially as you squirmed against it. 

His fingers were methodical, as they were in every application, dragging against your slick walls precisely, rutting up into you in measured time, the meat of his palm dragging messily across your swollen clit. 

Your mind was growing foggy, hips trying to move but trapped, as if he were gripping them, pinning them to his lap, even as he continued to work. The embodiment of poise, face still, body stiller. 

“I-Isaac,” you could barely stutter, his name broken before it even reached your lips. Everything was too intense. Too much. His near-mechanical ministrations on your cunt were pushing you closer to the edge, the sounds of your slick lewd, white hot intensity burning through your veins as your muscles begged for breath. The ends of your fingers, wrapped in a vice like grip around his wrist, were turning numb, the tingling growing worse with every unsatisfying breath. 

“Shush, dove. I’m trying to work.”

You struggled against his invisible grip, back arching where it could against his power. “I-I can’t–“ 

“You can and you will. Or I’ll send you back to your room.” 

You could have cried, the tears welling heavy on your lashes as he withdrew his fingers, only for his flat palm to land heavy against your clit. Quick, sharp – a warning – before delving into you again. 

“Just -  a little - longer.” Each word was punctuated by the scrape of his pen. 

You couldn’t help your muffled grunt as his fingers worked you open, wrist snapping back and forth at an inhuman speed. 

“Shit– Isaac, nughh.” Your head dropped forward, chin against your chest as you gasped for air desperately, your hands gripping at his forearm where it pressed against your stomach – the only thing keeping you still as he fucked into you, long fingers abusing your walls with every thrust. 

The sound was obscene. Your slick was practically dripping down onto his trousers below you, positively squelching as he rutted his curled fingers up against your front wall, the pressure growing so quickly that you thought you might pass out. 

“I-I’m go—, fuck– please!” 

Everything happened at once. The pressure released from your throat, the coil in your stomach snapping, his lips ghosting the shell of your ear as he muttered something you couldn’t hear over your own cry — this bliss positively overwhelming, your body contorting and contracting, quivering on his lap. 

You were vaguely aware that the hand that had been writing so diligently was wrapping around your waist in a near bruising constraint to keep you from falling from his thigh, his fingers still buried within you as your walls clenched around him, working you through it. 

“Shhhhh– that’s it–“ his breath was hot against your throat, head finally dipping to languish the column of your throat with wet kisses, teeth dragging across the sweat-dampened skin. Your body continued to tremble as you finally collapsed into him again, utterly spent. “Perfect.” 

His fingers slipped cruelly from you, a gush of slick following as he dragged his palm up across your clit one last time, relishing in your weak attempt to buck away from him, chuckling low against your ear. 

He lifted his hand to the light, admiring it as he did his work, the shine left behind by your arousal as it webbed between his fingers. 

That’s when he lowered it to your lips. 

Your eyes fluttered as you picked your heavy head from his shoulder, tongue tracing a line up his palm diligently. 

“My perfect girl,” he tutted. “Was that really so hard?” 

Isaac always nurtures an almost pathological affection for his craft, regarding idleness not as the human necessity it is, but as a moral failing: a peccadillo for which he bore no mercy, least of all toward himself. He spirals off into soliloquies about whatever venture had seized his imagination this week, you bear witness in tolerance, used to his particular brand of monomania, his disinterest in the conventional rituals of conversation, and the fact that he regards your attention as optional, at best.

The lab scarcely qualifies as a workspace; it is more accurately a mausoleum of clutter, where paper towers buckle under their own ambition and indecipherable contraptions crouch in the corners like house pets no one remembers acquiring. You had been gone all of ten minutes, yet in Isaac’s orbit, entropy is not so much a gradual decline as a competitive sport. Your bag has already vanished into the morass, absorbed without ceremony. The table groans under an indiscriminate scatter of papers: aborted sketches, algebraic graffiti, and hieroglyphics you had no interest in decoding. “Ten minutes,” you say, “and it already looks like a tornado hit. You knew I would be back.”

Isaac doesn’t bother to lift his head. “I know exactly where everything is. And where it belongs.”

“And my bag?” you push.

A beat, then the subsequent grin — smug, odious: “can’t expect me to be responsible for your misplacements.”

“You just can’t help yourself,” you intone flatly. “I’m meeting up with Eli and I’m already late.”

“And what a loss, to be deprived of the profound insights of your boyfriend. I’m sure you’re missing out on a riveting conversation,” he jibes, his hand hovering lazily in mid-air while, beneath it, the pencil skitters across the page in precise counterpoint.

“Not my boyfriend,” you say. “Besides, we don’t do much talking.”

That makes him glance up. The smile is hollow, but tight around the edges. “Figures,” he says. “Conversing implies the existence of something worth saying. In that idiot’s case, I can see why you’d skip it.”

He then proceeds to articulate the rudiments of his latest contraption. “If I can devise a method to stabilize it,” he begins, “then the rest is a matter of trial and error.” Without so much as a glance in your direction, he pivots to the next phase: “There’s a vial on that shelf.”

“Y’know, for someone who loves showing off his telekinesis, you make my life unnecessarily hard,” you say, but there’s no bite to it, only an exasperated amusement as you begin to thread through the cluttered shelves, rifling through glass bottles and chemical apparatus.

“The cryogenic fluid is the sole element capable of salvaging this. I’ve—” He glances up for a moment; a mistake on his part. He falters, mid-sentence, the cadence breaking as his eyes land unexpectedly on you stretching to retrieve the vial, your shirt inches upward to reveal a narrow expanse of skin at your stomach. His throat tightens. A momentary lapse, but one swiftly veiled with the same level of cohesiveness from before. “…begun formulating my own variants. It should keep the core below critical temperature.”

You return to the table and hold out the vial. “Here. You’re welcome. Now hand it over.”

He makes a vague motion at the table without any further acknowledgment, preoccupied with his instruments. A perfunctory wave in the table’s general direction and from beneath the layers of lab detritus, your bag launches itself into the air.

You snag the bag, abandon the vial, and collapse into the chair. The search for your things is methodical, almost clinical: lipliner, gloss, each motion familiar, rehearsed, a private liturgy you enact with practiced ease.

Isaac, subsumed in his work, takes one glance at the bag through his periphery and uses a hand to angle a concave mirror toward you, unthinking, as if this were his reflex. Your hands falter mid-rummage.

Then you smile, small, clandestinely, and lift the lipliner to your mouth.

*

After your departure, Isaac grew restless, unable to force his mind to the task at hand. He paced, from one machine to another, coat billowing behind him theatrically. He tinkered without conviction, fiddling with half-finished contraptions, shuffling through the dregs of earlier designs as though some abandoned sketch might jolt him back into coherence. Nothing took. The harder he pushed, the more barren his concentration became, his so-called inventions reduced to busywork.

When he yields to it, it’s not a full relenting: there’s no actualization of anything, just a tightness coiling in his stomach. He doesn’t concern himself with the removal of clothing, just shuffles and lets his unbuttoned pants sag low on his hips, his hand gripping himself with the grim intention of dispatching it quickly. Just friction, a quick release and then he can move on. He works at a punishing pace, as if masturbation could be itemized on his itinerary between soldering and recalibration. The point is expedience, not pleasure. He needs it finished, he wants the clutter in his head scrubbed clean.

You knew I would be back.

He gasps as though you’ve already breached the doorway. You could return at any time, the knob turning, your voice cutting through the thick air of the lab. The danger of it should kill the urge. Instead it worsens it. You have already invaded his space; worse, you have infiltrated his mind and now the equations won’t stop getting entangled.

And the image is persistent in its refusal to leave: stretching for the vial, shirt riding high, that flash of smooth, bare skin. He thinks back to when you’d lean over him to retrieve something, your breath hot on his skin. It needles into him, slows his wrist, alters his rhythm until what was perfunctory begins to spiral into something else. The irritation flares, but his body doesn’t care. It’s always worked against him. His palm drags, tighter now, strokes unspooling into a rhythm meant to prolong, not end.

At the back of his mind there’s a scintilla of annoyance but he lingers. Your presence barges in, insolent, like you were the first time you had stumbled into his space, and impossible to get rid of. He envisions the heat of your breath when you lean close, the shape of your mouth forming a retort, the warmth of skin revealed so casually it brands itself into his memory. His strokes deepen, a rhythm forming despite himself, his body treacherously savoring what his mind condemns. He should be vexed by the ease with which you occupy his mind. Instead, he accommodates you, his hand matching the shift in tempo, slow and more deliberate.

An unsolicited thought intrudes with the shift in pace: how would you touch him? At first he conjures up your manicured fingers grazing, the practiced tease. But the fantasy collapses almost immediately. The pressure mounts, grip hardening, nails scoring flesh; whatever softness there was curdles fast into something relentless and sharp.

His fist works over the head, smearing it, precome thick enough to string between knuckles and leave his cock shining. Each drag of his palm only coaxes more, dribbling down the underside, slipping into the dark curls at his base. It spatters onto his thighs, obscene in its persistence, wetting him beyond function. The mess clings sticky and translucent, dripping steadily with each jerk until it slicks the heel of his hand, until his strokes become sloppy, sliding over the length with no restraint.

His head tilts back, mouth falling open. “Fuck,” he hacks, throat rough. “Fuck.”

Experimentally, Isaac reaches down with his free hand to grip into his thigh, nails gouging in to hurt, to draw blood. The sharp sting only fuels him, making his strokes jerk and stutter. He presses his teeth into his lips, nose scrunching into a sneer and tugging at his own flesh until a sharp trickle of blood slides down his chin, a taste that makes the heat spike harder, his lip twitch. Pain and pleasure fuse together, cloying and messy, like an experiment gone wrong and every slick, clumsy stroke drags him deeper into the chaos of need.

His breath grows ragged, filling the cramped room with the sound of him straining against his own restraint. He imagines your warmth, your voice close enough to graze him, the way your mouth would part if you noticed the hunger in his eyes. His hips lift, chasing sensation, no longer controlled, no longer detached.

Do you think of him at night? The question rings through but he refuses to delude himself, you and him were nothing more than friends and you had a repertoire of paramours. He knows this degeneracy only exists in the aberrant confines of his mind, but your voice drifts through so vividly, curling through his head. “Isaac…” He shudders violently, cock slick in his fist, precome running down the underside, pooling at the base. His strokes jerk and falter, sloppy and desperate.

“Do you like that I’m thinking of you?” you whisper, almost teasing, almost patient, and heat flares through him like fire. Hips jerk, chest heaving, nails pressing into the tender curve of his thigh, every flare of pain sharpening the wet friction in his hand.

“Look at you… just can’t help yourself, can you?” The words curl through him, coiling around every nerve, making his grip sloppy, desperate. Precome glistens thick and sticky, dribbling down his thighs, clinging to the slick already there. Sweat mixes in, hot and wet, running over chest, stomach, collarbone, and into the mess already coating him.

There’s a wavering grin that comes from him at the question you pose, fondness permeates his clockwork-heart. His tongue peeks out to wet his lips.

“Do you want me to touch you?” The whisper lands like a lash, making him tilt, trembling, but he clamps down, impelling a control he does not feel. His hips lift and jerk anyway, nails rake into thigh, each flare of ache feeding the wet slick on his hand, every movement sloppy and ragged, every pulse of heat unbearable.

“Looks like you’ve got that covered,” you hum, sharp-edged. “I’ll have to take care of myself.” His eyebrows pull together, almost in dissent, though dissent is meaningless; his body has long since abandoned his reason. “I’ll just make myself come—” The thought truncates because your eyes flick to his throbbing length, then to the dark smear of his own blood along the curve of his thigh, and back up to meet his gaze.

“It’s okay,” your whisper curls through his mind, intimate, teasing. “It’ll be easy, because you’ve already helped.” In his imagination, your fingers lift, and he sees them coated in his come and blood.

“Isaa-I- Isaac,” you breathed out, chest heaving as a warmth ran down your body, pooling at where he was ravenously pressing kisses to.

“shh…don’t…we haven’t even gotten to the good part…” he whispered, glancing up at you.

Isaac moved his hand from your thighs, thumb rubbing up and down your clit before yanking the fabric to the side, taking a moment to watch your wetness flow onto his crafting desk. He wouldn’t condone any mess, so he’d have to clean you up, of course… He licked the fluid up like he was thirsty and you were the only remedy. His tongue was as masterful as his hands with crafts, artfully dipping between the lips into your warmth. Isaac was by no means a quiet eater, more so moaning into your pussy and messily painting his face in your wetness.

You felt the length of his tongue slowly enter your pussy, taking all your willpower not to whine too loudly, instead opting to let quiet whimpers out. He paused, moving to look up at you to your dismay,

“You like that?” He tilted his head innocently at the noises you were making.

“Ye-yeah you bastard- keep going,” you shot him a withering glare. He laughed, a cold, fickle sound that reverberated through the lab before he abruptly stood up, hand clenched as he raised it. You felt your body get pressed down by a force, so that you laid back down against the desk. You watched as Isaac climbed on top of you, with your thighs still spread and pretty cunt still exposed. He shifted, pushing your legs up over his shoulder to fold you into a mean, nasty mating press.

“I’m full,” he whispered in your ear, shrugging as he pulled at his pants, freeing an already erect cock. He looked down at you, getting full view of the whorish expression you made as he pushed his length between your lips. He frowned, groaning a little as your walls immediately clenched around him, “But you’re hungry too, aren’t you?” Isaac smirked, roughly bullying his cock deeper into your hungry cunt. He dipped his head down to nuzzle at your neck, tongue slithering out to lap at your neck and collarbones, sucking to create little love bites. His hips pressed into yours, his motions all rough and apathetic like the only thing he was focused on was making a mess of your guts. Your walls clenched around him one final time, effectively milking his dick for all it was worth, his cock shooting ropes of cum, filling you up. He panted like a madman, slowly moving off you as he pulled his pants back up and tugged at his lab coat. He watched you on the desk, his cum dripping out of your pussy. What a pretty artwork he’d made…

Nervousness wrenches your insides as you peer at the proceedings from afar. Another gala to raise funds in order to quell a budding rebellion in the Districts. The second one this year. 

They always leave you feeling sour. It’s not like the Districts have no reason to start an uprising. The next reaping is fastly approaching and you’d rage too if your family was to go through that again.

You take a tiny sip from your glass of posca, mindful not to overindulge. The diluted, aromatic wine is far stronger than one would imagine. But a slight dash of intoxication is the only way you can see yourself getting through the night. Crowds always made you anxious, but a gathering of Capitol citizens stirs a particular discomfort in you. 

You’re not one of them and you often wonder if they can tell, sense a whiff of District 12 on you. The foul stench of unbelonging. Perhaps in the manner you speak or your stance. You’ve never managed to perfectly mimic the way Capitol ladies carry themselves, born from a lifetime of practicing poise and etiquette. After all, you are an outsider, and always will be.

Regardless of how many galas you attend, fashionable dresses you order to match the quickly changing trends of the Capitol, effort you exert to erase your thick Covey accent…it seems someone can always tell there’s more to you.

It’s in that mocking glint in their eyes, that sneering lilt in their voice.

To them, you’ll never be more than District rabble. 

Which is exactly why you despise these events. But your husband insisted. He’s working hard to impress his boss, the most important man in all of Panem, and you can’t let him down.

You must be the picture of charm. Laugh at every joke, nod your head when a serious topic is being broached, display interest when personal stories are being shared.

You place a hand on your roaring stomach, a frown creasing your brow. You haven’t swallowed a bite the entire day, too anxious about how tonight would go.

Your gaze darts about the room. The tantalizing spread of appetizers in the middle of the room seems to be calling your name. Your mouth waters.

Without a thought, your feet glide across the marble tiles. A little self-conscious, hesitation tingles at your fingertips as they drum by one of the silver platters. Another pang of hunger pierces your insides at the sight of the food. You cave in, picking up a tiny sandwich from a plate. Your eyes close, angels singing in your mouth as delicious aromas trickle on your tongue. 

“Sweetie, there’s someone you must meet,” your husband chimes at your back.

Still chewing on a mouthful of meat and bread, you whirl. Your eyes bulge. Startled, you nearly suffocate on your food.

You quickly wipe your mouth as heat rushes to your cheeks.

You’ve seen his face before. The murky screens do not do justice to his dashing looks.

“President Snow. It’s a pleasure. Apologies, I was…”

A smile ghosts over his lips as he drinks you in, his cerulean gaze dragging over your frame. “No apologies,” he answers silkily. “I’m glad you’re enjoying the food. At least someone is.”

He picks up your hand and presses an ephemeral peck on the back of it. You turn to Henry. The shock adorning your husband’s face mirrors yours.

President Snow’s lips curl skywards.

He lets go of your hand and adds, “It’s nice putting a face to your name. Henry is always raving about you.”

You shake your head, eyes bashfully finding the floor. “Oh, I’m sure he isn’t,” you mumble.

The blonde hums as if to disagree. He bends close to your ear.

“He’s always lauding what a wonderful wife you are, dutiful, sweet…”

…Makes me almost jealous.

Your head whips up.

You blink at the whispered words, barely above a breath. Maybe you heard wrong. It’s hard to tell, the way Snow gauges you, that subtle smile still decorating his handsome face.

He asks you trivial questions about how you’re settling in and how you’re enjoying your life in the Capitol. You answer every time, ignoring the chill dancing at the base of your spine.

His scrutiny swells your unease.

So as soon as the conversation veers away from you and towards the topics of lawmaking and taxes, you snatch the opportunity to excuse yourself.

You give an apologetic smile to your husband.

“Henry, maybe I should go. I’m not feeling too hot.”

He scowls at you. “You want us to leave already?” Disappointment bleeds in his tone. A thick layer of shame settles in the pit of your stomach. You’re being a bad wife.

“You can stay, even if I go,” you try to offer.

“There’s still so many people we haven’t talked to…” Henry argues.

You deflate. You suppose it would be uncouth to leave too early.

To your surprise, President Snow’s smooth lilt interjects, “If your wife is unwell, you both should go.”

You gape at him. A strange glint bounces in his cerulean orbs and unease flutters through you once more. 

Henry sighs, grabbing your hand.

“Alright. I’ll go fetch the car.” 

He gives the blond a formal salute before dragging you away.

As the two of you leave, the heat of Snow’s attention prickles along your spine.

“Did he say something to you?”

Gasping, you turn to your husband. He pointedly looks at you and you shift awkwardly in the passenger seat. 

“What?” you say, taken aback by his sudden question. 

He studies you for a while before his gaze drifts back to the road.

“Snow. He said something to you, didn’t he?”

Your chest clenches. Faking nonchalance, you shrug and reply lightly, “Just a joke but I didn’t understand it.”

The days soar by, humdrum and uneventful. You file away the strange moment at the gala and return to your everyday life. Henry occupies most of your time but when you’re not catering to him, you tend to the house and read. And during stolen moments…you play and sing. Henry doesn’t know, of course. It’s a life you left behind, or are supposed to at least. 

You’re the wife of a Capitol official, not some District balladeer peddling song for coin.

But you can’t help it. 

Singing reminds you of home. Of endless green meadows and lazy afternoons by the river. Your life from before may have been uncertain but you find yourself missing it at times. Missing the freedom to do and act as you pleased.

An orphan like so many others, the Covey were the only family you ever knew. Then you met Henry. Henry who spoke so sweetly to you and gazed at you with warm brown eyes. And he became your family. He didn’t care that you were from a District or that your manners were lacking. He embraced you.

And now you wish to support him in all that he does. Even if it means tossing away parts of yourself.

The front door cracks open, halting the path of the needle between your fingers. A smile blooms on your lips as you place Henry’s shirt on a nearby table. You can resume fixing the buttons on it later. You rise from the armchair and make your way to him. You help him out of his coat, noting the excitement radiating off his frame.

He’s not usually this ecstatic after a day of work. You tilt your head in puzzlement.

He hugs you before announcing, “We have a guest tomorrow, a very important guest.”

“Oh,” you reply, tamping down your concern. The apartment isn’t exactly ready for guests, much less important ones. The fridge needs to be stocked and the furniture requires thorough dusting.

“Yes, I was mentioning what a wonderful cook you are and he said he hasn’t had a home cooked meal in a while.”

“Who?” you ask, your curiosity peaking.

“President Snow,” Henry replies with a victorious grin.

Dread and confusion collide inside you. Why would President Snow visit you and your husband of all people? While Henry’s been rising in ranks quite fast, you can’t picture the leader of the country making time for people like you.

But you don’t voice these thoughts, instead you inquire, “Are you sure my cooking will be enough for him? His palate is used to those fancy meals at the Capitol.”

He cradles your face and plants a kiss on your forehead.

“Don’t doubt yourself, honey. You’re an amazing cook.”

“I just don’t want to let you down,” you confess, anxiously chewing on your lip.

“You won’t,” he assures. His chestnut gaze dives into yours. “This could be a great opportunity for us. Imagine what being close to Snow could do for our lives. He could promote me. We could even move to a bigger place.”

Your brows knit. “I love our place.”

Henry laughs. “Yes but the day we expand our family, you have to admit it’ll be a little small.”

You peer at your surroundings. Every corner of the little house harbors a beloved memory. You’d hate leaving it behind, but you suppose he’s right. You might outgrow it one day.

Henry frames your chin to draw your focus back to him.

“Just be yourself,” he says. “Your kind, sweet, wonderful self and all will be well.”

Nodding, you give a feeble smile.

“Understood.”

The next day is spent meticulously cleaning every inch of the house. For hours you’re anxious, wondering what to say or do, how to behave. You don’t have the natural wit and charm to impress someone like Coriolanus Snow. You keep worrying you’ll speak out of turn and embarrass Henry. Preparing dinner is the only time your mind is at rest. You stir the vegetables in the stew, smiling as the delectable scent fills your nostrils. It’s simmered for hours to create a rich flavor. It’s only your second time trying this recipe so you’re a bit nervous. Henry adored it but he’s your husband. You don’t know if President Snow’s delicate taste buds will find your meals to his liking.

You’re slightly more confident about your strawberry cake. While you struggled with it at first, the frosting never quite coming out the way you wanted, it’s now turned into one of your specialties.

The doorbell rings and you freeze. You glance up at the clock hanging near the stove. Already? Time has flown and you didn’t notice.

As you approach the door, you smooth out the wrinkles in your apron and straighten your spine. You take a deep breath before opening the door. 

A wobbly smile cants your lips upwards. 

“President Snow, it’s an honor,” you greet cheerfully.

The tall blond crosses the threshold after your husband. You take him in, trying to girdle your apprehension. He casts an imposing figure with his slicked back silver locks and tailored purple suit, the signature white rose pinned to his left breast pocket as always.

An aura of authority seems to follow him wherever he goes. 

“Please, the honor is mine,” Snow says. His sky gaze roams across the living room. His expression is unreadable and you feel a bit self-conscious. It’s likely not as luxurious as what he’s used to. But to your surprise, he looks right at you and says, “What a lovely abode.”

His nose twitches as he hums, “I smell something heavenly, for me perhaps?”

You nod.

“I made beef stew.”

“Wonderful.”

Your cheeks warm at the compliment. 

“Shall we sit?” Henry says, escorting him to the dining room.

You rush to the kitchen and throw your apron on a chair. Inhaling a lungful of nerve, you slip on gloves and grab the pot from the stove. Slowly, you bring out the food. Your skin tingles with the weight of Snow’s eyes on you. 

You ladle out the stew on each plate. When you circle the table to serve Snow, you feel the faintest brush of fingertips over your hip. You flinch.

When you look at him, an almost imperceptible smile hovers on his lips. You blink and it almost seems like it’s gone, as if you dreamt the entire instant. The ladle wavers in your hand.

Did he mean to do that? Once again, you question your own senses, your sanity. It was a fleeting touch, the accidental kind that occurs everyday. But somehow your nerves are agitated with this mere, insignificant second.

Quickly, you round the table and plop down in the chair next to your husband. He squeezes your hand beneath the table, his brown gaze spelling “good job”. Relief sits inside you. You spent all day agonizing over every aspect of tonight so it’s nice to know Henry appreciates your efforts at least.

Everyone starts eating, your husband and Snow engaging in topics you only listen to with half an ear. Instead you focus on your plate, swallowing tiny bites of the stew. 

The flavor is nice and rich, just like you hoped, and pride trickles inside you.

“You’re so silent. Are we boring you?”

Snow’s abrupt statement yanks a sharp gasp from you. Your head snaps up. You realize both he and Henry are staring at you. Your face warms.

“N-No, I just don’t have anything interesting to contribute,” you stammer, your head dipping. 

“My wife has no mind for politics, I’m afraid,” Henry chuckles. 

Your mouth screws shut, your fingers tightening around your spoon. It’s more that your opinions differ vastly and there are things Henry prefers you don’t say aloud.

A crooked smirk blooms on Snow’s lips.

“Ah, a pretty, silent one. I believe you lucked out with this one, Henry.”

Your teeth grind as your brows twitch. Pretty and silent. You don’t know why the words chafe you, cutting into you as deep as a knife. 

You rise from your chair and grab your near empty plate. 

“I should go clean the kitchen,” you announce with a terse smile.

You don’t look back as you walk away, berating yourself with every step.

This isn’t how one should behave in front of him. But you also don’t think you can spend another second in his presence.

You rub the sponge over the top of the stove, satisfaction trickling inside you as the grease and sauce stains are wiped away. You bask in the calm, concentrated on your task. 

A warm breath tickles the shell of your ear.

“You seemed peeved before.”

Sucking a sharp breath, you whirl on your heels. Your hand spreads over your chest as your vision is filled with the towering frame of President Snow. His stance is relaxed as he peers at you curiously.

“You scared me…President.”

He ignores your reaction, continuing his statement from before, “When we were discussing the next reaping.”

You shake your head. “I wasn’t peeved.”

“Your face, it did that thing.” Your forehead creases. He inches closer. The scent of roses, thick and heady, coats your senses. Your head starts spinning. “Like now. It bothered you.”

Panic flutters through you. This is a man who could have you hanged or jailed for saying the wrong thing. But something about his expression tells you he won’t relent, that he'll only take the truth and nothing else.

So your heart spills out of you.

“In an ideal world, we wouldn’t need the Hunger Games. They are…” You trail off, remembering yourself, who you’re speaking to. You bite down your feelings and go quiet.

But Snow bends over you, crowding your space as your back hits the edge of the stove.

“What? Barbaric? Cruel?” He chuckles and goosebumps rise on your flesh. “But we do need them, dove. Every single year. So the districts never forget their place, and most importantly ours.”

Your lip quakes. Snow’s gaze follows the motion, his lips slanting lopsidedly.

“Such a sweet soul,” he whispers.

He suddenly backs away from you. Air rushes back to your lungs.

“It’s late. I should take my leave. Thank you for a most…enlightening dinner.”

You resume your life and, for a while, everything is normal. Henry doesn’t talk about that night again and neither do you, the both of you bonded by that silent agreement. Maybe he saw Snow talking to you in the kitchen, maybe he didn’t. You’ll never know as he keeps his thoughts to himself, throwing himself into his work and acting like his usual self. 

And if there’s a bit more distance between the two of you in the marital bed, you try not to let it bother you. With time, the strangeness will fade and you and Henry will be back on track, trying for a child and enjoying marital bliss.

Though one evening, things are anything but normal. In fact, the world all but ends.

Your husband peruses the notice letter for rent once more. The blood seems to leave his face.

He runs his fingers through his dark curls.

“I don’t understand.”

Hands resting on his shoulders, your heart skips a beat as you read the neat printed letters.

Rent in your building has doubled overnight. If you and your husband do not pay up by next week, you will be evicted. Houseless.

Hell, you might even be sent back to your district. Your heart plummets to your feet. Your knees buckle underneath you. Henry catches you before you fall, leading you to the sofa as panicked breaths rush through your lungs.

He hunkers in front of you and holds your hands.

“I promise you I’ll find a way. Take out a loan or-”

“A loan we won’t be able to pay back?”

His jaw clenches. “Just let me handle it, okay?”

Though doubts creep inside you, you nod.

The days race along, tension growing each day as the deadline is approaching. Only three days. In just three days, you and your husband will be evicted unless a miracle happens.

And you conclude from the dark circles under Henry’s eyes and the way he barely answers when you speak to him, that he’s as clueless as you are.

There is no solution. Once again, the Capitol and its arbitrary rules strike.

So you come to a decision.

A decision that leads you in front of the biggest mansion in the entire Capitol. President Coriolanus Snow’s house. You suck in a wide lungful, quelling a shudder at the sight of the blue-clad peacekeepers lining the walls.

You stride towards the massive entrance gates. White roses twine around the wrought iron, their thorns seeming as sharp as knives. 

You gather your nerves and lift a tremulous hand towards the intercom.

Before you can even state your matter, a disembodied, feminine voice rises from the device.

“Do you have an appointment?” the woman asks stiffly.

Hasty words pour out of you. “No, but I just need a minute-”

“President Snow doesn’t accept any visitors,” she responds harshly.

Your heart sinks. Of course he doesn’t. It was naive of you to cling to the illusory hope he’d see you anyway. Just for one dinner he likely forgot about. He’s the president. There are crucial matters that perpetually call for his attention. A myriad of things bigger and more important than a single Capitol citizen’s rent issues.

Still, you elect to try again, remembering the imminent deadline.

“Please,” you beg. “It’s very important.”

A distorted sigh ripples from the intercom.

“If you do not leave the premises, we will be compelled to remove you from the property, miss.”

One of the peacekeepers posted at the gates looks straight at you, his hand tightening over the rear of his machine gun. A wave of ice spreads through your veins.

You swallow and step back, accepting your defeat. Burning with shame, you start walking away from the mansion.

But you’re hardly a feet away, as the same voice from before erupts again, much softer this time. 

“My apologies, miss. I didn’t realize you were a close friend of President Snow.”

Your jaw hangs slack as you turn.

A woman with long dark hair appears through the open gates.

“Please, follow me,” she says as she approaches you. “The president will see you right away.”

Still steeped in utter shock, you acquiesce. You trail behind her. You can’t help but allow your eyes to wander as the woman escorts you through a dizzying series of hallways. While the front of the mansion is impressive with its lavish gardens and striking architecture, the inside is just as grandiose. You feel small as your gaze rests on all the sculptures and paintings decorating every corner of the house. Everywhere you look, there is something beautiful and eye-catching. The entire house is like a museum, meant to be admired rather than lived in.

Eventually the woman halts in front of a mahogany door. She tugs on the brass handles and stands to the side, making room for you to walk in. You mumble ‘thank you’ under your breath as you stumble inside the office.

President Snow’s blue eyes crinkle when they rest on you.

“Hello, dove. Why don’t you have a seat?” he offers, pointing at the chair before his desk. 

Licking your lips, you do as he says. Despite the softness of the plush upholstery you sit on, your nerves flare up. You had an entire speech ready, one you practiced on the way here. 

But now that you’re here, his intense focus pinned on you, you’re at a loss. 

Shaky words trickle out of your mouth.

“President Snow. I know you must be so busy…”

“Nonsense,” he interrupts, leaning back in his leather chair. “I always find time for my friends.”

You swallow the lump in your throat.

“T-That’s a relief to hear,” you stammer.

A maid brings a kettle and biscuits on a silver platter. 

“Tea?” Snow asks as he picks up the kettle.

“No, thank you.”

As Snow pours himself a cup, you ponder your next words. You don’t want to seem greedy but you can’t think of an elegant way to state your purpose.

So you settle for the truth.

“I came because…my husband and I are in a bit of trouble.”

Snow scrutinizes you for a while. Your stomach tightens. 

He then gives a sluggish nod, bending forwards as his fingers lace together.

“Do tell me everything, dove.”

You do exactly that. Snow is silent as your trembling voice fills his office. No word leaves his mouth while he listens. You don’t skip out a single detail, making a point to emphasize what consequences could befall upon you and your husband should you fail to meet the deadline. 

When you’re done, he sips from his tea cup and hums, “How unfortunate.”

“Can’t it be undone? I mean, couldn’t you…”

He chuckles along the porcelain rim of his cup. “I’m not responsible for every law and charter. I approve them, of course, but there are committees, councils. Each law serves the betterment of Panem as a whole. I can’t undo what has been done. I mean, how would this look to the rest of the Capitol? Like I have a different set of rules for my friends? I have to look impartial.” Heaving out a deep sigh, he sets his cup down.  “Apologies, dove, my hands are tied.”

The world seems to collapse around you. Your stomach sinks.

You surmise it was too big an ask, even for the President of Panem. You can’t expect special treatment. It was silly of you to even come hoping for anything resembling that.

You were foolish. Now you must collect the pathetic remnants of your dignity and take your leave.

Gulping down the tears pressing at the back of your eyes, you nod. 

“I’m sorry I asked,” you croak, already beginning to rise from your chair.

His deep lilt pauses your motion.

“But I suppose…there could be a solution. An alternative.”

Your brow furrows as you drop back on the chair.

“An alternative?”

“I could cover the difference.”

Your mouth nearly hits the floor. Snow using his own funds to help? It could be the very miracle you and your husband waited for. You would have to pay him back over time, of course. But for now, it would allow you and Henry to keep the apartment.

It’s a godsend.

“You would do that for us?” you mutter, shock stealing your air.

His reply is nonchalant. “Yes. I’d simply file it under my own personal investments.” Slanting his head sideways, he studies you. “I’d just ask for a small favor in exchange.”

“A favor?”

You wonder what kind of favor you could do for someone like Coriolanus Snow, the man who has everything and more. Gaping at him, you wait for him to elaborate.

He leans forward, crossing his arms over his desk.

“It’s not much but it would mean the world to me. The house needs some upkeep. Just a few light chores here and there. No cleaning, of course; I have an entire staff in charge of that. But the garden needs tending.” His inflection softens as he takes you in. “A home cooked meal every now and then would be nice, and I might sometimes ask you to join me for tea and conversation…” Mirth sways in his cerulean orbs. “As dreadful as that may sound.”

You move your head in assent.

“I think I can do that. But w-why me?”

He gives a long exhale, resting his jaw in his hand.

“Honestly dove? You’d be the one doing me a favor. All day, I’m surrounded by vultures.” Snow rolls his eyes skyward. “Sycophants who placate me with false smiles and honeyed lies.” His tone warms when his gaze falls back on you. “I simply wish to return home to someone genuine, someone who would never lie to me. And you wouldn’t, would you?”

“W-What?”

“Lie to me.”

Your skin heats under his scrutiny. 

Trying not to squirm, you sputter, “Never, sir.”

“Music to my ears,” the young president croons.

It’s not sounding like more work than what you do at home. You can already hear Henry’s discontent echoing in your head. You won’t have as much time for him. That too will be yet another adjustment.

But what other option is there? Even the family of four above yours had to move, unable to keep up with the sudden rent increase. You and Henry could be next.

“I…W-When do I start?”

The corners of Snow’s lips tug upwards.

“How does tomorrow sound?”

“You’re going to work for him?”

Henry’s displeasure ripples through you. You twine your hands and cast him an apologetic look. He despises that you went behind his back; you know that. But Henry ran himself ragged trying to come up with a solution. You didn’t want him to carry the burden on his own. That is not what a marriage is.

“He needs a housekeeper, of sorts. And he paid this month’s rent and the next upfront.”

Henry’s brows crumple. “Still, that’s…” Shoulders sagging, he crashes onto the sofa. The built-up exhaustion of the last few days seems to return all at once. You know he hasn’t slept a wink this whole week. Heart squeezing, you join his side and cradle his hand in your lap. Henry’s voice is dripping with shame and regret. “The entire reason I moved us here is so you never have to want for anything, so you wouldn’t have to work or suffer another day in this life.” His head dips. “I failed you.”

You cup his face, plunging your eyes into his.

“You didn’t fail me. And I won’t suffer. Sometimes life throws you lemons and you just have to squeeze those suckers dry.”

A hollow chuckle slips through his lips.

You run your thumbs over his growing beard.

"Listen, I know this wasn’t in our plans, but it’s just for now. In time, we’ll figure something out but I have to do this.” You lean your forehead against his. “For us.”

“Okay,” he belatedly concedes. He pulls your hands to his chest, kissing your knuckles.

“Just come home when you’re done.”

“I will,” you promise. 

The first day slogs forth without a hitch. A car picks you up in the morning and drops you off at President Snow’s estate. The dark-haired woman from before welcomes you, introduces you to the staff and walks you through your duties. You learn her name is Ariadne. 

You spend most of the day busy in the garden and library. Snow’s garden of roses might be one of the hidden treasures of Panem. Taking care of it is a pleasure and you even give yourself some minutes to bask in the sun’s warmth. 

The library shelves need dusting and you tend to this task as well, humming familiar tunes to yourself while working. It is no harm if no one is around to hear you sing. 

You don’t get bored as there’s always a task requiring your attention in the massive house. 

When stars begin to dust the darkening sky, you rush to the kitchen. You get started on dinner. Staff members give you space to work and you’re grateful. You don’t like being ogled while you cook. You marvel at the gold, high-end appliances as you knead your dough. The kitchen is pristine, like everything else in the house. You settle for something simple, hearty and warm. There is no point in pretending you’re some fancy chef when you’re not. If it’s what Snow desired, he’d have hired one. There’s a plethora of them in the Capitol for him to choose from after all. And they’d all line up outside his house in a heartbeat if he requested it.

You stand nervous, hands folded in your lap as the meal you prepared is brought out onto silver plates. You spent hours on it. Hopefully he likes it.

“This smells like heaven,” Snow purrs.

He then points at the chair next to his on the long table.

“Have a seat.”

Your eyes bulge. Not only are you stunned by his request, as there are so many other chairs on the gigantic dinner table, but you were hoping to return home to Henry once dinner was served.

 “Oh, I thought…”

He smiles at you. “I hate dining alone.”

You consider arguing. But as you remember all that you owe him, your mouth squeezes shut. You give a meek nod and drag your feet to the chair.

“Of course.”

You pick up your knife and fork…one of the knives and forks. You choose at random, unsure what purpose each of the cutlery items serves.

A smile waltzes upon Snow’s lips as he watches you. Shame pools in your gut. You feel like you’re making a fool of yourself.

He takes a bite of food and hums low in his throat, his eyes closing.

“Your cooking never fails to amaze, dove,” he lauds. Blue eyes search your face. “Are you hiding other talents from me?”

Your eyes lock onto your napkin, following the swirl of the flower patterns sewn in the corners. “I don’t think so,” you mumble.

Dinner continues in silence, only occasionally shattered by Snow’s sounds of delight and words of praise. Your own bites are small. While you’re glad it turned out the way you wanted, you’d rather save your appetite for home.

When a maid brings tea after the meal, Snow raises a dismissive hand.

“We’ll have tea and cakes in the study,” he announces.

Your face scrunches. “But it’s getting late. I should-”

“I must insist,” he interrupts. He rises from his seat and offers you his outstretched hand. 

His smile broadens.

“You would rob me of your company so swiftly, dove? How cruel of you.”

Reluctantly, you accept the hand he gives you. He helps you out of your chair and motions at you to follow him.

The both of you end up in his study, sitting by the fire. Tea is placed on the small table between you. Coriolanus takes a slow sip while you fiddle with your hands.

His cerulean gaze locks with yours.

“That song you were humming earlier.”

Your chest seizes.

The loud thudding of your heart fills your ears. You swallow thickly. 

“A song?”

“Yes,” he says absently, adding another spoonful of sugar to his cup. He gives a small stir before bringing it to his lips again. “I heard it as I walked by the library.”

You try not to let your panic show, cloaking yourself in false nonchalance. You thought you were discreet, quiet almost.

“Ah, that. It’s nothing,” you elude.

“No, it was lovely. You have the voice of an angel.” 

The compliment leaves you speechless.

But his next words tie your stomach in knots.

“I want to hear it again.”

“I don’t really…perform for audiences.”

“You mean since you left the Covey?”

Mouth agape, you stare at him. How did he find out? You don’t remember ever bringing it up. In fact, you wouldn’t. You expend great effort to hide your past on a daily basis.

Your reaction draws a snort from him. Amusement bounces in his orbs.

“Come on, dove, that accent…It might fool others but not me.”

“I don’t sing anymore,” you state firmly. 

Even if you did, you wouldn’t do it for Coriolanus Snow. Not of your own free will.

He smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes. His inflection becomes sharp, all softness evanescing. “Remember when I told you that I hated lies?” His pointed gaze sends chills through your body. “Sing for me, dove.”

Your mouth goes dry as sand. 

You understand his words for what they are. An order from your president. A strange order…but an order nonetheless.

You don’t get to refuse. You’re to sing for him, whether it pleases you or not.

Like a bird in a cage.

So you do it. Your lips fall open and clear, soft notes rise out of you. A traditional song your mother taught you. It tells the story of a girl who meets a boy with ocean eyes, how she drowns in them but the fall is like rising to heaven. 

As your voice fills his office, Snow’s scorching gaze doesn’t leave you.

When the song is done, he doesn’t applaud or praise you.

Instead, his eyes bear into you for what feels like an eternity. You try not to move, though your heart thunders in your chest. 

“See, was that so hard?” he asks, that cocky smile still adorning his lips. You don’t reply, your throat ablaze. It felt as if you didn’t belong to yourself just then. And it terrifies you. He slides your untouched cup towards you. “Drink your tea before it gets cold. Then, you can go home.”

Without a protest, you lift the cup to your mouth. One measly cup of tea and you’ll get to go home. Then this uncomfortable evening can end. Finally.

But as the liquid trickles inside your mouth, tendrils of darkness lurk in your vision. Your body gets heavier. So heavy you can’t hold the cup anymore, or even yourself. The porcelain dish vanishes from your hands. You sag into your chair.

Progressively, colors dim around you. 

Then sleep drags you down into a rabbit hole of utter oblivion. And all is blackness.

Softness like you’ve never felt before greets you when you awake. Like being embraced by fluffy clouds. For a while, you linger in the comfortable sensation, humming against the plush blankets. But as your eyes land on the thin slice of sunlight spilling from the window, you unleash an audible gasp. 

You bolt in a sitting position. 

Your eyes widen as you find Ariadne observing you between the velvet curtains at the end of the bed.

Gripping the side of your head, you glance at your surroundings. Clearly, you’re in a room. But how did you wind up here? No matter how hard you try, you can’t summon a single memory from last night.

“Ariadne? What happened?” 

She circles the bed to take a seat next to you. Her gentle tone alleviates your rising panic.

“You fell asleep,” she explains. “Master Snow brought you here so you can get some proper rest.” 

You sigh. It does make sense. Though you can’t stamp out the trickle of embarrassment sitting inside you with that knowledge. You dozed off on the job, on your first day. Hopefully, Snow isn’t too offended. 

“I must have been more tired than I thought,” you mutter, looking down.

“He’s gone now; he had urgent business at the Justice Building. But he insisted you eat a proper meal before you go.” She points at the golden food cart near the bed, every tray brimming with pastries, fruits, meats and cheeses. Way more than you could eat in a single meal.

The kind of decadent abundance the Capitol likes to indulge in. 

You politely decline. 

“I can’t…I have to return to my husband. He must be worried sick.”

Ariadne puts a hand on your arm.

“Word has been sent to him that you were simply tending to Master Snow’s needs last night.”

You purse your lips. It’s not ideal but at least he knows you were working. 

“Good,” you reply, nodding.

You yank the blanket off your body, determined to stand up and leave. But as soon as you’re on your feet, you crash back down on the bed, a strange ache awakening in your limbs.

Your forehead creases. You hug your stomach, a vicious cramp creeping there too.

Ariadne’s immediately at your side, placing her hands over your arms.

“Take it easy, miss,” she warns. “You exerted yourself a great deal yesterday.” She beams brightly. “In fact, Master Snow has given you a few days off. He was very satisfied with your work and expects you in three days’ time.”

Your brows rise. “Oh, that’s very generous.”

Her grin expands.

“He is exceedingly pleased with your performance.”

Over the next few weeks, Snow keeps summoning you sporadically. The days you work for him are pretty much the same. You attend to your daily tasks, you cook for him and then the two of you have tea in his study. He has you sing for him sometimes. You’ve learnt to swallow your feelings and perform according to his whim. You don’t even sing to yourself anymore, the exultation you drew from it all but gone. It was a way to stay connected to your Covey roots, to keep your family close to your heart. Now you can’t do it without his icy gaze invading your thoughts.

You often end up incredibly tired on those days, your body aching and sore for hours afterwards. You never imagined working for Coriolanus Snow would drain you so much. Falling asleep in his house even turns into a regular occurrence, happening almost every time you show up for work.

Naturally, Henry isn’t thrilled with that. Every time you come back home, too tired to wait on him hand and foot like you used to, his displeasure grows.

But he’s also yet to find a way to fix the issue, so the two of you must keep working. You’ve already sold everything that you could, clothes, any belonging of slight value. 

The gap is still too vast. 

And the city won’t allow you to apply for another place to live, claiming the waitlist is already sky-high.

Though you resent it, Coriolanus Snow is your only hope.

“You’re not in charge of dinner tonight,” Ariadne announces one night as you fire the stove.

You turn the burners off, your eyes rounding.

“I’m not?” 

A bright smile blooms on the brunette’s face.

“Master Snow is inviting you to dine with him as his guest, to express gratitude for your outstanding work.”

Your lips part in surprise. In the many weeks you’ve worked for President Snow, this has never happened. You have shared meals, of course, but you’ve never received such a formal invitation.

You suppose it’s all a game to Snow, and he simply changes the rules whenever he feels it.

She astonishes you further when she urges you to follow her to one of the guest bedrooms.

Utter dismay fills you.

A white dress lies atop the bed. The sleeveless evening gown looks more expensive than any dress you’ve ever laid eyes on. The delicate white silk flares at the waist, the gigantic, fluffy layered skirt making your head spin already. You imagine how hard it'd be to move in such a dress. Though you surmise it won’t be too much of a concern as you only need to sit through dinner with it.

“Master Snow expects you to wear this tonight,” Ariadne chimes.

She helps you slip on the dress, a task you undoubtedly would have struggled to complete on your own, the many layers of tulle, silk and lace of the huge skirt alone their own challenge.

Eventually, you’re dressed. 

She escorts you to the dinner room. Curious eyes dart about the halls, noting their unusual emptiness. Not a single footman, maid or Avox in sight. 

You’re alone.

“The house is very quiet,” you point out.

Ariadne beams at you from above her shoulder.

“The entire staff’s been sent home. Master Snow wants to wait on you himself tonight.”

Your stomach knots, a foreboding feeling swelling within you.

Still, you glide forward. It’s a little late to turn back.

When you enter the diner room, Snow’s face lights up. He makes his way to you. As usual, he’s dashing, his platinum blonde locks neatly combed back and his crimson suit highlighting his tall frame.

His gaze twinkles as he drinks you in. 

“You’re a vision, dove.” He lifts your hand and brushes his lips over your knuckles. His eyes slam into yours. Time seems to hang still for a few seconds. “As I know you would be.”

Keeping your hand in his, he escorts you to your seat. He pulls your chair for you and you fumble with your skirt a little before finding a comfortable way to sit. 

“So…no maids today?” you say lightly. 

His lips slant. He removes the lid off one of the pots. The mouthwatering smell instantly reaches you. 

“I thought it’d be nicer to enjoy a quiet, private dinner together, as a way to celebrate.”

Your face contorts into a puzzled expression. 

“Celebrate?”

“Your last day as my housekeeper,” he replies cheerfully.

Your heart misses a beat. Is he firing you?

You attempt to tamp down the quake in your voice. You fail miserably.

“Really?”

He gauges you and his smile grows.

“Yes. In fact, you and your husband will never have to worry about rent anymore. Him  especially. Everything’s settled.”

An audible exhale slips through your mouth. 

“This is…I don’t know what to say.”

“You can say thank you.”

“Thank you, President Snow.”

His laugh resonates in the near empty dining room.

“Please, call me Coriolanus.” He ladles soup onto your plate before bending close. You tense as his warm breath ghosts over your temple. “We’re quite…close now, aren’t we, dove?”

You gulp down the lump in your throat.

“I suppose we are…Coriolanus.”

You wince. Uttering his name feels wrong, forbidden almost.

Satisfaction doesn’t part from his handsome features as he regains his seat. He gestures for you to start eating. You feel a bit self-conscious as he observes you intently. 

Still, you do as he heeds, not needing to be told twice. 

The quicker you eat, the quicker you’ll get to be home and out of the uncomfortable dress. 

You groan as your lids flutter, a blurry shape rocking back and forth in your vision. Fatigue tugs at your heavy limbs as you stir. Your forehead scrunches. Your body’s hot, like a furnace, like you’re burning from the inside out. Tingles spark somewhere in you and you keen sharply, leaning into the sensation. Feverish whispers surround you, words you don’t comprehend in your daze.

The pull and tear. The pleasure mingling with the pain. You’re in a strange dream, maybe a nightmare.

Deep-chested grunts land in your ears. You awake further. It’s a voice you recognize, from somewhere…but not like this. Never like this. Something’s wong. Your forehead wrinkles. Something’s wrong but you’re so tired. So so tired. Your mind’s like cotton. Your limbs are as rocks.

As your lids sag, something slams into you. Fast, hard and vicious.

Your heart bounces. Your eyes snap open.

Your stomach drops.

A sinister smile you know too well by now welcomes you.

“Hello, dove. Awake, finally,” Snow whispers, his hips snapping into yours. Your breath catches as his cock grazes against your sweet spots. You clench around him and he chuckles darkly. “That angle always does it for you.” Smugness oozes off his hoarse timbre.

You look up at him. Sweat dots his brow, his tousled blonde locks clinging to his forehead. His blue eyes are cloudy with lust. His white shirt is half open, revealing a glimpse of the bare, glistening muscles underneath.

And as your gaze travels lower, horror flares inside you.

You gape with wide eyes as his veiny length disappears inside you. Again and again. The fluffy white shirt is bunched around your waist, your panties torn, exposing your lower body to President Snow’s lewd scrutiny entirely. His large hands dig into your hips, trailing crescent bruises in the shape of his fingernails.

Your shocked gaze finds his.

His smile expands.

“P-President Snow, what are you doing?” 

You know it’s a stupid question…but you have to make sense of this. Because none of this can be real. Maybe it’s a nightmare and you’re still sleeping.

You gasp as he pushes you into the mattress, piledriving into you at an angle that has you seeing stars.

“Taking what’s mine, of course,” he says matter-of-factly, hooking his arm under your thigh.

He lifts you and spreads you even more. His darkened gaze follows the motion of his cock as he pounds into you, an insatiable look twisting his handsome features. 

Reaching between your tangled bodies, he pinches your tender heap of nerves. He rubs against it, teasing it with maddening circles until your legs quake. You come apart beneath him, crying out as your back arches against the soft sheets.

“Please, stop,” you whimper, tears gathering in your eyes.

Snow’s pace quickens. Ragged moans tear from your throat. Your vision flickers.

He bends over you to lick one of your tears, humming in satisfaction at the taste. 

His lips drag against yours as he asks, “Is it truly what you want? Because it’s kind of hard to tell the way your pussy hugs my cock.” His mouth curves upward against your cheek. “Like it does every time.”

A wave of ice spreads through you. 

Every time? Realization hits you, knife-like as it pierces through the veil of denial. 

Every time…

The pieces fall into place as you remember all those times you fell asleep, unable to recall how you ended up in bed. Tired, confused…sore.

A shudder shoots through your frame.

You twist your body as panic seizes you.

Coriolanus growls when you clamber away from him, heading for the edge of the bed. You curse the pesky gown and the way it hinders your movements.

He yanks you back with ease, gripping the back of your head and shoving you down into the mattress.

Lips graze your earshell as he snarls, “Where are you going? We’re not done. We have to make sure you carry the next Snow heir.” In one stroke, he sinks into you from behind. You choke on your breath, the pain snatching your air. With one hand cinched around the back of your neck, he starts rutting into you. Your bruised folds ache at the blunt invasion. Still, your core clings to him in a way that stirs shame in your gut. “Although after all these times…” You hear the smile in his conceited inflection “It’s a given, isn’t it?”

Your eyes swell with tears. Your lips part in a silent scream. The sick song of flesh against flesh fills the room, mingling with his feral moans. 

Each time your walls tighten around him, bile rises up your throat. 

“What have you done to me?” you sob against the drenched silk sheets.

“Oh, I think you know,” he purrs. His warm breath fans over your scalp. “You can feel it, can’t you? How well your body knows me now, dove.”

His hips stutter, his thrusts getting sloppier. His cock twitches inside you. As warmth trickles alongside your walls, you feel sick again. He remains nestled inside you a while, panting above you and shoving the excess back in as you remain still.

As you feel his digits poke and prod, a chill runs through you. 

You can’t let him touch you again.

You keel over the edge of the bed, heading straight towards the floor. Pain ripples through your knees as they hit the carpet. You’re forced to ignore the crack resounding through your bones, awkwardly getting to your feet and dashing to the wooden swing doors.

Coriolanus’ wicked laugh echoes behind you. 

“Oh, dove, if you wanted to play hide and seek, all you needed to do was to ask,” he taunts.

Terror grips your throat. You ignore it alongside everything else. Alongside the pain, alongside the uncertainty, alongside the fact that you can still feel him inside you. Like you never left the bed. Like you’re still caged in his embrace.

Your legs carry you, barefoot and panicked, as you run through the palatial hallways as fast as the bothersome white dress will allow.

The president’s deep voice bounces against the ornate walls.

“Ready or not, here I come, my darling.”

The blood rushes to your feet. Your head spins and your feet tangle. You trip. Immediately, you gather yourself. You lift the skirt and dive hastily towards the living room. You duck behind a sofa. 

It’s a pathetic place to hide; you know it. But the lavish mansion is nothing but open spaces doused in sunlight. 

There is nowhere to hide.

The clamor of your heart is deafening in your ears as you hear objects crash to the floor a few feet away from you. Hand over your mouth to keep every sound in, you jerk every time the racket grows on the other side of the sofa. 

His frustration coats the air.

“Come out, come out wherever you are, dove,” he calls, his tone icier than before.

You freeze, holding your breath and wishing he doesn’t think to look where you are.

The minutes pass, agonizingly slow. The flimsy hope that he may have left even begins to bloom inside you.

Hot air suddenly breezes over your nape.

“Found you.” 

Your heart leaps to your throat. You go still. Coriolanus hauls you from the floor, half-carrying you and half-lugging you across the living room. You try to bite and claw any part of him you can reach but his hand locks around your throat.

He slams you harshly against a wall. Your head rings, the lines of his face momentarily doubling in your vision. You bite his hand. Cursing under his breath, he bangs your head against the wall again. You go limp.

Through your hazy sight, you note the scarlet trail streaking the back of his hand. You drew blood. Even if you’re lost, you bask in the ephemeral second of victory.

He carries your unmoving form the rest of the way back to his bedroom. You loathe yourself for your stillness. You want to put up a fight. You want to claw. You want to bite. You want to kill him with your bare hands. 

But all you can do is simmer in helplessness as he brings you right back to the very place you tried to escape.

He gently releases you on the bed then climbs over you. Goosebumps erect on your flesh as he caresses the side of your face, a strangely fond gesture considering everything he put you through.

“Please,” you mumble weakly. “You can have anyone you want. I have a husband.”

His face contorts into an expression of pure mockery, as if what you said was beyond ludicrous.

“I don’t want just anyone.” He lifts your chin, scorching blue gaze diving into yours. “I want you.”

“As for your husband…” His voice trails off as he traces your trembling bottom lip with his thumb. A crooked smirk drags his lips skyward. He leans over you to whisper, “Well I did say he’ll never have to worry about rent ever again, didn’t I?”

Your heart sinks. You can’t believe you trusted Coriolanus Snow. A foolish mistake. A dangerous mistake. One you’re now paying dearly. He not only trapped you…he also hurt Henry.

All because of you.

You will never forgive yourself.

“What did you do to him?” you ask, anger and heartbreak making your voice wobble.

A chill-inducing glint dances in his orbs.

“I haven’t done anything.” He cocks his head. “Rebels are criminals of the state and shall be sentenced as such.”

The world collapses around you.

A chasm of despair swallows you whole as quiet tears stream down your face.

As sobs shake your frame, President Snow plants soft kisses on your wet cheeks. You feel him grow hard against your belly as he hums, as if the taste of your hopelessness was ambrosia to him. Heavenly sweet.

He cups your face.

“Do not fret, dove. I’ll make sure you don’t miss a second of his execution.” The emptiness of his blue eyes staggers you, their depths as icy as a frozen lake. “It’s important for all citizens of Panem to learn from watching.”

The expression on his face turns downright diabolical. His knuckles sweep over the apple of your cheek.

“And I want you to learn as you watch the light go out in his eyes, dove, that this was inevitable, that I always win.”

His tone softens as his hands drag over your hips.

“I wonder how many children you’ll give me. Will they all sing as pretty as you?” The hurried rustle of his pants as he frees his cock freezes your blood. He bites his lip, lust already misting his gaze as he prods impatiently at your entrance.