#tomblyth

Rough.

That seemed to be the only way to properly describe Coriolanus Snow. Abrasive, sharp, deadly. The kind of man who dominates, demands every drop of sanity from his victims. Unfortunately, all of his evil is buried under a beautifully stoney face and charisma that could seduce bricks.

Your father was wealthy, a Capitol property owner that knew a thing or two about how to negotiate up in profit, living lavishly above most other Capitolites, that’s what brought Coriolanus in, if that was the shiny bronze attracting him to the surface, you were the gold layers down he struck. You were bright eyed, soft, beautiful. How could he not want you all to himself? So shapable, pliable into the perfect kiln ready doll of his own creation.

You couldn’t even hate yourself for falling as hard as you did, anyone would’ve. What started as innocent walks and lavish gifts tuned quickly into intimate dinners and promises whispered into the shell of your ear as you danced to some string quartet— his hand much too tight on your hip. Your father was eager to agree to the arrangement, your mother gushing over how the president was interested in you, your own heart lurching at the prospect of being picked. You were 18 after all, and 24 is a perfectly normal age for you to marry.

The engagment news swept bright the Capitol and tumbled down the slopes onto the districts like fire. Young aristocrat engaged to the president! Freshly 18 and already a bride? The high ranking women passed you in the street in envy, you relished in it. Slowly, Coriolanus’ attention became more constant. You were to be by his side all hours of the day, hand in his, hips flush, arms linked. Slowly, you obliged,

Even now your wedding was, as to be expected, a spectral. For months, a strange unease had been bubbling beneath your surface about your husband to be. You hadn’t seen your friends in months, your parents didn’t talk to you a whole bunch anymore, all you had was him. He loved it.

Your reception dress glittered elegantly, shining bright under the fluttering gaze of the chandelier. A mixture of absolute happiness at the idea of being the First Lady, which had not fully sunk, and the strange flight you feel when you see your husband. His arm, however was around iron clad to your figure the whole day, keeping it right where he wanted you.

Through everything you’d been prepared for in becoming his fiancee, his obsessed with having i you u with cold was one you should’ve but didn’t expect. Every baby he saw was something that could be yours, every pregnancy announcement made him even more jittery. Your body was young and ripe for him, and he’d be damned if he didn’t make sure of a future hair as fast as possible.

The only thing more powerful than a man was his lineaage.

“…You two are just so picky to have found each other, you’re perfect..” some older Capitol woman gushed about your relationship happily, looking down at the grip Coriolanus’ fingers made on the fabric of your dress. “You’ll be set for life” she beamed “I’m sure you’re just bursting at the seems.

You nod almost too stiffly, a plethora of emotions swirling around your brain, one was that definitely. But as time went on you started it not be able to breathe anymore, body on edge and skin on fire. Perhaps that was normal? Was that love? Coriolanus said it was, and you were too nervous to say anything counter “I’m just riveted.” You say elegantly, leaning into his body.

A low and happy growl bubbles from his chest, possessive, claiming.

The end of the parry comes sooner than you’re ready for, I’m a haze, you’re ushered to a private car with Coriolanus, every single citizen of the nation sending you off happily to your new life with your husband. The clapping drowned out any nerves temporarily, chilling your bones, but as people got farther away and it was just you and him? The nerves set your skin afire.

“You’re so beautiful..” he pulls you into his lap on the backseat. “My beautiful bride. You ready for what’s next? I expect obedience” he mumbles, thumb tracing your cheek in a subtle warning. He was about to take what he wanted. That’s all Coriolanus did, he took, and you were no exception.

The car ride feels much too long, your hands shaking as his penthouse enters your view. Before you can love, he picks you up and starts to strode inside impatiently. Your arms wrap around his neck and your body leans into his subconsciously. The lobby had been cleared in preparation, your souls alone in the whole building as he stepped into the elevator and clicked all the way up.

On the ride up, his lips found solace in your jaw, nibbling gently against your cheek and neck too. He was unable to control himself anymore.

Your body becomes his the moment his penthouse door opens. You feel the air shift from the stiff façade of the wedding to the primal want oozing from Coriolanus’ pores. Before you can take anything in, you’re being pushed down onto his your bed, a look you’ve never seen clouding his features. A single curl loose from his gel slick back hanging low over his cheekbone casts a shadow over his face. “You’re.. so.. fuck” he pushes up the fabric of your dress. “Up.” He suddenly stops himself.

Your eyes open, sitting up skeptically when he stands back. “Take it off, lemme see what’s under.” His greedy gaze takes in every fine detail of your body.

You oblige, as much as your senses wanted to reject him, your body was almost pulsing with a mirrored need for him. You unlace and drop the heavy corset, the skirt following impromptu. Under what was probably your 5th dress of the iight, your body was wrapped in expensive and delicate lace, gentle patterns that accentuated the curve and dip of your supple figure.

You see the visible shift in his attitude, he doesn’t hold back anymore. It almost scared you how turned on he was, launching at you full speed and folding your body in half before you can comprehend what’s going on.

“Just relax baby..” he finally murmurs “it’ll be so good, just let me in okay?” He lets his pants drop.

You can’t even see his cock, not until the tip is prodding at your sensitive hole “oh..!” You breathe in, legs soundly by your head as he pushes on your stomach.

“That’s it..” a rough finger finds your clit, starting to press on the nerve ending as your twitch. His cock pushes in, a rough, burning starch making your vision hazy. “Oh fuck.. oh yeah..” he groans, you can tell he’s trying to remain in control while also fucking you for the first time. “Oh you’re so ripe.. you’re gonna be so round with my heir”

It hurt, the sting became worse as Coriolanus got faster, your eyes flutter shut, jaw moving open and lower body jerking to compensate for the pain, the pleasure, and the size.

Beyond everything, his cock was impassive.

“Oh yes.. oh.. fuck!” He rolls your clit between his forefingers, relishing in the way your abdomen tightens and your eyes get hazy. “Gonna.. fill this womb..” he grunts out, bicep muscle straining against the bed “gonna have you..” round.. and.. stuffed!” He growls between thrusts.

All you can manage to mewl is a pathetic “Coriolanus..!l” as your first orgasm threatens your senses.

“Yeah? Gonna come? C’mon, you got it, take it baby, it’ll be the first of many..” he groans and keeps your legs open for him as much as possible.

Like a satisfying sneeze, your body lets go. Your orgasm is intense, almost shuttering. Your legs shake under the force of his penetrating cock and your bucking hips. Coriolanus moans loudly “squeezing me.. filthy bride.. so fucking dirty f’me” he huffs. “Just.. one.. fuck..!”

You feel him burry himself to the hilt, cumming as deep and hard as he can, filling up your womb as best he can. Your hand, almost asleep by how your body was contented, strokes his hair as he stays plugged into your hole.

“You can take one more, my bride..” he decides, giving you little time to adjust to his sensation.

One more turns onto about 3 more, soon cum was pooling down and you couldn’t feel your thighs anymore. Only when you were go glossy and fucked out your eyes were red, he finally let up on your body. “So fucking pretty.. my bride…” he pulls out with a wet pop, unceremoniously having a finger inside to keep you plugged “gotta make sure it takes.” He copes into your ear to nip any objections.

Your body was too limp to argue, you knew it was just the beginning. A few weeks later, a positive test would confirm that.

The screams tore through him like knives, Your screams, his wife, the only woman he had ever allowed close enough to see past the armour of calculation and ambition. And every cry was a mirror of memory: his mothers face, pale and slick with sweat, her fragile body arched in agony; his father’s shaking hands the small bundle wrapped in white that never drew a breath. He had been a boy, powerless, yet the image was burned into his consciousness like acid. Now decades later, he stood again on that threshold of life and loss.

He wanted to storm inside, to see you, but the physicians had barred him with firm hands and clinical words, “Complications,” they said, faces grim. Complications. He despised that word, it was a cowards shield for death waiting.

He duh his fingernails into his palms hard enough to draw blood. Control. He needed control. He demanded the best doctors, the best equipment, the safest environment the Capitol could muster. No expense had been spared. Yet nature, cruel nature, dared to mock him still.

His heart hammered against his ribs as another wail split in the air. The sound transported him back to his childhood bedroom, clutching his pillow, listening to muffled sounds and then silence. Always silence.

Not this time. Not her.

He stalked to the door, and when a trembling nurse stepped out to fetch clothes, he seized her wrist. “Is she alive?” His voice was low, venomous with suppressed panic. The girl stammered that you were still fighting, still breathing, but weak.

Weak.

The word almost felled him, He released her, shoving her back inside, and pressed his forehead against the cold marble wall. He was supposed to be a master of strategy, a man who could bend districts and peacekeepers to his will, yet here he was, useless, reduced to pacing and praying like some desperate citizen in the square.

Minutes - or hours, he couldn’t tell - passed in a blur of anguish. At last, the cry that erupted from the chamber was different. Not yours. Higher, piercing, new. The cry of life.

The baby..

For an instant, relief threatened to topple him. A son. His legacy secured. But just as swiftly came the surge of bile, the wave of remembered grief. His mother had cried out, too, before going limp, before leaving him with nothing but shadows. That same sound had heralded her death.

The door opened. The physician’s face was solemn, cautious. “She made it,” he said. “Both did.”

Coriolanus nearly collapsed. The weight those words cracked something deep inside. You lived. That was all that mattered. He should have rejoiced, should have rushed in to hold you, to thank whatever gods he did not believe in.

But when they placed the child in his arms - a small, fragile creature wrapped in pale blue - his body went rigid. The baby’s tiny fist curled against his chest, warm and alive, but all he could see was the thin shroud that had covered his infant sister. All he could feel was the threat: this child had nearly stolen you from him.

He shoved the bundle back into the nurse’s arms, almost violently. “Take him.” His voice cracked like a whip, cold and sharp.

Inside the chamber, you lay pale and exhausted, hair plastered to your forehead, but alive. Beautiful, even in your weakness. His knees almost gave way as he sat beside you, clutching your hand with desperate ferocity. He pressed his lips to your skin as though by sheer will he could anchor you to the world.

You smiled faintly, whispering, “He’s perfect, isn’t he?”

Coriolanus could not answer. He stared at the wall, jaw locked, his hand trembling in yours. Perfect? No. Dangerous. He had almost taken you away.

The weeks that followed were a haze. You recovered slowly, leaning on him, and he never left your side. He ordered meals to be brought, kept guards at the door, oversaw every potion and tonic prescribed. His devotion to you was suffocating, but it was real. He could not - would not - risk losing you again.

But the child… he avoided.

Nurses tended to the boy, rocking him to sleep, feeding him under Coriolanus’ watchful, disdainful eyes. When you tried to place the baby in his arms, he recoiled with some excuse: a meeting, a document, a stain on his cuff that mustn’t touch the blankets. He kissed your hair, stroked your cheek, but never his son’s.

You noticed. Of course you noticed.

One evening, weeks after the birth, you confronted him. The baby slept soundly in the cradle beside your bed, tiny chest rising and falling with innocence. You turned to your husband, your voice soft but firm.

“Coriolanus… why won’t you look at him?”

The question struck like a spear. He stiffened, his mask faltering. “I look,” he said curtly.

“No,” you whispered. “You look through him. As if he isn’t there. As if he’s.. unwanted.”

His hand clenched around the arm of the chair until his knuckles blanched. For a long time he said nothing, only stared at the cradle with something between hatred and fear flickering in his pale eyes.

Finally, his voice came, rough and raw, “Because he almost killed you.”

The words hung heavy in the room. You gasped softly, shaking your head. “Coriolanus. he’s just a baby. Anything can happen in childbirth. He doesn’t mean it.”

“I don’t care what he meant,” he replied too quickly, rising to his feet. “Do you understand what it was for me? To stand there again, hearing the screams, the blood, the doctors whispering about complications? Do you know what that does to a man who’s already watched his mother die that way? Who buried a sister he never even knew because of it?”

His chest heaved, eyes glistening though no tears fell. He was trembling, not with rage but with memory. “I cannot hold him without seeing you: lifeless, and cold. I can’t look at him without thinking he almost stole you from me. And if he had, I would have nothing. Nothing.” You were silent, heart aching at the rawness of his confession. He turned away, unable to face you, shoulders rigid.

“I love you,” he said at last, the words breaking like glass. “I love you more than power, more than breath. But him? I cannot love him. Not now. Perhaps not ever.”

The cradle creaked softly as the baby shifted in his sleep, unaware of the weight his existence carried. You reached out, brushing your husband’s hand, grounding him.

“Then love me enough for both of us,” you whispered. He closed his eyes, jaw tight, torn between his devotion to you and the chasm he felt toward the child.