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sailorgoon13 · 6 months ago

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Shōgun

Title: Bound by Duty, Drawn by Fate

Pairing: John Blackthorne x Fem!Reader

Genre: Comfort & Angst

Spoilers: This story contains spoilers for Shōgun (2024). Please proceed with caution if you haven’t watched the series yet!

Additional tags: slow burn romance, grief and healing, forbidden love, duty and desire, angsty confessions, grumpy x reserved dynamic, protective John Blackthorne, historical

About Fem!Reader: The reader is a skilled translator and a strong, capable woman raised in a samurai family. Her upbringing made her not only fluent in multiple languages but also a highly trained fighter. Beyond that, her personality, appearance, and other traits are open to your interpretation!

Author's Note: I was genuinely amazed to find so few (if any!) Shōgun fics out there, so I decided to write one myself! This story takes place after season one and explores a new connection between Blackthorne and a strong, beautiful translator (you!). Writing this was a labor of love, and I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed creating it.

If you’d like to see more, feel free to drop ideas or requests in my inbox. 💜

Word count: 3244

Can also read here

The house felt hollow, a shell of what it once was. The warmth of Mariko's voice and the steady presence of Fuji had vanished, leaving Blackthorne to sit alone amid the silence. He no longer found peace in the beauty of the garden or the rhythmic crash of waves against the shore. Their absence weighed on him like an anchor, dragging him into memories he wasn't ready to confront. He poured himself a cup of sake, the bitter taste doing little to drown his grief. The faint rustle of approaching footsteps broke the stillness, followed by a measured knock at the shoji door. Blackthorne straightened, his hand instinctively brushing the hilt of his katana.

"Come in," he called, his voice rough with weariness.

The door slid open, revealing you—a figure framed by the evening light, radiating quiet strength and a calm beauty that struck him immediately.

You stepped into the room, bowing low, your hands folded neatly in front of you.

"Anjin-sama," spoken softly, your voice steady despite the weight of formality. "I apologize for the disruption. My name is Y/N. Lord Toranaga has commanded that I serve as your new translator."

He raised an eyebrow, his hand still rested on the hilt. Your English was perfect, each syllable precise.

Straightening your back, your gaze meeting his. "It is an honor, Anjin-sama. I have traveled far to fulfill this duty."

Blackthorne studied you for a moment, his hazel eyes shadowed by exhaustion. Your beauty was undeniable—your face calm yet striking, and posture confident—but he wasn't ready to trust so easily. Not after everything he'd lost.

"I don't need another translator," he grunted.

"Lord Toranaga believes you will find my skills useful," you added.

He snorted, turning away to pick up the sake flask. "Toranaga always knows what I need, doesn't he?"

The words were slurred with bitterness, a half-drunken edge to his tone. He poured himself another cup, the liquid sloshing slightly over the rim. He glanced at you, then sighed and reached for a second cup.

"Well," he said gruffly, "If you've come all this way, you might as well sit."

You parted your lips in mild surprise, but quickly masked it with a graceful bow of thanks. Lowering onto the mat across from him, your hands extended and took the cup of sake.

He leaned back, cradling his own cup in both hands. "Don't expect me to be friendly," he said, his voice low. "I've had enough of people coming and going." He stared into his drink, his expression unreadable. "But... you're here now. Might as well drink to that."

He downed the contents of his cup in a swift motion, the sake burning it's course down his throat. It was silent between the two of you, only the faint chirp of crickets from outside.

Lifting your cup and mirroring him, you take a polite sip. "I am here to serve, Anjin-sama," you said after a moment, your tone calm but resolute. "But I will not intrude where I am not wanted. I only ask for the chance to prove myself worthy of this position."

The words were simple yet measured, and it struck something in him. He didn't respond immediately, instead watching the flicker of the brazier's light reflected in your eyes. Finally, he let out a low sigh, setting his cup down.

"We'll see," he said quietly, more to himself than to you.

The next morning

The smell of pine mixed with the salty air as Blackthorne stepped outside the home, taking in the array of hues coloring the sky. His back was stiff from a restless night and the sake hadn't helped as much as he'd hoped.

As he adjusted his kimono and glanced toward the garden, he noticed you waiting for him near the edge of the path. Although, you were dressed differently now, the attire more suited to movement—a simple yet elegant hakama tied neatly at your waist. Your hair was secured out of your face, and on your back rested two swords—a katana and a wakizashi.

You bowed deeply when he approached, expression calm yet determined. "Good morning, Anjin-sama," you said. "Lord Toranaga has instructed me to accompany you today. He believes it is time you learned to wield your swords properly."

"I know enough to survive."

Your lips curl faintly, finding amusement in his dry comment. "Surviving is one thing. Mastery is another."

He raised an eyebrow, his tone filled with skepticism. "And you're going to teach me?"

"I was raised in a samurai family," you replied, unshaken by his tone. "My father believed strength and discipline were virtues for all, not just men. I trained alongside my brothers and cousins and earned the respect of many. If Lord Toranaga trusts me to guide you, then perhaps you should, too."

He frowned, running a hand through his hair. "You sound just like Mariko," he muttered, though there was no venom in his voice—only a trace of grief.

Your expression softened at the mention of Mariko, but didn't press. Instead, you gestured toward the path leading away from the house. "Come. There's a clearing nearby, away from prying eyes. A good place to begin."

Reluctantly, Blackthorne followed, the weight of his katana feeling heavier than usual. Two guards trailed behind at a distance, but you led the way with a quiet confidence that seemed to part the tension around him.

When you reached the clearing, it was as promised—secluded and tranquil, the canopy of trees overhead shielding them from the sun. You turned to face him, your movements fluid as you unsheathed the katana in one smooth motion. The blade caught the morning light, gleaming with precision.

"Draw your sword, Anjin-sama," you instructed, your tone even but firm.

Blackthorne hesitated, then did as instructed. The katana felt foreign in his hands, despite the months he'd spent carrying it.

You stepped closer, eyes scanning his stance. "Your grip is too tight," you said, reaching out to adjust his hands. Your touch was firm but not invasive. "A sword is not a hammer. It requires balance, precision, and intention."

He frowned, shifting his weight as you stepped back. "And how do you propose to teach me that?"

Smiling faintly and lifting the katana. "By showing you what it feels like to fail."

Before he could react, you lunged, your strike was swift but controlled. Blackthorne barely managed to block, his blade clashing against yours with a sharp metallic ring. He stumbled back, his heart racing.

"Again," you said calmly, lowering the sword into a ready position.

Over the next hour, you pushed him relentlessly, each strike and parry teaching him more about his weaknesses than he cared to admit. You was fast, precise, and utterly unyielding—a fighter who had clearly earned the reputation.

When you finally paused, you both were breathing heavily, Blackthorne looked at you with a newfound respect. "You're not just a translator," he said, his voice rough.

"No," you replied, sheathing the sword. "I'm not."

Lowering your swords, and breathing heavy in the quiet clearing, Blackthorne wiped the sweat from his brow, glancing at you.

You moved to the edge of the clearing, sinking gracefully onto a flat rock. Without a word, you reached for the small flask tied to the sash and took a measured sip before offering it to him.

Blackthorne hesitated, studying carefully. You were an enigma—both fiercely skilled and frustratingly reserved. He accepted the flask, allowing the refreshing liquid to soothe his dried mouth.

"You're unlike anyone I've met," he stated, breaking the silence.

You didn't look at him as you responded, "You've traveled far, Anjin-sama. Surely you've met many kinds of people."

He frowned at your deflection, lowering the flask. "That's not what I meant. You're... different. Lord Toranaga could have sent anyone, but he sent you. Why?"

You were unsure of how to respond, so you remained silent, staring off into the distance.

He let out a short laugh, though there was no humor in it. "He sent me someone who's good at keeping secrets, that's for sure."

Your lips pressed into a thin line, though so still didn't respond. Standing to your feet, you took your place in the center of the clearing once again.

"Rest time is over," you said firmly. "Pick up your sword."

His jaw tightened, but he pushed himself to his feet, grabbing the wooden practice sword. You were skilled at avoiding questions—at keeping him at arm's length—but he wasn't about to back down.

This time, the practice resumed with a fiercer intensity. Your movements were fluid, the strikes swift and calculated. Blackthorne's frustration fueled him, and though your skill still outmatched his, he began to adapt. He watched the footwork, your shoulders, the way your weight shifted just before striking.

When you lunged again, he sidestepped at the last moment, spinning behind you. Barely having time to recover before he countered, the wooden blade stopping just at you neck.

Both of you froze.

Your eyes widened slightly, meeting his. His face was close—almost too close— his breaths mingling in the charged air between you. The intensity of the moment made the world fall silent. The heat of exertion and something deeper simmered in the space shared.

Blackthorne's voice was low, almost a whisper. "Not so untouchable now, are you?"

Your pulse quickened, breaths were short and shallow as each of you stood momentarily frozen. Composing your demeanor, you took a measured step back.

"We're done for today," you stated as you bowed to him.

Blackthorne blinked, caught off guard. "What? Why?"

You turned away, adjusting the sash with deliberate precision. "You've made progress," you said, your voice carefully neutral. "There is nothing more to teach for today."

He watched you, his chest still heaving from the exertion. "That's not the real reason, is it?"

You continued to walk without looking back. He stood there, sword clenched at his side. The tension in the clearing was suffocating, and your absence left him with an ache he didn't understand. The walls you had built around yourself were towering and unyielding; though for the briefest moment, he thought he saw a crack within their foundation.

And it left him wanting more.

The days that followed blurred into a rhythm. Each morning, you met Blackthorne in the clearing. Every practice was intense, filled with clashing blades, sharp commands, and an unspoken tension that neither dared to name. You pushed him harder than anyone else ever had, and he rose to the challenge, gritting his teeth through each strike.

But it wasn't just the training that lingered in his mind. It was the moments between—the way your focus never wavered, the way you moved like the wind, both graceful and untouchable. And when you smiled, fleeting as it was, it stirred something in him he thought he'd buried alongside Mariko.

On the fifth day, the practice ended earlier than usual. Blackthorne, drenched in sweat and clutching his ribs from a particularly brutal strike, leaned against the trunk of a tree.

Glancing at him, a flicker of amusement crossed your features. "You wouldn't survive long in a fight if I didn't push you."

He chuckled, low and bitter. "You believe Toranaga's preparing me for survival?"

You paused only for a moment before returning to the blade. "I believe he sees something in you that you don't see in yourself."

Blackthorne frowned, watching closely. "And what do you see?"

You didn't look up, your expression carefully guarded. "A man carrying too many ghosts," she said softly. "And fighting to prove he's still alive."

The words struck him harder than any of the blows. He was speechless, as you stripped him bare with just a single sentence.

"You're not wrong," he admitted quietly, his voice rough.

You finally lifted your gaze to meet his. "Loss has a way of shaping us," you stated softly. "But it doesn't have to define us."

A moment of silence filled the air. There was so much he wanted to ask you— about your family, your past, the shadows in your eyes— but something held him back from doing so.

He took a few steps forward, closing the distance. Towering over you, he reached out and offered his hand. Hesitating for the briefest moment before taking it, your fingers warm and steady against his.

That night, he couldn't sleep. Sitting in his dimly lit home, his thoughts kept drifting back to you and the secrets he so desperately wanted to uncover.

Just then, a faint knock from the door caught his attention. He stood, confused. It was late—too late for visitors. But when he opened the door to find you standing there, his worry faded.

"I am sorry to disturb you," you said quietly with a small bow.

"No disturbance at all," he replied, stepping out of the way to let you inside.

"I wanted to apologize," you said after a moment.

He blinked puzzled. "For what?"

"For earlier," you replied, gaze dropping to the floor. "I shouldn't have said what I did about your ghosts."

Blackthorne crossed his arms, leaning against the wall. "You were right, though," he said. "And maybe I needed to hear it."

You looked up at him, eyes scanning his face in search of any doubt. "But.. It wasn't my place."

"Maybe not," he admitted. "But it's been a long time since someone's looked past the surface."

The air between grew heavy again, the weight of unspoken emotions pressing down. He took a step closer, his voice dropping. "Why did you really come here, Y/N?"

For once, your composure was slipping and he began to see the vulnerability you kept so carefully guarded.

"I don't know," you whispered.

He lifted his hand to your face, pushing a strand of hair from your face and tucked it securely behind your ear. You didn't flinch or move, your eyes were locked onto his. Each of you stood in place, the tension was thick but neither could make that final step.

Finally, you exhaled shakily and stepped back. "Goodnight, Anjin-sama."

As you turned toward the door, his hand shot out before he could stop himself. His fingers wrapped around your wrist—not tight, but enough to make you pause. Glancing back to him, your eyes were filled with uncertainty.

"Don't go," he whispered.

You breath caught in your throat. "Anjin—"

His grip loosened as he stepped closer, closing the gap between you. The soft flickering light of the lanterns made his vulnerability clear; something raw and unguarded.

"I didn't want this," his voice soft, yet filled with emotion.

"I've lost too much. Mariko.. Fuji.." His voice faltered, jaw tightening as he forced the words out. "Every time I care for someone, they're taken from me. And I swore I wouldn't let it happen again."

You stayed silent, your eyes locked on to his as his openly admitted he fears. A mix of emotions encased you, your chest rising and falling in measured breaths.

He continued, his tone softening, "There's something about you, Y/N. Something I can't ignore, no matter how hard I try."

Your heart pounded painfully in your chest listening to his confession. You wanted to respond, to try and ease the ache you could feel in him, but the words were lost in your throat.

"Ever since you appeared, suddenly, I feel..." He paused, searching for the right words. "Alive. Like there's still something worth holding onto."

Your lips trembled, your own walls threatening to crumble. You were only here with duty and purpose, but being so close to him and feeling the weight of this raw honesty, you caught your mask slipping.

"I can't help it. You make it impossible to keep my distance," he admitted as his fingers tightened just slight around yours.

Your free hand lifted, hovering near his face. "Anjin-sama..." you whispered, barely audible.

"John," he corrected gently.

"John," you repeated. The name felt differently on your tongue but it was a feeling you were unable to dismiss

Each of your desires and fears mingled together in the tight space. Your faces almost too close, but it was comforting.

"I don't know what this is," you finally said, voice trembling. "But this is dangerous. For both of us."

He nodded slowly, his expression conflicted. "I know. But I'm not sure I care anymore."

Your breath hitched at the admission. "You should."

"Maybe," he shrugged, his eyes searching yours. "But for once, my own death doesn’t scare me. Yours, on the other hand? That’s my deepest fear."

The air between you both felt charged, emotions swirling like a storm neither of you could control. His hand, still holding yours, trembled slightly. You saw the vulnerability etched into his expression, a crack in the iron walls he’d built around himself.

"Please," he said, his voice almost breaking. "Don’t leave me."

Your heart ached at the quiet desperation in his tone. For all his strength, for all his resilience, John Blackthorne was a man who had lost so much, and the fear of losing again was written plainly across his face.

"Stay," he murmured. "Just.. stay with me tonight."

Your lips parted, uncertainty warring with the pull you felt toward him. Duty told you to remain guarded, to keep a professional distance, but your heart had other plans.

Slowly, you nodded. "I’ll stay."

The sharpness in his expression softened at your agreement. His presence had an affect over you that you hadn’t expected.

The moments that followed passed in a strange, tender silence. Together, you moved toward the low sleeping area of the house, the flickering fire casting warm, golden light across the room.

John settled onto the futon, leaving a space beside him. He glanced at you, hesitant, as if afraid you’d change your mind. But you didn’t. Lowering to the floor beside him, you laid your head across his chest, listening to the rapid heartbeat beneath.

Moving closer to yu, his arm slid around your shoulder carefully, as if you were a fragile thing waiting to shatter. The warmth of his body pressed against yours brought a sense of peace he hadn’t known in quite some time.

"Thank you," he whispered.

"For what?" you asked softly.

"For being here," he said. "For reminding me what it feels like to not be completely alone."

You swallowed hard, his words striking a chord deep within you. You wanted to ease his pain, to let him know he wasn’t the only one who had felt lost or alone, and how his presence had stirred something in you equally.

But all words were lost in the quiet intimacy. Reaching for his hand and intertwining your fingers with his was a small, but significant gesture. A silent promise that he wouldn’t have to face the emptiness alone.

His grip tightened slightly and you could feel the tension in his body to fade. For the first time in what felt like forever, John Blackthorne felt at peace. Although you knew this could bring trouble and danger ahead, just for tonight you allowed yourselves to simply exist. Finding peace within each other.

The fire burned low, its light casting soft shadows across the walls, as sleep eventually claimed you both. His arm remained securely around you, as if holding onto the one thing that made him feel whole again.

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sailorgoon13 · 7 months ago

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Rivals// Snow lands on top

Warning: NSFW | 18+, virginity taking, unprotected sex, impact play, edging, degradation

Pairings: young Coriolanus Snow x fem! reader, fem capital, academy student

Summary: Coriolanus Snow and Y/N have always been academic rivals, their rivalry fueled by years of competition and personal disdain. What starts as a tense academic project soon escalates into something much more heated as they face off

Word count: 5k

The lecture hall buzzed with rumors about Coriolanus Snow's return to the Academy. He had been stationed in District 12, with the role of Peacekeeper since the end of the last Hunger Games; everyone had different ideas behind the reasoning for his absence.

Some believed he had fallen in love with Lucy Gray, chasing after her and is home with a broken heart. Others believe she betrayed him and he killed her in a fit of rage. Or maybe the Peacekeeper life just wasn't for him.

You hadn't believed any of it at first—surely, after everything, he wouldn't dare show his face here again. Yet, as the heavy doors swung open, your doubts evaporated.

He strode into the room, his posture was rigid, and his expression carved from stone. His once-pristine uniform hung slightly loose on his frame, and the usual sheen of Capitol perfection was dulled by something darker, something heavier.

You smirked at the sight, resting your chin on your knuckles. Whatever the reason was didn't matter. What mattered was that your insufferable rival, Coriolanus Snow, was back— and by how he looks, he had been through hell.

"Well, well, look what the wind blew in," you call out, loud enough to cut through the murmurs. "District 12 doesn't seem to have agreed with you, Snow."

He paused mid-step, his pale blue eyes narrowing as they locked onto yours. "Nice to see you, too, Y/N. I'd say I missed you, but.. I'd be lying."

The students nearby laughed but that didn't bother you. Your smile only widened. "I can tell you've been practicing your insults. Did you rehearse that one in the mirror this morning?"

The corner of his lips curled for a moment, you couldn't tell if it was a smirk or a snarl. "Some of us have lives worth focusing on, not wasting time with petty matters."

"Oh, I'd hardly call getting kicked out of District 12 for incompetence a 'life worth focusing on.' But sure, let's go with that." You replied with a grin, crossing your arms over your chest.

Before Coriolanus could snap back, the sharp voice of Dean Casca cut through the rising tension. "Enough."

The room fell silent as the dean entered, his gaze sweeping over the students before lingering briefly on Coriolanus. Casca didn't acknowledge Snow's presence as he made his way to his desk.

You leaned back in your chair, biting back a chuckle as Coriolanus stiffened under the dean's disinterest. Whatever his grand return had been in his head, it clearly wasn't this.

Casca picked up a sheet of paper from his desk. "Today, we're starting a new project. You'll be working in pairs, and I've already assigned your partners to ensure... balance."

The groans from the class were immediate, but you barely heard them. Your focus was on Casca's pairings as he began reading the names.

"... Snow.. and Y/N."

Your head whipped toward Coriolanus, who was already glaring at you with an expression that could curdle milk.

"This is going to be fun," you muttered under your breath, though the words lacked your usual confidence.

Coriolanus leaned slightly, his voice a low hiss. "Just try to stay out of my way, and maybe we'll survive this without killing each other."

You turned to face him fully, your smirk creeping back into place. "Oh, don't worry, Snow. I plan to make this very memorable for you."

The rest of the lecture passed in a blur, though you were keenly aware of Coriolanus sitting stiffly beside, jaw clenched as if sheer willpower alone could erase the dean's unfortunate pairing. You occasionally glanced his way, watching the way his fingers tapped irritably against the edge of his notebook.

When Dean Casca finally dismissed the class, you take your time packing up, savoring the satisfaction of seeing Snow squirm in his seat. He shot you a glare before shoving his belongings into his bag with a little too much force. As you slid the strap of over your shoulder and headed for the aisle, he walks past briskly, pushing by aggressively.

"Watch it, Snow," you snapped, stumbling slightly as he stormed past.

"Get out of my way next time," he barked over his shoulder without slowing down, his boots clicking sharply against the marble floor.

You chuckled to yourself, watching him disappear through the lecture hall doors.

"And let the fun begin," you mumble, though you could already feel the headache brewing.

Later That Day

Sitting in the quiet library, only the soft rustle of pages and occasional scratch of a pen were to hear. You had claimed a corner table near a window, a small stack of books spread out before you. The project was still in its early stages, but you had already found a few promising points to undermine Coriolanus's ideas—not that you'd admit it to him.

Flipping through a thick volume on Capitol politics, your eyes skimming the text while absentmindedly twirled a pen. Your thoughts drifted, as they often did, to Snow. The rumors, the sharpness in his eyes today, the way his composure seemed paper-thin. Whatever had happened in District 12, it had left its mark for all to see. Even his soft, golden curls were no more, only left with platinum down to his scalp.

"Daydreaming already? No wonder you're such a delight to work with."

Jumping slightly, your pen clattered onto the table. Coriolanus stood over you, his arms crossed and his expression as icy as ever.

"Snow," you said, recovering quickly and leaning back in the chair. "What a pleasant surprise. Couldn't stay away, could you?"

Ignoring your comment, his bag dropped onto the tabletop with a thud as he lowered into the chair across from you. "Let's just get this over with," he groaned.

"What, no witty insult first? I'm disappointed."

His eyes narrowed. "You think this is a joke, don't you? You're treating this like some... game."

"Oh, lighten up," you snickered, leaning forward. "You take everything so seriously, Snow. It's exhausting just looking at you."

"I'd rather be taken seriously than be a complete waste of space," he shot back.

Smiling sweetly, you responded. "You say that like it hurts my feelings."

He groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Can we just focus on the project?"

"Fine," you said with an exaggerated sigh, pulling a sheet of parchment toward you. You paused for a moment, reading his body language before continuing, your tone casual, "I was thinking we could approach the topic from the perspective of moral implications. You know, dig into how the Capitol's policies—"

"No," Coriolanus interrupted flatly. "We're not going to waste time on moral grandstanding. This is about strategy and efficiency."

"Of course you'd say that," you reply, rolling you eyes. "Can't have anyone questioning the great Coriolanus Snow's precious Capitol, can we?"

"This isn't about me," he snapped. "It's about presenting a strong, logical argument. Something you seem incapable of understanding."

"And you're incapable of seeing anything beyond the mirror," you retorted.

Your voices had risen enough to earn a sharp glare from the librarian, who raised a finger to her lips in a silent warning. You bit back a grin, while Coriolanus scowled and muttered something under his breath.

For a few moments, you both worked in tense silence, the only sound between was the scratch of the pens against the paper. But the quiet didn't last.

You leaned back in the chair, tapping a pen against your chin. "So, Snow, what's it like being the Capitol's golden boy? Must be exhausting pretending you're perfect all the time."

He didn't look up from his notes. "What's it like being completely irrelevant?"

You snickered at his comment, a genuine sound that caught him off guard. He stared at you for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he shook his head and returned to his notes.

The library held a thick tension in the air, the silence broken only by the scratching of Snow's pen. Watching him out of the corner of your eye, you noticed how tight his jaw clenched at every sound you made. With all the rumors that had been spread about him, you couldn't help but wonder what really happened back in the districts.

Finally, you couldn't resist. "You know, Snow, for someone who is so obsessed with perfection, you do a remarkable job of making yourself really unlikable. Is that a strategy, or just natural talent?"

He didn't look up, but you caught the brief pause in his writing. "And for someone who always wants to be the center of attention, you do a remarkable job at being unimportant."

Leaning forward with a smirk, you continued to probe. "At least I'm not clinging to the tattered remains of a reputation that's already circling the drain. Face it, Snow, you're not the Capitol's golden boy anymore. You're just a shadow of what you used to be."

You could see that your words hit their mark. His gaze snapped to yours, cold and sharp. "You don't know a damned thing about me."

"Really?" you said, raising an eyebrow. "Because from where I'm sitting, you're just a sad little boy desperate for approval. Daddy didn't love you enough, is that it?"

The words were out before you could stop them. The air between you shifted instantly, his eyes narrowing into dangerous slits.

"Careful," he responded in a low growl.

"What's the matter, Snow? Hit a nerve? Face it, no matter how hard you try, you'll always be a failure." You taunted with an arrogant grin.

Tossing his pen down, it hit the table with a sharp sound. He stood abruptly, causing the chair to scratch loudly against the floor, echoing within the quiet library. His knuckles pressed into the table as he glared down at you with disdain.

"Say that again," he demanded, his voice a low growl.

You tried to hold your smirk from growing, leaning back in your chair with mock innocence. "Which part? The bit about your daddy issues or the part where you're a failure?"

His hands clenched at his sides, his composure visibly cracking. For a moment, you thought he might lash out, but instead, he stepped back and exhaled slowly. His voice was cold and measured. "You're insufferable."

"And you're predictable," you shot back, grabbing your bag and rising to your feet. "This has been fun, Snow, but I've got better things to do than watch you spiral."

You slung your bag over your shoulder and turned to leave, not bothering to glance back.

"You don't get to walk away from me," Coriolanus called after you, his voice sharp.

You threw a hand up in dismissal, not stopping. "Watch me."

You had made it halfway down the hallway when you heard his footsteps—sharp, purposeful, and getting closer. Before you could react, a hand grabbed your arm, spinning you around. Your back hit the cold marble wall with a thud, and you found yourself pinned there, Coriolanus's hand braced against the wall beside your head.

"Who the hell do you think you are?" His pale blue eyes burned with fury, and his voice was barely more than a whisper. "You don't get to talk to me like that. You don't know me."

You scoffed, refusing to be intimidated. "Oh, I know you better than you'd like to admit. You're a coward, hiding behind big words and cold stares because you're terrified someone might see the pathetic little boy underneath."

Something in his expression flickered, a mix of anger and something far darker. His jaw tightened, and his breath fanned hot against your cheek.

"Keep talking, Y/N" he said, his tone dangerously soft. "Go on. Say one more thing."

Your heart was pounding now, though whether from fear or something else entirely, you couldn't say. But you weren't about to let him win. "What's the matter, Snow? Am I getting under your skin?"

His lips curled into a bitter smirk. "You've always been under my skin."

The confession was quiet, almost inaudible, but it sent a jolt through you nonetheless. For a moment, neither of you moved, the air between you was tense enough you could hardly breathe.

"Let me go," you said, though your voice lacked its usual venom.

But he didn't move. Instead, his gaze dropped briefly to your lips before snapping back to your eyes, his control visibly fraying. "You don't want that," he murmured.

Your pulse quickened as you let out a scoff. "Don't flatter yourself."

His smirk widened, though his eyes remained stormy. "Oh, I don't need to. You've been playing this game with me for years, Y/N. Don't pretend you don't enjoy it."

You opened your mouth to retort, but the words died in your throat as he leaned closer, his presence overwhelming.

"Go on. Tell me to stop," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Your lips parted, but no sound came out. You hated him, but in that moment, with his breath mingling with yours and his hands boxer you in, hate felt dangerously close to something else.

And he knew it.

You were rooted in place, unable to break away. The urge to push him off of you wasn't enough to unfreeze the moment. His eyes roamed over you, daring you to be the one to break, to speak, to do anything.

But you couldn't.

The silence stretched, thick and heavy, until finally, you found your voice. "Snow..."

"Say it," he whispered. His tone low, and hinted at desire. "Tell me to stop, and I will."

Your words caught in your throat and your heart was pounding rapidly in your chest; probably loud enough even for him to hear. Every nerve in your body screamed to push him away, to remind him who you both were.

But instead, the only thing your body could manage was a faint whisper, "I hate you."

His expression was unreadable. The smirk worn on his face had fallen for a moment, and before you could react, he closed the distance between you. His lips descended onto yours, stealing the air right from your lungs.

It wasn't gentle. It wasn't sweet. It was raw, a collision of anger and frustration and years of unspoken tension exploding all at once. His hands left the wall to grab your waist, pulling you closer as though he could anchor himself to you.

And you hated yourself for kissing him back.

Your hands fisted in his shirt, torn between yanking him closer and shoving him away. The world around you faded, leaving only the taste of his defiance and the heat of his touch.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breathing ragged. "You hate me, huh?" he muttered, a ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips.

You glared at him, your chest heaving. "More than you'll ever know."

"Funny," he said, his voice low and laced with something dangerous. "You don't kiss like it."

Finally, you shoved at his chest, breaking free of his hold. "You're impossible."

The two of you stared each other down, as if frozen in time. Neither moved, even flinched, until after a painful moment, Coriolanus spoke.

"And yet.. you're still here."

His words hung in the air as you took a step back, your emotions warring between fury and the undeniable heat still coursing through you. "This doesn't change anything," you said, your voice more steady than you felt.

He tilted his head, his piercing gaze locking onto yours. "Doesn't it?"

Your glare burned into him as you shoved his chest, but he barely budged. "I can’t stand you!" you snapped, voice trembling with barely-contained fury.

You grind your teeth and turn, heading towards the exit doors of the Academy. The clinking of heel against the marble floor echoed as you tried to escape, but you didn't make it far.

His hand shot out, grabbing your wrist and yanked you back, causing you to stumble.

"Where do you think you're going?" He asked in a commanding tone.

"Let go of me, Snow!" you hissed, trying to wrench your arm free, but his hold only tightened.

"Not a chance," he growled, dragging you down the corridor without a glance back.

"Are you out of your mind?!" you seethed, struggling against him, but he was stronger than you expected, his grip like iron.

Pushing open the nearest door into a dimly lit study room, one hardly used, he pulled you inside. The door shut with a heavy thud and he was quick to lock it behind him.

"Have you completely lost it?" you demanded, spinning to face him.

His eyes burned with something dangerous, his usually composed facade crumbling under the weight of his fury.

He stepped closer, crowding your space. "I'm not done with you," he said, his voice was low and sharp, cutting through the air like a blade.

"You don't get to decide when this conversation is over," you shot back, but your voice faltered under his suffocating and intoxicating presence.

His jaw clenched, and he leaned in, his face inches from yours. "You think you can walk away after everything you've said? After everything you've done?"

Your chest heaved, the heat between you nearly unbearable. "What do you want from me, Snow? An apology? Pfft. Forget it."

He laughed then, a bitter, humorless sound. "An apology? No, Y/N. I want you to admit what we both know."

Your heart slammed against your ribs as his words hung heavy in the charged silence. "And what's that?"

"That this—" he gestured between you, his voice dropping to a husky whisper— "isn't just hate. Not anymore."

You opened your mouth to deny it, to tell him he was out of his mind, but the words wouldn't come. He saw your hesitation, and it only fueled him further.

"You can lie to yourself all you want," he murmured, "But we both know the truth."

Your breath hitched as his fingers traced your jaw, his intensity pinning you in place. "You're delusional," you managed, though your voice lacked the conviction you hoped for.

"Am I?" he challenged, his lips hovering just over yours, daring you to close the distance.

For a moment, you held your ground, refusing to give him the satisfaction. But then he kissed you, and every defense you'd built came crashing down.

It was rough, desperate, and unapologetic, his hands finding your waist and pulling you flush against him. You hated him—truly, you did—but in that moment, you hated yourself more for giving in, for kissing him back with just as much fire.

Your hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer even as your mind screamed at you to stop. But it was too late.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breathing ragged. "Tell me I'm wrong," he whispered.

You swallowed hard, your voice barely a whisper as you repeated, "I hate you."

Coriolanus smirked as he leaned back, his voice carrying a comical tone, "That's it? No sharp comebacks now? I thought you thrived on playing your little games."

Your cheeks reddened, a mix between your loss for words and the heat growing between you. His fingers dug into waist, reminding you the power he had in that moment.

"Stop," you commanded, though your words weren't as convincing as you'd hoped.

He tilted his head, a cruel smile spreading across his face. "Oh no, not yet. Not until we're done here."

In one swift motion, he pushed you back onto the desk, his hands firm but calculated as he kept you pinned in place. You struggled briefly, but the intensity in his gaze froze you in place.

"Do you have any idea how exhausting you are?" he sneered, his fingers trailing up your thigh with deliberate slowness. "Always so desperate to get under my skin, so insufferably smug. And yet, here you are, letting me take control. Ironic, don't you think?"

Your chest heaved as his words cut into you, the mixture of anger and something darker tightening in your stomach. "You're nothing special, Snow," you spat, though the quiver in your voice betrayed the lie.

His laugh was sharp, almost cruel, as he leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear. "And yet, I'm the one you can't seem to walk away from. Tell me, Y/N, what does that say about you?"

Before you could respond, his hands grabbed at your skirt, pulling it down with a firm tug. He stepped back for just a moment, his gaze raking over you like a predator savoring his prey.

"You look almost pitiful like this," he said, his tone laced with derision. "Not so high and mighty now, are you?"

You shot him a glare, your defiance flickering even as heat coursed through you. "Don't flatter yourself," you bit out, but the sharp retort lacked its usual sting.

He leaned back in, his lips brushing against yours as he whispered, "Flatter myself? Oh, darling, you're the one practically begging for this."

Before you could argue, his mouth crashed against yours again, the kiss bruising and relentless. His fingers brushed against the fabric of your underwear, pressing against your clit beneath, wanting to both tease and torment.

"You hate this, don't you?" he whispered, "Hate how much you want me right now. How much you've always wanted me."

"Shut up," you snapped, though it came out more like a plea than a demand.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes darken with amusement and something far more dangerous.

"Make me," he taunted.

Coriolanus smirked, his lips hovering just inches from yours, daring you to close the distance. But as soon as you leaned forward, his head tilted back, evading you effortlessly.

"Ah, ah," he chided, the mockery in his tone cutting deep. "You don't get to take control here, Y/N. Not after all the trouble you've caused."

Your frustration mounted as his gaze swept over you, sharp and measured. Every inch of you burned with the need to close the gap, to claim something he seemed determined to withhold.

"Stop playing games, Coriolanus," you snapped, though your voice betrayed the growing desperation that threatened to consume you.

He chuckled dryly, "But isn't this what you wanted?" he said tauntingly. "You wanted my attention, didn't you? Wanted to be the center of my focus, the one I couldn't ignore. Congratulations, Y/N. You've got it."

His fingers moved deliberately over your underwear, feeling the dampness increasing by the second.

"Go on," he challenged. "Try again."

You swallowed hard, your pride warring with the ache that coursed through you. But you couldn't resist. You leaned in again, trying to capture his lips with yours.

This time, he stepped back entirely, his smirk widening as he watched the frustration flicker across your face. "Pathetic," he said, his tone laced with cruel amusement. "You're so eager, it's almost embarrassing."

Your cheeks flushed with a mixture of anger and humiliation, your hands gripping the edge of the desk to steady yourself. "You're such a bastard," you hissed, your voice trembling with fury and longing.

He laughed, the sound low and wicked. "And yet, you're still here," he said, his eyes gleaming with sadistic delight. "Still trying. Tell me, Y/N, how far are you willing to go to get what you want?"

Your eyes glared at him as you tried to hold on to your control; but his eyes, the way they examined you, and the sharpness of his smirk— it was too much.

"Do you really hate me?" Coriolanus questioned. His one hand continued to tease, while the other reached up and firmly tightened around your throat. Your eyes met his, and he could feel your quickened pulse under his fingertips.

"Because right now, you look like you'd do anything to have me." He stated tantalizingly slow.

Your breaths were short as his fingers tightened more by the second, stifling the blood and oxygen to your head. The redness in your face deepened and he leaned in closer.

"Go on. Say it," he commanded, his voice low and dangerous. "Admit how much you want this. Admit how much you want me."

Your lips parted, but the words could not escape under his grasp.

"That's what I thought," he said, his voice dripping with disdain. "So desperate. So predictable."

And as he stood there, watching you with that same cruel, amused expression, you realized that this was exactly where he wanted you—undone, exposed, and entirely at his mercy.

His hand around your throat loosened slightly, his gaze dropping to his other hand still teasing. Pulling your underwear to the side, he exposed you just enough. His fingertips glided over your clit, down to your entrance. Using two fingers, he spread your lips and watched with hunger.

Slowly, he dropped to his knees, placing himself between your legs and kissed up your thighs. Reaching your center, he paused, his cold eyes meeting yours before wrapping his lips around you. His tongue moved with purpose, flicking back and forth, invoking soft moans to escape you.

He wasted no time in shoving his fingers inside, with each stroke adding another, forcing your tight hole to stretch open further. Sucking on your clit, he drank up your juices as you squirmed beneath him. He could sense the pleasure growing inside you, but just as you were about to release.. he stopped.

Rising to his feet, he looked down at you on the desk; soaked and desperate for relief. Coriolanus' expression was puzzled, chuckling to himself. "You didn't think this was about pleasure, did you?"

He leaned over you, mere inches from your face. His breath was heavy and his tone was low as he continued, his upper lip curling, "This is about you learning your fucking place."

Without another word, he lowered his pants just enough, revealing his hard cock and shoved inside you forcefully. There was a slight sting, his size was much larger than you had expected and you were still a virgin. The pressure deep in your gut was almost too much to handle; not that he cared.

Coriolanus' hands gripped your waist, pulling you toward him with each thrust pounding against you. Reaching up to the collar of your shirt, he grabbed both sides and ripped it open, not giving a second thought to the now ruined material and discarded buttons. He wanted you bare, but not only that. He wanted you to feel all of his rage, to degrade you and make you feel below him.

Leaning forward, he took your breast into his mouth, biting down on your nipple. You let out a painful cry, but he paid no mind to your discomfort. His cock slid in and out, slick from your wet pussy. You were close to the edge once again, about to reach the tipping point of pleasure. Although, Coriolanus had already been clear of his intentions.

As he felt your inside walls throbbing, gripping his cock, he pulled himself from you and left you aching for more.

"Don't you dare cum, yet. Get down," he instructed, his voice commanding and filled with authority.

Without hesitation, you quickly dropped to your knees, heart pounding in your chest with a mix of excitement and anticipation.

Your body responded to his dominance, feeling the heat between your legs grow, aching for his touch and eager to submit to his desires.

He stepped closer, his hand firmly cupping your chin to tilt my face up toward him. His eyes held a mix of desire and intensity as he gazed into your, his thumb lightly running along your jawline.

You couldn't help but bite your lip, a mixture of excitement and nervousness swirling within. Every fiber yearned for his touch, for his control, for the passion that he ignited within you.

As Coriolanus shoved his dick in your mouth, a mischievous look danced in his eyes. It stretched your lips open, creating an alluring image that seemed to captivate him. Meet his intense gaze, your tongue swirled around his tip.

With each motion of your tongue, his eyes seemed to grow darker, and a soft smile tugged at the corners of his lips. The intimacy of the moment was palpable, and the air was charged.

A soft moan escaped his lips. The sound only served to fuel your desire to continue, and relished in the knowledge that you held his undivided attention. He couldn't resist, placing his hand on the back of your head and forcing himself deeper, causing you to gag. But he didn't stop. Coriolanus continued pushing himself deeper down your throat, each gag more intense.

He kept it going until your eyes rolled back into your head, and tears formed in the corners of your eyes. Pulling out of your mouth, strands of saliva pooled around you, dripping down your chin. Taking a fistful of your hair in his hand, he pulled your neck back, forcing you to look up at him. He rubbed the spit into your face, causing your makeup to smear before delivering a stinging smack to your cheek and leaving its mark.

With each successive smack, the intensity increased, and a mix of pleasure and pain surged through your body. You found yourself surprisingly drawn to the sensations, feeling an unusual excitement building.

Coriolanus noticed your reactions, and his grip on your neck tightened slightly as he whispered huskily into you ear, "You like that, don't you?"

Instinctively, you bit your lip, nodding slowly. Still sat on your knees, he wrapped his hand around your throat and lifted you to your feet. Pressing his lips against yours, his fingers rubbed at your clit unrelenting. You tried to hold it in but it was almost impossible; before you knew it, a rush of juices saturated his fingers and drenched your legs.

He looked at you with a mix of satisfaction and disappointment. "Tsk, tsk, tsk. I said you weren't suppose to cum, remember?"

Before you could respond, he spun you around, pressing your face into the desktop and holding your wrists behind your back. You felt vulnerable, the anticipation of what he would do next made your heart pound faster in your chest. He skillfully pushed himself into your tight hole, and watched with bated breath as he navigated inside with ease.

You could feel his desire and passion, his hands holding onto your wrists, adding an extra layer of excitement and vulnerability to the experience.

As he moved with purpose and skill, you surrendered youself completely to the moment. The sensations were overwhelming, a whirlwind of pleasure and emotion that consumed you.

His touch was rough, expertly guiding you through this shared journey of pleasure. Every thrust, every movement, brought you closer together. Every touch, every caress, sent waves of pleasure through you, and could feel him losing himself in the moment as well. He had you pinned down, unable to escape even if you tried.

But finally, the sound of your pleasure filled screams and his guttural groans mixed, both of you reaching a crescendo of pure bliss. Pulling his hard and throbbing cock from you, he turned you over once more. His gaze was intense, staring down at your exposed body before him. Taking his cock in hand, he jerked himself viciously before spewing his warm ejaculation across your stomach.

He glared at the mess that had been made before turning his attention to you. Pinching your cheeks between his fingers, causing your lips to pucker, he lowered. His breath hot against your ear as he whispered slowly and deliberately.

"Snow always lands on top."

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