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“Poor little Lucy Gray, what use is a songbird that cannot sing?” Coriolanus mocked, tutting his tongue and thumbing her sallow cheek. The weeks inside had not been kind to her. It had been months since her skin embraced the sun.
Hatred blazed in her eyes, but she had no one to blame but herself. How brave she had thought herself when she ran away from him, how clever she had thought herself trying to evade him, how tough enough she had thought herself when she tried to kill him like he was just another scrap of district scum, but, one measly bullet left her weak, lying on the forest floor and beseeching forgiveness. Clemency was never his virtue, yet he had found himself unable to leave her, to let her return to the earth, to rot amongst the wild reeds and katniss tubers she loved so much.
She was meant to be his , and he had ensured it, smuggling her home like she was a case of the bootlegged hooch she swilled at the Hob.
Coriolanus would be lying to say he did not miss her voice, high and sweet and dripping with emotion, her songs with their funny, old-fashioned words, and most of all, the song she dedicated to him, but the risk of her spewing something resentful and uncouth to the wrong ears outweighed his selfish desires. Lucy Gray was dangerous, a rebel, and he would not allow himself to be scorned by her again. He could have abandoned her – should have abandoned her, should have let her die alone save for her wretched mockingjays and slithering snakes, but he was a better man than that. A smarter man would have left her in the dirt, her lifeblood draining out of her, but she was his weakness made human, his pretty little bird. So, he clipped her wings and built her a gilded cage, shrouding her in opulence and luxury, and all it had cost was her tongue. She would not betray his kindness, his leniency. Not that she would ever have the chance.
His lips crashed into hers, pillowy pink and plump. His hand tangled in her hair, his other grazing her shoulder and prying at the neckline of her dress. He kissed down her neck, across her clavicle, pressing his lips to her exposed shoulder as he shimmed her dress to pool at her waist. He heard a few stitches rip, but it mattered not. He would buy her a new dress, a hundred new dresses, pretty paltry packaging to tear off before revealing her smooth, unblemished skin. Discarding this dress was for the best, better for her to lose her last tangible memory from District 12, better for her to forget the Covey, for her to forget her life before him.
“You’re mine,” he murmured into her collarbone, swiping his tongue along the sharp ridge and leaving lip-shaped bruises in his wake. His thumb circled one of her rosy-brown nipples, and a guttural sound rumbled in her throat. Though she could not speak, her fury saturated the noise. He almost wished he knew what she was trying to say, wanted to hear her abhorrence, to let the tension permeate the air so he could fuck the loathing out of her.
Part of him enjoyed her fighting spirit, how she made no effort to conceal her natural inclinations. She was no frail wildwood flower. No, she was kudzu, aggressive, invasive, wedging herself into his life no matter the cost. Her nails clawed at his skin. Her teeth ground together so tightly that the muscles in her jaw pulsed. Her foot connected with his shin and his hand flew to her throat.
“Careful, now, little bird. I would hate to hurt you.” It was a lie. He wanted to hurt her like she had hurt him. Perhaps he ought to bind her wrists. A little rope burn would allay her insurgence, cherry red-raw circular scars reminding her of his power, of his supremacy, of her place in his world. He squeezed her throat and watched her face flare crimson and her amber eyes bulge. “Remember who saved you,” Coriolanus whispered, his lips against the shell of her ear. “You owe me your life, Lucy Gray. You owe me everything .”
Slowly, he eased the pressure, though he kept his hand on her neck. She was not to be trusted. She smelled earthy and sweet, like cinnamon and moss, accompanied by the scent of roses permeating the air, their shattered vase and crushed petals littering the floor. His burden, his vixen, his secret; try as he might, he never seemed to stay angry with her for long. He nipped across her chest, bringing his mouth to her breasts. His tongue traced one of her tightened buds while he pinched the other between his thumb and his forefinger. He groaned into her skin, alternating his ministrations from breast to breast, teething at the pale skin, planting marks to remind her of his dominion.
Freeing her throat, he guided her to the bed, pushing her onto the silky sheets by her shoulders. Her disheveled curls fanned across the pillow, and he brushed his fingers through her hair, winding a ringlet around his finger and watching it bounce back into shape. Unable to wait any longer, he tore the dress from her body, then quickly shed her undergarments, leaving her bare beneath him. He tugged off his shirt, haphazardly tossing it behind him. In the same manner, he removed his pants and underwear, leaving a mess on the floor for Lucy Gray to clean up later.
His hand dwarfed her stomach. His featherlight kisses snaked down her tummy, along her hip bones, and stalled at her clean-shaven mound. Her hands were clenched into fists, her nails digging crescents into her palms. His cock hardened as daggers glared his way. She futilely tried to squeeze her thighs together, but he forced them open, spreading her glossy pink folds with his thumbs. He licked a broad stripe from her sopping seam to her clit, swirling his tongue around the swollen nub.
She attempted to scramble up the bed, but he pinned her hips to the mattress, holding her in place as his tongue delved through her folds again. Her body did not lie; she wanted him just as much as he wanted her, even if she refused to admit it. Her cunt was addictive. She tasted heavenly, like salt and earth, skin and dew. His tongue prodded her ambrosian opening, the tip of his nose grinding against her pearl. His aching cock bobbed, precum beading at its tip, and, in desperate search of friction, he ground his hips into the mattress, seeking some relief.
Prying her thighs wider, the sinewy muscles straining and shaking, he inched a finger inside her tight warmth, quickly adding a second and a third as she whimpered from the stretch. He crooked his fingers upward, finding the special spongy part along her front wall and massaging it with the pads of his fingers until her viscous moisture dripped down his wrist and sullied a damp spot on the sheets. Her legs began to quiver, her tiny cunt clenching around his fingers, and he drew her clit between his lips, his tongue circling the puffy nub until her hips bucked into his mouth and her thighs knotted around his head. A strangled sound fled her throat, and he longed to hear the sweet song of her peak, but he settled for the choked moan.
Her nose wrinkled as he kissed her, her body limp and satiated, and he longed for her to taste herself on his tongue. Her eyes were clouded, her eyelids hooded and heavy, but he could still see the passion burning within them. Though tears brimmed within them, he knew she yearned for more. Lapping the salt from her cheeks, he felt he would burst if he waited any longer, and he could not suffer the thought of spilling onto the sheets instead of painting her insides white. He dragged his bulging cockhead through her moisture, collecting her arousal and notching at her satiny seam. A glob of saliva dribbled from his lips to where they met and he smeared the moisture along his engorged length.
In one sharp push, he homed himself inside her cunt, swallowing what he thought was a gasp as his blunt cockhead bounced against her cervix. He wanted her to ache, wanted her blood to ring his cock and stain her knickers in the morning, wanted to nestle a permanent reminder of this night and every night to come in her womb. Her nails scraped his shoulders, raking angry streaks on his chest, as she pushed him away, but he trapped her by her slender avian wrists, encircling them in one hand, and pinned her arms above her head. “Fight me all you want,” Coriolanus husked, “but your cunt is weeping for me. I know you want this, Lucy Gray. I know you want me.”
She shook her head vigorously, and he gripped her by the chin, squishing her round cheeks and turning her head to the side where an ornate mirror hung. He hated the mirror, a tacky Plinth family antique, its bronze frame etched with birds and vines, however, he did not hate the sight of his hard, muscular body driving into her soft curves, her luscious breasts bouncing with each thrust. Her eyes screwed shut, and he could see the tear tracks glisten as they slid down her skin and splotched the pillowcase.
“You will watch,” he growled, “Or, I’ll remove your eyelids next.” She could learn the easy way or the hard way – regardless, she would learn. Her throat bobbed with a thick swallow, but ever so reluctantly, his little bird obeyed.
Watching herself, her mouth gaped, and once again, he regretted not claiming her before he removed her tongue, wishing he could have heard her warbles and chirps as she came undone at least once, but he was content with the breathy whimpers humming in her throat.
Sometimes, when his memories of District 12 and the life they could have lived resurfaced, playing tricks on his mind, he imagined how this would have felt had she not fucked everything up. Would she have whispered confessions of love in his ear, promises of a happily ever after? Would she have hungrily begged for more, her need canting each moan higher? Would she have asked for it slow and sweet, rough and wild, fast and desperate? He would never know, and he would not waste time dwelling on the subject. Her wants mattered nothing now.
He gave her a bruising kiss, piercing her lower lip with his teeth until her lifeblood speckled his tongue, as metallic and sharp as the knife she had sought to murder him with. He pooled the rusty saliva in his mouth and spit the watery red onto her, smearing the red-tinged fluid across her face. Sweat beaded on his forehead and dripped onto her body, puddling in the valley of her breasts as he drilled himself deeper still, ignoring the way her feet kicked and her hands floundered in protest. He cruelly carved room for himself where there was none, repositioning her organs and displacing the air from her lungs to lodge himself within her ribcage, his cock right beside her coal-black heart.
His hand found her neck again, squeezing until her breathing turned shallow, her slight stomach rising almost imperceptibly with each breath. “I loved you, Lucy Gray,” Coriolanus snarled. “I loved you. I would have given you the world, but now all you are is a tongueless, district whore.”
His skin felt on fire, and he could see a pinkish hue blooming on his reflection, creeping across his chest and splotching his neck. The room was hot and steamy, the air thick with musk and concupiscence. His blood sizzled in his veins. In this room, gone was his conscience, gone was his propriety. They were electric, intoxicating, explosive. Their connection was primal, animalistic even. She reduced him to a savage, and he wanted to fuck her like the wild, feral beast she was.
She weighed no more than a feather, her svelte body soft yet toned, her slim frame minuscule beneath him, making it easy to reposition her, to prop her onto her hands and knees, flattening her with a sharp jab between her shoulder blades, her face mashing into the duvet.
Like she was one of Tigris’ childhood ragdolls, he aligned her limbs just so, slotting himself between her thighs and prodding her knees farther apart. Satisfied, he re-entered her roughly. At this moment, she was no more than a toy for his pleasure, only a tight wet hole begging for his cot. He set a brutal pace, skin slapping against skin, the scent of sweat and slick snaring around them. She deserved his rage, deserved this pain.
A loud smack echoed as his palm connected with her pert ass, the muscle and flesh jiggling as he swatted her three times in quick succession. Her skin blazed, turning a berry-stained color, welts rising where his rings had cut into her delicate skin.
With a hand gripping the scruff of her neck, he forced her to watch them in the mirror, to see her blushing body, her skin flushed and damp with needy desire, her pupils blown wide as saucers, lust etched into every freckle on her face, his little whore growing wetter and wetter with each slap.
He snaked an arm around her waist, his fingers finding her clit and easily establishing a rhythm that had her breaths coming in ragged tatters and her hips canting upward like a spring flower toward the sun. Silky nectar seeped from her cunt, bathing his cock in her slick and soaking the sheets. With each thrust, her walls tightened around him, and he knew her pleasure was blooming, cresting on the horizon, her orgasm moments from crashing into, and the tightening in his sac informed him that his release lingered close behind.
“ I own you. You belong to me. You’re mine,” Coriolanus growled, each word accompanied by a snap of his hips. “Mine, mine, mine .” In another life, she would say I’m yours, I’m yours, I’m yours , his name trickling from her lips like a waterfall of affection. Her hips would rock back into his, and her eyes would spark with hunger rather than detestation, a smile gracing her lips instead of the grimace twisting her maw. They would have been perfect yet now, they were a train wreck hurtling toward disaster, and he could only hope to dissolve their demolition.
As if agreeing to his proprietorship, her walls fluttered around him, squeezing impossibly tighter as she spasmed, her back arching, her lips parted with a garroted groan. Every muscle in her body tensed and convulsed as the climax he gifted overwhelmed her. His orgasm followed quickly after, waves of pleasure tugging him under like a riptide, his cock spurting thick white strands inside her before her legs stopped shaking. His heart thundered in his chest, and technicolor spots speckled his vision as his hips stuttered to a stop, his cock pulsing, creamy fluid overflowing from her cunt, gushing out to join the wet stains her juicy cunt had cascaded onto the bed.
When his heartbeat steadied, he stood, the mattress heaving from the loss of his weight. Lucy Gray slumped into a heap, her body crumpled up like the rose petals scattered across the hardwoods. Her hands flew to her hair, ritualistically combing the tangles from her curls, his little bird always primping and preening, but he undid her grooming efforts immediately, fisting her curls and pulling her toward his groin.
Realizing his intentions, her lips flattened into a tight line, her jaw clenched so tightly he heard her teeth clatter and knock into one another. A tingle raced down his spine, the hair on the back of his neck rising and goosepimpling, and he had the foresight to know that she was about to do something heinous. He pinched her nose until her lungs seized and her mouth popped open, but before he shoved his cock down her throat, he warned, “Bite me, little bird, and I’ll pull your teeth.” Her eyes welled with fresh tears, her throat choking on his cock as she sobbed, salty rivulets raining down her cheeks. He imagined her tongue swirling around his tip, tracing the gibbous vein along the underside of his shaft, lapping at his sac, but he ravaged her tight throat instead, allowing her mouth to clean his cock, ridding himself of the sticky amalgamation of their fornication.
Reaching around her, he scooped up the cum leaking from her sodden seam and fucked it back inside her. Soon her stomach would swell, growing round with their child, his heir. He would keep her stuffed, her cunt leaking his semen until a little hatchling or snakelet nested in her womb. “We’re going to have a baby, Lucy Gray,” he promised, bemused by the shock and disgust marring her features. A baby would be good for her. It would give her someone to love and care for as she had looked after the Covey. She would come to love the child, and eventually, she would come to love him again. Their souls were bonded, their fates sealed after that one grievous day in the woods surrounding District 12. She was his little bird, forever and always. His, his, his .