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Coryo X Reader - Blog Posts

haeunoo

4 months ago

I ♡ Christmas

12 days of Christmas - Day Four

“Have a good evening, President Snow.”

You’re already nestled in the warm, dimly lit confines of the town car as the driver shuts the door behind Coriolanus, who slides across the sleek leather upholstery to put his arm around you and draw you close. You giggle as you lay your head against your husband’s chest. Breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne (which you picked out), you press your cheek against the crimson velvet of his lapel and smile up at him.

“You know,” you say, “this is the first time we’ve been alone together all day.”

Coryo’s eyebrows twitch together. “Is it? That can’t be true.”

“It is,” you confirm. “You were at work all day before the party, and so we came in separate cars. And the party itself was so crowded that I only had to turn my head for a moment to lose track of you.”

Gently cupping your chin, Coryo comments, “I think you’re pouting, my love.”

“Well—” You try to let your mouth soften, but now that you’ve gotten started, it’s rather difficult to stop. “It’s just that — I know the holidays are busy, but we’ve hardly spent any time together lately. It feels like we only just had the wedding, and then all of these galas and soirees started.”

To be fair to you, it likely feels as though you only just had the wedding because you did just have the wedding. You were married on November 17th, less than a month ago. Between the engagement party, the wedding and reception, and various fetes to congratulate you on the nuptials, you’ve spent most of the autumn in a panoply of gowns.

Pausing to take a breath, you peek up at him from under your eyelashes, but he doesn’t seem put off by your outburst, so you keep going. “And I know you’re an important man, and everyone wants you at their party — and once you’re there, they just want to talk to you and show off that you’ve come…”

And frankly, you can’t deny that a part of you loves that, seeing every head in the room swivel toward your husband — with you on his arm — as the two of you enter a room. Tonight, for instance, there was even a grand staircase to sweep down, and Coryo made sure to pause so that you were both framed at the top. He, in a red velvet suit jacket and blank pants, a crisp white shirt standing out like freshly fallen snow against the rich fabrics; you, in a silver and white gown with a pattern of crystals that swirled over the material like a flurry of flakes.

But—

“But then they monopolize your time, and it’s been like this all week,” you finish, an undeniably wheedling tone in your voice that you aren’t all that proud of. “And I know it’s just going to get worse all the way through Christmas.”

Coryo looks at you with a little wince pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Don’t forget about New Year’s,” he says, and your pout only deepens. He smooths his fingertips through your hair, trying to comfort you. “I know, darling. We have our obligations. I understand they can be tedious, but they are helpful. You know how important public image is for me.”

You sigh softly, rubbing your cheek against the soft material of his suit jacket. “I know,” you murmur.

He presses his lips to the crown of your head. “Although the papers just keep talking about how beautiful you look,” he teases lightly, making you giggle. “Hardly a mention of their poor president. Not that I blame them. I don’t notice anyone else when you’re in the room.”

You bury your face against his chest, in an attempt to hide your blush. It’s too dark for the ruby stain on your cheeks to show up, but if anyone would be able to discern it, it’s Coryo. Sometimes you think that your husband has the ability to read minds, at least yours.

Coryo takes the opportunity to cradle your head against his chest, fingers working into the chignon you have pinned at the nape of your neck, freeing the pins so your hair tumbles around your shoulders. You sigh softly in relief at the sensation.

“I hope you know,” he murmurs, “that if I could be spending all my time with you, I would. I’d let this country go to hell in a hand basket.”

You smile softly, even though you know that’s not quite true. Your husband has plans for Panem, and as much as he loves you, you know there’s no one in the world he would allow to get in the way of those plan s — not even his wife.

“How many more engagements do we have this week?” you ask, peeking up at him again.

The way Coryo nibbles on his plush lower lip makes it clear that there are going to be plenty. You purse your lips and let your head drop back onto his chest again.

“I’m sorry.” He murmurs his apology into your hair. “You’ve been holding up so well, darling. I know you must be tired.”

You look up at him and shake your head. “It’s worth it, to be with you,” you tell him. “If this is the only time I can see you, I wouldn’t want to be doing anything else.”

Coryo cups your cheek in his palm, smiling gently. “My sweet girl,” he says.

The car pulls up in front of the presidential mansion, and the driver comes around to your side of the car to open your door for you. You take his hand, gathering your skirt up so you can step out without tripping over the hem. Coryo follows after you, putting his hand on the small of your back as the two of you mount the steps to the front door.

“At least we have this time to ourselves,” he murmurs in your ear, as the two of you step into the front hall. “These few hours before we go to bed are often the best part of my day.”

“They are?” you say.

“Mhm,” he says. “As beautiful as you look in all your finery, there’s something so delicious about seeing you in a natural state. It’s so…”

He pauses, searching for the right world. “Clean,” he murmurs. “Pure.”

Despite the words he’s chosen, you find fresh color burning in your cheeks. Maybe it’s because you love that he thinks of you that way — pure. As if you’re something delicate and lovely, someone to be cherished and taken care of. His treasure. His beloved.

He slips his arm around your waist snugly, drawing you against his side. You kick off your shoes, and before you can bend to pick them up, Coryo says, “Leave them.”

A moment later, he has you in his arms, carrying you bridal-style down the long hallway to the master suite. You squeal with surprise — and more than a little bit of pleasure — and wrap your arms around his shoulders, giggling helplessly.

He nudges one of the double doors open with his shoulder, and deposits you on the bed, swinging his arms so that you fly through the air and land safely on the middle of the vast, soft mattress with a little fwump. You’re still giggling when your maid comes in to help you undress. The maid smiles furtively as she helps you to your feet. She’s an older woman, with soft gray curls framing her face like a cloud, and she reminds you of your nana. Especially when she shoots you a little smile like this, an expression that tells you she thinks you and Coryo are just adorable.

In your bathroom, the maid combs out your hair, applies skin cream to your neck and face, and brings you nightgowns to choose from. As you slip into one, the soft cotton wrapping around your body, your eyes widen as an idea comes to you.

“Magda,” you say to your maid. “Would you do me a favor?”

After you explain what you need, Madga giggles like a woman thirty years younger. “I would be happy to arrange that for you, madam.”

The two of you grin at each other like a pair of little girls conspiring to steal cookies from the kitchen. You haven’t quite wiped the mischievous gleam from your eye when you crawl into bed with Coryo, who looks at you with a grin, arching an eyebrow.

“And what is it that has you looking so impish?” he teases.

Your smile widens and you shrug your shoulders. “You’ll see.”

Unsurprisingly, when you awake that morning, your husband has already gone to work. But you don’t mind this time, because you have a project to work on — and you’re glad, too, that his social engagement tonight is taking place at a cigar club. Normally you would turn up your nose at a place that excludes women, but you’re glad to have tonight free.

Or mostly free, at any rate.

Magda brings you several catalogues, and you pore over them intensely, trying to find something that will both suit you and catch Coryo’s eye. At last, near the last page of the fourth catalogue, your eye lands on the perfect thing. “Magda!” you gasp, snatching up the catalogue and waving it around in your excitement. “Come here! I found it!”

You write down the name of the item as it’s printed in the catalogue, and the size and color that you want. Magda grins at you and you grin back.

“I’ll go get it right now,” she says.

After spending a few moments studying the picture in the catalogue, pleased with your find, you decide to spend the day primping. You soak in a long, hot bath mixed with lavender oil, you wash and air dry your hair before wrapping the gleaming, soft locks in around curlers. While they set, you exfoliate away any remotely rough patches of skin, adding lotion to make sure your skin is sweetly scented and smooth.

When Magda gets home, you squeal and run toward her, nearly upsetting the curlers still sitting in your hair. “Did they have it?”

She beams at you. “They did!” she says, pulling it out of the bag with a flourish. “Here it is. I think it looks even better in person than it does in the picture, don’t you?”

“I do,” you say, beaming yourself, holding it by the hanger and studying the way the material catches the light. “Do you think he’ll like it?”

You don’t have to specify who.

“Oh, madam, I think he will love it.”

Waiting for your husband to come home seems to take an age, but you finally hear the front door open and the sound of servants rushing to greet him, to take his coat and offer him a drink. You took the curlers out of your hair hours ago, and combed out your hair until it falls around your face in soft, gentle waves. You kneel in the middle of the bed, wearing the item Magda rushed out to buy for you.

When the doors to the master suite open, you see Coryo framed between them, and your breath catches in your throat. Goodness, he really is so handsome. He’s clearly still lost in whatever thoughts accompanied home from the cigar club, but then he focuses on you. Coryo’s eyes widen, and then — your breath comes out in a rush of relief — he smiles at you.

“Oh, my,” he says softly. “Did Christmas come early?”

You smile back at him. “For you,” you say. “Just one little gift.”

Coryo steps into the room, shutting the doors firmly behind him. You hear the lock click, which makes your heart give a pleasant little jump in your chest. He steps toward you, reaching out to caress one of the ribbons on your shoulder.

“My love,” he says softly, “there is nothing about you that can be diminished by a little word like just. Especially not tonight.”

Tonight, red silk clings to your skin, highlighting your curves in a warm shade of scarlet. A trim of mulberry lace rests against your thighs and follows the lines of your collarbones, standing stark against your fair skin. Ruby ribbons are tied at each shoulder. If the delicate knots are undone, the silk nightie would just slip down your body to puddle in your lap.

Coryo reaches out and unties one knot.

“You said this was your favorite time of day,” you murmur, looking up at him. “So I thought I would make it particularly special.”

He brushes his fingertips over your cheek, down the curve of your neck to your other shoulder, brushing against the ribbon without untying it.

“There is no man in Panem luckier than I am,” he says. “I was thinking about you all day. Longing for you. And now I come home to find you wrapped up in bows and silk like the most precious gift I could ever hope to receive.”

You bit your lip, looking up at him. “I’m already yours,” you say. “I have been from the moment I met you.”

He takes your hand and draws you off the bed so that you stand in front of him, his fingers finding the other knot. Coryo gives one ribbon a slow, careful pull, his eyes on yours.

“I can only hope to deserve your devotion,” he says. “And to prove to you every day, every moment, that it is entirely reciprocated. I belong to you.”

Without breaking his gaze, he gives the ribbon another tug, the knot falling apart completely. The delicate material slips over your upper body, catching on your hips for only a moment before your husband reaches down and gives a little tug, so that it slides down your legs and puddles at your feet.

“You belong to me?” you repeat.

Coryo nods. His eyes never waver.

“Yes,” he says.

Your fingers brush against the buttons of his shirt. “Then let me unwrap you, too.”

He smiles, and you think you detect a hint of pink in his cheeks. “Please do.”

Hours later, as you drift to sleep with your head pillowed on Coryo’s bare chest, you think — as much as you are looking forward to Christmas morning — no other gift is going to compare to this.