Marvel Is In Their “chaos” Era Between Scarlet Witch And Moonknight.

fluff, mention of alcohol + ib @sourcherryandsprinkles (check out their fic 🫶🏽)

coriolanus snow feels the sweltering heat of the hob reach up to him. he’s barely made it in two steps past the entrance, when sejanus takes off to a darker part of the activities. snow swivels his head, taking a mental note of where sejanus perches himself against a bar, but chooses against joining him.

no, he would much rather lie back here, where the music could reach him just fine. like waves.

he picks up a glass that seems full enough to the eye: the liquid swishes violently when he shoots it down his mouth and he needs a minute to savour the taste. he’s not inclined to remembering much of the academy here, choosing to focus on only getting out, but something feels familiar. an act he is piecing together carefully, meticulously, as bodies rush past him to join onto the dance floor. he feels himself already getting light with the facade he’s wringing raw. bloody, even, between his fingers.

would they believe him? would they let him go home? let him see trigris and grand’maam one more time? would a class act ever profess to the same standards twice?

amongst his own, rotting worries, is when he sees you. not much quieter than the covey band on stage, not much louder than the crowd that followed - no, he could have lost you easily to the ruffles and the swills and the laughter. a mere stranger, much too adjusted with her tongue. but he’s curious as you approach his table.

“hi, boys. what can i get you for today?” you click your tongue, inserting a pen between your fingers and jotting down what the other men present as options of drinks. he tries to focus, clears his throat and nods along some common choice of beverage and ah, there’s polish on your nails. scarlet and running dark, a noteworthy shade amongst that of other district folk. were you like lucy gray, a performer? or were you much like what he ran from, a class act?

but he’s far too taken to knowing who exactly you are when he sees you cut a smirk in his direction. it’s subtle and over in quick succession, but it makes him oddly glad for the shift.

“what?” he asks with a charm rebuilt, barely concealed fortitude crumbling when you play with your notepad. the edges of the papers you taunt with your fingernail are frayed and tearing slightly, but you still work a quick smile that sets his alarms and worries for the brighter horizon that will surely come tomorrow. really, your pretty face has him forgetting all of the quells for a minute and, instead, scope out what exactly you want from him.

you shift your garments about, meeting his eye with some supposed challenge, “haven’t seen someone like you around these parts of the district. you new?”

he nods, “yeah, i’m… new to this peacekeeper business.”

“you been to the hob before?”

“no… not exactly, no.”

“not exactly?”

he plays with his fingers, itching the skin softly, “just heard a lot about this place. it’s nice.”

“more than nice, just you see,” your pen clips to the notepad and you hark a smile at him, working your way around the men and onto the next table. your eyes beat with a play he isn’t familiar with, one that makes him follow you with his eyes alone, “you have a good time now, mr. peacekeeper.”

“it’s snow. coriolanus snow.”

“coriolanus,” you seem to taste the name beneath your teeth, testing it tolerably and nicely, “has a nice ring to it.”

it’s the rest of the sickly sweet night that he’s thinking of you. you’ve got a sweet demeanour, a smart mouth - something worth thinking about over a drink. the hob is not quiet but not bustling either, with patrons filtering out one after another. some drunk, warm faces sit still at tables, some dance to a slow rhythm up front. sejanus leaves for a while, but snow leaves it as unnoticed. what he does notice is you in his peripheral.

you’re wiping tables, which strikes him suddenly as odd. odd that he still has the chance to catch you whilst you’re on hours. surely, you still remember him? he’d told you his name, but never breathed so much as yours. would you be freaked by his interference?

“you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” your voice is suddenly closer. you’d crossed across the bar whilst he was meandering between freakish and urbanity, and now stood smiling at him, a rag clutched at the hip. he swears his breath catches against a row in his throat, but snow catches himself quickly.

“me? must’ve overestimated my ability to drink,” he smiles, genuine since his days of relegation and spite, missing and borrowing, “are you still working?”

“hm, but i got a few minutes on the clock. then, i’m free as a bird” when he hears you say this, his ears redden with attention. you’d be off in a few minutes?

“why, you wanna take me on a date?” you ask. and he spirals. and you let out a bark as he goes red from head to feet, his fingers itching his temple as he smiles. all polite and bucking at the seams, “i’m only joking, coriolanus. coriolanus - did i say it right?”

he finds your chatter endearing, meaning in every bit of movement between the two of you, “you say it just perfect.”

he could’ve sworn he saw a flush work up those cheeks of yours, but then again, he could be losing more than just his mind. some level of sensibility, too, maybe. still, he rises to a level of action he has never been since the poor tributes, the days of reaping - maybe its initiative. maybe its the want. maybe its you between his fingers like gold.

he licks his lips, feels the wet of them against each other, “can you i have a drink? two, actually.”

“two? the other…?”

he smiles, tries to imitate your sweetness and only lets it come off half baked, “for you.”

but really, he couldn’t care less. the smile that tears across your face is warm, your laugh hearty.

“mr. snow, you’ve got your tricks,” the smile spills into your words, he can hear it, “well, i’ve got mine.”

and he needs to ask, what are they? can i see? am i allowed? when you kiss his cheek. nothing vehement or raunchy in the least, a thing recounted as a peck, but as you swivel towards the bar in a confident front-step, snow touches the warm part of his cheek like he’d been burnt. like he was burning still, under the pustule of the soft, flaxen light the hob had to offer. burning still, when he smiles under his hand, grinning under the gap of his fingers.

burning, still, in the grasp of wanting you beneath two drinks and a kiss.

(requests for snow / tbosas are open!)

© 2023 qvrcll. do not repost any of my works on any platform.

Gem Cities by Neave Bozorgi

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↳ chapter 1 - colter