pairing: Aegon II Targaryen x fem!reader
summary: Gluttony, lust, sloth, envy, greed—the sins were placed on his head instead of a crown worth his status, a crown that would've, undoubtedly, made some meaning of his life. Without it, the matted, silver hair atop his head served more as a laughing matter. Even the father, taken with the idea of a male babe, has cast him aside. The apple of the rotten tree fell far from the branches, left to rot and decay in the shadows of his own undoing.
warning: canon-typical violence, blood&cheese, hurt little comfort, loss of limbs, implied/referenced cheating, drinking, court, RELIGIOUS GUILT, sex lol
word count: 8.2k
author's notes: hi lovely people! today, i present you my new creation - an Aegon fic! yay! PLEASE note that: a)YN has children in this imagine and they are important to the story. If you don't feel comfortable reading all that - do not engage with this fic. b) The Blood&Cheese does happen in this univese, so be mindful!
If all is good, am I so excited to have you here - please don't shy away from sharing your opinion, either good or bad, in the comments. Love you!
He was not used to hearing no.
It is a simple truth: of all of the words in the world, one of the most common ones escaped his mind completely, going over his head and never leaving an impact strong enough to attach meaning to it. Since he was a babe in the golden cradle, lavishing in the rich purples of the crown, the Realm opened in front of him, smiling and cooing in his regal plump face. The best teachers, toys, and golden coins were thrown his way—the firstborn son, the long-awaited boy of House Targaryen. Soon, the endless teachers changed into endless rivers of the best wines, and wooden horses grew pairs of tits big enough to bury the temper he had grown to hold. Only gold in his pockets as he turned to yet another brothel door never changed its shape—money travelled from his hands into cups, dresses, and undergarments silently, the countless replicas of his father’s profile sparkling with the judgement of yet another of his poor choices.
Sometimes Aegon wondered what would be the breaking point for his righteous Lady Mother—when would her head finally turn to look him in the eye and mutter a swift ‘’no’’ instead of lowering her gaze and pursing her lips together at his new whim? He foolishly thought it would be the wine. Nevertheless, each time Alicent found him covered in his own dinner, dragged to the castle by some unfortunate knight, she raged and cried, but never forbade him from drinking again. Yet, the more he ate, the more he wanted.
He thought his heart a hole—the darkest, most blackest place of his soul, rotten from the day his violet eyes opened and took in the world around them. Like a tooth, white as snow upon its birth, growing spoiled from the sweet nectars the Realm had to offer. The small spot, not bigger than a needle's ear, appears first, going unnoticed. Then, it fattens and spreads its disease through the mouth until there are no teeth to chew with, leaving only a gaping void where once there was a smile. Gluttony, lust, sloth, envy, greed—the sins were placed on his head instead of a crown worth his status, a crown that would've, undoubtedly, made some meaning of his life. Without it, the matted, silver hair atop his head served more as a laughing matter. Even the father, taken with the idea of a male babe, has cast him aside. The apple of the rotten tree fell far from the branches, left to rot and decay in the shadows of his own undoing.
In the name of traditions he had no reason to engage in, the only place where he had hoped to be something or become something—his chambers—were occupied by the stark reminder of his worthlessness. Heleana, his sister, his wife—the almost always silent figure, a shadow of their childhood. It pained him to watch her close her eyes every time he entered the chambers to install the needed heir into his sister's womb. Aegon remembers her as a girl, often strange but never unkind—the image he forced himself to forget every time she undressed in front of him . The violet eyes they both shared, the silver braids covering her girlish figure—everything about House Targaryen made him ache with guilt and shame. He could not stand to look at the similar braids on his own shoulders, so he cut them off in a drunken rage, burning them in the flames of the fire. Oh, how he wished he could burn himself there instead.
None of his whores had any trace of Old Valyria. None of his whores had a trace of her, either. The one his famished, bloodied heart set the pinnacle of his desire. He could have any woman in the world, from the slaves to the highborn maidens, begging for him to spare one glance, one night, one favour from the night-made king. But it was her, the secret so shameful that even his spoiled mind could not admit it. Aegon studies the patterns in the ceiling, his body almost in pain from the aching feeling in his abdomen. The water around him moves, caressing his skin like a lover's touch. It's burning, he notes, despite being nearly wintry.
''Does your brother know you are here?''
He almost does not recognise his voice as he speaks, the words barely a whisper in the echoing chamber. It's low and darkened, leaving his mouth with a tingle of bitterness. The question comes out twisted, ridicule thrown into another naked body in his bath—it earns only a low chuckle from the woman in front of him.
''Yes, my king, I believe he does.'' Lady YN looked more entertained than embarrassed; all of the pleasantries the etiquette demanded they follow were out of the question anyway. The water hid most of her body, leaving only the head and neck for display. She was bare, the ends of her hair steaming down the ends of a bath as she lounged comfortably, completely at ease. ''The twins often share a piece of soul, my king. You must have known from your own children."
Aegon hms, his eyes leaving their place and setting on the woman instead. Coloured with wetness, her hair stuck to her forehead in the heat of the bath , starting small streams of water down her face. Striking, almost glistening eyes stared back at him. Something unreadable lay there, something not meant for him to see. Her body is one of the woman, not a girl; the marks of not one but two babes nurtured by her womb and breasts are simple in their beauty; this, Aegon thinks, ought to be the image of Mother on the walls of Sept. Lady YN, a widow to some highborn Lord he wished not to know the name of, and mother to his two children. Lady YN, a twin sister to Ser Leon Estermont. Lady YN, the mistress of the king.
''Are you just going to stare?'' The woman chuckled softly, bringing Aegon out of his reverie. "Or are you going to fuck me?''
Aegon barked a short laugh, adjusting himself to hold the weight of the woman climbing on top of him, his arms catching her hips with ease. ''Holy Seven! Where have you learned such profanities, woman? Not fuck,'' he playfully scolded, trapping her lips in a teasing kiss. ''making love, that is,'' he mumbled against her jaw.
Aegon moved slower than usual, taking his time to savour each moment. Something was enchanting in the way droplets of sparkling water clung to her skin, glistening like diamonds in the sunlight—it was as if the water itself had moulded her, leaving an indelible mark on her very being. Even now, with his headlight from wine and limbs burning for a rest, the hunger pools in his stomach, demanding more of her. YN's voice is sickening; it wraps around Aegon's dried throat and lands on his chest like a weighty stone. The hushed moans, mixed with whispers, send shivers down his spine as he rocks into her body, caught in the intoxicating web she weaves with her words. It almost pained him to pull away from her, knowing that he would never be able to resist her siren call for long.
''What are you doing?'' YN asks, her voice laced with a hint of amusement, as she places her hands on his chest, the pace of her hips never faltering.
Aegon struggles to find the words to respond, lost in the dizzying whirlwind of sensations she evokes within him. He can only manage a breathless, ''There is something I want to give you,'' before succumbing once again to her spellbinding presence. It's not an inquiry; the words leave Aegon's mouth without much thought behind them . His hand blindly travels to the small table somewhere behind his back, knocking down two goblets and a burned candle in his haste. ''Here,'' he says, pushing the cascade of hair aside to place a small golden pendant on her neck. "Oh, Gods,'' he murmurs, his eyes fixed on the pendant as it rests against her skin. "Had it made for you.''
He tried to focus on the pendant, but the sight of breasts moving before him was too much to bear. The pace she set, undeniably to torment him further, was excruciating. A few more moments, and he might finish right then and there. But he couldn't bring himself to stop her or put an end to this torturous game. Aegon closed his eyes, surrendering to the overwhelming sensations that consumed him.
''Please, don't stop," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the sound of his own racing heartbeat. Aegon wanted to cease existing, to turn around, and to never be seen here again. Instead, he just sat in the small bath, a little too small for two people, feeling redness creep up his neck onto his cheeks. To his surprise, the heat pooling inside of him only grew as his courage slipped away with each moment. A completely pleasurable sensation took over him, spreading heat between his legs and causing his breath to quicken. Aegon's hips instinctively arched forward, craving more of her touch. The waves around him mixed with the ones of pleasure as he came, the hands roaming his body, leaving him feeling more alive than ever before.
Numb, he watched the water swirl around the YN's breasts and knees as she reached her high a few moments later, a smile playing on her lips as she looked down at him. She rinsed her body, washing away the sweat and salt, before stepping out of the water with a satisfied sigh. Aegon followed her body with hungry eyes as she stepped out of the bath and reached out for the cloth to dry herself. First, her hair, then her neck and arms; she meticulously dried every inch of her body before slipping into a blue gown, one of her hands catching and bringing to light his gift. A sun-shaped gold pendant dangled from her fingers, glinting in the fire. She traced the intricate design with her thumb, a fond smile on her face as she remembered the moment he had given it to her.
Aegon's eyes softened as he watched her. ''I intend to have you join me for the early meal on the morrow. ''
''I would be pleased to, my king.'' She pauses, a sly smile playing on her lips. ''May the night be kind to you.''
He chuckled, his own smile mirroring hers. ''And may your dreams be filled with nothing but joy.''
With a gentle nod, she excused herself from his presence, the gold pendant still clasped in her hand. Aegon sighed, not bothering to sit straight, leaning on the bath walls instead. He prayed to Seven for even a chance to close his lids this sombre night; his usual sleep was turned into a nightmare and a fever dream at once—the one that left him covered in sweat and desperate for sweet oblivion. No matter how much he pleaded, the laughing eyes of Lady YN wouldn't leave her alone. He would lay in bed until sunrise, staring into the faintly pink sky, until dawn came and the cycle of never-ending torment began again.
There were a lot of sinners in all the corners of the world; they kept on with their small affairs, akin to flies, wasting each of their numbered days on the things that carried no meaning in the great map of history. Slaves of foreign lands, smallfolk of fields and seas, servants scurrying in the shadows of their masters or draped with precious cloth figures of noblemen—life and later death—showed no interest in their whereabouts. Their existence was fleeting; their legacy was forgotten with the passing of the seasons.
YN grew tired of never-changing identities quickly; the same faces of mediocrity surrounded her, stealing the much-needed fresh air with the talk of trivial matters. Noon and night mixed in one globe in her throat, tasting of nothing but bitterness—the same flute, feast, and court affairs sun after sun. The small girl near her screeches and laughs, her little hands occupied with the dolls, as she attempts to flee from the grasp of her older brother. They seemed to be in their own world, running down one of the stone halls of the Red Keep with a speed the best stallions of the kingdoms could only dream of.
''You are cheating! I saw it; you did!''
Peter was her firstborn, a boy who is now nearing the age of a man—two and ten summers have passed since she first heard his cry echo in the cold halls of the family castle. Slender, even sickly skinny—as her late lord husband declared upon his birth, he fell sick often—she has spent countless nights near his cradle, wishing to see the day he becomes a healthy, strong young lad. To the delight of everybody, and YN as well , her prayers did not go unanswered. Peter was now skilled with a blade, his fragile figure resulting in swifter, much softer moves that left his teacher's prowess a remarkable honour of knighthood.
''I am not! I'm just faster than you!''
A smile spreads across YN's face as she looks at the little girl in her yellow dress, who now hides behind a collum. Meg was a keen, healthy babe of four summers, with a mischievous glint in her eyes that mirrored YN's own. Other than that, she looked nothing like her—all her father, the Lord husband, lost to illness. What a blessing it was to look at her daughter's face and see him. What a curse.
''Please, be civil. Remember, no hitting, no biting, and absolutely no spitting are worthy of a knight or a lady."
No talking, either, if she could convince them to listen for longer than two minutes. Having her children play with the royal heirs was Aegon’s idea; like that, she had more time on her hands, and twins could enjoy the company of someone closer to ''normal'' folk, as he had worded it. It was not something she could refuse, although she wished nothing more than to do so. The royals were a serious matter; one wrong word and your head ornates the castle walls instead of the golden banners. She did not doubt her children; they were kind-hearted, lovely people, but the notable ‘incidents’ of house Targaryen kept her awake at night, wishing her children would be brought to her with all their eyes and limbs. Leon, her brother, assured her nothing would happen— it was he who took her children to and from the Queen's chambers. He told her of great opportunities for his niece and nephew that came with being closer to the court, but it did not ease YN’s mind fully. All of her family, in one way or another, entertained the royal and noble house of the dragons—the fate most minor houses considered a blessing. Most, but not all.
Before the death of her husband and long before either of her children came into this globe, it was just two of them in their small little world—the twins of House Estermont, the heirs to the misfortunes of the Greenstone's lush greenery and endless tides of sea. She would've stayed there, on a small island enveloped by mountains and castle walls. It was Leon who wanted to make something of himself, with dreams as high as the seagulls up in the sapphire sky above their childhood bedchambers. There was not thought more ridiculous than her dear brother in the walls of the capital , and yet he left the Estermont as soon as the banners were called for young swords in the court of then-prince Aegon. Then she married, and the rest was drowned in the endless nights of tears. Sometimes, only when no one was around, YN wondered if she could've stayed forever there, in her home, without having to see the world that was often so cruel—had her brother not left her so early; had he been the lord instead of their father when she came of age?
''Mother, are you going?''
The loud voice has startled YN out of her thoughts. She smiled at her son, adjusting the skirts of her gown before nodding. ''Yes, my sweet. Let us come in; we do not want to keep the Queen waiting, do we now?''
The Queen. YN has heard many rumours in court concerning the sanity of young Queen Helaena, her preference for silence, and modest foods, but she has never seen her closer than a few yards. Standing before the large wooden door to her chambers seemed foolish—had she been any other woman, perhaps she had nothing to fear—to present her children to the royal maids and escape to the comfort of the halls once more. But she was no ordinary woman—she was a mistress to the King the Queen called brother, the one whose bed he warmed instead of hers. YN cursed her brother in her head for having ''a business'' to attend to today, of all days; even though he assured her of Queen's kind heart, she couldn't shake the feeling of unease as she pushed the door.
The chambers were quiet, with only the slow crackling of wood in the chimney disturbing the peace. ''My Queen, I have brought the children as you requested,'' YN announced, her voice echoing in the vast rooms. She waited for a response, but none came—only the flickering shadows dancing on the walls.
On the small cushion before the fireplace, a figure dressed in regal robes sat with her eyes on the embroidery hoop in her hands. YN takes her time studying the woman as her own children join the pair of royal heirs on the woven carpet. She sits straight, her face somewhere else. The queen has beautiful hair, YN notes to herself ; her silver locks escaped the carefully laid braids, landing right onto her cool, fair face. The woman is younger than her, perhaps by a few summers. The maids around her worked almost in silence—only sometimes it dared to be broken with a small polite exchange concerning the seams or the ornaments on their wooden hoops. There was a distance between her and them—a distance that YN could sense even from where she stood. Despite the quiet camaraderie of the ladies, the queen remained in her own world, a world that YN couldn't quite grasp.
''Lady YN,'' the Queen finally said, never moving her eyes from the dark fabric. ''Would you like to see what I have done so far?''
Something familiar sparkled inside YN's mind like an old tune long forgotten. There was a certain childish quality to her words, reminding her of the way her daughter spoke—something about the innocence and vulnerability that still lingered beneath the regal facade. The Queen spoke to her like they had been great friends like she had seen her before—perhaps in a dream or in another lifetime.
''Of course, Your Majesty.''
She moved closer, careful not to step on the countless toys and pillows scattered around on the floor. Someone, Jaehaerys or Jaehaera, whom she could not tell, squeaked and ran past her, chased by her own daughter, almost knocking YN over in their game. The Queen smiled warmly at the chaos, her eyes sparkling with amusement at them as YN sat before her on the padded chair, intended for legs. She turned the hoop of her embroidery , her delicate fingers working quickly and skillfully.
''I did it for him. A golden dragon, you see? I do not like green; it does not suit him,'' she half-whispered, her almost translucent violet eyes studying each expression on YN's face but never lingering too long.
Him. YN nods, her heart aching with understanding. She knows. Suddenly, the world feels like it is burning—or, perhaps, it is just the growing fire—and an acquainted feeling of guilt and shame travels to her throat. She swallows hard, trying to drown the discomfort in her saliva—a whore, a liar, a thief. Here, in the presence of something so fleeting, so beautiful, and so delicate, she feels the weight of her sins pressing down on her chest, threatening to consume her whole.
The colourful eyes of the Queen seemed to understand her thoughts; she smiled. ''You have a beautiful necklace.''
YN's involuntary hand reaches for the necklace hanging around her neck, feeling the weight of it in her palm. The gold sun sits there proudly, having escaped the comfort of her dress in a moment she has missed. It feels like a cruel joke and, if she will, a reminder of the audacity she possessed to steal from a queen. She felt bare for the first time in years, like a child caught by his mother in some small affair. ''Thank you, your Grace," she whispers, her voice barely audible over the crackling of the flames.
''He likes you, my brother. He has a very strange way of showing it; you are the first person he's allowed to get this close to. The first to keep for so long, too.'' Queen Helaena pauses, her eyes softening slightly as she looks at the children before her. "They love having someone to play, you know? Always waiting for a new friend to join them in their games.'' As the firelight dances across her face, Queen Helaena's smile is bittersweet. "I am afraid I do not know what to do with them. ''
YN nods in understanding, her head turning to watch the flock of laughing children too. ''I was thirteen when I had my first. From the moment he left my womb, he screamed and cried, never finding solace in my arms. I was his mother, the person who was supposed to provide comfort, yet I could just cry with him. I did not feel the mystical tenderness the ladies told me about—I felt lost. Hollow. I thought I was missing some piece of myself that would make me love him the way I was supposed to. But he grew, and I did with him—then I realised that I had a lot of people to care for me, but he only had me. There is no ''right'' love—only the love we are capable of giving , and that was enough for him.''
The woman kept quiet, her eyes moving on the stone floor. YN wondered if her silence was a hint of disapproval or if she was simply lost in her thoughts once again. After a moment, Queen Heleana finally spoke, her voice lingering through the chambers. "Would you like to join us in the garden on the morrow? It would be a great change of scenery."
YN smiled. The relief washed over her—it didn't feel real. The same eyes, hair, and face she saw hundreds of times are once again in front of her, only changing slightly to more feminine features. The Queen does look like her brother-husband, and now YN can't help but feel a sense of comfort in her appearance. ''I would be honoured to, Your Majesty."
The days changed each other quickly; her children grew, and the court lived, growing and changing before her eyes. There was something in the air; she could feel it—an alter after Prince Aemond brought news of the passing of a Valaryon bastard. YN remembers the night—the king has drunk himself half-dead, pacing and muttering about war—the weight of the crown seemed heavier on his head that night. She knows he wishes she did not hear it, laughing at all of her worried questions on the next eve. Still, the war worried her; it brought the worst upon its coming—famine, illness, and terror. She did not fear death—the Stranger was a familiar presence in her life—but the thought of her children suffering haunted her dreams.
YN looks at the girl in her wooden bed, sleeping as peacefully as a child should. Peter sits near, on the stool beside her, his eyes shining with excitement more than fear as he listens to the reading—no matter how smart her son is, he is still too young to fully grasp the doom that warfare will bring to their doorstep; for him, the tales of glorious battles are still alive and true. As YN finishes yet another story about the conquest of three dragon warriors, the comforting silence settles in their bedchamber. Soon, the sun will fully hide behind the darkened clouds of the horizon, and the night will cast its shadows over the land.
''Are you the king's mistress?'' Peter asks, his voice barely above a whisper. The words that leave his lips are not his own. YN's heart shrinks at the sound of them—the whispering faces of the court's gossip swirling in her mind.
There it was—the question she hoped would resolve itself on its own but knew would come anyhow. It's hard, YN realises, to admit such a simple truth to the pair of wide-open eyes looking up at her as she closes the book. Did she not tell it herself after each time she spent the night in the king's chambers? '' I and King Aegon are,'' she takes a breath in. What were they? Lovers? Such a foolish, shameful thought. ''dear friends. We converse and dine together, and he takes great pleasure in hearing me play.''
She does not want to lie to her sweet boy; she knows he is perceptive and will see through any falsehood. But the weight is heavy; she will not let it crush his still boyish shoulders. Deep down, YN fears the day her son will realise the truth. Will he still wish to know her name then? He looks like a small sparrow bird, YN thinks to herself, in his brown vest and ruffled collar of the shirt —so small yet so curious. He tilts his head just like the finch would as if trying to grasp her words and find something between them. ''Do you love him?''
A sigh escapes her lips before she can think of a better answer. ''Well, let's see,'' she pauses. ''I love you, and I love little Meg, and I love your uncle Leon. I also love our beautiful rooms, my dresses, and the nice pies we get to have for supper. And all of that we have because King Aegon is good and just and values our house as one of his loyal subjects. So, in a way, yes, I do love him for that.''
Lies. Disgraceful, unworthy of a lady, a mother she is. Does she truly feel nothing when his lips caress every inch of her very being, his hands touching her soul akin to a ghost? Does she not wish the warmth of his body never had to part from her heart, staying on her neck instead, trapped in the warm, gold sun on her skin? Did she not offer him what was left of her time and time again ? Did she not think of him all the time? Was she not terrified of loving him, and did she not love him?
''I do not want you to marry him.'' Peter is determined. His hands grow fists, the slight childish jealousy painting his face. He could not know, and yet he felt it; he was her son, her blood, after all.
''Then I shall not. I will be here, helping you as you grow into a strong, handsome Lord, and then I will eat only cake and wear pretty dresses for the rest of my days. You will protect me and your sister, just like your father did before he passed, and I will be your scorny lady-mother for the time being . ''
She would. YN wished he would see it, but he was still too young, too naive, to understand the sacrifices she dedicates for him and his sister only, the chains she traps in her heart every day just for them to have a happier life. The sacrifices he did not ask for, YN reminds herself . Sacrifices she chose willingly.
Peter nods, his eyes changing back into childish, sparkling innocence, leaving the stone-cold stare and anger hanging only in his mother's memory. "That sounds perfect, my lady-mother," he says with a grin. "I will protect you and my sister with all my might, just like my father did."
''Good,'' YN smiles, planting a kiss on her son's forehead. "Your father would be proud of the man you are becoming.''
He would not, but Peter does not need to know it. Maybe he will grow up to be nothing like him, and maybe the gods will be kind enough to let her see it.
The Queen's chambers are loud as the night approaches; children, royal or not, never seemed to tyre and instead wished to play all into the night. Even the tireless maid, exhausted of their incessant energy, now quietly sat in the corner, undoubtedly anxious not to be discovered for at least a handful of moments. Tragically for her, YN did not possess this kind of power; her head seemed to soon crack into a few pieces from the noise and shuffles, her limbs burning for rest and quiet. She was tired of reading; the book, long forgotten, was shyly lying at the edge of the wooden table, covered in rich gold ornaments.
''Do you feel unwell?'' The soft voice of Queen Helaena is heard nearby. The fair face turns into a concerned expression—the Targaryen queen had always been perceptive .
YN shakes her head in a weak attempt to wave any worries away. ''Just a little tired from the long day,'' she murmurs, forcing a small smile.
''Perhaps you should rest. I will send a maid to draw you a bath and prepare your chambers for the night.'' The woman's graceful hand reaches out to gently touch YN's shoulder. ''The children can stay; they will be in good hands with the nursemaid, and then they shall return to your chambers in the morning.''
YN feels something creep in her stomach but shakes it off. Perhaps she should not have eaten that pie after all. ''Thank you, your grace,'' she says, mustering a grateful smile. She stands up to leave, feeling the weight of the day's events finally catch up to her before the Queen's voice is heard again.
''The cooter, a mother to three kings,'' she mumbles, her words causing YN to pause and turn back.
''Your grace?" It was not the first time The Queen lost herself in her thoughts; sometimes, she would whisper nonsense as they conversed—it was worrying, sure, but YN had learned to ignore it. Queen Helaena was a sweet, kind woman, but her mind was often clouded by the burdens of her crown. YN wished that one day the Queen would find peace and clarity in her own thoughts; she prayed for it, too.
''The cooter,'' the Queen gazed in her direction, directing attention to the embroidery on YN's dress.
''Yes, it is a cooter; it is a sigil of my house, your Grace, house Estermont.'' YN smiled gently, hoping to distract the Queen from her confusion. The woman's eyes lit up with recognition as she nodded in understanding, and YN breathed a sigh of relief. She can now rest.
It was not long before the screams in her dreams startled her awake—the dark, obsidian night in the window chilling her feet as she quickly sat up, her heart pounding in her chest. Although the screams never seethed; they became louder, more concerned voices of people in the halls outside her room, calling out curses and cries. YN quickly climbed out of the warm bed and rushed to the door, the cobble floors cooling beneath her bare feet as she opened it to see what was happening.
People running in and out of the long halls—maids and knights, even some noblemen in their sleepwear—seemed not to notice the strange figure of a woman in her nightgown standing in the doorway. ''What has happened?'' she asked the maid nearby before recoiling - the dirty sheets in her hands were coloured crimson.
The boy is dead, a voice told her . The boy in the royal chambers.
''Let me through,'' she demanded, pushing past the maid and rushing towards the rooms of Queen Helaena. The rooms she left her children in. She did not care; if the murderer was still in those walls, she would strangle him herself; her children, young, innocent children she left in the care of their nurse, were still there. Were still alive in her head.
The walk from her chambers to the royal ones wasn't too long; she would've walked a thousand more stairs if it was needed. The door to the chambers is wide open; splashes of blood lead inside, pooling before the opening, resembling a twisted, sick lake of horror. ''Meg? Peter?'' No response came, only eerie silence. Panic began to rise in her chest as she stepped over the threshold, her heart pounding in her ears. The screaming rings in her ears suddenly; she does not recognise her own voice as it echoes off the stone walls.
Small, lifeless limbs stare at her almost in accusation, the redness of his open neck wound stark against the pale skin —the body of young Prince Jaehaerys lays in his cradle like it often would, lacking only the silver crown of his head. The room was a scene of unfathomable horror, with blood splattered across the walls and the once innocent nursery now a monstrous sight. The scent of death surrounded her like a bloodied blanket, choking the breath in her throat and sending her head spinning.
She did not feel the male hands clutching her shoulders, pulling her away. The blue and green cloth under her feet quickly moved, the voice of her brother whispering something in her deaf shocked ears.
''Leon, children, my children,'' she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper as tears streamed down her face. The realisation of what had happened in that room hit her right in the stomach, leaving a wretched kno of guts and despair. She tries to fight back, to shout over the chaos, or to push him away; she always does. It makes him just angrier, and harsher, and he tightens the grip, pushing her right into the open door of what appears to be his chambers.
''Everyone stays in their rooms until stated otherwise by the king's orders,'' he hisses, finally letting go of her.
The action is so sudden that she falls forward, hitting her nose as she slides down the stone wall. There's blood everywhere; it's mixed with tears, soaking into her hair and dripping down from her dress. Her brothers's plan worked; YN had no energy to shout anymore. Her anger is now swallowing down her dried throat. She opens and closes it like a fish out of the sea, trying to get air into her lungs—all that is left for her to watch as the wooden door snaps against its frame and the lock clicks, chaining her to the cold, dark room.
YN does not know how much time has passed or if it has passed at all ; the dark, obsidian night sky is now coloured in pinks, oranges, and purples, resembling her usual gowns more than the bright blue of the day. The silence is deafening, broken only by the distant chirping of birds and the rustling of leaves in the gentle breeze; she does not care for it. The only sound in her mind is a constant prayer, although, in her previous life, not many could accuse her of being devout. Now, YN finds herself clinging to any semblance of hope, no matter how faint, no matter where it comes from.
It's all her fault, she thinks. It is as clear as a day—the sins on her shoulders were so heavy that even Gods could not bear them anymore. She should've stayed there, in the northern castle of her lord husband, weeping over his grave like any proper widow would. Instead, she has indulged in a life of sin with violet eyes and silver locks, finding solace in the arms of another man. She let her body decide, choosing a life of bodily pleasure over honour and duty. The husband, no matter how hard it was for her to love him, was the only man who had a right to touch her soul. Touch her at all.
The door opened with a loud bang, revealing her lord husband in all his might. He was wearing those weird clothes again—something torn and dirty. It looked like he robbed some beggars near the castle before coming in, and he smelled the same.
''Come on!'' he exclaims, opening his arms as if for a hug. ''Don't be shy; we are married, remember?''
There is not much she can say; the easiest way out is to let him do what he wants. So, YN bites her cheek when his sloppy kisses travel down her neck and keeps her mouth shut when he takes off her nightgown. It's awful, almost humiliating, to hear his breath quicken. To feel him inside. She smiles when it's finally over, and he plants the last, tired kiss on her head before getting under the covers. She knows better than to disturb her husband's sleep; instead, she cries silently, mindful of staining his pillow with tears.
YN's knees are aching even through the fabric of her gown, but it does not matter. Through pain, she could feel her remorse. Feel like she was being punished for her own desires. Feel like she was clean again.
A soft knocking is heard, and YN has to snap out of her trance, gathering the tears building in her eyes with a cloth. It's a servant, one of the many she sees running down the halls this morning. ''You are awaited before the Council, milady.''
''Thank you,'' YN replies, her voice barely above a whisper. She will see to the punishment the gods have chosen for her, no matter how harsh it is. Her only wish is for her children, who are innocent in all of this, to be spared from any consequences of her actions. She straightens her posture and nods. ''Let us go then.''
The loud arguing in the rooms of Small Council seemed to fade as she appeared in the doorway, all eyes turning to her as she entered. The sun was already up, she noticed, as the soft streaks of warmth hit the room through the open windows, casting a golden hue over the polished table where the council members sat. She caught strange looks from a few, and frankly, she thought they were right. YN looked like a mad woman, her hair quickly plated and her dress hurriedly laced, rushing around a castle that seemed to freeze at the news of a child's passing.
''Mother,'' the loud cry of her son's voice echoed, snapping YN back to reality. He came running to her, his face streaked with tears and his eyes red from crying, his hands clutching her waist as he buried his face in her stomach. YN stood there, wrapping her arms around him tightly, feeling the empty space where his right hand should have been. ''I am so sorry; I tried to save him, but the knife, they did; they cut it off, Mother, '' he sobbed.
YN's heart shattered into a million pieces as she held her son close. Her darling, brave boy lost a part of himself, but he was alive. Better a sparrow, living or dead, than no birdsong at all. Here, in her arms. ''It is okay; all is well; you did so well. Where is your sister?''
''She is safe; I hid her in the closet. She was so scared,'' he whispered, his voice trembling.
''Your daughter is with maids now, Lady YN.'' The voice of Sir Criston Cole echoed through the room.
YN's eyes quickly found the green dress she put on her daughter herself; she sat on the hip of some scared maid, silent. She thanked the gods; she thanked anyone and everyone, in the sky or beneath the ground, who had decided to let her children live. Occupied with her thoughts, YN does not hear the questions flying at her right away; yet, the male voice of the swordsman still cuts through the cloudiness of her mind, reaching her ears.
''We would like to ask you a few questions about what happened that night. Can you tell us why you were not in the Queen's chambers with your children?''
There is something seething inside her as her son wails and clutches her waist with his now one hand and her daughter's frozen eyes as she stares through her mother. YN stood there, before the able knights of the castle, in nothing but her nightgown, covered in her son's blood and her own tears, feeling the weight of their accusatory gazes upon her. The gods forgave her and proved her innocent, but the whispers of suspicion still lingered in the air, staining her with their accusations. Anger—that was what boiled inside her—a fiery rage that threatened to consume her from within. ''What are you implying?''
''It is suspicious, don't you think, Lady YN, for you to be the only one absent when the tragedy occurred?''
YN laughed. It did not sound like a laugh of joy but rather a bitter, cynical sound that echoed through the great hall. Perhaps that was the mark of nerves she has wasted today, perhaps the showing of her despair—the maddening, heavy feeling of despair clawing at her insides. The child was dead; others were harmed—the cold, the almost translucent figure of the young prince covered in unfathomable amounts of his own blood lingered in her mind. "How dare you, the Head of the King's Guard, be the one telling me of doubts when it was my son, my blood, that protected Prince Jaehaerys? Tell me, Ser Criston, where were you when my boy lost his hand defending the royal family?''
Ser Criston's expression darkened at the accusation; his jaw clenched tightly. "I was carrying out my duty elsewhere, as I always have," he replied evenly, his gaze wavering in the face of her anger. ''And for those who question my loyalty, there is a place in the dungeons reserved for traitors and cowards. Guards, seize Lady YN and bring her to the cells for questioning immediately."
As his words echoed through the hall, the even louder cries of her son were drowned out by the commotion as the guards moved to apprehend her. Although she feels nothing now, the contrast of cold poisoning her body where the boiling anger was just a moment before terrifying and overwhelming. YN felt numb and drained of any emotion as her son hugged her closer, despite the best efforts of the man around them. There will be bruises, she thought in a haze. When did he get so strong?
''Leave her be.'' A voice boomed from the back of the room.
King Aegon sat there on the designated stool, adorned with heads of dragons. Now, he did not look regal; he seemed sick, his violet eyes bloodshot and silver locks hanging limply around his face. The sea-sick green coloured his face as he struggled to maintain his composure. Just for a second, their eyes met, a silent understanding slipping between them. There was something wrong with him. There was something wrong with him that was also wrong with her.
''Thank you, my king,'' she whispered, her voice barely audible. The man's expression softened slightly, with a flicker of recognition in his eyes, before he turned away, dismissing the guards. They were free to go; she was free to go, with her alive and well children, who still could scream and cry. He will stay; he had to stay with his now-forever boy.
The water hit the pier with gentle splashes, and the droplets of salt jumped on the stone legs of the dock before rejoining the vast sea. The warm shadows of the setting sun coloured the liquids in pricey gemstones: sapphire and rubies, quarts, and turquoise glistened before her eyes. There was something magical in the way the light danced, ethereal and airy, as it circled the pier—no one disturbed the peace of the tranquil sea; nobody knew the secrets it had stored since its birth.
The water was warm enough—just a little more, and the beach would embrace many swimmers in its warm hug. But, for now, she only watched as the waves gently lapped against her feet, the soothing rhythm of the sea reminding her she was still here, in her body. YN closes her eyes. It would be an easy fix— to just jump , to let the water envelop her completely, to become one with the sea. No one would know how she went, not until the same waves returned her body to the shore somewhere far from this castle. Or would the water leave her for itself, storing the secrets of her death deep beneath the sand as her soul left this world behind? YN had no chance of knowing, but the thought of disappearing into the ocean's embrace was strangely comforting. Just her and the place she called home.
The sound of crashing waves enveloped her head; the wind was getting stronger, ruffling the hem of her ivory gown as she sat at the edge of the cliff, the last rays of sun hitting her face like a gentle caress. The salty air inside her lungs reminded her of Estermont . The small island, isolated and insignificant on the grand map. Perhaps, if she were lucky, her remains would be buried there, under some nameless mountain range, with only a small stone marker to indicate her existence.
There are slow, almost silent steps approaching her from behind; she does not turn around. If it was death, whoever the Stranger took the form of, it was welcome here. With her children asleep in her brother's chambers, a dozen guards watching over them, she was at peace. The gush of wind through her hair felt like a final embrace, reeking of salt and blood. What an unusual scent—almost like the sea at low tide mixed with the metallic tang of iron. Almost too real to be just in her head.
''I killed him,'' the hoarse voice announced behind her, the black cloak brushing against her arm. The cloak she knew belonged elsewhere. She turned slowly, her hand plating itself on the warm deck, feeling the small stones beneath her fingers.
The light illuminated his face; the usually calm violet eyes now clouded with a darkness she had never seen before. The golden dragon head sitting at his chest glinted beneath the rays just as the waves did a moment before, the still-hot blood dripping from his hands onto the wooden planks. Strangely, the black fabric now was almost green from the crimson stains—Helaena was right. It did not suit him.
''I smashed his skull open with a single blow,'' he said, his voice chillingly calm. ''I felt nothing as he lay there, dying at my feet. I thought it would feel good to finally have revenge . It didn't.''
The sunset painted over the walls of Red Keep, the oranges and reds of dying stars reflecting in the short hair of the man in front of her. He looked like he was burning, set on fire right where the crown should have been, burning down his neck and slumping shoulders. His castle, his kingdom, was all slowly on fire, despite the cool evening breeze that swept from the sea behind her. She can't get him to leave, she realises. The flames fluttered around him, everywhere except his eyes—it was his home, and it combusted. YN still had time to jump into the safety of the water, drown her sorrows, and escape the unavoidable ruin that awaited them both. The saltiness from the waves travelled onto her cheeks, the shallow streams hitting her lips. She can't leave without him.
''Sit with me,'' she muttered, reaching out her hand towards him. It was empty of any rings or jewellery; it was bare, like a virgin sheet on a freshly made bed. She was free—free from the weight of ties and obligations that had bound her for so long. Just her, without anything that would remind her of the past.
''I will stain your hand with blood,'' Aegon mused, his eyes dark with the weight of his own burdens. I will stain you with my sins, he wanted to say, but the words caught in his throat.
''Stain them. I do not care.''
So the veined hand reached out, the warmth of his touch sending shivers down her spine. She did not realise how cold she was until he enveloped her in his embrace, his warmth seeping into her bones. She felt clean for the first time in years, despite the stains on her dress, as the man collapsed in her embrace, his tears mixing with her own. ''Do you think we can ever truly be free from our sins?'' she whispered, feeling a sense of peace wash over her.
The man's embrace tightened, his voice steady despite the tremble in his breath as he replied. ''This love was never a sin; it could not be. Not when I love you with all that I am."
and if you are there, why do i feel alone in this room?
pairing: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x fem!reader
summary: The woman—a siren, some kind of sea beast lurking in deep, salted waters—sits near him with the ottoman under her feet that still seemed to deny her the comfort of rest, her eyes glinting with mischief when she notices his stare. Taunts, even, forge obliviousness to the spells she casts. Strange, otherworldly—redundant. Everything about her, down to the light gown and a headdress that showed little of her face, Feyd-Rautha was not used to seeing.
warnings: mentions of death, violence, implied/referenced child abuse, religious symbolism, mentions of sa (!), blood and other parts of body, very non-healthy relationships
chapter 1 - chapter 2
!this work is part 2 to the i can feel the soil falling over my head; no people are here, just the void in my chest!
word count: 7,3k
author's notes: hi beautiful people! today, I have finally finished this chapter! be aware that this piece of literature is explicit and touches on some very heavy themes, including sa and child abuse. Please be mindful of it! As always, your opinions, suggestions, and critiques are welcome in the comments. Love you, and have a tasty read!
There are a lot of books stored in her memory, locked in the neurocytes safely. They are tucked into the cortex with love and tenderness that YN otherwise taught herself to suppress as a sign of her weaker self. But papers were non-living, so she felt like it was less dangerous for her to show warmth towards them; after all, if the objects can not acknowledge your love, does it really count as real? She read everything, mostly in an attempt to prepare herself for something she did not know the face of; she read to build the shield around herself, in desperate hope to be able to help at least her future self. YN read even now, although her foolish childhood desires were long gone, just to get a glimpse of the girl she was before the monsters escaped the pages.
The book she re-read the most was nothing special, nothing suiting the image she moulded herself into—a giant, relatively old encyclopaedia of animals inhabiting the furthest corners of Known Imperium. The letters inside, although faded a little, were left almost untouched by eyes—maybe it was what drew her in in the first place—to cherish something seen as unneeded. YN learned the small paragraphs almost by heart; she liked the idea of someone taking enough time to observe something as small as a roden to know its habits. She liked the idea of it happening to her one day. As it always is, it did not.
She chose her favourite animal without that much thought. Although even the notion of having something beloved was foolish, YN was made to choose; she and her sisters played the game of forest most often. The game was simple: pretend to be a creature you are not, forgetting the countless rules they had to follow. Pretending they have claws and teeth; pretending they can protect themselves not through intrigues and hidden motives but through open, bold force. Irulan was always a Katanga Lioness; she liked it because of the proximity to their house's symbol. YN did not; the grey pages of her beloved book described them as "observed to also scavenge on carrion of animals that were killed by other predators or died from natural causes''. What king of the animals steals the work of others simply to feed themselves? She did not tell Irulan that, of course—why would she?
YN chose a mountain lion for herself. Sure, she may have made a mistake thinking it was just another type of lion, but the game went too far to change anything, so she stuck with that. She even grew to love it—the drawing of the mountain lion on her character sheet, the way it prowled through the forest in her mind's eye. It had many names and many homes. Adaptive. Captivating.
She does not know why it came into her mind suddenly—maybe it was the dim light of the closed arena. The air circulated here freely, cooling through the complex systems of vents, even though it seemed to be deprived of any life—just a mechanical circle of the same molecules moving around her seated figure and returning to the hidden openings again and again. YN looked straight ahead; the two men were still sparring.
From her bench, they looked like one—two bodies moved so swiftly that one was unable to differentiate where the lines of their limbs ended. YN squinted her eyes; she was alone in the seating area, and still, she dared not move closer. The taller, thinner figure possessed skin so white it looked almost translucent underneath the cold light—YN wondered if she would be able to see the structures in his body through his clothed stomach. He moved well, almost too well for her not to press her lower row of teeth to the top one, hiding the tongue in a cave of pearl bones—she had hoped he was worse with his bare hands. YN had counted four hundred and five seconds before he made a mistake in his steps; it was a lot more than her own results, but for a man, he was good.
Feyd-Rautha had style; she had to give him that. He fought like a serpent would: calculated, precise. His fists knew the most effective targets, and his legs knew how to escape the blows of his opponent. If YN was to guess, he relied on muscle memory less than a usual fighter would, preferring to dwell in the moment instead. It made for a good show, sure, but it was not practical. She smiled to herself; of course, the na-Baron could not know what the real battle was like. How unfortunate for him—how delightful for her. YN still can't believe he let her watch his training every morning—was he really that stupid not to realise her motive? Was he too confident to consider having weaknesses?
Regardless, she saw what she needed to do - for three hours every day, she set unmovingly on the third bench in a small fighting ground, imprinting his every move in her mind. There are so many moves you can use and so many tricks you can do before she learns them all. YN did not care for the cold gaze thrown in her direction when Feyd-Rautha collapsed on the ground, taking a moment to rest before lurching onto his opponent again. She can wait.
Mountain lions are stealthy predators.
-
The days she spent here changed into months, their slow steps morphing into each other until time became a blur, a concept she did not grasp. Feyd-Rautha was a hard one to warm, but before she would mould him into something she wanted, YN needed to heat his DNA to a certain magnitude; otherwise, he would simply break. She would've gladly accepted this turn of fate too, but right now, keeping na-Baron alive is far more convenient for the Bene Gessarit. For her.
A concubine. A slap in the face: it seemed like life was determined to dissolve the small bits of her dignity in its endless pool of secrets. She was not a wife to Harkonnen na-Baron; no, she was to be his whore. If she was not too tired, she would've felt a pang of fear on her rising with oxygen lungs; a concubine's position is even lower here compared to one of a lawful wife's. YN remembers the words of her teacher as she prepared her for the union: Harkonnen concubines are killed after their first night in a position; if one is lucky enough to escape the fate by being with a child, she bears him until it's time for the baby to be born. One of the greatest honours for a Harkonnen is to take the life of his mother as soon as he enters the world.
She was to join na-Baron for breakfast today—a proposal YN waited long to receive, but part of her wishes she never did. It was worded like an invitation; YN knows it was not. Harkonnens rarely spoke when they did not give orders—a creature of habit, she supposed. So, she did what she had to: follow the slave to the chambers designated for the meal. The hem of her dress shone with a colour so foreign to the fort around her; YN needed to make herself stand out. Men are much like children, she learned—the more colourful the toy, the more likely they will want to play with it.
The walls were heavy here. They didn't bend in the shapes she was used to, preferring to stand tall. They didn't have to hide their strength underneath a complicated facade—quite the opposite. They paraded it, wearing it like the honour it is. Staying unremorsefully unbending. Maybe it's the air or a different measure of gravity; maybe it's her habit of soaking up the surroundings and letting them poison her insides, growing rotten in between the folds of her stomach tissue, but her legs are metal, stone-cold, pulling YN deeper and deeper into the floor. She tries so hard to ignore the three creatures in the corner.
They are hairless, much like the man in front of her, and dressed in matching black. YN would've mistaken them for Harkonnen royalty if it were not for the iron collars on their necks and the glowing black eyes that seemed to follow her every move. She would've been happy to have some company and not be forced into solitude with na-Baron if it were not for a still convulsing body on the floor. A body she did not recognise, but it could've easily been her own.
The creatures seemed to enjoy the involuntary moves of the soon-to-be corpse; they closed their eyes in delight and bared the sharp, black-coloured teeth in sheer pleasure as they lurched into the white flesh. They ripped it apart with only their hands, not bothering to use the prepared knives for more than a big incision from head to stomach. The sounds of chewing and gnawing filled the room, echoing off the walls and sending electric impulses down her body. YN was used to the metallic smell and the bright colour of arterial blood, but this was not a simple death. It was a show, and she was the long-awaited watcher.
Feyd-Rautha seemed unbothered by the sight near him. His hands, covered in thick streaks of blood, were deep to his elbows in the body. He dissected the corpse with precision, his eyes focused and his grip steady. He looked calm, even peaceful. Na-Baron was in good humour today. ''I must say, your arrival has graced us with much more than just the dowery; nothing could've made this union more auspicious—such a rare bird you are, daughter of our generous Emperor. A princess, yet treated no better than a common slave.''
Here it was: the thing she was thinking about all the way to this strange, garbage planet in the dress that pokes bleeding holes in her abdomen with each glass she downs. From his lips, it sounds even more bitter; even savages found the way the Emperor sold one of his daughters so easily strange. "Both of our houses have traditions far beyond our understanding," YN shrugs, scaring her thoughts away like annoying flies. Here, in a room so far from the comfort of her home, they moved too fast, bringing nausea to her throat.
She is here to secure the bloodline of House Harkonnen, to ensure the balance needed in the Imperium. YN does not notice how suddenly her gaze darkens or how tightly the hands that rested on the chair are now holding the pleated velvet of her ruby-red gown. Oh, the baby. The tiny creature inside her womb, the future head for the Baron's crown to be placed upon. The yet unconcieved child she could not feel love for. She was given no other choice but to risk its life before even giving it a chance to obtain its gift.
''Then you will find my present to be quite fitting.''
YN watches in silence as na-Baron reaches inside the rib cage of the corpse. He reaps out an organ with one swift motion, almost like plucking a harmful sprout from the garden. The organ is broun and rosewood, a weird mixture of shades that make it harder for her to focus on anything but the thing in his large hand. The gift he meant to give was a human heart.
She feels his walk long before she sees a figure departing from its place at the table; she guesses the end point of his manoeuvres too easily. It's almost funny—a cruel, senseless joke; how obvious the slight tremor in her hands is; how heavy her eyes become at the sight of Harkonnen black. The body positions itself near; if she squints, she can hear the hot breathing somewhere between her shoulder blades. His hand snakes around her neck quickly, positioning the organ right in front of her mouth. YN can detect the smell hitting her nostrils before she closes the receptors in them. She wants to scream, but the notes die in her throat. Who would she scream for? She hears the creatures hiss and whisper—the heart is a good part, from what she can make out. It did not need to be wasted on people like her.
''Will you not accept it?'' Feyd-Rautha's words are mocking, but his dark blue eyes stay virgin to the laughter. They drill small spots on her neck from behind with such force that YN can almost feel the burnt smell of her sweat-covered skin.
She takes a breath. Her own heart shrinks, its vessels beating with intensity twice as much as needed. Still alive, she notes absently. Still breathing. The feeling is natural and easy; the forced calmness in her body tingles the muscles, braiding her nerves into a pattern similar to the netting. Then, she opens her mouth.
"If I shall lick the blood of your hands, Feyd-Rautha, dare to make it your own."
That's it.
Maybe the Emperor was right to spare her none of the Sardaukars and a quarter of her dresses. She did not need more; she was not expected to survive long enough to use half of her clothes. YN chucked under her breath. Dead over diet preferences—how profound.
After a moment, the pale face behind her also twists, allowing the blackened teeth to escape the grip of thin lips. Like this, na-Baron looks less human and more like the evil he was said to be. He throws the heart to the creatures—they catch it greedily—and places a bloodied hand on her shoulder, the droplets of crimson going unnoticed on the brightly coloured cloth. ''Very well, then. Let us eat.''
YN nods. She looks around almost instinctively; nothing could make her eat a thing after the sight she just witnessed, but she refuses the na-Baron once; she is not about to do it again. The food is a lot, but her plate is almost empty: only a small amount of salad is here, sadly staring into the hunger in her eyes and a now featherless creature in an unnatural pose, suggesting its non-poetical death. The bird is small, almost delicate; its wings are pitifully glued to the body. YN does not want to let her mind draw the comparison, and does not allow her brain to admit a direct analogy; she dissects the bird with a dull knife and puts a piece in her dry mouth. The creature tastes good—almost too good to be expected in this brightly lit hall.
Most often deer is the mountain lion’s staple diet. However, they can survive preying on small animals as well.
-
The night covers Giedi Prime rather quickly; it never lingers, politely waiting for its masters to finish their daily affairs; it hits like a coward, from behind, trapping those not careful enough to hide before its arrival. The harsh, toxic waves of lazy winds hit the walls of the halls coldly lighted with a few sphears; they look like deep forest clearings, forming a system of endless options, ultimately leading to one, inevitable, end. His work chambers aren't big; he does not visit them often for them to be. The solitary metal desk before him is filled with letters, drafts of laws, and official documents, all waiting for his approval. It exhausts Feyd-Rautha to no end, the sheer stupidity of most of the advisers here; almost half of the documents were riddled with errors and inconsistencies. The forever present in his head dull migraine grows stronger when he opens the shortest letter; he almost busts his skull open when the pain heavies.
He ponders too much—the type of thoughts you can feel running on your tongue but never escaping. He is not used to being in the mist; all of his life is so painfully contrasted that no doubt of its nature can survive the sharp edge of his mind. There are things he can escape—forget, even—but some linger in his ribcage too long for them to vanish. Soon, they grow into his lungs with small, unbreakable threads, becoming him. He used to try to get them away from his heart, as if it held some value. Now, he is smarter, older, and more indifferent, he lets them pierce yet another piece of human flesh with no sorrow.
Of course, he remembered her face. The same face that haunted his sleep ever since she dared to appear before his eyes. Feyd-Rautha, naturally, found her little frolic that day. He spent an entire evening studying her work, analysing every move she could've made with her blade to achieve such outcomes. Sure, some things he would've done differently, but the sheer brutality of an animal he would not have guessed the girl possessed charmed him. Feyd-Rautha was a proud man, but he, too, held a love for beautiful things. For that, he hadn't told the Baron of the sight he discovered in the reading room. For that, he is now willing to pretend to believe her eyes when the fear fleshes in them.
Feyd-Rautha curses; she sickens. Like a bone stuck somewhere down his throat, not letting him live without a pang of mocking. She lurks, and whispers—Feyd-Rautha wants to smash her pretty head against the wall just to reveal the secrets she hides from him so he can finally understand the hold she retains. He is no stranger to the desire to own, or devour, but the fear in the back wall of his stomach is an alien in his body. He tries to hide it—to paint over it with anger or violence—but it remains a constant presence, gnawing at him from within. It's no use; the woman is a shark, designed to sense the fright. Maybe that's what brought him in in the first place—the steel eyes so similar to his own in a narrow hall all those years before. Maybe he was so used to the danger that he craved it subconsciously, looking for it to make him feel like himself again. A reoccurring childhood nightmare he can't escape; he doesn't want to escape.
Feyd-Rautha finds the chair to put his weight on and waits until the tingling, spinning sensation spreads from his temples down his neck, finding its way into his bloodstream and passing his organs one by one, until none are left uncorrupted. Of course, he expects it. The woman slipped into his brain and now chews her way into it like a parasite downs the rotten body. He knows he should be terrified, but instead, he feels a strange sense of relief. Feyd-Rautha can hear the whispers of his own mind fighting to remain the only owners of the secrets and desires buried within. He feels his eyelids heavy; a second later, the whites of his eyes are staring at the ceiling, the blue eye lenses dissolving in light.
Water. The first thing he feels is ice-cold water dripping onto his face, filling his lungs, and sending a shock through his arms. This body does not feel like his; it's too small, too narrow. His eyes are trying to adjust as fast as they can, jumping from one blurred spot to another until finally catching a glimpse of the surroundings. His brain does not have time to process the picture; his nose is filled with fluid again, and his open mouth is gasping for air but only taking in more liquid. He tries waving his hands around, but the stronger grip is firm on his nape, pulling him further down into the depths. The hand yanked him out just as he was about to fall into darkness again, the sound of water changing to loud screeching.
''How dare you hit me, devil child? Let the water wash away your dirt. Repent; beg for forgiveness for all of your rotten nature.''
The voice is unknown to him; it is harsh and filled with fury. The woman's face is twisted in anger; splashes of water on it match his. He can't tell if they are from his antics or tears. The woman's grip tightens, her nails digging into his skin. The black clothes on her figure make her status known - a Bene Gessarit witch. Feyd-Rautha tries to lurch forward and hit her back, but her strength is overwhelming. He feels panic coursing through his veins instead of oxygen—a sensation he did not think he could experience anymore. He wants to bark a response to show her that he is not afraid, but his voice catches in his throat.
Feyd-Rautha has no time to wonder what the woman wants; she brings his face to the bathtub again, and he opens his mouth involuntarily, frantically begging not to do it anymore. He says everything she wants to hear; he cries out and promises to wash his sins away. The voice does not sound like his at all. He is desperate to end this nightmare now, but some force holds him here. The woman is not satisfied; her ears are deaf to his pleas.
His face ends up on the water surface a moment later, his nose hitting the wall of the bathtub as the woman holds him down. He feels his body go limp with utter horror; this time, the shouting woman won't stop. Her voice grows quieter, replaced by the sound of small waves hitting the brim and spilling; from right to left, the water turns red, and his tongue tastes the iron he knows from sliding blades into his mouth.
''Echidna, what the fuck are you doing? Let her go; she is going to choke!''
''Get that spawn to me, for I will not let her ruin my life anymore! I must finish what I have started!''
Feyd-Rautha's head is filled with oxygen once again; his lungs take a desperate breath in, sending too much air to his blood system. He falls on his back, the world spinning. He does not care for the weeping woman in black or the chaos unfolding around him. His only thought is that everything is finally done and that the white floors are a magnificent place for drops of liquid to fall from his normally bald head's waterfall of hair.
He wakes up suddenly, the sensation long gone. His steps are heavy again; the body he inhibits no longer feels like a cage. The voices have left him for now, and the only thing on his forehead left is small drops of sweat and a pathetic, frightened, beating heart. The cold breeze from the darkened sands surrounding the city wishes to prove otherwise—it heavies and plants its spikes into his reddened cheeks. The horizon gleams at him, almost taunting; not a single star is to be seen under the imposing clouds. He will kill her; maybe he will even enjoy it. Feyd-Rautha can handle a lot, but not the shame of being seen. Not the guilt of being caught wanting.
There are only three ways to hunt a mountain lion: tracking, waiting in ambush, and with dogs.
-
The gliding motions of heavy fabrics across the wooden floors created a strange pattern of a song now centuries old. Here, in a room so long that the wind travelled through the hollows, her careful steps seemed to almost fall silent. Nothing was there for the preying eyes to see. YN closes her eyes; with that, even for a moment, the world stays still. She knows where the hollow staircase will lead her; she feels it in her stomach with every step she takes. YN knows nothing about the future, but the past lives deep in her memories, haunting her every move. She knows she shouldn't have done it. Travelling through one's mind is a sin she can't escape; she will pay the price for it in her blood, but the Bene Gesarit did not send her here to survive, so it's of no use to be afraid now. It makes no difference for the dead if you weep at their grave or not.
The burning sphere of light in the hall stops spinning; the doors open without any noise, although if the pounding eardrums had not stunned her hearing, she could've noticed the faint thuds. YN waits; there are no flashes of her happiest memories or the faces of her loved ones in her drained mind. No, in what seems to be her last moments, she thinks of what she could've been if the world had not given her a sword to turn into.
Feyd-Rautha appears in the hall; his steps aren't rushed, and his expression is stone-cold. She eyes him shamelessly: nothing. She sees nothing; she senses it deep in her crying bones. He drags her by the hair like a mother would with her misbehaving child; roughly, he pulls her towards the exit, his grip tightening with each step until the door behind them closes and her knees meet the cold ground with a nasty thud. The bruises will stain them soon, not that it matters now.
''You should've known better than to cross me,'' he hisses, his voice gruff. It's cold, chilling—the way his lips part to reveal a sinister smile. ''Now, you can think yourself vanished, little witch.''
YN does not answer—what fool would beg the deaf? The blade against her chin is sharp; she knows how attentive he is when it comes to inflicting pain. It pokes right into the Omehyoid muscle, a dull pain shooting through her body. If she has got to die, it may as well be from his skilled arms. How beautiful he is in the twisted pleasure he finds in her suffering. Unearthly, almost too perfect to be made of simple flesh and bone. Something was unnerving, unforgettable in the net of veins under his pearly skin; it was as if he were a work of art, meticulously crafted to bring physical pain and optical pleasure in equal measure. A silver glint under the defined cheekbones, a redness of lips filled with blood vessels. For a second, YN wonders what it would be like to bite into it, like an apple that lay too long under the golden sun; would the blood slip as generously as the sweet nectar? Handsome as poison, as a black sun on his forsaken planet, as death.
''Go on. Kill me, then; let me escape you once and for all.''
Under the deep sea of his eyes, something moved; his eyes dipped into her, part by part. Like the slow, deliberate dance of a predator stalking its prey, his gaze lingered on her, calculating and intense. YN lowered her head to push the knife a little deeper into the flesh. A strange thought lingered in her brain; she found herself on her knees in front of him, almost willingly. She has worshipped God all her life; who, if not her, can recognise his creation? The Devil. Lucifer. Satan. The man with horns so big they once touched the skies; a corrupt angel, fallen from grace so long ago he couldn't remember way back if he tried. They have warned her about him, but is it her fault that God has disowned her earlier than she could? Did it really matter to her, before whom to kneel, as long as she felt a sense of power and control in her submission?
All that mattered now was that he wanted to hurt her. He wanted her.
She sees the recognition flicker on his face. Caught. The blade slides quickly across her exposed neck, the blood sprouting out in a weak, painfully quick stream. Feyd-Rautha kissed her, biting her bottom lip till the stream of boldly coloured blood trickled down his chin. He did so like an animal would, baring his teeth and dragging them across the pulsating vein on her neck. YN's laughing cry echoes in the empty room; she is forced to admit that he felt good.
Never approach a mountain lion; most mountain lions prefer to avoid confrontations, so never approach them and make them feel cornered.
-
The woman—a siren, some kind of sea beast lurking in deep, salted waters—sits near him with the ottoman under her feet that still seemed to deny her the comfort of rest, her eyes glinting with mischief when she notices his stare. Taunts, even, forge obliviousness to the spells she casts. Strange, otherworldly—redundant. Everything about her, down to the light gown and a headdress that showed little of her face, Feyd-Rautha was not used to seeing. The beautiful substance of her hair caught the light from the sun like a mirage in the desert, reflecting in his eyes with painful hits. The jewels, too, have found their way onto her clothes, but they were hidden beneath the layers of fabric. They shined brightly, impertinently, framing her figure in a glow that seemed to come from within.
To his surprise, the skills woman possessed spread out to politics as well, with her witch training proving useful in court. Feyd-Rautha did not miss how his advisors grew more uneasy when she entered the room, her careful eyes scanning their faces for even a hint of betrayal or deceit. Like a proud discoverer, he ached to share his new-found wonder with the blind audience, but something in him protested in a mare thought of showing the precious jewel of his eye to the cluster of unworthy. So, Feyd-Rautha did the only thing he knew how— all of his secret observations were done from afar, masterfully hidden behind the facade of casual indifference.
As he drags yet another blade across the surface of the whetstone, he thinks about her delicate hands on his neck, her ringed fingers tracing the lines of his jaw. Harkonnen men rarely wed; they just take what they capture—men and women—and turn them into slaves. Some, if particularly sweet, are reserved for fucking. There are no special songs for that; there isn't a specific word in their native tongue for wife, either. It doesn't matter; YN is nothing of the sort. A concubine, a possession, a tool for pleasure and procreation—the Harkonnen way was simple.
''Are you done eye-fucking me now, or do you need more time with your blade?'' she sneers, her voice mocking. Only she could get away with such bold defiance in his presence, but she does not seem to care for the unusualness of it.
YN motions for him to come closer, her eyes studying the way his legs move. Feyd-Rautha has no control over them; the steps make themselves. She plays the game very well; the chase fuels something primal within him. Thirst. Hunger. It was the Harkonnen training talking to him—the wild, ancient sensation taking over his insides and imprisoning his mind in a cage of helpless desire. It spread its tentacles down to his fingertips, nesting in his abdomen. He positions himself in front of her, his body betraying him as he leans in closer, drawn to her like a moth to a flame. Feyd-Rautha's hands repeat the ritual almost instinctively, rolling the hem of her deep purple dress up to her waist.
''Stop for a second,'' she whispers against his ear, her breath warm and inviting. ''Can I give you a piece of advice?''
Feyd-Rautha can feel the anger creeping into his body; he does not like to be refused. ''No,'' he grumbles, turning her around forcefully. "I don't need your advice," he snaps, his grip tightening on her arm.
YN does not seem to care for it. ''Don't do it. It will only lead to trouble.''
''What?'' He stops, his eyes narrowing as he absorbs the woman's words. The doubts that had lingered in the back of his mind suddenly grew louder, echoing through his mind. He releases her arm, his expression stoic. ''You are insane, woman. What are you talking about?''
''You know what I mean.''
The unease boils in his stomach. How could she know? He was careful not to slip anything; she wasn't able to cast her spells anymore either. But her knowing gaze tells him otherwise. ''You can not know the future,'' he pronounces.
''I don't need to know the future to see the truth, Feyd-Rautha. Your judgement is clouded by rage, and your mind is not as sharp as it usually is. You are not as invincible as you think you are.''
She is bluffing, he thinks. He hopes she is. Feyd-Rautha almost wished there was no cloth covering her face, nothing to hide her expressions as she lay beneath him. He catches her flamed eyes and the way they circle his face in one swift motion before settling on the ceiling above. It unnerves him, but he refuses to show it. She is no master here; she is simply a servant. That is not what power looks like, if he ever recognised one, and Feyd-Rautha knew power.
''Get out, now.''
Nothing was portrayed on her face as she curtseyed; nothing was there when she turned and walked to her rooms, leaving nothing but the ghost of the human body's warmth.
Mountain lions are more at home in brushy areas than in open prairies.
-
And then, he disappeared. Like the sound of the morning birds falling silent in the cacophony of voices of the city on her home planet, there was no trace of na-Baron in the entire Harkonnen fortress. YN thought she was slowly but surely going mad; no one but her noticed the usual place by the window empty, and no one but her seemed to care enough to know where he went. She caught strange looks from a few, and frankly, she thought they were right. She looked like a mad woman, her hair quickly plated and her dress hurriedly laced, her eyes darting around the room in search of any sign of Feyd-Rautha's massive figure. Noon was dragged into the evening, and then night, for three, long days until she heard the long-awaited news: na-Baron Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen had tried to usurp his uncle and had failed.
She has told him so. A fucking brainless ram, with stubbornness bigger than his cock—why did he think he could outsmart the Baron? He will pay for his dumbness with his blood, perhaps even his limb—the thought brought nausea to YN's throat. She was lucky the Baron did not consider her important enough to be knowledgeable of such schemes; she lowered her head in the desert, hiding from the sand storms of Harkonnen politics; she waited for two long weeks until the announcement was made; Feyd-Rautha was forgiven. The celebration in honour of this news is to be today; she is to attend it. Not like his concubine, YN supposed, but more like the princess she still was.
Now, she took her time. YN chose a gown she wanted long enough to make even a tireless slave yawn, savouring each moment before their meeting. She was a victor now, in their small game of cat and mouse. He was a cat, but the mouse could still outwit him with grace and style. YN smiled at the wondering attendants; she looked good, and she was going to meet him.
The walk from her chambers to the Grand Hall wasn't too long; she would've walked a thousand more stairs if it was needed. The doors opened without a sound, revealing nothing but a mere celebration of yet another year under the reign of Harkonnens. The lines of slaves changed one another, the uneven circles of people dancing appearing and fleeing to the cheerful tone of strings. She was set somewhere between two Harkonnen lords she had no chance of knowing; she felt a sense of unease creeping up her spine as she tried to maintain a polite smile. Their gazes didn't look right; something sinister lurked inside them—hiding a secret she had no chance of knowing.
One of them turned to her, a chilling smile spreading across his face. "How are you finding the evening, lady YN? Or, what should I call you?,'' he mastered a fake confusion. ''Perhaps, darling? Concubine has a cheap wing to it; quite unworthy of a face so lovely as yours, don't you think?"
Dirt. The thing that crawled under her skin at his words was like dirt, making her feel unclean and exposed. She forced a laugh, trying to brush off his comments, the crown of her hair moving with muscles underneath her skin. "I am a princess, my Lord. Address me as such."
It would be enough every other noon, but today. The man's face twists, as if he just remembered something; he turns, the wine in his goblet splashing on the tablecloth. ''I think na-Baron wouldn't be too angry if I stole a princess for the night," he sneered, his eyes darkening with malice.
''Does it matter to you either way?''
YN watches as the smirk, so similar to Feyd-Rautha's, appears on the men's lips, although it doesn't feel the same. She fights back disgust as the man nods, biting into a hefty chunk of prey. His eyes, once focused on her, drifted away. YN chose to follow them; the string of fat streaming down the man's mouth onto the silver tablecloth made her nauseous. She looked from one unfamiliar face to another, until the cold feeling in her abdomen crept its way onto her chest.
There he was. His figure is unusually crouching as he sits on the podium reserved for members of the dynasty. The dark blue eyes are red now; the thin blood vessels in them are torn and emptied. His body seemed to suck the light out of the hall inside, casting a shadow over the room. There are no scars on his smooth face, but the sunken cheeks and hollow eyes spoke of a suffering that went beyond physical wounds. YN almost wished she saw him dead; whatever this was, it was surely much worse. He raised his eyes slowly to meet hers; something flickered in them before turning back to their empty state. Feyd-Rautha parts his dry lips to say something to her—she can't understand a word he draws with his breath.
From the place nearby, the Baron's voice booms, his low, almost whisper-like vowels mending into one. His face, covered with layers of skin and dead cells, twists into what was meant to be a welcoming smile—the corners of his paper-thin lips dance, lowering themselves only to jump higher, and his eyes travel from one corner to another, unable to be still even for a moment. He speaks of things YN knows nothing about court intrigue, power struggles, and alliances that shape the fate of their world, heavy with hidden meanings and unspoken threats. She does not listen until he gestures towards her, a scent of spice and decomposing flesh lingering.
''Sergeant Voss has served me well, and his loyalty at the right time is not to be forgotten. Here, I bestow upon him the highest honour of all; what was once mine, is now his. Do not let go of her if she screams, Sergeant; the girl is a fine one.''
No. YN almost does not recognise the hand as her own as the man drags her to the bed that appeared out of nowhere, freezing with horror as the people around her continue to watch in silence, their eyes devoid of any emotion or empathy. The tradition, she notes, is the one she learned so much about bedding in front of the entire court as a symbol of unity. She choked on her own tears as the man smiled at her pleas for help; they seemed to make him even more pleased.
YN looks, frantically, to the place she saw Feyd-Rautha sitting just a moment before. He would help; surely, he would not let them do it to her—his servant, his concubine, his. But the seat is empty. The scream echoing through the hall does not register as hers right away; he has sold her. For his own freedom, for a chance to be free from the consequences of his own stupid actions. Surely, the Harkonnens could not get rid of her openly—it would mean war—but she was not immune to the man who now owned her. His hands travelled her body with such audacity that YN wanted to cut them off—to cut her chest just so she could not feel the fingers digging into her skin. A sole reminder she was a woman first and a human second.
Mountain lions are solitary hunters.
The man undressed himself quickly; all of the soldiers were trained to do so. She should run; she should fight back, but the pair of unmoving hands pinning her wrists down was a stark reminder of her helplessness. The man lowers himself closer, his hot breath against her neck making her shudder in fear. She can feel him against her skirts; she can feel the weight of his body pressing down on her. The adrenaline is pumping through her veins; she will survive. Whatever it fucking takes, even if her body is bruised and broken, she will survive.
They prefer to ambush their prey from behind by swiftly and cleanly breaking the neck.
She bites—her teeth launch towards his cheek, feeling the warm flesh give way beneath her. She sinks them deeper, making holes big enough to draw blood. It's hot, and sickening on her tongue, but she does not have time for these thoughts; her next blow is in his stomach, with his knee jammed into his gut. She can feel his body convulse in pain, giving her a chance to throw him on the bed, his broad back facing her.
If they haven’t broken the neck, they will suffocate the animal.
There is nothing around that could serve as a knife; her captors made sure of that, and the sheets are too thin to wrap around his neck. She looks around the room, desperate for something to use, but the space around her is empty. YN curses as the man regains his composure and begins to struggle against her hold. Her elbow meets his nose with a sickening crunch, causing blood to spurt out. She takes a breath in; her hand wraps around his neck, forming a tight hold as she goes into the headlock. She chokes him, so desperately trying to live. And the man trashes against her grip, his white face turning a deep shade of purple before finally going limp in her arms.
Shame.
A thing that followed her after every life she took is now absent. Maybe the Giedi Prime's cruelty did have its effect on her; YN feels nothing but a sense of emptiness as she stands over the lifeless body.
''Do you have any more men to gift me to, Baron Vladimir? The night is still young.''
Her voice has changed. It holds a certain hiss now, a rasp that wasn't present before; it has matured and bloomed into half an octave deeper tone. It bites through the noise easily, cutting sharply.
The Baron laughs. His eyes gleam with amusement as he gestures towards the door. "Plenty more where that came from, my dear, but it's enough for today. Here,'' he throws something in her, a smirk ghosting on his lips. ''You've earned it.''
YN catches it and inspects the object in her hand. A small, golden broche catches the light, glinting in the dimly lit room. A head of the Bighorn ram stares back at her, the symbol of House Harkonnen. The taste of victory mingled with the metallic tang, leaving a bittersweet sensation in her mouth. Joy courses her veins—she isn't afraid. Finally, she is not afraid. Finally, she can look at her blood-stained hands without humiliation. Is it her fault she was born a better knife than a person?
Bighorn sheep are not a primary food source in most areas. However, when a lion does kill a sheep, they typically will continue to do so over and over again, until the herd is depleted.
i can feel the soil falling over my head; no people are here, just the void in my chest
pairing: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x fem!reader
summary: Harkonnen men rarely wed; they just take what they capture—men and women—and turn them into slaves. Some, if particularly sweet, are reserved for fucking. There are no special songs for that; there isn't a specific word in their native tongue for wife, either.
warnings: mentions of death, violence, implied/referenced child abuse, religious symbolism, daddy and sister issues, bald men
chapter 1 - chapter 2
word count: 6,5K
author's note: hi beautiful people! this chapter may be classified as a prologue (yes, I am aware of its size, sorry, lol), but it is still integral to the story. we love evil people, especially evil bald people, in this house, so have fun and don't forget to wash your hands before reading! also, if you see things that are not canon, just know that me and the books are two parallel lines and we do not cross. feel free to point out grammar mistakes, though - english is not my first. love you!
Kaitain, 10176 AG
The violent streaks of light fight with the heavy cloth of drapes to find their way into the small, stifling chambers. The time was slowly crawling towards noon in the heavy summer heat, and the woman lying on the heavily decorated sheets was battling to get a breath in. Whether because of the annoying star, or the poisoning waiting, the patterns of sweat stained her tired face with esculent ornaments. Her lips, formed into a thin line, gleamed with small spots of dried crimson.
''Where is the messenger?'' The woman's voice was barely above a whisper, her eyes glued to the dancing light filtering through the window. ''The girl is strong; I can't hold her for much longer.''
The black figure on the chair in the corner slightly shifted at words. She was veiled, despite the heat—like a black hole, she seemed to suck the little air left. ''Forbearance,'' her raspy voice cuts through the room. ''The child makes you impatient. Control yourself.''
''I've waited, and waited long enough,'' the woman snapped, her frustration evident in her trembling hands. ''A few more minutes and all that is left of her will be a corpse.''
''Be quiet, Echidna. The child will live. If not, she was never meant to be part of our world in the first place.''
The woman clenched her jaw in a wave of pain and nodded. The girl ought to see the light of this planet today. Deep in her thoughts, she almost missed the rushed steps behind the door.
One of the Emperor's guards burst into the room, his eyes almost frantic. ''Lady Anirul has graced the Imperium with a daughter.''
Echidna smiled in relief, but her expression quickly changed as a beast-like cry pierced the air. The child was coming, with little care for the damage it caused to her aching womb. She tore the tissue down to the individual cells, gnawing her way with fists and elbows, moving the bones aside with brute force. Soon, her own cries were answered by much louder ones, as the head of the girl showed itself, covered in a thick layer of almost black blood. Just for a moment, the woman wished it would not steal another breath from the room, but she sharply composed herself. With a final push, the child left her body forever, leaving it a raw wound.
The small creature shrieked when the black figure approached, and slender, wrinkled arms took it from the warmth of rufous-red liquid. Echidna watched as the figure carried the girl away, resting her hurting body against the soaked pillows. She fulfilled her duty; she granted Bene Gesserit the daughter they wanted. She is bleeding under a beautiful sun; she is holding the ghost of her child in her arms—the real one was never hers anyway. Echidna knows the Emperor will not come. From now on, it is just her and her never-passing pain. Thus, Kaitain, home to the Corrino dynasty, was warmed by the light of a new sun—Princess Irulan, an heiress to the Imperium—and chilled by the shadow of her sister, born a few minutes later.
-
The calmness of the gardens was disturbed only by the soft strokes of brushes against a thick canvas. YN sighed, her eyes still fixed on the tree nearby, its young branches swaying with the wind. Her body ached from stillness, the tension in her neck from holding her head slightly bowed spreading down to her small back. They posed for a portrait of what seemed like an eternity to a child, and was almost it to an adult who dared to inquire; the painter, while satisfied with the draft, looked at the group of young girls almost in fear—no normal child of that age would be unmoving for three hours. And yet, they were.
YN felt one of her sisters shift even through the thick fabric of her silver dress. Small Chalice turned, her cheeks red from the heat or tiredness, her lips forming a pout—the child was tired, sleepingly rubbing her eyes. YN thought for a moment, debating if the punishment would be worth it, or if her sisters could wait just a little bit more until the man with colours would end the session for today. She noticed how Irulan's face was starting to droop, her eyes fluttering closed and opening just a second later. Their youngest, Wensicia, was already asleep in Irulan's arms; her golden hair spread across her and YN's laps as a beautiful cover, shining under the faint sun.
''I am tired, Master Chen. We should end the painting for today,'' YN finally spoke; her voice was almost a whisper. She did not know whether it was not to awaken her sister or out of fear of the Emperor's anger; it did not matter. The man nodded and left, taking his canvases with him, leaving only a few drafts behind. Then, the sisters were left alone in the garden.
''Thank you,'' Irulan said softly, placing her head on YN's shoulder.
YN only nodded. Her eyes found the paper not so far away, her gaze studying the strokes of the pencil with interest. Wensicia, a beautiful girl of two, was smiling brightly, holding an olive branch in her chubby hands, her small feet peeking under the hem of her white dress. Small Chalice was at the opposite end of her, her curly hair surrounding her head like a halo as she leaned forward, holding a small dove inside her palms. Then, sitting at the bench, surrounded by lush greenery and bushes, they. Irulan and the Other.
YN was placed just a step away from her older sister, her head turned away from the gaze of the viewer. The delicate folds of her silver dress carefully cascaded down, creating an air of mist around them. Her hands were empty; she did not know if the artist hadn't decided with each object to grace her with, or left them hollow intently. She looked like a shadow—a ghost, maybe; her eyes were escaping the viewer as if hiding a secret.
Irulan was different. She was a sun-kissed creature, her head facing straight ahead. Her eyes, as if inviting for a challenge, were made from duty, steel. With a burning star on her regal forehead, crowning the streaks of golden hair, Irulan was water and air, dulcet and ever-bending; her figure held the place and her pose was distinct and commanding.
YN looked at the girl beside her, who was now quiet nearby. Irualn was wise, the wisest of the sisters; her eyes were all-seeing, her heart all-knowing. She was created in the shape of a mother since they could walk, and the small ones bathed in her light, drinking her till the last drop —like flowers following the warm embrace of the sun. The only one who could not enjoy the love was her, the Other. The other sister, the other half. For they have been too close in age, too similar to let each other pretend the burden was not a heavy one to bear.
When Irulan was natural in her all-caring shape, YN had to claw her way to the only role left—the father. An unbent tree, a silent soldier—she was not born to fit as one, but wishing for a different order of things was almost blasphemy. That's how it always was with them—out of two, one was the protector, the other - the protected. "Husband," Irulan humorously called her often. She smiled, and, for a moment, the wave of resentment in YN's soul calmed. She never called her wife in return: Irulan was too whole to be one, too proud to be moulded into. She stood alone, on a higher pedestal than all of them, closest to the Emperor, whom the Other was to call father, and closest to the Truth. No, Irulan was God.
God does not know how to love someone who is not his servant, because there is no one who would refuse to serve him; it is the only way. God guides, despite all one's protests. God gives, and God takes. God demands; Irulan demands—silent obedience without a need to explain or answer. That, she takes from their father. So, the Other takes a blade into her hand without compassion for her dead wishes and learns to wield it in God's name. She is the one little ones turn to when the world is too wicked for their fragile souls when the creatures under their beds lose all of their human form and turn violent. She takes their sins and bears the punishments, for they are not deserving of such cruelty. YN thinks not of her own guilt—what difference would one scourage make to one who counts in centuries? And when the sun shone, and God smiled, the Other almost forgot of the bruises she carried.
-
The first time he saw her, it was not supposed to happen at all. Feyd-Rautha just closed the door to Maester's chambers with such force that it shook against lean walls; the grumble echoed in the long corridors of Giedi Prime's fortness. The ache in his body was muted, but still present; the torn flesh inside his heart howled and clawed, slicing the ribcage in half. He would've screamed, or perhaps beat his hands bloody against the concrete until the dull pain turned into something as sharp as his knife's blade. Maybe he would've drowned himself in a small water bowl by his nightstand and done anything to escape the shame and humiliation that consumed him from within. But instead, Feyd-Rautha stood still, his jaw clenched tight and his breathing shallow. One day, it will pass. One day, he will see the world choke on its own spit.
That's when he noticed a small, shadow-like figure at the end of the hallway staring at him. A girl, not older than him, was in a dress so foreign to him that it hurt his eyes. The daughter of the Emperor, he guessed. One of many—only then would the golden stitching on her sleeve would make sense.
''What are you doing here?'' he barked, caring little for the common courtesy. Of course, she was a guest almost as prized as her father, but she was in his territory and dared to look at him for long enough without averting her eyes. Long enough to notice the bruising on his pale skin and a swelness surrounding his lips. Long enough to hear him cry.
''I was walking with my mother, but then I turned into the wrong hall,'' she shrugged. ''Will you be kind enough to show me the way out? Or should I find it myself?"
Feyd-Rautha ignored her question. What a weird creature she was—with cascades of hair and eyes that seemed to see too much. ''It is dangerous to walk these halls without guard, Princess.'' It is dangerous to be here, alone with him and the weapon strapped to his hip, but he did not add it.
''There is no use of guards if the one who wishes to kill you is their master.'' The girl took a step forward, pointing to the weapon at his side. "I am not afraid."
Feyd-Rautha laughed. It came out more as howling than human sounds, the abrupt nature of it ringing with high notes, tip-toeing down to hysterical; it sounded creaky, like his throat was not made for such sounds; yet here he was, laughing. ''Come,'' he gestured to her, his hand moving quickly, like ordering a slave around. ''I will show you why you should be.''
So, they walked. Inside the grandiose chambers and small rooms, filled with ancient artefacts or the newest technology Harkonnens came up with; inside the green lavish garden inside the dim castle and the training grounds, Feyd-Rautha showed every place that was built to display the greatness of his house and bestone fear inside both guests and people inhibiting it. He wanted to see the horror in the girl's eyes, to make her eyes water and her frame flee. Instead, he listened to her steady breathing just a step behind him, her curious questioning satisfying another need he did not know his heart possessed: reverence.
He was the youngest member of the ruling line, the smallest stone in the castle of power his uncle had built. His title meant nothing within these walls; he was too small in comparison to the Baron and his authority. Feyd-Rautha was feared, despite only being nine; he was the shadow in the corner that grew longer as the sun set, the whispered name that sent shivers down spines. But here, in the hallway he led the girl into, he turned out to be something else.
''Stunning,'' the girl whispered beside him.
Weapons. The walls, from the floor to the high ceilings, were covered in ritual and fighting blades. The pride of house Harkonnen, the tree of their dynasty, black, silver, golden, and steel knives, swords, and daggers gleamed in the dim light. Feyd-Rautha smiled, revealing a row of sharp teeth. "Welcome to our burial ground."
They stopped near every one, his voice briefly covering the story of each blade and his owner; barons that came before him; fighters and rules that defined their legacy. Some still have blood on them—the highest honour; some look almost virgin. The small signs underneath them tell the names of people who wielded these weapons, their stories forever immortalised in the cold metal. ''Each Harkonnen ruler is crafted a blade of his own, the one he is to honour in battle.''
The girl nodded, her fingers tracing the shape of the last blade carefully. Her palms danced around the sharp edge, taking in the ancient symbols she had no chance of knowing. ''Will you have to kill Baron Vladimir in order to have one, like he did with his father before?''
Feyd-Rautha paused. Of course, he has thought about it before. The idea he repeated like a mantra in his head for all of his short life, the belief that spread burning flames down his spine. The words left his mouth for the first time but felt almost natural against his cracked lips. ''I dream of the day I have the chance to.''
The pair of foreign eyes that stared back at him held a glint of intrigue that quickly changed with a flash of acknowledgement. Feyd-Rautha held the gaze; not a single thing about it was hard. Still, he was the first to turn away; the burning sensation of being seen made him want to tear his flesh apart. ''Let me escort you to your rooms, Princess. The walls grow colder as the evening approaches.''
-
The weather on the planet leaves too few guards out of their breath, Irulan notes. The striking sun burns through the rounded windows of man-built walls, the frankly depressing landscape of huge boxes constructed with little intent for anything else but utilitarianism. She must not fear, while those lands will also be under her power with time, but the dreadful atmosphere of the lonely planet makes her skin break out in hives.
She believes the people here are more terrifying. White, hairless creatures with eyes as dark as the sun above them speak with just nods and courseys, paying little to no attention to the world around them, save for the concrete floors. ''Tell them to set themselves on fire, and they will,'' Irulan recalls Baron Vladimir telling her father over the banquet. She believed it to be a simple boast at first, but now, after a few days in the strange world, the words make greater sense.
Perhaps, the harsh weather made people here hardened. Perhaps, such cruelty is necessary for survival. What terrorised her more was her sister—the one who now silently reads nearby, her long dress carelessly spread on the floor. Irulan would never allow her dress to wrinkle before the concluding dinner, but she is not Irulan. Despite them being demisisters, they shared fewer similarities than one could guess. Two lambs, as many in court would call them—the white and black ones. They knew one another better than anything else; where one went, the other followed. Where Irulan failed, her sister succeeded. What was allowed for her sister, was fobility towards Irulan. No one was embedded in their small circle; no one could get close enough to understand the bond they shared—together, they were whole.
Yet as they grew older, the bond seemed to thin. The path to the mind of her sister was more often closed to her now, her thoughts veiled by the silence rooted deep into her veins. Irulan knows they are just growing up, trying to find their path in the unknown. But she is scared; what would be of her without her sister? What use would the river have without fish to fill it?
''I shall go,'' her sister says, closing the book. ''The dinner starts soon, and I wanted to return the book before it.''
''Is it the one Na-Baron recommended?'' Irulan voices. Truth be told, she would never touch anything that Baron or his family possessed, even more recommended, but her sister seemed to enjoy the ancient text.
''It is. Rather interesting are the traditions of these people. Did you know their slaves have no tongues?''
Irulan feels sick to her stomach; the thought of having slaves brings the small bits of her recent meal to her very present tongue. ''Can I come with you?'' she asks, instead of answering. Irulan does not want to leave the faint safety of her rooms, but even more, she does not want to be left alone. She feels vulnerable—she is not of power here, despite being the embodiment of it in all of the other corners of the Imperium.
''You know I walk without guards.''
Irulan knows. While she is not able as much as bathe without the presence of someone with fighting knowledge, the rules do not seem to apply to her younger sister; she can move freely, as she wishes. Was it because she carried a thin blade with her and knew how to use it, or because of the lack of care from their father? Irulan was not sure. What she was sure of, was that no woman of twelve should leave her sister alone in the halls of Harkonnens' fort.
''It is just to the reading room and back, is it not?''
''Yes,'' her sister nods. ''I'll take you,'' it means.
So, they walk. Fortunately, the guards usually waiting outside are nowhere to be found, and they manage to slip away unnoticed. Irulan holds the hand of her sister tightly, with each noise from the outside digging her nails deeper into her soft palm. Her sister says nothing; she steps calmly into the labyrinth of corridors, navigating them without much evident trouble. Soon, they find themselves in front of a huge black door, incarnated with words Irulan hold no knowledge of.
Inside, the chamber is massive; it forms a beautiful, round circle with ceilings so high that the air in it is always chilly. Rows of books and manuscripts fill the shelves out of oxidant, contrasting starkly with the white wall. The black circle table of cold stone is filled with replicas and ancient artefacts, each emitting a soft glow.
Who knew the small, desert planet held such treasures inside? Irulan forgets about her sister entirely—the texts call to her, golden lettering shining under the light. Irulan follows the names on the covers: legends, myths, histories, and art overviews. Some even contained gardening and soil research; Baron likely held those for a good laugh.
Irulan travels deeper and deeper until the voice of her sister addressing the only library keeper almost disappears, consumed by tall bookcases. The section she finds herself in is solely dedicated to martial arts; where, if not here, would the hundreds of books on such a topic be stored? Some of them are used; the spines are slightly older; others look brand new.
Irulan is brought to her senses only when she notices a black figure moving in the corner of her vision. She puts the book back and Listens. Just like the Sisters taught her, her inner ear picks up the faint voice of her sister, and the moving of two sandaled feet—the slave handling the books. She feels something else, too. A presence familiar enough to recognise but not enough to name.
''We have to go,'' she says, grabbing her sister by the shoulder and pressing. ''We will be late,'' she explains to the slave. Not that it would question the whims of the princess.
''Why?'' her sister turns to her, confused. ''I was looking at some other books. Weren't you also?''
''Please,'' Irulan whispers. ''We spent enough time here as it is.''
Just as her sister was about to answer, the atmosphere shifted. The air, sitting in its calmness, heavied. The silent before slave turned on its feet, its eyes burning holes in Irulan's body. It lurches towards them, opening its obsidian mouth to show the blackened void inside—indeed, it possesses no tongue.
Irulan freezes. The void seems to suck her in, the sharp mouth growing wider as its owner approaches her body. The fear paralyses her, planting her otherwise quick feet deep into the ground. Now, her training as Bene Gesserit should awaken—she should oppose, or at the very least dodge, the attack. But the black mouth continues to draw her in, clouding her thoughts with terror.
The body beside her shifts; her sister is quick. With one strong thrust, she pushes Irulan aside. '' Hide ,'' the voice within her head commands, and Irulan has no force to object to the technique. She crawls under the heavy stone, frantically looking for something—anything—to protect herself with.
Despite the long skirts, her sister moves like Adam's wine; she bends and turns, and strikes the man far taller than her, but he seems determined on the idea of killing her. Her sister grunts under the heavy hits; one sits in her abdomen, and another lands on her knees. The slave's nails leave a trace on her skin, rough enough to pierce the young dermis.
Eventually, her sister grows tired; the slave pushes her to the ground, pressing his slender body on top and closing its white, almost translucent hands on her throat. Irulan clasps the found sharp cutting instrument to her chest, desperately trying to calm the wave of fear forming there. ''I must not fear. Fear is a mind killer,'' she whispers again and again.
She watches as her sister's hand slips under her clothes and emerges an illicit, slender blade—it shines under the light just as lettering did on the books a minute ago. To Irulan, it feels like a year's hundred. ''No!'' she wants to shout as her sister raises the steel and preys it into the eye of the slave, but the words are unable to leave her throat. Like a waterfall, crimson covers her sister's face, staining her light grey dress in hot circles.
The slave falls on his back, his hands leaving their place on her sister's neck.
''Enough, please! Sister, stop!'' Irulan cries, crawling out of her hiding spot but daring not to get closer.
Her sister doesn't hear; she lurches towards the man in a slick puddle and takes his life quickly, cutting his throat in one swift motion. The blood from his arteria leaves the body in pulsations; they spatter everywhere, some drops going as far as touching the shelves.
The silence settles in the chamber once again; only the sound of weakly flowing blood disturbs the stillness. Her sister does not shed a tear; she meticulously cleans the blade with the slave's white cloth and slips it back into the folds of her gown.
''What have you done?'' Irulan whispers. Her hands tremble; the sight before her crawls into the deepest corners of her mind and tears everything there down. How can one kill so easily? How can one be so cold and calculating, as if it were nothing more than a daily chore? How could that one be her sister, the one she shared a life with?
''I protected.'' Her sister's voice is hoarse, but firm. There is no remorse in her tone, only weariness. ''What have you done?'' She turns to face her. Her hair, carefully braided by servants for dinner, is undone; the wet strands of it grip her face like a vice, framing the unseeing eyes.
Like that, she looks like a woman mad. Irulan backs into the safety of the doors, feeling her fear turn into something much greater. ''Do not come near me,'' she commands. Just as the heavy doors close behind her, she sets off running.
-
YN waits until the footsteps of her sister are no longer heard, and only then does she come out of the reading room. She pays the body on the ground little attention; no one would bet an eye on the death of a useless creature like that. It did not intend to kill; rather, someone made it do it. Who, in their right mind, would try to harm the heir of the Emperor? How would they know that Irulan would follow her there?
Irulan. The one who watched as the Other almost gave her life for hers, the one who had the nerve to be repulsed by the blood on her hands—the blood she spilt protecting her. What do you do when you are not allowed to be angry at God? Why does God shame one for the will she herself inflicted on one to bestone? YN would ask the sun, but it hid behind the walls of the fort. She would ask, but no one would answer.
So, she does what she is meant to do—finds her way into the large dining hall, where everyone, of course, is starting to gather. The Emperor would be dissatisfied to find her not there on time; she has no time to fix her appearance. In light of the slight possibility of shaming their House with her muddled hairstyle or suffering yet another punishment for being even late, she chooses the first option.
The guards let her in without saying a word. YNr watches as the shield slides open, revealing a full hall. Rows and rows of tables, filled with foods one would imagine never would have made their way to the Giedi Prime, and laughter not so usual for a harsh realm.
''Princess...'' the servant starts, announcing her arrival, but she shushes him with a slight wave of her palm. She does not notice the crimson liquid staining it.
The Other makes her way to her seat calmly, careless of the way people around her stumble and twist their faces in shock. The only eyes that watch her without fear at the Emperor's table are those of Lady Echidna. Her face betrays no emotion at all—hidden by her veiled black cloth, it only slightly moves when the YN passes her seat.
She holds the angry gaze of the Emperor calmly. He will demand an answer, of course if Irulan has not whispered the truth into his aged ears already. Her sister probably would do no such thing; in that, she would admit to disobeying the orders bestowed upon her. YN is puzzled at the attention directed towards her humble figure—the first thing a Bene Gessarite in training learns is not to be repulsed by the anatomy of her body. Why be grossed out by the liquid coursing through her veins—the liquid she carries all her life? Why be scared of death, when it is always at your doorstep? In the sway of her thoughts, the Other also seems not to perceive the pair of icy blue eyes glued to her figure as she finds her seat and takes her place.
-
"The boy follows you around like a dog." The mother's tone stands not in judgment but rather simply states the truth.
Lady Echidna is not veiled now; her heavy hair is still tightly braided out of her face. Just a small black ribbon highlights her status as one of the Emperor's senior concubines, a position most would bear with honour. To her, it was yet another stain on her earthly body—the body she could not call her to possess. The black sun of Giedi Prime is finally long behind them; nothing but a few light orbs floating around illuminate the chamber, yet her intense gaze seems to pierce right through the girl that sits across her.
"I know, mother. His steps are heavy; his thoughts are even heavier; they follow me much more often."
The woman's fingers stop working on an intricate needlework for a moment, before continuing as it was. "You are to call me Sister, girl," she speaks, her voice low.
YN drags her teeth across her tongue, feeling the anger flow through the veins in her body. She wishes to be far away from this small chamber, to run and never face the woman's eyes again. "The girl has a name, Sister. Or do you fear to voice it?"
Lady Echidna places the cloth on the table beside her gracefully, as if paying no attention to the words spoken. But YN can sense can feel the resentment that burns inside her mother's stomach, spreading its molecules to her throat. "A name holds meaning; for a person to have a name, one must first be of character and substance. You are none."
YN bit the soft flesh inside her mouth; it tasted bitter. It was better if her mother shouted, if she hit her if she did anything to prove YN is still here in her eyes, that she was not just a void the woman spoke her riddles into. Maybe then the pain inside her would have a meaning, would have a reason better than just childish hurt. "Did I not have a beating heart when I left your womb, Sister? Did you not hear it loud and clear? What kind of proof is needed more of me?"
"My daughter died that day, screaming. You took her place. So do not bother me with your foolish talks anymore, for we both know they just waste the air we breathe. Am I heard?"
She was. The tears dried on YN's face before having the chance to spill, and she turned to her studies. Once more, a feeling of ever-lasting cold surrounded her shoulders. The never-leaving vision in her mind appeared once again—her mother's quick steps as she walked away in another corridor of Giedi Prime's fort, her head straight ahead as YN pleaded not to leave her alone, her legs glued to the command spoken. It was a blessing that the boy found her earlier than his uncle.
-
Time has passed since the first time YN's eyes saw the black sun of the foreign planet so far from hers. The Other trained, restlessly, in the tongues of ancient warriors and the most prominent whisperers, slowly earning the right to bear Knowledge in her crown-empty head. She had much yet to learn, but the prospect did not frighten her; with every passing day, she felt power building in her hands and soul. Patience, the greatest virtue of all. She was alone now, without her half of a sister; alone, in her solitude, the heavy bearings seemed not as heavy—she had no one to enlighten about her battles. Still, God was on her mind; YN felt her presence near, her watchful eyes guiding her. Like the tight, dampened cloth on her bruised knuckles, her sister was stuck to her open wound of a soul.
Irulan has grown. Her complexion changed; she no longer looked like a bright-faced girl who left her sister alone in Harkonnen's library; the plump cheeks were gone, and so was fear. At the Other stared a sole statue of power she bloomed into. Silver collars, light blue waves of fabric—the cut is, as always, straight. The Other eyed her up and down, taking in each detail of the painting-like sight. Irulan did the same—a slight disgust at the Other's simple tunic and pants, creased from the sparring. Irulan did not need to be broken in order to be a Sister in the Bene Gesserit; they wanted her Corrino first, and a servant second. The Other, however, held no such value—a child carried not by the lawful wife, a second, a spare. So, there would be no bone in her body left untouched by the lessons, no string in her soul unharmed by the knowledge. They crushed her cartilage in grey sand and forced her to swallow the bitter truths of their ways. Yet, God remains undisturbed—stoic. Eternal.
''Will you not eat again?'' Irulan musses, putting another piece of dish in her mouth.
The Other would take it as a cruel joke from anyone else, but not from God. She shakes her head instead. ''I am forbidden.''
Irulan hums. It was not the first time YN would be disciplined this way; the cycle of punishment and forgiveness was all too familiar to her. The room is silent; there is no one but the two of them. She could offer to eat, and no one would know she did, but Irulan won't offer. The Other does not expect her to; pity is not something a sister can possess.
''How are your lessons going? A fresh knowledge, perhaps?''
YN nods. If she opens her mouth now, her voice will betray her. She could cry all she wanted in the presence of a sister, but it is not appropriate for a thirteen-year-old to behave this way in front of God. The Other is reminded of that with an absence of bruises on Irulan's skin; her hands were never cut by the sharp blades, and her mouth was never starved. ''Why was I summoned from training?'' She asked, directing her eyes to the figure in front of her.
''I am here as a messenger from the Emperor.''
YN's eyes narrowed. ''And what does our dear Emperor desire to tell me now?'' She wishes not to hear anything he has to say; the Other is perfectly content here, amongst her Sisters. Here, she is of cost.
''Recently, Baron Vladimir turned to our House for guidance. He and na-Baron Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen felt misled by the House Artreidis, and their promise of a bride that did not come. Our father has graciously offered to negotiate the conflict and pay the needed price for the Baron's cooperation.''
''Of course, he did. With all of our might, we are still afraid of the savages that made Arrakis their home. With what advice, may I ask, did the Emperor provide the Baron?''
Irulan's lips turn into a straight line, with the small wrinkle on her forehead appearing. Something that she carried with her through childhood. Something that still reminded of home. ''With the proposal of a woman of our House to na-Baron Feyd-Rautha.''
''A gift? Irulan, I am so sorry.''
Sure, the bridge between them was long forgotten, growing with tall grass and wildflowers, but the weight of their shared history still lingered in the air. Irulan was still her sister, no matter how many times the Other tried to tell herself otherwise. And no woman sane would consider giving her sister to the inhumane brutes that were Harkonnens—the people even Bene Gessarit wished to observe from afar; the people so ruthless mothers told stories about them to their small offspring in an attempt to instil fear and obedience.
Irulan does not answer. She hides her gaze, her eyes following the wooden panels of the quarters.
''What is it, sister? Speak .''
''The offer Emperor found the most fitting would be of your hand, not mine.''
The Other exhales. As if a heavy stone were put on her chest, she fights to bring much-needed oxygen to her bloodstream. She almost feels the erythrocytes scatter from her face into her neck, hidden by the cloth, and gather there in an attempt to regrow their might. Her throat twists and closes, its muscles compressing until not even an ounce of air can get in. All of her organs, from heart to stomach, made their presence known; one by one, they tensed and burned, forcing the otherwise relaxed hands to grip them.
It was supposed to be Irulan. The first one to marry is the oldest sister; the title high enough to satisfy the ambitious Harkonnes would be hers, no less. Yet, here she stands, not even looking at the one taking her place as she sentences her to an ultimate death. No matter how much power the Corrino name held, on Giedi Prime, she would consider herself fortunate enough if she were to meet her end quickly.
''Why, Irulan? Have I not been a loyal servant to you all those years? Have I not followed every order without question? ''
Irulan is unmoved in her position. ''We can not risk the Harkonnen blood getting on the throne, you know it.''
''You mean we can not risk you? We are not eight anymore, dear Irulan; you can speak truthfully now. Do you really think the Emperor will treasure you more if you say nothing now? We are no sons, Irulan; we are sisters, you and I. Please, spare me this fate.''
''Yes,'' the girl lifts her eyes, taking a step closer. ''We are no sons; you knew that one day we would marry for the peace of the Imperium. Why do you shout now?''
''Married, yes, but not murdered for the sake of the fucking old man who could not hold his promise. They are monsters, Irulan, spilling innocent blood for the fun of it. I beg of you, sister, show me the mercy I know you are capable of.''
''You are worried about blood? What could one more splash of blood mean to you? You have been no sister for a long time; I order you, as an heir of the Emperor and as the messenger of his will here, to comply. Do not make it harder than it has to be.''
The Other smiled—she would not grant the pleasure of tears. ''Very well, then. Someone needs to go first. I'll go; I'll be first, at least here. Tell the Emperor that I will comply with any of his wishes, whether it be to throw me to the sharks or to feed me to the sandworms. As a confirmation of my undying loyalty, you may show him this:''
She slaps her. She slaps her not like a warrior, not like the trained assassin she was raised to be; she slaps her like a sister, bitterly, harshly. For the first time in her short life, YN raises a hand on something she deems holy—the God's shocked face brings a sense of satisfaction to the Other's veins, even if the same blood courses through them. She turns on her heels and walks away, leaving the forsaken room behind. Leaving God behind.
pairing: young!coriolanussnow x fem!reader
summary: But most importantly, her eyes. Bloodshot. Sharp. Intelligent. The eyes he tried so hard to ignore, the eyes he will undoubtedly try as hard to forget—they are his eyes, even if the colour is different. Inside them, there's nothing of the person he painted or conditioned her to be—those eyes are neither of prey nor of a sheep. No, the dreamy, unblinking orbs are the curved mirrors reflecting the truth he fears to control.
warnings: canon-typical violence, narcissism, character death, implied sex, implied/referenced suicide
word count: 3,5K
PART 1 IS HERE
author's note: hiiii! chapter 2 is finally here!! please let me know what you think of it in the comments - I did leave my comfort zone a little with this one. also, it is kinda angsty - be sure to be in a right headspace before reading it. Love you - enjoy!!
The lights above her head shine with dull, warm colours, casting their heavy shadows on the green, heavily painted walls. The silver lining of the ceiling opposes almost sickening stuffiness. YN's eyes follow it through half-opened lids: hot and cold, the contrast so vibrant it hurts already irritated senses. Was it alcohol? The half-full bottle of sugary liquor stood as if trying to hide, beside the gigantic bed. It couldn't be; her body was long used to the fire spreading through its small canals. The feeling, although equally unpleasant, was different—like a hidden bruise she took too long to notice, its purple hands stretching down her abdomen.
It was supposed to be just a one-time thing, a job she could handle without any complaints—like she did every time. Maybe it was, but soon one time turned into twice a week, then whenever he felt like it. It was good, sensing the want, and need every time his figure appeared at the doorframe—almost too good. Staining her lips with taste, his taste, sending her head round and spinning. A twisted carousel with countless bed sheets, counters, and extravagant salons of the latest cars instead of smiling animal figures.
Coriolanus's breath was hot on her skin; his whispers marked it with unreadable praises that YN knew he didn't mean—they still landed right on her chest, sinking their way into her lungs and clouding the air her brain desperately needed. He curses and swears, so far from the professional persona he puts on every time he finishes. The feeling of cold, long fingers on her hips pulling YN's body closer turned into electric-like impulses, crashing into her flesh and mixing with the rhythm of her poor, booming heart.
It's easy to guess the patterns of his movements, his broad shoulders covering almost the entire room from her eyesight—a minute more, and all of YN's vision would be taken by the knitted blonde brows and silk-like lips. Coriolanus's eyes draw motifs on her bare body, drinking everything down to the slight twitches of her legs, but never meeting her own. She almost feels sad about the fact; after all, she deserves to see how they grow dark, changing from sky-like blue to almost sapphire, heaving along with his breathing.
His hand changes its position, clasping YN's throat instead of the bedframe. It's brutal and animalistic to feel him holding onto the last bits of self-control to not let his guard down completely, in an attempt to regain the power back. YN closes her eyes—the sensation of his trembling limb is poisoning her insides with the sweetest taste of fear. The heartbeat in her temples, echoing in the empty chamber of her chest—the tempo of prey running from its hunter, the pace of the chase of an illusive prize. She feels Coriolanus twitch, the grip tightening along with her before finally relaxing. Caught. Eaten.
She doesn't mind the feeling of heaviness his body seems to plant in her own; he lays his head near, chest rising and falling, the smug, satisfied ghost of a smirk lingering on his swollen lips. YN doesn't remember when exactly she became content with it; it seems something inside of her has always craved him. Coriolanus squints his eyes under the light of the ceiling lamps, but all she sees is a wolf. A hunter sizing up the sheep before sinking his white, pearly teeth in the soft waves of flesh. Now, he is full, although no one knows for how long. YN guesses the hunger never entirely goes away.
Hers doesn't. She devours until she's sick, and does it again, again and again. His touch is too much, and YN wants to leave, hide, and scrub it off until her fingers bleed—and at the same time, she craves it more than anything. If he is a hunter, what does that make her? Prey. Deer. But does the prey have teeth as sharp as she does? Does she bite as often, tearing her way to survival? Maybe, and maybe not—YN is never in the habit of putting a label on her head and eating at it until there is nothing left of her but a hollow shell.
''Is there something wrong?''
YN almost cringes at the sound of her voice; its sound travels the room, circling the bed she was lucky to call her escape before finally landing on the tip of Coriolanus's tongue. He doesn't turn to her, taking in the ball of nerves she called a question before answering.
''The reviews of Games become more and more disappointing—game makers, although they change each other quickly, don't bring anything new. People don't want to watch.''
The hum of understanding escapes YN's dried lips before she can think twice about it. Coriolanus leaves her mind a dessert, an arena she thought she left behind, left as a victor, making her fight for existence once more. His next words prove it.
''You gave a show with all the weaponry skills, especially because they aren't typical for your district. How?''
She shouldn't feel pride in what sounded more like an interrogation, but YN never liked to do as she should've—that's why her naked body is now interwoven with his, the rising heartbeat in her ribcage sending waves to his fingertips. ''I trained with stones and butter knives. When you learn how to kill a bird with them, the human body is nothing.''
Coriolanus chuckles, the deep vibration resonating against her head on his chest. ''Impressive. But why risk getting caught preparing for something that might never happen to you?''
Maybe it's the way his hands draw circles around the lines of her neck, or maybe it's the way the lights flicker, but the slumped words from YN's mouth become more difficult to pronounce. ''You see the games as punishment, but the real punishment is life outside them—the arena is a golden ticket, and to compete is a privilege. Once more people get that into their heads, they will fight to even have a chance to put on a show for you. Of course, if you turn a blind eye to the preparations: can't impress with excessive knowledge of gemstones or fabrics, can you?''
His silence could've meant a lot to people who didn't know better, but the slight, almost invisible nod of the blonde-crowned head suggested understanding. If YN had been a little more attentive, she would've noticed the subtle shift in his pose. That way, the voice booming into her ear wouldn't have caught her by surprise.
''Turn on your stomach.'' Coriolanus only commands, and never asks. His pale cheeks are not yet free from colour, and the glimmer in his eyes reeks of determination.
YN wants to refuse; she wants to open her mouth and bite him right where a vital vein pulsates on his neck, draining the life force mixed with the scent of his bitter cologne. She doesn't; she hides her teeth in the silk pillowcase, its soft fabric making a home in her opened mouth. It wasn't the closure she craved, but YN knew better. You take what you can get, and with Coriolanus, you take what he gives. She needs to be adored, to be worshipped—he turns a blind eye to her every time he gets what he wants. Maybe that's what she gets for loving a man like him—he knows she is just a woman and tolerates her despite that. In the end, it doesn't really matter; he is still a god, and she is still on her knees, begging until they grow raw.
-
It was harmless fun at first to have her around. In addition to his small collection, a limited edition of the human she was—the whole world underneath her pretty heel, her eyes only on him. It fed his ego; Coriolanus will admit that much. Like a golden watch on his left hand or a new-tinted car, YN revolved around him. An ode to status, a testament to his power. But all things have to end—the lights are turned off after the long day of work, and the plates are cleaned after dinner.
He watches the buildings change rapidly, their warm windows mixing with tall structures of concrete. Even now, in a silent car, he finds their ever-changing looks captivating—the city jungle is never asleep, its loud voices covering the streets with a thick coat of isolation. Among men, he still stood alone. Undefeated. Victorious. Coriolanus doesn't bother to turn to the woman beside him. He played this conversation in his head too many times; now, there is nothing of the initial curiosity that used to sparkle. ''I think it would be better if we stopped seeing each other; the press is too relentless, and it's becoming dangerous for our image.''
He doesn't even have to come up with something plausible—rumours are circling of a ''new mysterious man" who was seeing the Panem's favourite star. But no one suspected it was him, and even if they did, who would dare to question him? The reason behind his decision is less poetic—the one he is somewhat reluctant to admit, even to himself.
''What?''
Her voice cuts the air, pulling Coriolanus out of his thoughts. He almost feels her figure tense up, her manicured hand gripping a stunning purse with all the power she has. It looks like claws, which he notices with humour. He imagines the same nails digging into the skin on his back, just like they did a few nights ago; the feeling sends a pleasant wave down his spine. ''You will continue with modelling and photoshoots, just like before. It even might be better—there are a couple of new projects I want you to take on.''
''Do these ''projects'' include other men that you promised to keep me safe from?''
She is mad. Coriolanus, it seems, tastes the venom dripping from her painted lips on his tongue, its bitter acids burning his throat. Maybe it's that lingering sensation, or maybe it's the air conditioning in the car—his body grows a little hot, and his head turns a lot more annoyed. He swallows; the car is almost at the mansion's driveway. A few more minutes and a starch of fresh air will get to his lungs.
YN doesn't wait for the car to fully stop; she opens the door abruptly and closes it right in his face, her boots stomping on the expensive lawn, leaving small holes in the green scenery. Her long coat flies as she walks, ignoring the shouts he throws her way. The wind, or him, leaves her eyes watery; the thick black mascara is already smudging and creasing under her beautiful lashes.
''YN! YN, wait! Woman, why won't you stop for just a fucking second?''
She doesn't answer, pushing through the buttler into the huge hall and throwing the leather bag onto the grand staircase. Fleeing, escaping—the actions stir something in Coriolanus—a mixture of anger and strange excitement. He grabs her by the shoulder, showing her back, but YN twists away, turning to face him instead.
''Why won't I stop? You are planning on leaving me, on selling me like a used car, and you have the audacity to ask me to stop?''
''YN, darling, let's just quit shouting for a second; you are overreacting.''
''Me?'' Her eyes are mad, maniac—nothing of the stoic beauty he is so used to enjoying. She yells, backing her way into the living room and throwing anything that gets under her hand at him. Coriolanus watches as the books, vases, and small statues fly over and into him, crashing against the walls and crashing into small pieces. ''I am overreacting, asshole? I have given you everything I had, every fucking piece of me that you wanted, and now you demand that I stop?''
He only plants his feet and abandons chasing her when the coffee table is in her hands, its golden lining matching the buttons on her blouse. Coriolanus lifts his hands in surrender; they both know she is not above launching it at him. So, he leaves her be.
YN's figure slides down the wall, her body trembling with anger and cries. They echo inside his head, a strange melody of defeat and desperation. Coriolanus watches her from a safe distance on the sofa, his head resting against the soft pillows. He can wait—this is likely the last time he gets to admire the beauty the world has graced her with.
The carefully styled hair that now resembled nothing of its original form, the freshly applied makeup that now streaked across her face. Even the way her neck bends to allow her a better view of him. YN's gaze follows his every move—it seems one wrong step—and the newly bestowed stillness will flee from his grasp again.
But most importantly, her eyes. Bloodshot. Sharp. Intelligent. The eyes he tried so hard to ignore, the eyes he will undoubtedly try as hard to forget—they are his eyes, even if the colour is different. Inside them, there's nothing of the person he painted or conditioned her to be—those eyes are neither of prey nor of a sheep. No, the dreamy, unblinking orbs are the curved mirrors reflecting the truth he fears to control. Coriolanus desires her; Coriolanus requires her; and if there is a want, there is a need. That's why he doesn't wish to see her anymore; if he does, she will eat him alive.
''Don't leave me,'' YN's voice is a siren's call, softer than any other sound. She crawls to him, carefully placing her head on his lap, searching for something, anything, on his face.
''You should get help, darling, for a little bit. What do you say? A nice place near the mountains—just a few months to wait for the press out.''
YN looks up at him, her face deprived of any emotion. ''Promise you will have me back?''
Coriolanus just nods, his large hand running down her back. The matter is already decided. He is not safe just because he owns her. If YN feels like it, she will stain her mouth with his blood, too.
-
''Hi Maggie!''
YN's voice booms through the speaker of the phone Mags holds tightly to her ear; finally, her friend is allowed to answer her calls. ''Hi! How are you? Are they feeding you well?''
That's probably not true—the mental health institutions have a history of underfunding, but Mags hopes Mr President was kind enough to choose a better place for his ex-mistress. She wasn't shocked when she heard of YN's mental breakdown; on the contrary, Mags thinks the hospital is just what her friend might need—the life of a victor isn't all glamour.
''Good enough! You know I can't put on too much weight; the designers won't forgive me for that!''
She sounds happy over the phone like this—if she is, Mags is too, no matter how much she wants to cry at the sound of her voice.
''Did he say something about me?''
Mags knows who she is asking about but hesitates to answer. She doesn't have the heart to tell her that the Snow family just announced the pregnancy of his wife, so she does what any good friend would do—Mags lies. ''I don't think so. But! The new law was just put in place—1, 2, and 4 are allowed to train their tributes from now on!''
''Oh, that is wonderful! Maggie, I am so sorry, but I have to go now. I promised I would help with books in the library. But I will call you as soon as I can!''
''I'll be waiting, YN. Be on your best behaviour; I would like to see my best friend soon!''
YN laughs. It's not very clear, but the warmth radiating from it translates definitely. ''I would never leave you, Maggie. Even as a ghost, you will never get rid of me—not for a moment.''
Mags hopes it's true. It's hard being YN's friend sometimes, but no one deserves to be alone in this cruel world. The phone call ends before she can answer; all that is left are long beeps.
-
The same beeps she is left with after the next call. It is answered by a different voice; this one is more mature and not as lively at all.
''We are sorry to inform you that Miss YLN lost her battle to depression on Friday, the 25th, at…''
Mags doesn't listen after that; she throws the phone across the room, bringing yet another death to delicate machinery. She has no point in keeping it in her house now for a simple, mundane reason: there is no one left to call. That is when the feeling she tried so hard to escape all her life finally nestled in her stomach, swallowing her from the inside. Hatred.
She hates the games, Panem, the Capitol, and the people who live there. Hates newspapers, hates tabloids, and hates interviewers—the people flooding the centre where the funeral is held. She doesn't want to see any of them—to see them cry and hug, whisper and tell long speeches about a person they murdered—YN didn't know any of their names, yet somehow all of them ''grieve with the world at the loss of their dearest friend''. But most of all, she hated the one who didn't even bother to show up, the one who had caused all of this.
Mags doesn't even bother remembering her own pain; it is greatly overshadowed by the cold body of her friend in a coffin she would've hated—nothing bored YN more than simple colours and ''refined tastes''. If Mags could, she would've filled the room with clashy patterns and as many shiny things as possible and served the cheapest burgers one could find in Capitol—just how she liked it. But all she can do is stare at the cold ground and a freshly planted bush of pearly-white roses on top of it. Her hands itch to dig it up, to stomp on it and replace it with something else—she doesn't. YN would've wanted them to stay.
She told her that one time, a year or two after her death—every time she appeared at its anniversary, exactly a month before the reaping. The first time Mags saw her, she thought she was going insane, but then the fear adjusted to never-changing grief. YN was harmless, even kind, although she communicated only with hand gestures—those are the rules, she told her, and rules should be followed.
The sky already grows dark, but YN hasn't shown up yet - Mags is too tired of a long day of teaching in the academy to ponder why. Maybe, after the fifty years that passed since, her friend finally found her peace. If so, Mags is happy for her. She can't wait anymore—the old woman picks up a coat from the locker and puts it on, closing the classroom before starting her journey to the exit.
The halls of the training grounds are empty; all of the children have already gone home. It pains Mags to remember who inspired the careers, and it fills her heart with immense pride at the same time. YN, to this day, is the golden standard of tribute; she is forgotten, neither by the people of Capitol nor by her own. Mags can't even count how many times the young victors of one hesitantly came to her with an old magazine in hand, asking to share something about their idol's life. She would often only smile; those children learned it by themselves sooner than she would like them to, most suffering the exact fate at the hands of the same man. The only thing that brought hope to Mags's heart was her declining health; she was getting older, and so was Coriolanus Snow. And as much as he would like, no one was immortal; he would pay for all the deaths on his hands, she would make sure of that.
''Excuse me, Miss?''
''Yes?'' Mags thinks that she heard it wrong and that her hearing is getting worse. But no—a boy, not younger than fourteen—leaves his spot at the bench near the gates and stands up, coming closer.
''Are you Maggie?'' The childish voice contrasts with the muscular build; the boy is definitely a student. ''I was just practising knots when Miss came up to me and said Maggie could help with that.''
The air leaves her lungs suddenly. Mags grips onto the coat, her hands desperatly in search of the headache pills. It all must just be her imagination, right? But the boy looks real, studying her face in curiosity. ''What woman?'' she finally breathes out.
''I don't know,'' the boy shrugs. ''Not from here. In a pretty white dress with stars on it. I asked her where she bought it, but she just laughed.''
Mags smiles weakly—that does sound like something YN would do. ''Did she say anything else?''
''Yeah!'' The boy beams excitedly, showing a missing-tooth grin. ''She said I will be the brightest star there ever was if I work hard enough!''
''That sounds about right," Mags says, her voice filled with nostalgia. "You know what? Find me tomorrow after your classes - I'll help you with knots. What was your name again?''
''Finnick, Miss. And thank you!'' The boy turns on his feet, not listening to whatever she has to say, and hurries home. ''Bye Miss Maggie!'' he shouts on his way before disappearing in the maze of brick buildings.
An impulse to correct him and remind him that her name is ''Mags'' crosses her mind, but she decides against it. After all, the name was too special to forget. The stillness of the evening lands on Mags' shoulders, and she continues the way to the victor's village. She has a lot to do - the 65th games are starting in a month, and then she will have a chance to finally rest.
Hi people! Today's post topic is not a new fic (although I am working on them too), but rather a small discussion I was hoping to have. Recently, I've gotten a comment that my writing is not racially inclusive, and it got me thinking. As a writer (of a lot of imagines specifically), it's really important to me that people can immerse themselves in my stories.
So, the question is, are there any things that pull you out of reading my fics and make you go, "yep, it's not my YN"? If so, how can I improve? Please feel free to write in the comments or as asks, anonymously or not; I would really appreciate your feedback!
much love, (and waiting eagerly for your responses), author!
your cato fic??? AHH it was so good, i feel like cato fans get literal crumbs on this website but home was sososo good <3
thank you so much!!!! I really enjoy writing for characters like this; their descriptions leave a huge room for interpretation! Also: obsessed with blonde men (and not proud of the fact), especially this cutie, so yeah :) love you!!
summary: He doesn't know why her flower dress comes to mind—it's a contrast to the hard truth of reality. He lost a friend here, but Cato would need to learn how to lose much more if he wanted to get the hell out of here. And he does, no matter the price.
warnings: canon-typical violence; mentions of meat (as in reader owns a butcher shop); trauma and poverty
word count: 6k
author's note: hello beautiful people! In honour of my birthday, I am posting about this bad boy today. Hope you like it - it was such a fun thing to write! Enjoy!
The stones under his worn boots are changing quickly; they are coloured in all shades of grey, sometimes with funny black dots on their rounded bellies. Cato would stop and collect a few if it wasn't for the important task at hand: Mom sent him to the butcher's, letting him take the thinly metaled coins for the first time, which are now snugly stored in the pockets of his raggy coat. He has the order memorized; Mom always buys the same. Three pig legs for the soup, which are then added to the porridge she cooks, and two bottles of the cheapest milk on the counter. It's good for the bones in his body, she says, and Cato believes her. Soon, he will start school; he has to be strong to get the chance to try out for the academy.
The butcher's is just around the corner; it's the only shop in their block that is always open. And, although the signboard is already faded, it is still his favourite place to visit. The door opens with a creek, and a small bell over Cato's head sings its cheerful melody. He takes a few steps inside, the colourful counters greeting him with all kinds of meat and sausages. He reads the curved writing on each of the signs carefully, trying out the way the letters come together in words. The sound of rushed steps is the only thing that breaks his mesmerization. They are soon changed by the grunting of the wood chair on the old tiled floor, and then, finally, a head pops up from behind the stands.
''Good afternoon!'' A pair of curious eyes stare at him, a smile missing a few teeth serving as a second greeting. ''What can I do for you today?'' the girl asks, changing her cheerful demeanour to a more serious, business-like tone.
Cato straightens up, his fingers finding the coins. He is a grown-up now; no other four-year-old he knows is allowed to go to the butcher's by themselves. ''I am here to buy meat.''
The girl laughs, her hair shaking with her mirth.
Cato feels the redness creep to his ears—of course, he is here to buy meat; everyone does. ''Why are you behind there anyway?'' he mutters, crossing his hands in front of himself. He thinks the girl should stop now; it's really not nice to laugh at others.
''Grandpa went to trade for bread and left me as the captain here,'' the girl boasts.
''That's a shame.'' Partly because Cato liked Grandpa Marc—he always sneaked a few pieces of candy for him and his brothers at home—and partly because he didn't like the little know-it-all. ''I would like three pig legs and two bottles of the cheapest milk,'' he declares in one breath, careful not to mess up. He isn't sure he can take another wave of her laughter.
''Sure,'' the girl nods, packing the meat in a big brown bag. Cato patiently waits as she moves her chair to reach the milk shelves, stopping before them. ''Which one again?''
''Shirley's.''
The girl doesn't move; the flowers on the back of her dress are still facing him.
''Shirley's,'' he repeats a little louder. Cato feels silly again; he doesn't like the mean girl and the way she teases him. ''Are you stupid? The one with the blue cap is Shirley's.''
''Right,'' she finally grabs it, moving to the register. Her hands work quickly, wrapping the goods and putting them together. ''The meat is this much money, '' she scrambles the numbers on the piece of paper lying nearby, ''and milk is this much.''
Cato goes over the symbols, carefully counting the total in his head. ''Here,'' he says, reaching for the money. ''And you wrote the two here wrong—it should be facing the other way, like a swan.''
''Oh. Sorry about that. Is this with change?'' She points to the colourful coins on the wood.
''Don't you know how to count? You need to give me 50 cents in change.''
''I do!'' she argues, her hand slapping the counter. ''I was just, hm, testing you!''
''Sure. Then why are you giving me two dollars back now?'' Cato raises an eyebrow. Part of him wants to laugh at her, just like she did moments ago. But he doesn't. Instead, he swaps the coins for the right amount, giving her the money back. ''Here you go. All good.''
''Thank you! Have a nice day!''
Cato nods, grabbing the bag and exiting the shop with a light heart. He did what his mom asked him to; she will be very happy to know that. The air is warm, and the soft wind is hitting him right in the face. In no time, Cato is home; the door is never locked. He places the bag on the kitchen table; Mom will see it when she puts the baby to sleep. His third brother - the other two are sleeping on the big bed in the children's room. That used to be his, but now he is a big boy—he sleeps on the couch in the living room, right near the kitchen. He likes it here; the baby's crying is not as loud, and he can see Mom as often as he wants to when she cooks.
There's not much to do right now; it's the ''quiet hours'' in Hadley's house. Usually, Cato would go play outside at this time, but instead, he grabbed the big book from the kids' shelf. There, with big, red letters, are all of the alphabets and numbers. It was his favourite. Cato remembers how mom would sit with him on her lap, her soft finger circling every picture. ''This is one. Look, it has a tiny nose, just like you do! Here, give me your hand—that's one finger you have, little gentleman!''
Cato throws one last glance at the closed door to the parent's room—he decides that mom won't be mad at him if he plays not in front of the house for once—and grabs the book, leaving the still place. This time, he grabs a few of the prettiest rocks on his way—he builds bridges and castles with them in the small creek behind their house. The butcher's is still empty when he gets there; the girl sits on the tall chair, drawing on the paper.
''What are you drawing?'' Cato asks, trying to see, but the counter is too tall for him to reach.
The girl doesn't look surprised to see him here; it's like he never left in the first place. ''It's worms. Papa worm, mama worm, and little worm. They are having dinner.''
''What are they eating? Meat?''
''No,'' she said, shaking her head. ''Meat is expensive; they have no money. They're eating a dirt pie. Here,'' the girl climbs off the chair, sitting down on the floor instead. Cato sits down near her, looking over her shoulder. ''They have small plates and spoons.''
''My dad doesn't like pies. He likes potatoes more.'' Cato thinks meat is better than pies and potatoes, but he doesn't tell Dad that. The girl tells the truth: meat is expensive.
''Where is he? At work?''
''Yeah, at the factory.'' Most people work at the factory—that's what Cato's dad says. They go when it's dark outside and Cato is still sleeping, and they return when the clock shows all zeros. Then, his dad eats while his mom drinks tea, and they whisper about something. ''And yours?''
The girl shrugs. ''I don't have one. It's just Grandpa and me. What is this?'' She points to the book in Cato's hands, and he finally remembers why he came.
''That's my book. It has numbers. Do you want to see?''
The girl beside him nods, and Cato smiles. He opens the book and proudly shows off the beautiful pictures. The girl likes them; she listens carefully to what Cato has to say about each letter. He likes it when he doesn't laugh at him.
-
''Good morning, Grandpa Marc!'' Cato greets the man behind the counter, cutting up yet another piece of meat. It's early, but he already stands in the butcher's, his dad's old bag on his shoulder. They can't be late for the academy.
''I'm coming, I'm coming!'' YN shouts, biting into the apple in one of her hands and tucking in her shirt with the other. ''Bye, Pa, see you!''
They both passed the exam for the academy; only four people from their neighbourhood did. They got the chance only because they were ''exceptional'' students, the only four whose training was free for now. The debt will be paid by them volunteering or after the academy through their future salaries. Cato knows that no one is actually able to pay it off; he will volunteer as soon as possible. YN will go; they agreed to go in different years.
That's how it always was with them—they walked to the academy and home together, trained, and learned together. Cato helped Grandpa in the shop, and YN often looked after his brothers. It was the endless stream of jokes from everyone around—you never saw one without the other, not even on the rating board. That was until year nine.
''I decided I'm not going to sit with you at lunch,'' Cato tells the girl walking beside him on the dusty road.
YN doesn't answer right away; she watches her feet instead. ''Let me guess—you will be with the mayor's son and his pack?''
''As a matter of fact, yes. They are my friends, and they invited me to sit with them.'' It annoys him the tone she is using.
''They are not your friends, Cato. They only do that, so you will volunteer for them when the time comes.'' YN is angry; her hands on the straps of the backpack are tightly clenched.
''So what? I'm going to volunteer anyway, so why not sit with them? There is nothing to do here, and they are always hanging out at movies or something.''
''Oh, so that's what it is about.'' YN stops, turning to him. ''You want to be one of them now.''
''Of course, I fucking do!'' Cato exclaims. ''We are dirt poor, YN. I don't want to live all my life in this shithole.''
YN's face changes; her eyes look at him as if for the first time. ''This is home, Cato. This is where we belong.''
''I don't. And I will find a way out of here, and you can stay in this mud as much as you like, but I will not let you drag me down with you.''
She slaps him. The hit is heavy; they are both trained to take blows, but it stings him more than it should. Cato watches as YN leaves, her quick steps echoing on the empty street in the morning fog. He doesn't know why her flower dress comes to mind—it's a contrast to the hard truth of reality. He lost a friend here, but Cato would need to learn how to lose much more if he wanted to get the hell out of here. And he does, no matter the price.
-
YN can live without him as much as he does, she tells herself. She didn't decide to ruin the friendship, so she won't be the one to apologize, no matter how long the silence lasts. If he thinks that she will run back to him after four months of not talking, he is wrong. YN is fine; she still has two friends at the academy, she still has her grandpa and the beautiful sun above her head. It smiles at her every time she walks home alone, filling in the small gap in her chest with its golden rays. Her new companion.
What she doesn't expect is a group of people in front of the shop; they shout and argue, running around with ice and water in their hands. YN runs too; something happens. Fear rises in her stomach and travels to her throat when she sees the white coat of the doctor standing near the counter, a concerned expression on his face. ''I'm sorry,'' he tells her. YN clutches her bag, trying so hard not to cry as the crowd of familiar faces surrounds her.
He fell while trying to reach for the shelf, and a customer found him unconscious on the floor. Grandpa broke seven bones in his body and damaged his head. They are taking him to the hospital for, god knows, how long. The doctor places a hand on her shoulder; the cost of surgery is covered by the state, but she needs money for the medicine. They don't have any.
YN spends an hour crying into her pillow before pulling herself together—she is alone. It's not some stupid game they play—they pretend to win for years in the generated arenas in some big green boxes—it's life. The most brutal arena of all. So, she does what any fifteen-year-old would do—she washes her face with ice-cold water and grabs the keys from the shop. She has to speak with a few people.
-
The door to Hadley's home is never locked; nobody closes it in their neighbourhood, but YN still knocks out of respect. Cato opens it; she is surprised he is here and not with his new friends. He wants to say something, but YN has no time for him.
''Is your dad home?'' YN asks, trying to look over his shoulder.
Cato nods. ''Come in. Mom, it's YN.'' He shouts, closing the door behind her.
''Ah, YN. How is Grandpa Marc?'' She is cooking something—a big pot boiling with the best smell one could imagine.
The woman's concerned face stirs something in YN, so she fights the urge to cry and swallows her tears instead. ''Alive
''Come sit with us; we were just preparing to eat.''
YN wants nothing more than a plate of something warm, but she declines. She came here not to lessen the portion of someone; nobody here has money to make extra food. ''Thank you, but I need to speak with Mister Janus.''
''Spill it.'' Mr. Janus nods, standing up from the couch.
''Can we speak outside?'' YN asks, feeling a pair of blue eyes on her.
''Of course,'' Mister Janus shares a look with his wife before stepping outside. ''What happened, kid?''
YN takes some air inside her lungs. ''Is there a place for me at the factory for the night shifts?'' The man opens his mouth to argue, but YN is quicker. ''I know I am young, but I am strong from all the training, and I know a lot of useful things. I can reach where most men can't, and I will do anything you ask me to, I promise.''
Mister Janus sighed. ''I know you are good, but what about the academy? Night shift is six to six; you won't have time to get enough sleep and do the homework.''
''I quit the academy.''
''What?'' Mister Janus's face changes. ''YN, why? It's the only chance for you to survive.''
''Work is the only way for me to survive. Poverty and an empty stomach will kill me much faster than some games. I need the job, Mister Janus, please. If you don't give it to me, I will look for it elsewhere.''
The man thinks, his forehead creased with worry. ''Fine, kid. But be careful—get enough rest and don't push yourself too hard. We are here to help if you need us to.''
''Thank you, thank you so much!'' YN smiles, a few tears escaping her eyes. She hugs the man tightly, a glimmer of hope finally appearing. ''Thank you, Mister Janus; I will not let you down!''
Mistes Janus smiles back, patting her back. ''Go before it gets too dark; I'll see you tomorrow at five thirty.''
He watches as YN turns the corner of the street before returning to the warmth of his house. How much do these kids have to endure in this world?
-
YN didn't push herself too hard; she simply did what she was supposed to do. At six, she returned to the shop after the shift at the factory—butcher's opened at eight—so she had two hours to wash the dirt and sweat away with the old basin and a little warm water from the kettle and to master something edible on the stove. When that was done, she would dissect the meat and check the dates on milk bottles; the soon-gone bad would go to the sale section, and the new ones took their place. Then, the doors of the butcher's opened—people still needed to eat, and YN wasn't about to let them starve because of her own ''tiredness.''
The heaviest flow was in the morning, with the shop becoming quieter in the afternoon—that's when she took most of her sleep in, resting her head on the wooden counter and closing her eyes for a second. Oftentimes, customers would find her like this—they gently shook her shoulder and woke her up before ordering. Each time, YN felt shame creep to her cheeks, but each time, no one said a word to her; they just smiled, thanked her, and left the shop with a big brown bag in her hands.
That's how the rest of the year passed, with it becoming slightly easier when Grandpa was finally discharged from the hospital. His right arm didn't move like it used to, and it was hard for him to walk, but it was still better to have someone home to return to. Besides, he insisted on still serving the customers, so YN had an opportunity to sleep in her own bed for a few hours before a new portion of cut meat was delivered.
That's what she thought about standing in the main square in a crowd of children—how much meat she needed to cut before her shift. Grandpa was also here; some man had to hold him up so he wouldn't fall from being on his legs for too long, but he could at least enjoy the fresh air, which YN was grateful about.
The reaping was going quickly; the girl named was from the academy, so they didn't have to go through all that volunteering. YN didn't know her personally, but she saw her a couple of times; she was good with knives. As for the boys, it didn't go as smoothly—some poor eleven-year-old's name was called out, and he burst out crying on the spot.
''I volunteer!'' the voice boomed through the street, and YN turned with everyone to see who it was, although, in her head, she knew the answer.
Cato. He walked to the stage calmly, his legs conquering the steps in no time. He looked determined and happy, but YN knew better—that's what they taught them to present. Ruthless. Bloodthirsty. Killers. She hears distant cries from the crowd behind her—it's probably Miss Hadley. YN clenches her jaw, her teeth grinding together until her head rings. It isn't the time for her to break.
-
Cato can't bear to watch his mother's puffy face as she clenches her arms around him, whispering something like a prayer into his chest. His father is silent, a lonely tear escaping his eye as he holds Cato's youngest brother closer. The twins are also here; both of them are at the academy, so they have a faint idea of what he is doing. They tell him he will win because of how big he is, and that will be very easy. Cato smiles at them reassuringly—if only it were that easy.
''Dad,'' he nods in the direction of his crying mother.
''Come on, darling, you will upset him before the games,'' his father tells her, carefully pulling her way and placing a hand on Cato's shoulder. ''Stay strong, my boy. We will all be rooting for you every second you are in that arena; don't forget that.''
''Thank you, dad. Boys,'' he watches as twins show each other away, trying to get to bed first. He hugs them both; he has two hands for a reason. ''Behave and don't bother mom too much, or I'll have to kick your ass once I get back,'' he whispers into their heads.
The youngest one waves goodbye, blowing him a kiss. Cato smiles, watching his family leave the room. He wants to remember this moment forever, to put it in his pocket, and to never let it go. He knows why he is doing this—for them to have a better chance at life, for his father to finally have a day off, and for his mom to have new pots she secretly gazed at when she thought he wasn't looking.
''Hadley. Seven minutes.'' The peacekeeper announces, opening the door once more, even though Cato doesn't expect anyone else. Well, he hoped she would come—he really wanted her to—but he believed she never would. YN is not the type. Still, she is here. Closing the door behind her, in a simple blue jumpsuit and a nice scarf around her head.
''Hi,'' she nods. ''I came to say goodbye.''
Cato's heart skips a beat—those words hit harder than seeing himself on the big screens, with a tribute written under them. Soon, he may be dead; she will watch him on her small TV in the living room.
YN speaks quickly, almost in a rush. ''I know we don't speak anymore, but I know how you fight—you are capable of winning more than everyone else out there. Please, just don't think too much about what you are doing; just do it, okay?''
''Yeah, I'll try.'' He finds it weird that she doesn't want him to think, but Cato doesn't question why—she does know him better than anyone, having been training for a lot of years side by side.
''You have to return; your family needs you.''
''Don't worry too much about them; we already got the money for my volunteering from the mayor. They will be fine; dad can still work, and twins could help out. You have enough on your shoulders as it is. How is Grandpa Marc?''
''Better. He can't move like he used to and still needs help with walking and eating, but other than that, it's good. Although he is devastated that I didn't let him handle the meat, you should've seen how he tried to sneak a few knives at night.''
Cato's lips turn into a smile. ''That does sound like him.''
''Oh, I almost forgot. Here,'' YN rumbles in her pockets before taking a few pieces of candy out. ''We thought you should have a few.''
''You are kidding me? Lucky-talkies? I haven't had one in ages!''
YN laughs at his excitement, carefully placing the sweets in his hand. ''I know. They are as hard as they used to be; don't chip your tooth; it'll look bad at the promotion.''
Cato chuckles, pocketing the candy before his mentors have a chance to take it away. ''Thanks, YN. For everything.''
''I'll give you as much as you want if you don't die in there. Just try to stay alive, okay?''
''Easier said than done. But I'll try.''
YN smiles. Their time is up. The peacekeeper opens the door for her, his gun tangling dangerously around his neck. She doesn't turn around as she exits; her walk is steady. Cato thinks that he caught her shoulders shaking, but it could be just a twist of his tired brain.
-
The days after that are agony. YN doesn't know if it was her tiredness that finally caught her in a narrow corner or the grim reality of her life—it was definitely both. Even her favourite silent friend didn't cheer her up like it used to—the sun shone almost violently, burning her skin and leaving her body dizzy. The rotten cycle was now worsened by the non-stopping playing of what seemed to be a thousand screens, with stomach-curling screams echoing from time to time. They were everywhere—at the shop and their small flat above it, on the main square she passed each day, and, what was worse, they were at the factory, where she couldn't pretend to watch even for a second.
The work she does is heavy—carving the stones on the machinery bigger than her; her muscles were constantly aching, begging for a break. The suit she wore was too tight and too hot, and the annoying voice of the announcer blared through the speakers, stealing the air in her lungs. YN wanted nothing but to make it stop—for the world to go silent and still, even if just for a moment. But wonders didn't happen with people like her, so she continued to work, pushing herself through her gritted teeth.
''Welcome, welcome to what seems to be the last day in this beautiful arena!'' The blue-haired man spoke, his accent making YN's head hurt even more. ''To remind our dear viewers all across the Panem, here is a small recap from my colleague and sometimes friend, Claudius.''
''Thank you, Caesar. We are left with only three tributes on day eighteen—the first, of course, being Cato from District 2. His strategy has proved efficient so far; no doubt, he is one of the best contestants we've seen in a long time. And then, much to my surprise, a pair of tributes from District 12 are still in the games—their love story truly captivated the audience. Let's see what this day, or should we say night, brings us today and who will have the odds in their favour in the end.''
YN doesn't react to their comments; it feels wrong to compare herself to the kids out there, being selfish enough to think she deserves a break. She should be counting her lucky stars; it isn't her there, going through the bodies of the competitors one by one. Cato received body armour from the sponsors; that was good. He also lost his district partner; YN remembers her now; she was in his ''new'' friend group. She feels sorry for the girl; her death was awful, and her screaming Cato's name will forever be engraved in YN's memory.
''Aha, here he is! Our gladiator from District 2—he is running from—what's that?—wolves! Look at that speed—he surely is a good runner!''
YN turns her attention to the giant screen—surely enough, Cato is running from some monstrous creatures. He is bloodied; his skin is covered in bruises. YN prays it all will stop soon and he will get home safe. He doesn't even flinch when the arrow shot by twelve hits his chest; he just keeps running towards the Cornucopia.
''Please,'' YN whispers. He can't die, not when he has survived for so long.
''Look at them—all of the tributes managed to get on the Cornucopia just in time! Oh, here is a clever move from Cato's side: having Peeta in a headlock is a classic move. Now, he is sort of a ''human shield''. Brilliant!''
"Go on, shoot.'' Cato's voice booms through the speakers, sending shivers down YN's back. She missed hearing his voice, but it didn't even sound like him anymore. Like a stranger talking from the inside of what looked like her friend. '' And we both go down, and you win. Go on. I'm dead, anyway! I always was, right? I didn't know that until now. Isn't that what they want, huh?''
What the fuck was he doing? YN's mind raced—why won't he just kill him and get it over with? She doesn't notice how her hands begin to shake and how everyone else in the room seems to be eyeing her.
''No! I can still do this. I can still do this. One more kill. It's the only thing I know how to do. Bring pride to my district. Not that it matters."
''Kill him! For fuck's sake, just kill him!'' YN stands up, her nerves getting the best of her. Her voice echoes—she didn't mean to say it out loud.
''No talking!'' The peacekeeper in front of her shouts, his hand steady on the gun.
YN turns to face him slowly. Who was he to tell her to shut up when it was her friend who was dying right before her eyes? She feels her hands clench into fists; she will be able to take him down in a fight, maybe even kill him. YN was willing to try, at least.
''She won't talk no more,'' one of the older men in the group mutters, his voice bitter. ''Sit down, child.''
YN wants to argue, wants to scream or run until the bullet catches up to her, but she doesn't. What use would her dead body be to her grandpa? So she sits down, biting her cheek until her mouth fills with a familiar iron taste. Everything she wants to say, she tastes in her throat instead.
''Wait, can we zoom in on here?'' One of the announcers asks. ''Here, yes, what exactly are they staring at? It fell from Cato's pocket, right?''
'''Well, Claudius, it looks like a candy wrap to me. The real question is: why does Cato have one in the first place? He didn't strike me as a big sweets fan. ''
''Well, whatever it is, it seems to have changed his mind—look at how masterfully he throws Peeta down, like a feather! Oh, and now he is lurching for the girl on fire!''
A loud snap is heard through the speakers, and the girl falls, lifeless. YN covers her face with her hands, the dirt from them leaving a mark on her sweaty face. A choir of relieved exhales rings through the room.
''Ladies and gentlemen, I believe we have our 75th victor!''
-
It's hard, the first thing Cato realizes. Being here, breathing in the air that feels like spikes inside his lungs—everything was supposed to be easy, but it's so far from that. They have a nice house now; it has a room for each of his brothers, and even twins don't have to share anymore. His dad doesn't work; it's not fitting for victor's family to do so, so he takes up gardening instead. If a few years ago Cato heard that his father would ramble about how badly roses had grown on this soil, he would've checked himself into a mental asylum.
He isn't very loved in the Capitol, but his mentors said it was for the best. Cato believes them, but it stings a little. He wanted glory but got disgusted instead. It was not a fair trade, but at least his debt is paid, as is his brothers'. Money could buy a lot of things, just like he predicted, but it couldn't buy him peace. Cato has nothing ahead of him; he can't study like his peers do, can't work, can't live, and pretend it didn't happen. It very much did—when he closes his eyes, he can still smell the blood on his hands.
That's why he is here instead of Victor's village, eating ice cream on the empty main square in the warm evening. It's funny to think how he wanted to try it, collecting the money his father let him have for almost a year before ordering his first chocolate scoop. It was the tastiest thing he had ever eaten; now, it tasted just like every other one.
He hears the nearing footsteps—the people are returning from the day shift in the factories. Cato nods to a few of them—old neighbours, parents of classmates, or dad's friends. The men are all different—short and tall, ginger, blond and brunette—but they all bear the same expression that Capitoleers called ''a district 2 glare'' once. Cato used to get angry when he heard it, but now his face is no different—the word is a heavy thing to endure.
His eyes drift to the only person looking up and not on the road ahead—of course, it's YN. She thinks about something only she and the sun know, her steps mirroring those of the people ahead. One of the men notices him watching; he gently shoves her shoulder, whispering something in her ear before pointing in the direction of his seat. Suddenly, Cato wants to hide the ice cream in his hand and run away, but he doesn't.
''Enjoying your victory, Mister Hadley?'' Her voice is loud and filled with teasing, and a few men snicker at them.
Cato isn't angry; he deserves it, quite frankly. ''Always was known for the sweet tooth,'' he shrugs. ''As a matter of fact, are you free any time soon?'' He asks when the crowd is far enough away.
YN raises an eyebrow at him. ''Why is that? You know I work.''
''I was hoping you and your grandpa could come by sometime. Mom is awfully lonely, and the boys would love to see you, too.''
She nods. ''I am free on Sunday, but Grandpa is still a little shy about eating in front of people.''
''I'll ask mom to cook a soup then—it's better?'' He would cook the damn soup himself if it meant seeing her for longer than five minutes. If it meant not being alone in that house, that reeked of the arena.
''Yes, I think we can do that. What about 12? We could be a little late with all that walking.''
''Thank you; it's perfect.''
YN smiles at him. For the first time since he won, someone smiled at him. Cato smiles back, although he is sure it comes out more as a grin. YN doesn't notice or pretends to do so.
-
''Oh, come in! Janus, come right down; the guests are here!''
YN and her grandpa are greeted with Miss Hadley's voice, her warm hands wrapping first around her, and then the older man. YN smiles; she missed just sitting down for a meal without having to worry about how much money she was going to need for the next one. The boys have grown. They shout, each trying to be the first to show her their own rooms and the cool things they have. YN tries not to get lost in the maze of toys, balls, books, and a thousand other different things, while Grandpa talks with Mr. Janus.
When the boys start to embark on what feels like a fifth circle around the house, Miss Hadley puts an end to it. ''That's enough! YN, darling, come sit here—what would you like to eat?''
The table is full of different things. There are so many that they could eat for a few weeks and be full. YN doesn't think she saw that many vegetables and fruits in her life. She asks for what everyone is having and is happy to have her plate full. Grandpa also seems to be enjoying himself; he insists on wearing his best shirt for the occasion and now listens attentively to what the twins have to say. They make a good team, YN thinks—twins finally found free ears that are not yet tired of them, and there is nothing that Grandpa loves more than a good story.
When the dinner is over, YN speaks, talking to Miss Hadley beside her. ''Thank you for the invitation; your house is just lovely.''
''Cato made us clean every corner of it before you came—I didn't even have time to play outside!'' The youngest boy whines, pouting slightly.
YN chuckles as she watches colour gather at Cato's ears, his eyes glued to the dish in front of him. ''Well, it was definitely worth it—I had the most marvelous time with you here. And the food was delicious! But I am afraid we have to go; Grandpa should walk when it's still light outside.''
''We will take you home,'' Cato announces, nodding to the twins to put on their shoes. They do so happily, grabbing them and their jackets before Grandpa has a chance to stand up and stick to his side like glue.
The evening is pleasant; the wind is quite chilly, but Cato doesn't mind. The only sound on the street is twins arguing over who will help Grandpa Marc with his cane for the next two minutes.
''Thank you for coming,'' he says, looking at the woman walking beside him.
''Of course. We had a good time, - I hope you did too. How's life been? We haven't talked in a while.''
''Good,'' Cato lies. ''And yours?''
''Better. Since your dad quit, I got the day shift; it pays better, and I can finally get rid of those horrible dark circles.''
Cato nods. ''I've been thinking a lot about our past these days, especially our childhood. It feels like a lifetime ago.''
''Things change,'' YN shrugs. ''We've grown and become different people since then. I would've never imagined working at the factory, but here I am. And you win the games—that was your dream.''
''Don't you miss it? How easy were things back then?''
YN smiles. ''They never were easy, I think; we just couldn't understand them properly. Besides, not much changed, if you think about it.''
''Maybe not for you.''
''Why?'' YN turns to look at him.
Cato swallows. ''YN, they made me different. The games, all those kills—they changed me.''
''You did what you had to survive. It doesn't matter now that you are here.''
''You think I don't notice how people tiptoe around me now? How can Mom stand to look at me for more than a minute? How do boys try to avoid me at all costs? And dad—he doesn't even speak to me! ''
YN is silent. Cato curses in his mind—he shouldn't have said that. He takes a deep breath. ''I'm sorry. It just feels weird. It's like I don't have a home to return to and can't get into a new one. Just hanging there, mid-air.''
''When Grandpa was in the hospital, that's how it felt. I was too young to be alone, but there was no choice but to watch as everything I once loved fell into ruins. I was supposed to be going to movies, partying, and sneaking out, not juggling the bills from medication and the shop. But life decided otherwise. So, I built my own home within myself—one that nothing could tear down or take away.''
''I don't think there is anything left to build on. I'm not like you; everything anyone sees when they look at me is a monster .''
''I don't.'' YN stops. ''I see the boy who brought me a pretty big book with pictures so I could give the change correctly; I see a man who volunteered for his family to have a chance at a better life. I see you, real you, not the role mentors or Capitol made you play. Just Cato.''
''Can I hug you?'' His voice is barely above a whisper.
YN doesn't answer - she just takes a step closer into his arms, resting her head on his shoulder.
''I'm sorry; I am so sorry for everything I've done," Cato mutters, his hands trembling as he holds onto YN tightly. ''I should've said it sooner. ''
''It doesn't matter now. We survived this; we are still here, you and I.''
Cato nods; his tears mix with hers, pooling in patches on his shirt. They are different—children who were forced to grow up too early in a world that wasn't for them. ''I think I never lost it—my home. It was always here, with you, on this street. Isn't it funny? All those years of searching, only to return here, where we truly belong?''
''The butcher's, you mean? If you wanted more candy, you could've just asked,'' YN smiles, whipping away her red eyes.
-
''Fucking finally,'' an aged voice mutters from behind the corner.
''Grandpa Marc!'' the twins turn to him, surprised.
The old man just smiles, his wrinkled face appearing younger with joy. ''Don't tell YN I said that. She'll never let me live it down."
The twins giggle, their happy laughter echoing on the street. A few moments later, Grandpa Marc joins in, his breathy laugh adding to the chorus. It's not the first time the street leading to the butcher's was woken up by sounds of joy, and he hoped it wouldn't be the last.
summary: It's a shame, really, to kill her so soon. He was almost enjoying her—the way she trembled under his touch, the way she whispered his name in ecstasy. But that was the way of the world. There could be only one winner, and Coriolanus knew better than to believe his wife when she promised to always be loyal. If your dog bites you, someone else is feeding it.
warnings: mentions of minor violence, mentions of cheating, not really canon-compliant, blood and shitty people in shitty relationships
word count: 3,7k
Part 1 is here
author's note: part 2 of Losing Dogs is here! thank you for the love and support that you showed for the first chapter - hope you enjoy this one too! we all love some twisted people in fiction :)
She knows.
It's in his mind when they get into the black car, away from the president's party and obnoxiously loud music, with a few new cuts on his hands and faint blue marks on her neck.
She knows.
It's the only thought in his head when it hits the pillow at almost midnight, as her warm body lays beside him, breathing even so faintly. His brain almost explodes under the pressure of guessing her thoughts, hidden behind the soft smile and gentle touch. She, the ghost wrapped in opulent sheets, is a new figure on the chessboard. The crippling fear of being watched cuts his forehead in sharp, taunting pain.
YN, the blind lamb with sharp teeth, knows.
-
He did everything right. A whisper here, a bribe there, and no one noticed how a small, silly rumour grew into a threat almost overnight, pointing its sleek, twisted fingers at the President. Corrupt, illegal activities—that's what the press called them, but the truth was much less poetic. Some lines shouldn't be crossed, and some people shouldn't be trusted.
It was supposed to be a simple payback—let the bastard simmer in his own venom, betrayed by people he considered allies. But then it became something bigger: the sacred place is never empty, and the herd of sheep is always in need of guidance. That's when Coriolanus knew what he had to do for the better future of Panem. For the pride of his family. For the satisfaction of his hunger.
He is deep in his thoughts when YN appears in the doorframe; she is careful not to make too much noise as she waits for him to look up. Beautiful, like death herself— Coriolanus saw her enough times up close to recognize the dark glimmer in her eyes.
''Come here,'' he motions, clearing the space on the table for her to sit.
She does. YN's steps are light, even in the heels she always wears. There were a lot of things money couldn't buy, and class was one of them. Nobody came close to her upbringing; therefore, nobody could come close to him.
''Here,'' he hands her his speech, a careful combination of neat letters. Coriolanus watches with starved eyes as she reads, studying every expression and passing of emotion on her dolled-up face. ''What do you think?''
''It's good, really good.'' YN nods, a small smile covering her lips. ''You were always great at this type of thing, since the academy.''
Coriolanus feels a cold sting in his abdomen; she knows him. Before he became a man, before he got a chance to truly be the person he was destined to be, YN remembers a peckish, awkward boy who was pathetic enough to let an animal fool him.
''Thank you,'' he says, placing a hand on her thigh and slowly sliding it up. He likes the way her body reacts in response, leaning closer.
It doesn't matter who he was before. He won, and he is almost at the top—a few steps, and there won't be just her body underneath him—the whole country will be in his hands.
-
Her husband is messed up. The way he fucked her in the dining hall hours before the guest arrived, in the same dining hall where they stand, brings a smile to YN's face. Nobody suspects a thing, not even her closest confidants, who now sipped from the stylish tall glasses beside YN, conversing on everything and anything but the swollenness of her lips.
Coriolanus wants to play in politics now that he has had enough of game-making. Like a small, pouty child tired of his old toys. The thought of her husband in a one-piece strikes her as funny; her mind is drawing the picture vividly. He was, for sure, a mama's boy. He still is.
It's cute, the way he kisses her aged picture when he thinks YN can't see him, or the way he buys the rose female perfume nobody ever uses—its smell still lingers in the air every time the maids change the sheets. The only woman who can truly love is a mother, he told her one day. The only woman he thought was deserving of loving back.
YN watches as he approaches the group of men with confident steps. The people are right, the way is wrong—if it were that easy to fit in their circle, it wouldn't be as important. Just like she predicted, he is quickly cast aside to the benches of dialogue; the tall figure of her husband lingers silently, waiting for the right moment to strike.
It's entertaining to see him slowly boil, which goes unnoticed by everybody else in the hall. YN observed him for years to crack his facade as swiftly as she does now. A few moments, and he will decide to walk away, unable to swallow his pride back anymore, and there will be no chance of meeting the people he desperately needs.
''Excuse me for a moment,'' YN smiles at the women beside her, placing her glass on the gilded trail. They are good people—sure, some a little less bright and some a little less assertive as she is, but still, most of the information she finds useful comes from them—silent furniture, as they often joke. They are noticed no more than vases in the corners of their grand mansions; just like their houses, their husbands come in different shapes, and just like houses, the inside is always the same. Empty.
''Good evening, gentleman!'' she chirps, putting on one of her many expressions. She never felt bad about changing her face to fit the situation better; after all, they were all just different versions of her. ''I believe you already met my husband.'' YN delicately diverts her gaze from the black mass of suits to her husband's face, sending a loving smile his way.
The men are smitten, as usual. Who could've thought the young lad was the owner of this house? YN doesn't pay them much attention; they are never the driving force behind connections. Instead, she turns to the only woman in the bleak company.
''Missis Nej, what a lovely broch! You have to tell me where you got it; the details are incredible!''
It was true—YN sees no point in lying about liking something when the compliment is right there—a beautiful dove broch with sparkly gems instead of eyes, placed on a delicate lace.
The woman's face lights up at her words. ''I made the design myself, and then my seamstress pulled it together. I am glad you like it—isn't the stitching so fine?''
''It is! I wish I was as creative as you are; my imagination is only enough for the table centerpieces.''
''You know what? I have many other drafts at home; why don't you and your husband stop by for tea for a few hours? To see if my seamstress could come up with something for you?''
''Oh, that would be absolutely wonderful! What do you think, Coriolanus?''
What can he think? Her husband is happy things are going his way, of course, but there is something else in his gaze that makes YN's heart skip a beat. Suspicion. The only thing she should be scared of was her husband's mind—the deadliest of the weapons, his paranoia. It, like a vicious exotic, has to be put away from his reach; it sinks its teeth in everything Coriolanus feeds to it, and if he does not, turns onto him.
He smiles and nods, wrapping his hand around her bare shoulders. YN thinks she ought to be more careful; it was her job to keep him on a leash, like a beat she signed to care for. Whose fault would it be if the wild thing did what wild things do—bite?
-
He almost doesn't have any opponents left. Those who dared not to support the young candidate from the party were quickly silenced, and those who tried to get their hands on Snow's place were eliminated. What was better was that nothing could be traced back to the blonde male in a red suit. YN didn't worry about that.
She had to work overtime to make sure their paths didn't cross. Coriolanus never told her his plans so she could build hers. Oh, no. She had to scurry, like a rat, searching for his ideas to make sure they didn't clash with hers because, just like her mother told her, you can't put on everything best at once.
That's why YN sits in the dim, foul-smelling room on the outcast of the city during what was supposed to be a lunch hour. She almost laughs at the thought of her Coriolanus finding out where his wife spent this afternoon— in a brothel, in clothes that weren't even hers, without her usual jewellery and signature scent.
The door to the room opens quickly, but YN doesn't even bother looking in its direction. She knew what she was going to see there, so why bother?
''YN,'' the man in his forties breathes out, ''you came.''
Jerome. A tailored suit of dark brown, matching his hair. Wealthy, pretty enough, and damn stubborn. One of the few who refused to step down in elections, one of the few who still had a huge chance at winning them.
''Of course, I did—how could I not?'' She sheds a tear, breathing in his scent and hiding her face in his lean chest. ''I missed you, J; I missed you so much.''
They used to fuck before she married Coriolanus, ever since she turned eighteen. He even wanted to marry her for some time before she married Snow. YN was quite popular with the suitors; her husband was a fool for thinking other men didn't notice her. They did.
Jerome crushes her lips with his, leaving no time for talking. He was a serious man—a tough man, even—the type to endure the hardships of life without complaining. He is the type to get what he wants, no matter the obstacles. YN thinks he could've been on top instead of her dear husband if she only chose to marry him, but Jerome is too human for her. He is a man, a man who takes pleasure in her, and YN can't stand it. She likes her lovers without weaknesses, and Jerome isn't like that.
When an hour passes, YN thinks it is time to return home; she kisses Jerome goodbye one last time and waits for him to exit the room as quickly as he enters. That's the agreement: he pays for the room under his name; he deals with hosts and room service. YN just has to be, and he is happy with that.
She waits exactly fifteen minutes before she picks up her coat from the floor and puts it on—fifteen minutes is what was needed for a junkie she hired to stab Jerome in the ally seven times—for every year of their age gap when he first kissed her at her birthday party. Symbolic: She pays attention to the details, not only on her high-end dresses. YN imagines the headlines in the papers tomorrow morning: a respected politician found dead near the whorehouse. A death fit for a pig.
She leaves the building in a good mood—one more step to being the first lady of Panem—and she still has an hour before Coriolanus returns home. YN has everything in check, down to the smallest gist, except for the blonde man in the telephone booth across the street.
-
Coriolanus is mad. Another man, behind his back, even if for the sole purpose of eliminating him. He doesn't like that YN makes arrangements when it is he who is the man of the house, the driving force behind the successes. She forgot her place, and if he has to remind her, he will. Coriolanus always liked YN better with her mouth shut.
''How are things at work?'' YN asks, twirling in front of the mirror in their bedroom. It's like she doesn't notice his annoyed stare or his jealous eyes following her every move.
Coriolanus doesn't answer. He pulls her closer and takes off her robe in one swift motion. It falls on the floor, light blue fabric pooling around his feet. He searches for something—anything—to indicate another man's presence near her body or in it. Nothing—her skin glows under the faint light of lamps, free of any marks or scratches.
Coriolanus sighed with relief, his hands letting go of YN's hips. She looks at him, confused.
''Is there anything wrong? Why did you stop?''
He wants to slap her. To make her apologize, to make her beg for his forgiveness. But something in her deep eyes and painted lips makes his head cloud, stirring around a familiar mix of emotions. Anger. Lust. Fear. Maybe she was the death herself—he wouldn't know. The way YN laughed as he kissed her exposed skin, pressing a little too hard for it to be enjoyable, made blood rush to his body. ''Tell me,'' Coriolanus whispers in her ear. "Have you ever killed?"
YN grins, holding his reddened face in her hands. ''No, never.''
Coriolanus chuckles softly, diverting his gaze to her chest. A lie.
He turns her around, pushing her body on the bed before getting on his knees. That was the night he knew she had to die.
-
It wasn't hard to make her fall in love with him. Flowers on the doorstep of the mansion just in time for her to leave the house, along with a handwritten note declaring his undying affection. Make her less alert; make her more vulnerable. YN gave him the key to her demise easily—it was always him.
Coriolanus was good at ensuring everyone benefited him, and his wife did nothing better than play right into his hands. YN willingly planned her own funeral with her every move—she knew too much about his secrets and had become a liability. If only she knew better than to play with fire, she might have stood a chance.
It's a shame, really, to kill her so soon. He was almost enjoying her—the way she trembled under his touch, the way she whispered his name in ecstasy. But that was the way of the world. There could be only one winner, and Coriolanus knew better than to believe his wife when she promised to always be loyal. If your dog bites you, someone else is feeding it.
''New wine?'' YN motions to the tall bottle on the table as they eat dinner. ''Is this the one from the Darians?''
Coriolanus shakes his head. Darians. It was like fate was testing his patience, as if one headache wasn't enough. The only one of his possible opponents in the upcoming elections held a good amount of votes, mainly because of his recognizable name. The Darians were wine magnates, with at least forty vineyards under their name. Of course, they gifted wine bottles for holidays, and of course, it was nothing but a slap in the face—Coriolanus could very much afford to buy his own bottles.
''I bought this one yesterday. Would you like a glass?'' he pours before YN has time to agree; the dark red liquor fills their glasses, turning the transparent walls slightly pink. Coriolanus watches as his wife takes a big sip, surprise evident on her face.
''It's sweet,'' she announces but quickly corrects herself. ''But it is good. Unusual, but quite nice.''
''Really?'' He acts surprised and takes a small sip, not to raise any suspicion. ''It indeed is.''
They continue their dinner as usual, with occasional remarks here and there. Everything goes according to plan, with YN drinking from her glass more than twice more. Until it doesn't.
Fifty-five minutes.
This is how long he has before the poison kills him. Given that YN weighs less and consumes more, she should start to portray the first symptoms. She doesn't.
Twenty minutes pass, and Coriolanus feels a slight nausea. Twenty-five—his head starts lightly spinning. He watches his wife put down a fork and stare at the sky through the open window. If she faints now, he would still have time to drink the antidote, but she doesn't. Instead, she smiles at his wandering gaze and asks for dessert.
When thirty minutes pass, Coriolanus feels a stream of blood travels down his chin onto the freshly washed shirt. He can't keep himself on the chair, sliding down from it on the carpeted floor. The surrounding furniture stands as if in a haze, and the only thing he can make out is the nearing steps of the heeled feet.
YN says something, kneeling beside him and putting his head on her lap, although he can't understand the word she utters. It hits him like a brick wall—the smell of roses radiating from her, the same perfume his mother wore. Her hands, although adorned with more rings than his mother could've possibly owned, are just as gentle when they touch his forehead.
''I'm sorry,'' he tries to choke out, but all that comes out of his mouth is hot, thick blood.
-
When Coriolanus wakes up in the hospital, he is frantic. The only thing he was familiar with was the only thing he tried so hard to escape. Fear. It spreads through his body, paralyzing his limbs in the white room of a singular bed. It chocks him, tugging the strings in his throat to leave hot, burning holes each time he swallows. It burns, and bites, and twists in his stomach; if he survives, YN will get her revenge.
That's why she kept him alive—to taunt and mock. He lost, once and for all, and got himself into a corner with no escape. There is no point in begging, no point in lying—his wife knows everything he did, and she won't hesitate to let the whole country know. Outsmarted, outplayed. Alone.
His eyes wander across the room in a last resort—he will take his own life, and she will have no power in making him a laughing stock. But the hospital room is empty; the only thing besides a small coffee table and bed is a pile of newspapers. Coriolanus stands up and almost falls in an attempt to reach them, yet manages to grab one. Just like he predicted, on the front page of it is the perfectly painted face of his wife; the beauty of it is disturbed only by a single tear rolling down her cheek.
POISONING ATTEMPT ON A FAMOUS POLITICIAN
Three days ago, an attempted poisoning took place in the Snow's family's mansion. Our correspondent was lucky enough to ask a few questions to YN Snow, the wife of the victim.
''Tell me, Miss Snow, why do you think you and your husband were the targets of this crime?''
''I think it is rather obvious that motive was political; we all know that my husband posed a serious threat to Ethan Darius because he was estimated to win instead of him. That's why he decided to kill him in that dirty way, like a snake, with poison, instead of losing to him in a fair competition like any gentleman would!''
''And do you think there are any correlations between Mister Darius and a string of suspicious murders of civilians and people higher in power?''
''As far as my knowledge goes, the court is still deciding on the matter, but one thing I know for sure: if Ethan Darius went as far as to try to kill his opponent, what indicates he wouldn't have done the same with others? ''
''People of Panem were moved by the love you and your husband seem to hold for each other ever since your wedding, but the way you fight for justice made many wonder - will we see you as a first lady of Panem soon?''
''I just do what any person would—it is my duty as a wife and as a citizen to advocate for those who were wronged. As for your question, I do think this happening only solidified that our country and political scene need change. And change is what my husband stands for.''
''And lastly, is there anything you wish you could say to your husband right now?''
''I would want to remind him of a simple truth: the one who is more afraid always strikes first. Thank you.''
Coriolanus didn't need to read anymore. YN made sure she wasn't going anywhere if he did something like that in the future—the public loved her before, but now they will go crazy. But that didn't bother him too much; on the contrary, he was rather impressed. Coriolanus felt fear leave his body with every breath. His place took something else, something he couldn't quite name yet—the feeling of stillness in his stomach. He wondered if that's what fullness felt like. A sweet, honey-like sensation in his veins.
-
The hall of the president's house is filled with what seems to be hundreds of people. Tables are overflowing with the most exquisite dishes, and laughter fills the air.
''Corio, look! The kids are dressed as little snowflakes—for us! Oh, isn't it so cute?'' YN coes, motioning at the girls-ballerinas in white tutus. They twirl on the stage, their movements mimicking the ones of snow falling outside.
He doesn't care if they are dressed as giant cockroaches, but he still nods in agreement. Coriolanus watches as YN steals one white rose from the piles decorating the balcony and throws it on stage, laughing in delight when girls start to argue over it.
There are flashes of cameras capturing every interaction between them; he knows that, so he places his hand on the back of the chair YN sits on. She looks as beautiful as always, perfect from every angle. His wife might be poison, dangerous, and lethal, but he is the one who knows that, when handled with care, it brings much more benefits to its owner than any other weapon.
Coriolanus already envisions their photo as the headline tomorrow morning—beside them, the big, bold letters.
Panem today.
He feels YN place a kiss on his cheek, staining it a little with her red lipstick.
Panem tomorrow.
Coriolanus smiles and brings her closer, whispering a compliment in her ear.
Panem forever.
The hall erupts with applause and cheers, some even going as far as shouting words of admiration for the new president and his wife.
They are the guard dogs, and they are the house dogs guard. And, until the last brick of it is there, they will bite.
tag list (do tell me if I'm doing it wrong) @aemondsb1tch @cecekcecekceckceckceck @queenofshinigamis @julesandro
summary: It's a shame, really, to kill her so soon. He was almost enjoying her—the way she trembled under his touch, the way she whispered his name in ecstasy. But that was the way of the world. There could be only one winner, and Coriolanus knew better than to believe his wife when she promised to always be loyal. If your dog bites you, someone else is feeding it.
warnings: mentions of minor violence, mentions of cheating, not really canon-compliant, blood and shitty people in shitty relationships
word count: 3,7k
Part 1 is here
author's note: part 2 of Losing Dogs is here! thank you for the love and support that you showed for the first chapter - hope you enjoy this one too! we all love some twisted people in fiction :)
She knows.
It's in his mind when they get into the black car, away from the president's party and obnoxiously loud music, with a few new cuts on his hands and faint blue marks on her neck.
She knows.
It's the only thought in his head when it hits the pillow at almost midnight, as her warm body lays beside him, breathing even so faintly. His brain almost explodes under the pressure of guessing her thoughts, hidden behind the soft smile and gentle touch. She, the ghost wrapped in opulent sheets, is a new figure on the chessboard. The crippling fear of being watched cuts his forehead in sharp, taunting pain.
YN, the blind lamb with sharp teeth, knows.
-
He did everything right. A whisper here, a bribe there, and no one noticed how a small, silly rumour grew into a threat almost overnight, pointing its sleek, twisted fingers at the President. Corrupt, illegal activities—that's what the press called them, but the truth was much less poetic. Some lines shouldn't be crossed, and some people shouldn't be trusted.
It was supposed to be a simple payback—let the bastard simmer in his own venom, betrayed by people he considered allies. But then it became something bigger: the sacred place is never empty, and the herd of sheep is always in need of guidance. That's when Coriolanus knew what he had to do for the better future of Panem. For the pride of his family. For the satisfaction of his hunger.
He is deep in his thoughts when YN appears in the doorframe; she is careful not to make too much noise as she waits for him to look up. Beautiful, like death herself— Coriolanus saw her enough times up close to recognize the dark glimmer in her eyes.
''Come here,'' he motions, clearing the space on the table for her to sit.
She does. YN's steps are light, even in the heels she always wears. There were a lot of things money couldn't buy, and class was one of them. Nobody came close to her upbringing; therefore, nobody could come close to him.
''Here,'' he hands her his speech, a careful combination of neat letters. Coriolanus watches with starved eyes as she reads, studying every expression and passing of emotion on her dolled-up face. ''What do you think?''
''It's good, really good.'' YN nods, a small smile covering her lips. ''You were always great at this type of thing, since the academy.''
Coriolanus feels a cold sting in his abdomen; she knows him. Before he became a man, before he got a chance to truly be the person he was destined to be, YN remembers a peckish, awkward boy who was pathetic enough to let an animal fool him.
''Thank you,'' he says, placing a hand on her thigh and slowly sliding it up. He likes the way her body reacts in response, leaning closer.
It doesn't matter who he was before. He won, and he is almost at the top—a few steps, and there won't be just her body underneath him—the whole country will be in his hands.
-
Her husband is messed up. The way he fucked her in the dining hall hours before the guest arrived, in the same dining hall where they stand, brings a smile to YN's face. Nobody suspects a thing, not even her closest confidants, who now sipped from the stylish tall glasses beside YN, conversing on everything and anything but the swollenness of her lips.
Coriolanus wants to play in politics now that he has had enough of game-making. Like a small, pouty child tired of his old toys. The thought of her husband in a one-piece strikes her as funny; her mind is drawing the picture vividly. He was, for sure, a mama's boy. He still is.
It's cute, the way he kisses her aged picture when he thinks YN can't see him, or the way he buys the rose female perfume nobody ever uses—its smell still lingers in the air every time the maids change the sheets. The only woman who can truly love is a mother, he told her one day. The only woman he thought was deserving of loving back.
YN watches as he approaches the group of men with confident steps. The people are right, the way is wrong—if it were that easy to fit in their circle, it wouldn't be as important. Just like she predicted, he is quickly cast aside to the benches of dialogue; the tall figure of her husband lingers silently, waiting for the right moment to strike.
It's entertaining to see him slowly boil, which goes unnoticed by everybody else in the hall. YN observed him for years to crack his facade as swiftly as she does now. A few moments, and he will decide to walk away, unable to swallow his pride back anymore, and there will be no chance of meeting the people he desperately needs.
''Excuse me for a moment,'' YN smiles at the women beside her, placing her glass on the gilded trail. They are good people—sure, some a little less bright and some a little less assertive as she is, but still, most of the information she finds useful comes from them—silent furniture, as they often joke. They are noticed no more than vases in the corners of their grand mansions; just like their houses, their husbands come in different shapes, and just like houses, the inside is always the same. Empty.
''Good evening, gentleman!'' she chirps, putting on one of her many expressions. She never felt bad about changing her face to fit the situation better; after all, they were all just different versions of her. ''I believe you already met my husband.'' YN delicately diverts her gaze from the black mass of suits to her husband's face, sending a loving smile his way.
The men are smitten, as usual. Who could've thought the young lad was the owner of this house? YN doesn't pay them much attention; they are never the driving force behind connections. Instead, she turns to the only woman in the bleak company.
''Missis Nej, what a lovely broch! You have to tell me where you got it; the details are incredible!''
It was true—YN sees no point in lying about liking something when the compliment is right there—a beautiful dove broch with sparkly gems instead of eyes, placed on a delicate lace.
The woman's face lights up at her words. ''I made the design myself, and then my seamstress pulled it together. I am glad you like it—isn't the stitching so fine?''
''It is! I wish I was as creative as you are; my imagination is only enough for the table centerpieces.''
''You know what? I have many other drafts at home; why don't you and your husband stop by for tea for a few hours? To see if my seamstress could come up with something for you?''
''Oh, that would be absolutely wonderful! What do you think, Coriolanus?''
What can he think? Her husband is happy things are going his way, of course, but there is something else in his gaze that makes YN's heart skip a beat. Suspicion. The only thing she should be scared of was her husband's mind—the deadliest of the weapons, his paranoia. It, like a vicious exotic, has to be put away from his reach; it sinks its teeth in everything Coriolanus feeds to it, and if he does not, turns onto him.
He smiles and nods, wrapping his hand around her bare shoulders. YN thinks she ought to be more careful; it was her job to keep him on a leash, like a beat she signed to care for. Whose fault would it be if the wild thing did what wild things do—bite?
-
He almost doesn't have any opponents left. Those who dared not to support the young candidate from the party were quickly silenced, and those who tried to get their hands on Snow's place were eliminated. What was better was that nothing could be traced back to the blonde male in a red suit. YN didn't worry about that.
She had to work overtime to make sure their paths didn't cross. Coriolanus never told her his plans so she could build hers. Oh, no. She had to scurry, like a rat, searching for his ideas to make sure they didn't clash with hers because, just like her mother told her, you can't put on everything best at once.
That's why YN sits in the dim, foul-smelling room on the outcast of the city during what was supposed to be a lunch hour. She almost laughs at the thought of her Coriolanus finding out where his wife spent this afternoon— in a brothel, in clothes that weren't even hers, without her usual jewellery and signature scent.
The door to the room opens quickly, but YN doesn't even bother looking in its direction. She knew what she was going to see there, so why bother?
''YN,'' the man in his forties breathes out, ''you came.''
Jerome. A tailored suit of dark brown, matching his hair. Wealthy, pretty enough, and damn stubborn. One of the few who refused to step down in elections, one of the few who still had a huge chance at winning them.
''Of course, I did—how could I not?'' She sheds a tear, breathing in his scent and hiding her face in his lean chest. ''I missed you, J; I missed you so much.''
They used to fuck before she married Coriolanus, ever since she turned eighteen. He even wanted to marry her for some time before she married Snow. YN was quite popular with the suitors; her husband was a fool for thinking other men didn't notice her. They did.
Jerome crushes her lips with his, leaving no time for talking. He was a serious man—a tough man, even—the type to endure the hardships of life without complaining. He is the type to get what he wants, no matter the obstacles. YN thinks he could've been on top instead of her dear husband if she only chose to marry him, but Jerome is too human for her. He is a man, a man who takes pleasure in her, and YN can't stand it. She likes her lovers without weaknesses, and Jerome isn't like that.
When an hour passes, YN thinks it is time to return home; she kisses Jerome goodbye one last time and waits for him to exit the room as quickly as he enters. That's the agreement: he pays for the room under his name; he deals with hosts and room service. YN just has to be, and he is happy with that.
She waits exactly fifteen minutes before she picks up her coat from the floor and puts it on—fifteen minutes is what was needed for a junkie she hired to stab Jerome in the ally seven times—for every year of their age gap when he first kissed her at her birthday party. Symbolic: She pays attention to the details, not only on her high-end dresses. YN imagines the headlines in the papers tomorrow morning: a respected politician found dead near the whorehouse. A death fit for a pig.
She leaves the building in a good mood—one more step to being the first lady of Panem—and she still has an hour before Coriolanus returns home. YN has everything in check, down to the smallest gist, except for the blonde man in the telephone booth across the street.
-
Coriolanus is mad. Another man, behind his back, even if for the sole purpose of eliminating him. He doesn't like that YN makes arrangements when it is he who is the man of the house, the driving force behind the successes. She forgot her place, and if he has to remind her, he will. Coriolanus always liked YN better with her mouth shut.
''How are things at work?'' YN asks, twirling in front of the mirror in their bedroom. It's like she doesn't notice his annoyed stare or his jealous eyes following her every move.
Coriolanus doesn't answer. He pulls her closer and takes off her robe in one swift motion. It falls on the floor, light blue fabric pooling around his feet. He searches for something—anything—to indicate another man's presence near her body or in it. Nothing—her skin glows under the faint light of lamps, free of any marks or scratches.
Coriolanus sighed with relief, his hands letting go of YN's hips. She looks at him, confused.
''Is there anything wrong? Why did you stop?''
He wants to slap her. To make her apologize, to make her beg for his forgiveness. But something in her deep eyes and painted lips makes his head cloud, stirring around a familiar mix of emotions. Anger. Lust. Fear. Maybe she was the death herself—he wouldn't know. The way YN laughed as he kissed her exposed skin, pressing a little too hard for it to be enjoyable, made blood rush to his body. ''Tell me,'' Coriolanus whispers in her ear. "Have you ever killed?"
YN grins, holding his reddened face in her hands. ''No, never.''
Coriolanus chuckles softly, diverting his gaze to her chest. A lie.
He turns her around, pushing her body on the bed before getting on his knees. That was the night he knew she had to die.
-
It wasn't hard to make her fall in love with him. Flowers on the doorstep of the mansion just in time for her to leave the house, along with a handwritten note declaring his undying affection. Make her less alert; make her more vulnerable. YN gave him the key to her demise easily—it was always him.
Coriolanus was good at ensuring everyone benefited him, and his wife did nothing better than play right into his hands. YN willingly planned her own funeral with her every move—she knew too much about his secrets and had become a liability. If only she knew better than to play with fire, she might have stood a chance.
It's a shame, really, to kill her so soon. He was almost enjoying her—the way she trembled under his touch, the way she whispered his name in ecstasy. But that was the way of the world. There could be only one winner, and Coriolanus knew better than to believe his wife when she promised to always be loyal. If your dog bites you, someone else is feeding it.
''New wine?'' YN motions to the tall bottle on the table as they eat dinner. ''Is this the one from the Darians?''
Coriolanus shakes his head. Darians. It was like fate was testing his patience, as if one headache wasn't enough. The only one of his possible opponents in the upcoming elections held a good amount of votes, mainly because of his recognizable name. The Darians were wine magnates, with at least forty vineyards under their name. Of course, they gifted wine bottles for holidays, and of course, it was nothing but a slap in the face—Coriolanus could very much afford to buy his own bottles.
''I bought this one yesterday. Would you like a glass?'' he pours before YN has time to agree; the dark red liquor fills their glasses, turning the transparent walls slightly pink. Coriolanus watches as his wife takes a big sip, surprise evident on her face.
''It's sweet,'' she announces but quickly corrects herself. ''But it is good. Unusual, but quite nice.''
''Really?'' He acts surprised and takes a small sip, not to raise any suspicion. ''It indeed is.''
They continue their dinner as usual, with occasional remarks here and there. Everything goes according to plan, with YN drinking from her glass more than twice more. Until it doesn't.
Fifty-five minutes.
This is how long he has before the poison kills him. Given that YN weighs less and consumes more, she should start to portray the first symptoms. She doesn't.
Twenty minutes pass, and Coriolanus feels a slight nausea. Twenty-five—his head starts lightly spinning. He watches his wife put down a fork and stare at the sky through the open window. If she faints now, he would still have time to drink the antidote, but she doesn't. Instead, she smiles at his wandering gaze and asks for dessert.
When thirty minutes pass, Coriolanus feels a stream of blood travels down his chin onto the freshly washed shirt. He can't keep himself on the chair, sliding down from it on the carpeted floor. The surrounding furniture stands as if in a haze, and the only thing he can make out is the nearing steps of the heeled feet.
YN says something, kneeling beside him and putting his head on her lap, although he can't understand the word she utters. It hits him like a brick wall—the smell of roses radiating from her, the same perfume his mother wore. Her hands, although adorned with more rings than his mother could've possibly owned, are just as gentle when they touch his forehead.
''I'm sorry,'' he tries to choke out, but all that comes out of his mouth is hot, thick blood.
-
When Coriolanus wakes up in the hospital, he is frantic. The only thing he was familiar with was the only thing he tried so hard to escape. Fear. It spreads through his body, paralyzing his limbs in the white room of a singular bed. It chocks him, tugging the strings in his throat to leave hot, burning holes each time he swallows. It burns, and bites, and twists in his stomach; if he survives, YN will get her revenge.
That's why she kept him alive—to taunt and mock. He lost, once and for all, and got himself into a corner with no escape. There is no point in begging, no point in lying—his wife knows everything he did, and she won't hesitate to let the whole country know. Outsmarted, outplayed. Alone.
His eyes wander across the room in a last resort—he will take his own life, and she will have no power in making him a laughing stock. But the hospital room is empty; the only thing besides a small coffee table and bed is a pile of newspapers. Coriolanus stands up and almost falls in an attempt to reach them, yet manages to grab one. Just like he predicted, on the front page of it is the perfectly painted face of his wife; the beauty of it is disturbed only by a single tear rolling down her cheek.
POISONING ATTEMPT ON A FAMOUS POLITICIAN
Three days ago, an attempted poisoning took place in the Snow's family's mansion. Our correspondent was lucky enough to ask a few questions to YN Snow, the wife of the victim.
''Tell me, Miss Snow, why do you think you and your husband were the targets of this crime?''
''I think it is rather obvious that motive was political; we all know that my husband posed a serious threat to Ethan Darius because he was estimated to win instead of him. That's why he decided to kill him in that dirty way, like a snake, with poison, instead of losing to him in a fair competition like any gentleman would!''
''And do you think there are any correlations between Mister Darius and a string of suspicious murders of civilians and people higher in power?''
''As far as my knowledge goes, the court is still deciding on the matter, but one thing I know for sure: if Ethan Darius went as far as to try to kill his opponent, what indicates he wouldn't have done the same with others? ''
''People of Panem were moved by the love you and your husband seem to hold for each other ever since your wedding, but the way you fight for justice made many wonder - will we see you as a first lady of Panem soon?''
''I just do what any person would—it is my duty as a wife and as a citizen to advocate for those who were wronged. As for your question, I do think this happening only solidified that our country and political scene need change. And change is what my husband stands for.''
''And lastly, is there anything you wish you could say to your husband right now?''
''I would want to remind him of a simple truth: the one who is more afraid always strikes first. Thank you.''
Coriolanus didn't need to read anymore. YN made sure she wasn't going anywhere if he did something like that in the future—the public loved her before, but now they will go crazy. But that didn't bother him too much; on the contrary, he was rather impressed. Coriolanus felt fear leave his body with every breath. His place took something else, something he couldn't quite name yet—the feeling of stillness in his stomach. He wondered if that's what fullness felt like. A sweet, honey-like sensation in his veins.
-
The hall of the president's house is filled with what seems to be hundreds of people. Tables are overflowing with the most exquisite dishes, and laughter fills the air.
''Corio, look! The kids are dressed as little snowflakes—for us! Oh, isn't it so cute?'' YN coes, motioning at the girls-ballerinas in white tutus. They twirl on the stage, their movements mimicking the ones of snow falling outside.
He doesn't care if they are dressed as giant cockroaches, but he still nods in agreement. Coriolanus watches as YN steals one white rose from the piles decorating the balcony and throws it on stage, laughing in delight when girls start to argue over it.
There are flashes of cameras capturing every interaction between them; he knows that, so he places his hand on the back of the chair YN sits on. She looks as beautiful as always, perfect from every angle. His wife might be poison, dangerous, and lethal, but he is the one who knows that, when handled with care, it brings much more benefits to its owner than any other weapon.
Coriolanus already envisions their photo as the headline tomorrow morning—beside them, the big, bold letters.
Panem today.
He feels YN place a kiss on his cheek, staining it a little with her red lipstick.
Panem tomorrow.
Coriolanus smiles and brings her closer, whispering a compliment in her ear.
Panem forever.
The hall erupts with applause and cheers, some even going as far as shouting words of admiration for the new president and his wife.
They are the guard dogs, and they are the house dogs guard. And, until the last brick of it is there, they will bite.
tag list (do tell me if I'm doing it wrong) @aemondsb1tch @cecekcecekceckceckceck @queenofshinigamis @julesandro
summary: His golden prize, his future wife, was now bound to him by the ring on her finger. Of all of his investments, this one had the potential to yield the greatest return.
warnings: not really canon-compliant, mentions of minor violence, blood and shitty relationships
word count: 4k
Part 2 is here!
author's note: remember kids, manipulators and sick bastards are only hot in fiction - don't do them (and drugs) in real life!
The polished toes of his new shoes reflected everything in the grand hall—they caught glimmers of lamps adorned with gold, colourful drapes on the enormous windows, and the kaleidoscopic dresses of women around. The chatter filled the room, almost too loud to hear the music—not that he would enjoy it either. Some things require focus.
''Mister Fabius, Missis Fabius.''
Corialanus's face melts into a smile-like expression at the sight of the older couple.
They look like lice in the large building—rich lice, that is. The golden and platinum rings on Missis Fabius's fingers shine with every gemstone known to man, mirroring the bright lights. The jewels look ugly on the wrinkly hand, he notes. What a waste.
''Mister Snow, what a surprise! I was just telling Livia of your prodigious success in your new position. Incredible work, Mr. Snow; simply incredible! ''
The man's face radiated with excitement, getting closer in shade to his burgundy tie. The gold threats on it piqued more interest for Mister Snow than the words of the old man—after all, it's not every day you meet such luxury in person.
The man's wife, however, seemed less enthusiastic; her cold, bored gaze circled him up and down, stopping only after getting the satisfaction of an undoubtedly unpleasant conclusion.
Coriolanus mentally went over his outfit, hairstyle, and anything else she might have noticed. Nothing was out of place; the holes in his coat were a thing of the past. Still, it was something—that thought found its place in his brain, drilling a small hole in its way.
''When will we know of your decision, Mister Snow? We gave you time—a lot of time.''
''This evening, Mrs. Fabius. After the play, I promise to give you my answer tonight.''
He has to look first. What fool buys a horse blind? Sure, the horse came with immense fortunes and, most importantly, connections, but still. He couldn't afford to make a hasty decision, especially when the stakes were so high. After all, he was one of the most desirable bachelors; Fabiuses had to thank him for even considering the offer.
''There is no agreement until tomorrow, Mister Snow. We will have you for breakfast at nine o'clock sharp,'' Mr Fabius said, placing a hand on his wife's back and leading her towards the entrance. They could afford not to make one's adieu.
The opera was popular among the richest; all of the seats were taken. He would have lied if he said the golden rails and red velvet didn't make him feel a bit out of place. Nobody paid him any attention, although this time it didn't hurt him as much as usual. He could hide in the shadows of his box seat without being concerned about making an impression.
Not the stage, of course. It was the least of his worries, although he did pay a high price for a ticket. No, he looked at her.
The golden gown on her was a shimmering masterpiece. Layers and layers of the most expensive fabric covered her body like soft waves, crashing down at the round neckline with their gilded ends. She wore diamond earrings, just like her mother did, although they suited her better.
Coriolanus remembered her from the academy; she always sat near the window, gazing out at the world with a longing in her eyes. She wasn't a very bright student but rather a dutiful one. always on time, always prepared with her assignments, and always eager to please her teachers. The heiress to the jewellery empire. The flower of the elite social scene. Her presence attracted attention, yet she seamlessly blended into the background, never stealing the spotlight. YN Fabius was everything he needed her to be—a picture, but never a spectacle.
-
The manor was grand and opulent, showing the wealth and status of the Fabius family. Its sprawling gardens and delicate architecture were a testament to its esteemed position in society. Collums, paintings, and endless staircases stood as if frozen in time. It was as if there was no war just a decade ago.
''Mister Snow,'' the butler called out, his voice echoing through the grand foyer. ''Breakfast is served in the blue dining hall; if you would please follow me.''
Thousands and thousands of steps and passages lined the walls, leading to various wings and chambers of the mansion. It was warm, even during the cold autumn season. Only keeping the fireplaces always lit must cost a fortune.
When they finally reached the needed room, Coriolanus was slightly out of breath. The blue walls reached the high ceiling, painted with pictures of half-naked gods and goddesses frolicking in fields of flowers. It created the illusion of a smell wafting through the air as if the vibrant colours had come to life.
The table was served for four, not three, suggesting that someone else was expected to join them. The silverware gleamed under the soft rays of sunshine, casting a shimmering glow across the room—pure silver, nothing less.
The door behind him opened with a gentle creak, revealing Mr. Fabiuse's humble figure. His simple, at first glance, shirt was another of the perfectly constructed illusions—Coriolanus knew the fabrics like the back of his hand. The shirt, though seemingly plain, was made from the finest Egyptian cotton, woven with intricate patterns.
''Mister Snow, how good that you came on time. Excuse my ladies, the girls are such girls at every age. Take so long to get ready,'' he laughs. ''Please, take a seat," Mr. Fabius said, gesturing towards a plush chair covered in velvet.
''There is no point in all of those paints once you hit sixty,'' Mrs.Fabius said, appearing right behind her husband. She circled the table before taking a seat herself, her eyes glancing disapprovingly at the young man. "Let's begin before the food grows cold," she added with a sigh, her tone tinged with resignation.
''Of course,'' Mr. Fabius nodded, lifting the lid on the first dish. The aroma of it filled the room, and Coriolanus couldn't help but feel his hunger grow. He didn't have the habit of eating so much in the morning—another thing he needs to adjust about his routine.
When Mr.Fabius finally placed the fork down, Coriolanus knew it was time. ''Thank you for the invitation, Mr. Fabius. I must say, I thought a lot about your proposal, and after careful consideration, I have decided to accept it.''
''Good.'' Mrs. Fabius answered instead, her eyes sparkling with satisfaction. "I'm glad to hear that, Coriolanus. I believe this union will bring great delights to both of us."
Mr. Fabius seemed not to notice the interruption. ''I think a winter wedding would be absolutely perfect. Everybody seems to be getting married in the spring, but in the winter? Oh, it's definitely going to be a hit. Ah, and here's the lucky bride-to-be!''
She stood beside the just-opened door, her eyes following his expressions. Her hands, adorned just with one small pearl ring, were gently clasped together in front of her. She looked nervous, like a child standing in front of the full class on the first school day. Her dress, a delicate lace creation, clings to her figure like a second skin.
He smiled at her. YN looked like an antique statue, as if she just stepped out of the ruins of the Panem. Coriolanus wasn't even sure she was breathing—her stillness was so deep.
''Let's leave the lover birds to chirp,'' Mrs.Fabius said, standing up. She walked towards the couple, her heels clicking against the floor, and extended her hand towards YN. "Congratulations, my dear," she said with a warm smile before leaving, her husband following after her.
''It's time for a ring, isn't it?'' Coriolanus cleared his throat. Everything is to be done appropriately; there is no reason to avoid traditions. He reached into the pocket of his suit and pulled out a small box. White, of course—who is he, if not a romantic at heart?
''Mr. Snow,'' YN watched him stand up and come closer with the same expression she always bore—a mixture of melancholy and worship. ''Grant me something.''
He paused. Coriolanus didn't like to make promises. He would have to make it clear to her later, after the wedding—the fact that he took her for a bride was enough of a promise. Still, he needed this engagement to work, and he was not about to lose it to a crude lie. With a sigh, he softly replied, "What is it that you desire, Miss YN?"
''Promise me you will be kind to me. All of our marriage, promise to be kind to my heart.''
Coriolanus almost laughed in her face. Oh, what a lovely, clueless fool. "I will do my best to treat you with kindness, Miss YN."
''Good,'' she smiles. ''I think we will make a great couple then, Mister Snow.''
''Coriolanus, my dear. Please call me Coriolanus."
He couldn't help but feel a twinge of annoyance. It was sealed. His golden prize, his future wife, was now bound to him by the ring on her finger. Of all of his investments, this one had the potential to yield the greatest return.
-
Mr.Fabius didn't lie—his daughter was the perfect bride. She never spoke to him unless he did first; she never questioned him. She simply followed his lead, like a well-trained pet. A pretty, lovely YN. She knew what to do, how to dress, and what to say. He searched for one—at least a slight imperfection—and couldn't find one; it was as if she wasn't a human, which, to him, she wasn't.
''What are you going to do today?'' he asks, without bothering to look up from the newspaper. He doesn't wish to hear her answer, but he still asks out of courtesy. Coriolanus knows that her daily routine is made up of attending charity events, dinners with influential figures's wives, and shopping for designer clothes. It's a predictable pattern.
''Well, the trees I ordered came in today; I'll have to chat with the new gardener about them. Are you meeting with anyone important later?"
''As a matter of fact, I do. Larry Tremblay wants to include me in a business deal he's been working on."
It's partly true, but she doesn't need to know more. Just a familiar name was usually enough for his wife to hum in satisfaction and assume that he was still climbing the social ladder. Not this time, evidently.
''You shouldn't accept.''
He looked up from his cup, trying to guess if she had gone out of her mind. YN looked like usual, her eyes meeting his without a care in the world. Why today, of all days, she decided to question his decision was beyond him. He cleared his throat, attempting to maintain his composure. "And why should I decline such a good-looking opportunity?"
''He beats his wife. Just yesterday, I saw her with bruises. ''
Coriolanus fought hard to keep a smile from forming on his lips. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, feigning indifference. He knew his wife wasn't the brightest, but this? "Is that so?"
''Don't you understand what it means? The man only beats his wife for two reasons. If he has always enjoyed those types of things, which Larry did not, or if he loses power and control in other aspects of his life. The business isn't going as well as he wants it to,'' YN lowers her gaze, losing confidence in her voice. ''I thought you would want to know that.''
He would, very much. Her conclusion was the dumbest thing he ever heard, based on some black and blue marks and a twist of her imagination. Still, it was interesting—his wife's head wasn't always empty like he hoped. She thought enough to notice something, and she listened enough to remember his partners.
''I will keep that in mind,'' he replied, his tone tinged with a hint of annoyance. What harm could it do to entertain her thoughts? It was even slightly amusing to see her try to piece together a puzzle that didn't exist.
-
It wasn't so fun anymore when Larry Tremblay was fired exactly two weeks later. Surely, it could be a consequence, but Coriolanus Snow didn't believe in them. There had to be something, anything, to explain his wife's sudden knowledge—she couldn't have acquired it on her own, about that he was sure.
YN looked unfazed by his questioning gaze as she lay on the dark olive-coloured sofa in his office, continuing to play with a snow-white kitten on her stomach. It was his wedding gift, one of many—the pricy creature with a diamond collar. He thought it was rather symbolic—two caged animals who were once considered sacred.
''How did you understand that Tremblay was about to be fired?'' Coriolanus asked, his voice laced with suspicion. It could be that she overheard the woman talk about it, or even that she had some inside information from her connections. What bothered him more was what she could know from the same source about him.
YN paused, her fingers gently stroking the kitten's fur as she met his gaze. "I didn't know that. I simply knew he had trouble at work. Evidently, they were big enough for him to lose his position."
''Really?'' he chuckled. Maybe she was telling the truth. ''Then, what can you say about my work?''
YN's eyes narrowed slightly. "Your work doesn't matter; how you present yourself does. Can I give you some advice?'
"Sure.'' Coriolanus bit his tongue, fighting the urge to snap back at her. After all, it is what he married her for—to fit in. He took a deep breath.
''Buy a new car, but not the most expensive one; it will give off an impression of stability, like you know the job isn't going anywhere. Your shoes are always too polished; it's like you wore them right out of the box. And throw away that hideous tie you always wear—you look like a student."
''Something else?'' Coriolanus mustered a weak smile, trying to hide his frustration.
''I don't want to offend you, Coriolanus. But I want you to do well. After all, you are my husband now, and your success reflects on both of us. Why not help where I can? You know I love clothes.''
''Good, '' he replied, forcing a more genuine smile. "Now get away from that cat before it scratches you. I'll figure out the rest on my own."
''Of course you will. You are the smartest man I've ever met.''
-
He was. It was because of his intelligence that YN married him, because of his ambition. Well, that and something else.
From her earliest childhood, YN knew what she was destined to be. She was the child of late parents, the only child, and a girl; she would inherit everything the generations of her family worked so hard to achieve. And YN was no fool; she needed a man. Driven, proud, and cold-blooded. The one who was not afraid to get his hands dirty while she spent her time leisurely in his shadow. Oh, no—YN never minded her place, much like her mother did. She taught her to bet on the finest horses, and Coriolanus Snow was no exception.
From the time she saw him in his ridiculously tight shirt in the academy, she knew what she wanted. Him. The top of every class, the charmer with pretty eyes—a catch, really. Her mother said there was darkness inside her dear Coriolanus, but YN knew. That's why she now sits in the opulent living room, waiting for him to get home. Mr. Snow was a horrific, ruthless man. But he was still, at his core, a man.
And men never listen. That's how she got him and got him good—a silent, fawn-eyed creature that he thought he could control. An obedient wife and a lovely lap dog. It was funny to see his gaze twitch slightly when she said something she wasn't supposed to—how long would it take him to figure it out?
It's time—his tall figure appeared in the corridor leading to the living room. YN watches silently as he takes off his shoes and coat, placing them on the rack by the door. Home at seven p.m. sharp, just like any other day. Just like any other day, dinner is at the table.
He never said thank you. Instead, her closet grew bigger with countless dresses, bags, and shoes—sometimes even brand-new jewellery. YN didn't mind it; she loved it—the jealous whispers of other women at the events about how lucky she was. She didn't have to sleep with a big, fat old man to get the latest fur coat or the most exquisite diamond necklace.
At least a few times a month now, Coriolanus would wake up in the middle of the night, screaming. This night was one of those: YN woke up from the constant turning and tossing in the bed. She doesn't know how he didn't figure out why; it was easy to guess his food contained something to make his sleep far worse—YN made sure of that. Maybe he just didn't have the heart to admit his weaknesses, even to himself.
''Hey,'' she whispered, getting out of the warm covers. YN tiptoed over to Coriolanus' side of the bed, careful not to bump into anything in the dark. ''Hey, wake up. Are you okay?" she asked, gently shaking him awake.
Coriolanus jolted upright, his eyes wide with fear as he gasped for breath. He wasn't; of course, he wasn't. Yn would have lied if she said she didn't find it hot to see him like this—sweat glistening on his forehead, his chest heaving.
''You were having a nightmare again.''
He looked at her with the eyes of a lunatic, still not over his dream. ''What did I say this time?"
''You were mumbling something about birds and songs, I think? It didn't make much sense."
He doesn't recall that she mentored the 10th game too. Without much success, of course, but one thing she did remember was a girl from District 12 who liked to sing. Coriolanus remembered her too; it was evident from the fear that crossed his eyes.
''Excuse me,'' he said, his voice still shaky. ''I need a moment.''
YN watched as he stumbled towards the bathroom, his hands twitching. As much as her husband wanted to hide those parts of himself, he couldn't. Not from her.
There was nothing else to do but wait. YN climbed on the bed, turning her back to the bathroom door. Coriolanus would only come out when he thought she had fallen asleep. She learned to control her breath when she was just a little girl; it saved her life once, when a rebel pointed a gun at her small frame, meaning to shoot. He didn't—what use was it to waste a bullet on a non-breathing child?
Surely, after some time, the blonde man stepped out of the bathroom. For a few minutes, he listened to her steady breathing before sliding under the covers and pressing his body against hers, his large hand covering her shoulders. Coriolanus wasn't gentle; YN wasn't sure he knew what the word meant anyway, but he was careful. His arm around her chest wasn't tight—just enough for him to bring her closer.
As much as YN wanted to turn around and face him, she didn't. There was no point—like any other human, he hated the feeling of vulnerability. Instead, YN focused on the warmth of his body. Coriolanus Snow was a god more than a human, and real gods were never kind. The only currency they recognized was blood.
-
The annual party for the victor of this year's games. The first year Coriolanus Snow worked as a head gamemaker, his creation was a bloodbath, a spectacle of violence and despair. He did a good job—an excellent one, even—and one of the greatest stars of today's celebration was him.
They needed to dress the part in clothes that exuded power. And so they did. Coriolanus's suit was ample—purple velvet with gold embroidery—the colour of Roman emperors. The colour of the winners. The suit hugged his broad shoulders perfectly, suiting his white hair. Gold cufflinks, gold rings—he looked like a sovereign among men. It was risky to do so right in front of the current president, but who was Coriolanus Snow if he was not confident in his success?
YN wore the gown from the matching collection, a floor-length masterpiece. The deep purple colour was a stark contrast to her skin tone. And jewellery, of course—she came from the Fabius family for a reason. The lavender diamonds on her necklace and earrings. They were rare—the rarest—even. Only a few violet diamonds have been mined in the past seventy years.
It was all anyone talked about behind their backs. Whispers, rumours, and so much venom dripped from the mouths of Panem's elite—that's what they were hoping for, anyway. The Snows were just as shamelessly rich as they were powerful.
That's why they now sat at the President's table, just a few faces away from them. Coriolanus smiled to himself - not even the President's wife could compare to YN. Not in fashion, not in elegance. He had an impeccable taste - even a person far away from politics could see that.
''A toast!'' the President stood up with a glass in his hand, turning to face the Coriolanus. ''I am sure many of you know who was the mastermind behind the games this year - it's my pleasure to introduce Coriolanus Snow to those of you who don't. However, not many know his story of success. From a dirt-poor background, when his greatest possession was his family name, he worked hard to achieve the position he holds today. Let us raise our glasses and celebrate his remarkable journey to success and the country of Panem - the land of opportunity!''
YN cursed under her breath as she listened to the crowd cheer for her husband. He remained stoic - the only thing that gave away his fury was his eyes - they grew as dark as the sky outside. She didn't bother to calm him - this fire was impossible to put out. The President made a fatal mistake with his speech - she knows. But the true fear crept into her heart when she saw the President's wife pass Coriolanus the dish.
Cabbage.
Under a fancy sauce, it could be transformed into a delicacy fit for their circle. But tonight, it was his last straw. The colours changed on the face of Coriolanus, from white to all shades of red. His fists clenched, and veins pulsed on his temples. The room fell silent as they observed.
''Oh, I am so sorry,'' YN chipped in. Quick, something. ''I have a terrible allergy to cabbage.''
The President's wife looked concerned. ''Oh, I didn't know.''
YN made her eyes water, throwing a coughing feat for more dramatic effect. ''I think I need to step outside for some fresh air."
She felt a warm hand on her back. ''Let me accompany you, just to make sure you're alright." her husband announced, carefully leading her towards the exit.
-
The first thing he did when they reached the women's bathroom was break the mirrors in a fit of anger. Shards of glass scattered across the floor as he paced around the room like a caged animal. YN watched as shouted and hit the walls, sitting on the bathroom floor. Beautiful one - the tile was a lovely shade of pink, contrasting with the chaos unfolding before her.
After a good few minutes, he finally calmed down and sank to the floor beside her, his face buried in his hands. Her husband, her hauntingly beautiful, pathetic husband - oh, what a sight. He looked mad, maniac, even; his blonde hair was far from its usual perfectly styled form, falling on his tear-stained cheeks.
"What do you think of me?"
His voice is hoarse, a few notes down from a honey-like. She likes it better, YN thinks - nothing of the fasçade he was trying so hard to uphold. No, just a raw hunger with a mix of equally raw despair.
"I think you are an animal, Coriolanus."
She smiles, watching his expression change. He suspected it, of course - her husband was a smart man. Still, he can't believe it - his head twitches in her direction, his gorgeous bottomless eyes shining under the weak light of the only surviving floor lamp.
"What?" he asks with such a loss in his voice YN has to fight the urge to bring him close. Not now, she thinks. It's not the time.
"A hungry, desperate, sick, sick animal with nothing to lose."
Coriolanus gets closer abruptly, clearly angered - she can't let him leave now. His arm shouts to find its place on her neck, long, slim fingers forming a circle around her throat. "You think I am after money, don't you?"
"No, no," a yelp escapes her lips, bordering a hysterical laugh. "Only fools are after money, Coriolanus, and you are no fool."
YN watches as he loses his grip a little, calmed by her words. What a pitiful, fascinating creature was her husband - one word of reassurance and he is willing to let thousands of cursings slide.
"What is it, then? What did you fantasize about in your small dull head?"
He still doesn't believe her. YN is surprised at how quickly it becomes boring.
"You want power."
Clap - the grip on her neck is tight again.
"That's why you choose the fear. People forget the hand that feeds them, but the one who beats? Never."
The frown on his face falls a little, and through the gritted teeth escapes something like a curse. "You talk an awful lot about me," he notes. "What are you hungry for?"
"You."
He laughs. That was a deep, chest laugh - YN thinks she never heard him laugh so sincerely. "You want my love? Don't lie to me, YN," he taunts, pressing a little harder on her neck.
"Not love. Love is easily swayed, is it not? No, I want you."
Coriolanus looks at her as if he never done so before. Well, he looked thousands of times, but he didn't see. His eyes study every expression in hers, every part of her face. "A hungry dog is not a loyal dog," he finally masters.
There is a certain silence after his words. YN gulps, desperatly trying to help her dried throat - the blood from his hands ran down her neck onto her exposed chest, leaving sticky, dark trails behind.
"Feed me, then."
He kisses her. He puts a force behind it, watching her hands fall on his chest for some kind of support. Coriolanus kisses her until there is no air in YN's chest anymore, and she has to push him away to take a rushed breath.
summary: It's a shame, really, to kill her so soon. He was almost enjoying her—the way she trembled under his touch, the way she whispered his name in ecstasy. But that was the way of the world. There could be only one winner, and Coriolanus knew better than to believe his wife when she promised to always be loyal. If your dog bites you, someone else is feeding it.
warnings: mentions of minor violence, mentions of cheating, not really canon-compliant, blood and shitty people in shitty relationships
word count: 3,7k
Part 1 is here
author's note: part 2 of Losing Dogs is here! thank you for the love and support that you showed for the first chapter - hope you enjoy this one too! we all love some twisted people in fiction :)
She knows.
It's in his mind when they get into the black car, away from the president's party and obnoxiously loud music, with a few new cuts on his hands and faint blue marks on her neck.
She knows.
It's the only thought in his head when it hits the pillow at almost midnight, as her warm body lays beside him, breathing even so faintly. His brain almost explodes under the pressure of guessing her thoughts, hidden behind the soft smile and gentle touch. She, the ghost wrapped in opulent sheets, is a new figure on the chessboard. The crippling fear of being watched cuts his forehead in sharp, taunting pain.
YN, the blind lamb with sharp teeth, knows.
-
He did everything right. A whisper here, a bribe there, and no one noticed how a small, silly rumour grew into a threat almost overnight, pointing its sleek, twisted fingers at the President. Corrupt, illegal activities—that's what the press called them, but the truth was much less poetic. Some lines shouldn't be crossed, and some people shouldn't be trusted.
It was supposed to be a simple payback—let the bastard simmer in his own venom, betrayed by people he considered allies. But then it became something bigger: the sacred place is never empty, and the herd of sheep is always in need of guidance. That's when Coriolanus knew what he had to do for the better future of Panem. For the pride of his family. For the satisfaction of his hunger.
He is deep in his thoughts when YN appears in the doorframe; she is careful not to make too much noise as she waits for him to look up. Beautiful, like death herself— Coriolanus saw her enough times up close to recognize the dark glimmer in her eyes.
''Come here,'' he motions, clearing the space on the table for her to sit.
She does. YN's steps are light, even in the heels she always wears. There were a lot of things money couldn't buy, and class was one of them. Nobody came close to her upbringing; therefore, nobody could come close to him.
''Here,'' he hands her his speech, a careful combination of neat letters. Coriolanus watches with starved eyes as she reads, studying every expression and passing of emotion on her dolled-up face. ''What do you think?''
''It's good, really good.'' YN nods, a small smile covering her lips. ''You were always great at this type of thing, since the academy.''
Coriolanus feels a cold sting in his abdomen; she knows him. Before he became a man, before he got a chance to truly be the person he was destined to be, YN remembers a peckish, awkward boy who was pathetic enough to let an animal fool him.
''Thank you,'' he says, placing a hand on her thigh and slowly sliding it up. He likes the way her body reacts in response, leaning closer.
It doesn't matter who he was before. He won, and he is almost at the top—a few steps, and there won't be just her body underneath him—the whole country will be in his hands.
-
Her husband is messed up. The way he fucked her in the dining hall hours before the guest arrived, in the same dining hall where they stand, brings a smile to YN's face. Nobody suspects a thing, not even her closest confidants, who now sipped from the stylish tall glasses beside YN, conversing on everything and anything but the swollenness of her lips.
Coriolanus wants to play in politics now that he has had enough of game-making. Like a small, pouty child tired of his old toys. The thought of her husband in a one-piece strikes her as funny; her mind is drawing the picture vividly. He was, for sure, a mama's boy. He still is.
It's cute, the way he kisses her aged picture when he thinks YN can't see him, or the way he buys the rose female perfume nobody ever uses—its smell still lingers in the air every time the maids change the sheets. The only woman who can truly love is a mother, he told her one day. The only woman he thought was deserving of loving back.
YN watches as he approaches the group of men with confident steps. The people are right, the way is wrong—if it were that easy to fit in their circle, it wouldn't be as important. Just like she predicted, he is quickly cast aside to the benches of dialogue; the tall figure of her husband lingers silently, waiting for the right moment to strike.
It's entertaining to see him slowly boil, which goes unnoticed by everybody else in the hall. YN observed him for years to crack his facade as swiftly as she does now. A few moments, and he will decide to walk away, unable to swallow his pride back anymore, and there will be no chance of meeting the people he desperately needs.
''Excuse me for a moment,'' YN smiles at the women beside her, placing her glass on the gilded trail. They are good people—sure, some a little less bright and some a little less assertive as she is, but still, most of the information she finds useful comes from them—silent furniture, as they often joke. They are noticed no more than vases in the corners of their grand mansions; just like their houses, their husbands come in different shapes, and just like houses, the inside is always the same. Empty.
''Good evening, gentleman!'' she chirps, putting on one of her many expressions. She never felt bad about changing her face to fit the situation better; after all, they were all just different versions of her. ''I believe you already met my husband.'' YN delicately diverts her gaze from the black mass of suits to her husband's face, sending a loving smile his way.
The men are smitten, as usual. Who could've thought the young lad was the owner of this house? YN doesn't pay them much attention; they are never the driving force behind connections. Instead, she turns to the only woman in the bleak company.
''Missis Nej, what a lovely broch! You have to tell me where you got it; the details are incredible!''
It was true—YN sees no point in lying about liking something when the compliment is right there—a beautiful dove broch with sparkly gems instead of eyes, placed on a delicate lace.
The woman's face lights up at her words. ''I made the design myself, and then my seamstress pulled it together. I am glad you like it—isn't the stitching so fine?''
''It is! I wish I was as creative as you are; my imagination is only enough for the table centerpieces.''
''You know what? I have many other drafts at home; why don't you and your husband stop by for tea for a few hours? To see if my seamstress could come up with something for you?''
''Oh, that would be absolutely wonderful! What do you think, Coriolanus?''
What can he think? Her husband is happy things are going his way, of course, but there is something else in his gaze that makes YN's heart skip a beat. Suspicion. The only thing she should be scared of was her husband's mind—the deadliest of the weapons, his paranoia. It, like a vicious exotic, has to be put away from his reach; it sinks its teeth in everything Coriolanus feeds to it, and if he does not, turns onto him.
He smiles and nods, wrapping his hand around her bare shoulders. YN thinks she ought to be more careful; it was her job to keep him on a leash, like a beat she signed to care for. Whose fault would it be if the wild thing did what wild things do—bite?
-
He almost doesn't have any opponents left. Those who dared not to support the young candidate from the party were quickly silenced, and those who tried to get their hands on Snow's place were eliminated. What was better was that nothing could be traced back to the blonde male in a red suit. YN didn't worry about that.
She had to work overtime to make sure their paths didn't cross. Coriolanus never told her his plans so she could build hers. Oh, no. She had to scurry, like a rat, searching for his ideas to make sure they didn't clash with hers because, just like her mother told her, you can't put on everything best at once.
That's why YN sits in the dim, foul-smelling room on the outcast of the city during what was supposed to be a lunch hour. She almost laughs at the thought of her Coriolanus finding out where his wife spent this afternoon— in a brothel, in clothes that weren't even hers, without her usual jewellery and signature scent.
The door to the room opens quickly, but YN doesn't even bother looking in its direction. She knew what she was going to see there, so why bother?
''YN,'' the man in his forties breathes out, ''you came.''
Jerome. A tailored suit of dark brown, matching his hair. Wealthy, pretty enough, and damn stubborn. One of the few who refused to step down in elections, one of the few who still had a huge chance at winning them.
''Of course, I did—how could I not?'' She sheds a tear, breathing in his scent and hiding her face in his lean chest. ''I missed you, J; I missed you so much.''
They used to fuck before she married Coriolanus, ever since she turned eighteen. He even wanted to marry her for some time before she married Snow. YN was quite popular with the suitors; her husband was a fool for thinking other men didn't notice her. They did.
Jerome crushes her lips with his, leaving no time for talking. He was a serious man—a tough man, even—the type to endure the hardships of life without complaining. He is the type to get what he wants, no matter the obstacles. YN thinks he could've been on top instead of her dear husband if she only chose to marry him, but Jerome is too human for her. He is a man, a man who takes pleasure in her, and YN can't stand it. She likes her lovers without weaknesses, and Jerome isn't like that.
When an hour passes, YN thinks it is time to return home; she kisses Jerome goodbye one last time and waits for him to exit the room as quickly as he enters. That's the agreement: he pays for the room under his name; he deals with hosts and room service. YN just has to be, and he is happy with that.
She waits exactly fifteen minutes before she picks up her coat from the floor and puts it on—fifteen minutes is what was needed for a junkie she hired to stab Jerome in the ally seven times—for every year of their age gap when he first kissed her at her birthday party. Symbolic: She pays attention to the details, not only on her high-end dresses. YN imagines the headlines in the papers tomorrow morning: a respected politician found dead near the whorehouse. A death fit for a pig.
She leaves the building in a good mood—one more step to being the first lady of Panem—and she still has an hour before Coriolanus returns home. YN has everything in check, down to the smallest gist, except for the blonde man in the telephone booth across the street.
-
Coriolanus is mad. Another man, behind his back, even if for the sole purpose of eliminating him. He doesn't like that YN makes arrangements when it is he who is the man of the house, the driving force behind the successes. She forgot her place, and if he has to remind her, he will. Coriolanus always liked YN better with her mouth shut.
''How are things at work?'' YN asks, twirling in front of the mirror in their bedroom. It's like she doesn't notice his annoyed stare or his jealous eyes following her every move.
Coriolanus doesn't answer. He pulls her closer and takes off her robe in one swift motion. It falls on the floor, light blue fabric pooling around his feet. He searches for something—anything—to indicate another man's presence near her body or in it. Nothing—her skin glows under the faint light of lamps, free of any marks or scratches.
Coriolanus sighed with relief, his hands letting go of YN's hips. She looks at him, confused.
''Is there anything wrong? Why did you stop?''
He wants to slap her. To make her apologize, to make her beg for his forgiveness. But something in her deep eyes and painted lips makes his head cloud, stirring around a familiar mix of emotions. Anger. Lust. Fear. Maybe she was the death herself—he wouldn't know. The way YN laughed as he kissed her exposed skin, pressing a little too hard for it to be enjoyable, made blood rush to his body. ''Tell me,'' Coriolanus whispers in her ear. "Have you ever killed?"
YN grins, holding his reddened face in her hands. ''No, never.''
Coriolanus chuckles softly, diverting his gaze to her chest. A lie.
He turns her around, pushing her body on the bed before getting on his knees. That was the night he knew she had to die.
-
It wasn't hard to make her fall in love with him. Flowers on the doorstep of the mansion just in time for her to leave the house, along with a handwritten note declaring his undying affection. Make her less alert; make her more vulnerable. YN gave him the key to her demise easily—it was always him.
Coriolanus was good at ensuring everyone benefited him, and his wife did nothing better than play right into his hands. YN willingly planned her own funeral with her every move—she knew too much about his secrets and had become a liability. If only she knew better than to play with fire, she might have stood a chance.
It's a shame, really, to kill her so soon. He was almost enjoying her—the way she trembled under his touch, the way she whispered his name in ecstasy. But that was the way of the world. There could be only one winner, and Coriolanus knew better than to believe his wife when she promised to always be loyal. If your dog bites you, someone else is feeding it.
''New wine?'' YN motions to the tall bottle on the table as they eat dinner. ''Is this the one from the Darians?''
Coriolanus shakes his head. Darians. It was like fate was testing his patience, as if one headache wasn't enough. The only one of his possible opponents in the upcoming elections held a good amount of votes, mainly because of his recognizable name. The Darians were wine magnates, with at least forty vineyards under their name. Of course, they gifted wine bottles for holidays, and of course, it was nothing but a slap in the face—Coriolanus could very much afford to buy his own bottles.
''I bought this one yesterday. Would you like a glass?'' he pours before YN has time to agree; the dark red liquor fills their glasses, turning the transparent walls slightly pink. Coriolanus watches as his wife takes a big sip, surprise evident on her face.
''It's sweet,'' she announces but quickly corrects herself. ''But it is good. Unusual, but quite nice.''
''Really?'' He acts surprised and takes a small sip, not to raise any suspicion. ''It indeed is.''
They continue their dinner as usual, with occasional remarks here and there. Everything goes according to plan, with YN drinking from her glass more than twice more. Until it doesn't.
Fifty-five minutes.
This is how long he has before the poison kills him. Given that YN weighs less and consumes more, she should start to portray the first symptoms. She doesn't.
Twenty minutes pass, and Coriolanus feels a slight nausea. Twenty-five—his head starts lightly spinning. He watches his wife put down a fork and stare at the sky through the open window. If she faints now, he would still have time to drink the antidote, but she doesn't. Instead, she smiles at his wandering gaze and asks for dessert.
When thirty minutes pass, Coriolanus feels a stream of blood travels down his chin onto the freshly washed shirt. He can't keep himself on the chair, sliding down from it on the carpeted floor. The surrounding furniture stands as if in a haze, and the only thing he can make out is the nearing steps of the heeled feet.
YN says something, kneeling beside him and putting his head on her lap, although he can't understand the word she utters. It hits him like a brick wall—the smell of roses radiating from her, the same perfume his mother wore. Her hands, although adorned with more rings than his mother could've possibly owned, are just as gentle when they touch his forehead.
''I'm sorry,'' he tries to choke out, but all that comes out of his mouth is hot, thick blood.
-
When Coriolanus wakes up in the hospital, he is frantic. The only thing he was familiar with was the only thing he tried so hard to escape. Fear. It spreads through his body, paralyzing his limbs in the white room of a singular bed. It chocks him, tugging the strings in his throat to leave hot, burning holes each time he swallows. It burns, and bites, and twists in his stomach; if he survives, YN will get her revenge.
That's why she kept him alive—to taunt and mock. He lost, once and for all, and got himself into a corner with no escape. There is no point in begging, no point in lying—his wife knows everything he did, and she won't hesitate to let the whole country know. Outsmarted, outplayed. Alone.
His eyes wander across the room in a last resort—he will take his own life, and she will have no power in making him a laughing stock. But the hospital room is empty; the only thing besides a small coffee table and bed is a pile of newspapers. Coriolanus stands up and almost falls in an attempt to reach them, yet manages to grab one. Just like he predicted, on the front page of it is the perfectly painted face of his wife; the beauty of it is disturbed only by a single tear rolling down her cheek.
POISONING ATTEMPT ON A FAMOUS POLITICIAN
Three days ago, an attempted poisoning took place in the Snow's family's mansion. Our correspondent was lucky enough to ask a few questions to YN Snow, the wife of the victim.
''Tell me, Miss Snow, why do you think you and your husband were the targets of this crime?''
''I think it is rather obvious that motive was political; we all know that my husband posed a serious threat to Ethan Darius because he was estimated to win instead of him. That's why he decided to kill him in that dirty way, like a snake, with poison, instead of losing to him in a fair competition like any gentleman would!''
''And do you think there are any correlations between Mister Darius and a string of suspicious murders of civilians and people higher in power?''
''As far as my knowledge goes, the court is still deciding on the matter, but one thing I know for sure: if Ethan Darius went as far as to try to kill his opponent, what indicates he wouldn't have done the same with others? ''
''People of Panem were moved by the love you and your husband seem to hold for each other ever since your wedding, but the way you fight for justice made many wonder - will we see you as a first lady of Panem soon?''
''I just do what any person would—it is my duty as a wife and as a citizen to advocate for those who were wronged. As for your question, I do think this happening only solidified that our country and political scene need change. And change is what my husband stands for.''
''And lastly, is there anything you wish you could say to your husband right now?''
''I would want to remind him of a simple truth: the one who is more afraid always strikes first. Thank you.''
Coriolanus didn't need to read anymore. YN made sure she wasn't going anywhere if he did something like that in the future—the public loved her before, but now they will go crazy. But that didn't bother him too much; on the contrary, he was rather impressed. Coriolanus felt fear leave his body with every breath. His place took something else, something he couldn't quite name yet—the feeling of stillness in his stomach. He wondered if that's what fullness felt like. A sweet, honey-like sensation in his veins.
-
The hall of the president's house is filled with what seems to be hundreds of people. Tables are overflowing with the most exquisite dishes, and laughter fills the air.
''Corio, look! The kids are dressed as little snowflakes—for us! Oh, isn't it so cute?'' YN coes, motioning at the girls-ballerinas in white tutus. They twirl on the stage, their movements mimicking the ones of snow falling outside.
He doesn't care if they are dressed as giant cockroaches, but he still nods in agreement. Coriolanus watches as YN steals one white rose from the piles decorating the balcony and throws it on stage, laughing in delight when girls start to argue over it.
There are flashes of cameras capturing every interaction between them; he knows that, so he places his hand on the back of the chair YN sits on. She looks as beautiful as always, perfect from every angle. His wife might be poison, dangerous, and lethal, but he is the one who knows that, when handled with care, it brings much more benefits to its owner than any other weapon.
Coriolanus already envisions their photo as the headline tomorrow morning—beside them, the big, bold letters.
Panem today.
He feels YN place a kiss on his cheek, staining it a little with her red lipstick.
Panem tomorrow.
Coriolanus smiles and brings her closer, whispering a compliment in her ear.
Panem forever.
The hall erupts with applause and cheers, some even going as far as shouting words of admiration for the new president and his wife.
They are the guard dogs, and they are the house dogs guard. And, until the last brick of it is there, they will bite.
tag list (do tell me if I'm doing it wrong) @aemondsb1tch @cecekcecekceckceckceck @queenofshinigamis @julesandro
summary: His golden prize, his future wife, was now bound to him by the ring on her finger. Of all of his investments, this one had the potential to yield the greatest return.
warnings: not really canon-compliant, mentions of minor violence, blood and shitty relationships
word count: 4k
Part 2 is here!
author's note: remember kids, manipulators and sick bastards are only hot in fiction - don't do them (and drugs) in real life!
The polished toes of his new shoes reflected everything in the grand hall—they caught glimmers of lamps adorned with gold, colourful drapes on the enormous windows, and the kaleidoscopic dresses of women around. The chatter filled the room, almost too loud to hear the music—not that he would enjoy it either. Some things require focus.
''Mister Fabius, Missis Fabius.''
Corialanus's face melts into a smile-like expression at the sight of the older couple.
They look like lice in the large building—rich lice, that is. The golden and platinum rings on Missis Fabius's fingers shine with every gemstone known to man, mirroring the bright lights. The jewels look ugly on the wrinkly hand, he notes. What a waste.
''Mister Snow, what a surprise! I was just telling Livia of your prodigious success in your new position. Incredible work, Mr. Snow; simply incredible! ''
The man's face radiated with excitement, getting closer in shade to his burgundy tie. The gold threats on it piqued more interest for Mister Snow than the words of the old man—after all, it's not every day you meet such luxury in person.
The man's wife, however, seemed less enthusiastic; her cold, bored gaze circled him up and down, stopping only after getting the satisfaction of an undoubtedly unpleasant conclusion.
Coriolanus mentally went over his outfit, hairstyle, and anything else she might have noticed. Nothing was out of place; the holes in his coat were a thing of the past. Still, it was something—that thought found its place in his brain, drilling a small hole in its way.
''When will we know of your decision, Mister Snow? We gave you time—a lot of time.''
''This evening, Mrs. Fabius. After the play, I promise to give you my answer tonight.''
He has to look first. What fool buys a horse blind? Sure, the horse came with immense fortunes and, most importantly, connections, but still. He couldn't afford to make a hasty decision, especially when the stakes were so high. After all, he was one of the most desirable bachelors; Fabiuses had to thank him for even considering the offer.
''There is no agreement until tomorrow, Mister Snow. We will have you for breakfast at nine o'clock sharp,'' Mr Fabius said, placing a hand on his wife's back and leading her towards the entrance. They could afford not to make one's adieu.
The opera was popular among the richest; all of the seats were taken. He would have lied if he said the golden rails and red velvet didn't make him feel a bit out of place. Nobody paid him any attention, although this time it didn't hurt him as much as usual. He could hide in the shadows of his box seat without being concerned about making an impression.
Not the stage, of course. It was the least of his worries, although he did pay a high price for a ticket. No, he looked at her.
The golden gown on her was a shimmering masterpiece. Layers and layers of the most expensive fabric covered her body like soft waves, crashing down at the round neckline with their gilded ends. She wore diamond earrings, just like her mother did, although they suited her better.
Coriolanus remembered her from the academy; she always sat near the window, gazing out at the world with a longing in her eyes. She wasn't a very bright student but rather a dutiful one. always on time, always prepared with her assignments, and always eager to please her teachers. The heiress to the jewellery empire. The flower of the elite social scene. Her presence attracted attention, yet she seamlessly blended into the background, never stealing the spotlight. YN Fabius was everything he needed her to be—a picture, but never a spectacle.
-
The manor was grand and opulent, showing the wealth and status of the Fabius family. Its sprawling gardens and delicate architecture were a testament to its esteemed position in society. Collums, paintings, and endless staircases stood as if frozen in time. It was as if there was no war just a decade ago.
''Mister Snow,'' the butler called out, his voice echoing through the grand foyer. ''Breakfast is served in the blue dining hall; if you would please follow me.''
Thousands and thousands of steps and passages lined the walls, leading to various wings and chambers of the mansion. It was warm, even during the cold autumn season. Only keeping the fireplaces always lit must cost a fortune.
When they finally reached the needed room, Coriolanus was slightly out of breath. The blue walls reached the high ceiling, painted with pictures of half-naked gods and goddesses frolicking in fields of flowers. It created the illusion of a smell wafting through the air as if the vibrant colours had come to life.
The table was served for four, not three, suggesting that someone else was expected to join them. The silverware gleamed under the soft rays of sunshine, casting a shimmering glow across the room—pure silver, nothing less.
The door behind him opened with a gentle creak, revealing Mr. Fabiuse's humble figure. His simple, at first glance, shirt was another of the perfectly constructed illusions—Coriolanus knew the fabrics like the back of his hand. The shirt, though seemingly plain, was made from the finest Egyptian cotton, woven with intricate patterns.
''Mister Snow, how good that you came on time. Excuse my ladies, the girls are such girls at every age. Take so long to get ready,'' he laughs. ''Please, take a seat," Mr. Fabius said, gesturing towards a plush chair covered in velvet.
''There is no point in all of those paints once you hit sixty,'' Mrs.Fabius said, appearing right behind her husband. She circled the table before taking a seat herself, her eyes glancing disapprovingly at the young man. "Let's begin before the food grows cold," she added with a sigh, her tone tinged with resignation.
''Of course,'' Mr. Fabius nodded, lifting the lid on the first dish. The aroma of it filled the room, and Coriolanus couldn't help but feel his hunger grow. He didn't have the habit of eating so much in the morning—another thing he needs to adjust about his routine.
When Mr.Fabius finally placed the fork down, Coriolanus knew it was time. ''Thank you for the invitation, Mr. Fabius. I must say, I thought a lot about your proposal, and after careful consideration, I have decided to accept it.''
''Good.'' Mrs. Fabius answered instead, her eyes sparkling with satisfaction. "I'm glad to hear that, Coriolanus. I believe this union will bring great delights to both of us."
Mr. Fabius seemed not to notice the interruption. ''I think a winter wedding would be absolutely perfect. Everybody seems to be getting married in the spring, but in the winter? Oh, it's definitely going to be a hit. Ah, and here's the lucky bride-to-be!''
She stood beside the just-opened door, her eyes following his expressions. Her hands, adorned just with one small pearl ring, were gently clasped together in front of her. She looked nervous, like a child standing in front of the full class on the first school day. Her dress, a delicate lace creation, clings to her figure like a second skin.
He smiled at her. YN looked like an antique statue, as if she just stepped out of the ruins of the Panem. Coriolanus wasn't even sure she was breathing—her stillness was so deep.
''Let's leave the lover birds to chirp,'' Mrs.Fabius said, standing up. She walked towards the couple, her heels clicking against the floor, and extended her hand towards YN. "Congratulations, my dear," she said with a warm smile before leaving, her husband following after her.
''It's time for a ring, isn't it?'' Coriolanus cleared his throat. Everything is to be done appropriately; there is no reason to avoid traditions. He reached into the pocket of his suit and pulled out a small box. White, of course—who is he, if not a romantic at heart?
''Mr. Snow,'' YN watched him stand up and come closer with the same expression she always bore—a mixture of melancholy and worship. ''Grant me something.''
He paused. Coriolanus didn't like to make promises. He would have to make it clear to her later, after the wedding—the fact that he took her for a bride was enough of a promise. Still, he needed this engagement to work, and he was not about to lose it to a crude lie. With a sigh, he softly replied, "What is it that you desire, Miss YN?"
''Promise me you will be kind to me. All of our marriage, promise to be kind to my heart.''
Coriolanus almost laughed in her face. Oh, what a lovely, clueless fool. "I will do my best to treat you with kindness, Miss YN."
''Good,'' she smiles. ''I think we will make a great couple then, Mister Snow.''
''Coriolanus, my dear. Please call me Coriolanus."
He couldn't help but feel a twinge of annoyance. It was sealed. His golden prize, his future wife, was now bound to him by the ring on her finger. Of all of his investments, this one had the potential to yield the greatest return.
-
Mr.Fabius didn't lie—his daughter was the perfect bride. She never spoke to him unless he did first; she never questioned him. She simply followed his lead, like a well-trained pet. A pretty, lovely YN. She knew what to do, how to dress, and what to say. He searched for one—at least a slight imperfection—and couldn't find one; it was as if she wasn't a human, which, to him, she wasn't.
''What are you going to do today?'' he asks, without bothering to look up from the newspaper. He doesn't wish to hear her answer, but he still asks out of courtesy. Coriolanus knows that her daily routine is made up of attending charity events, dinners with influential figures's wives, and shopping for designer clothes. It's a predictable pattern.
''Well, the trees I ordered came in today; I'll have to chat with the new gardener about them. Are you meeting with anyone important later?"
''As a matter of fact, I do. Larry Tremblay wants to include me in a business deal he's been working on."
It's partly true, but she doesn't need to know more. Just a familiar name was usually enough for his wife to hum in satisfaction and assume that he was still climbing the social ladder. Not this time, evidently.
''You shouldn't accept.''
He looked up from his cup, trying to guess if she had gone out of her mind. YN looked like usual, her eyes meeting his without a care in the world. Why today, of all days, she decided to question his decision was beyond him. He cleared his throat, attempting to maintain his composure. "And why should I decline such a good-looking opportunity?"
''He beats his wife. Just yesterday, I saw her with bruises. ''
Coriolanus fought hard to keep a smile from forming on his lips. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, feigning indifference. He knew his wife wasn't the brightest, but this? "Is that so?"
''Don't you understand what it means? The man only beats his wife for two reasons. If he has always enjoyed those types of things, which Larry did not, or if he loses power and control in other aspects of his life. The business isn't going as well as he wants it to,'' YN lowers her gaze, losing confidence in her voice. ''I thought you would want to know that.''
He would, very much. Her conclusion was the dumbest thing he ever heard, based on some black and blue marks and a twist of her imagination. Still, it was interesting—his wife's head wasn't always empty like he hoped. She thought enough to notice something, and she listened enough to remember his partners.
''I will keep that in mind,'' he replied, his tone tinged with a hint of annoyance. What harm could it do to entertain her thoughts? It was even slightly amusing to see her try to piece together a puzzle that didn't exist.
-
It wasn't so fun anymore when Larry Tremblay was fired exactly two weeks later. Surely, it could be a consequence, but Coriolanus Snow didn't believe in them. There had to be something, anything, to explain his wife's sudden knowledge—she couldn't have acquired it on her own, about that he was sure.
YN looked unfazed by his questioning gaze as she lay on the dark olive-coloured sofa in his office, continuing to play with a snow-white kitten on her stomach. It was his wedding gift, one of many—the pricy creature with a diamond collar. He thought it was rather symbolic—two caged animals who were once considered sacred.
''How did you understand that Tremblay was about to be fired?'' Coriolanus asked, his voice laced with suspicion. It could be that she overheard the woman talk about it, or even that she had some inside information from her connections. What bothered him more was what she could know from the same source about him.
YN paused, her fingers gently stroking the kitten's fur as she met his gaze. "I didn't know that. I simply knew he had trouble at work. Evidently, they were big enough for him to lose his position."
''Really?'' he chuckled. Maybe she was telling the truth. ''Then, what can you say about my work?''
YN's eyes narrowed slightly. "Your work doesn't matter; how you present yourself does. Can I give you some advice?'
"Sure.'' Coriolanus bit his tongue, fighting the urge to snap back at her. After all, it is what he married her for—to fit in. He took a deep breath.
''Buy a new car, but not the most expensive one; it will give off an impression of stability, like you know the job isn't going anywhere. Your shoes are always too polished; it's like you wore them right out of the box. And throw away that hideous tie you always wear—you look like a student."
''Something else?'' Coriolanus mustered a weak smile, trying to hide his frustration.
''I don't want to offend you, Coriolanus. But I want you to do well. After all, you are my husband now, and your success reflects on both of us. Why not help where I can? You know I love clothes.''
''Good, '' he replied, forcing a more genuine smile. "Now get away from that cat before it scratches you. I'll figure out the rest on my own."
''Of course you will. You are the smartest man I've ever met.''
-
He was. It was because of his intelligence that YN married him, because of his ambition. Well, that and something else.
From her earliest childhood, YN knew what she was destined to be. She was the child of late parents, the only child, and a girl; she would inherit everything the generations of her family worked so hard to achieve. And YN was no fool; she needed a man. Driven, proud, and cold-blooded. The one who was not afraid to get his hands dirty while she spent her time leisurely in his shadow. Oh, no—YN never minded her place, much like her mother did. She taught her to bet on the finest horses, and Coriolanus Snow was no exception.
From the time she saw him in his ridiculously tight shirt in the academy, she knew what she wanted. Him. The top of every class, the charmer with pretty eyes—a catch, really. Her mother said there was darkness inside her dear Coriolanus, but YN knew. That's why she now sits in the opulent living room, waiting for him to get home. Mr. Snow was a horrific, ruthless man. But he was still, at his core, a man.
And men never listen. That's how she got him and got him good—a silent, fawn-eyed creature that he thought he could control. An obedient wife and a lovely lap dog. It was funny to see his gaze twitch slightly when she said something she wasn't supposed to—how long would it take him to figure it out?
It's time—his tall figure appeared in the corridor leading to the living room. YN watches silently as he takes off his shoes and coat, placing them on the rack by the door. Home at seven p.m. sharp, just like any other day. Just like any other day, dinner is at the table.
He never said thank you. Instead, her closet grew bigger with countless dresses, bags, and shoes—sometimes even brand-new jewellery. YN didn't mind it; she loved it—the jealous whispers of other women at the events about how lucky she was. She didn't have to sleep with a big, fat old man to get the latest fur coat or the most exquisite diamond necklace.
At least a few times a month now, Coriolanus would wake up in the middle of the night, screaming. This night was one of those: YN woke up from the constant turning and tossing in the bed. She doesn't know how he didn't figure out why; it was easy to guess his food contained something to make his sleep far worse—YN made sure of that. Maybe he just didn't have the heart to admit his weaknesses, even to himself.
''Hey,'' she whispered, getting out of the warm covers. YN tiptoed over to Coriolanus' side of the bed, careful not to bump into anything in the dark. ''Hey, wake up. Are you okay?" she asked, gently shaking him awake.
Coriolanus jolted upright, his eyes wide with fear as he gasped for breath. He wasn't; of course, he wasn't. Yn would have lied if she said she didn't find it hot to see him like this—sweat glistening on his forehead, his chest heaving.
''You were having a nightmare again.''
He looked at her with the eyes of a lunatic, still not over his dream. ''What did I say this time?"
''You were mumbling something about birds and songs, I think? It didn't make much sense."
He doesn't recall that she mentored the 10th game too. Without much success, of course, but one thing she did remember was a girl from District 12 who liked to sing. Coriolanus remembered her too; it was evident from the fear that crossed his eyes.
''Excuse me,'' he said, his voice still shaky. ''I need a moment.''
YN watched as he stumbled towards the bathroom, his hands twitching. As much as her husband wanted to hide those parts of himself, he couldn't. Not from her.
There was nothing else to do but wait. YN climbed on the bed, turning her back to the bathroom door. Coriolanus would only come out when he thought she had fallen asleep. She learned to control her breath when she was just a little girl; it saved her life once, when a rebel pointed a gun at her small frame, meaning to shoot. He didn't—what use was it to waste a bullet on a non-breathing child?
Surely, after some time, the blonde man stepped out of the bathroom. For a few minutes, he listened to her steady breathing before sliding under the covers and pressing his body against hers, his large hand covering her shoulders. Coriolanus wasn't gentle; YN wasn't sure he knew what the word meant anyway, but he was careful. His arm around her chest wasn't tight—just enough for him to bring her closer.
As much as YN wanted to turn around and face him, she didn't. There was no point—like any other human, he hated the feeling of vulnerability. Instead, YN focused on the warmth of his body. Coriolanus Snow was a god more than a human, and real gods were never kind. The only currency they recognized was blood.
-
The annual party for the victor of this year's games. The first year Coriolanus Snow worked as a head gamemaker, his creation was a bloodbath, a spectacle of violence and despair. He did a good job—an excellent one, even—and one of the greatest stars of today's celebration was him.
They needed to dress the part in clothes that exuded power. And so they did. Coriolanus's suit was ample—purple velvet with gold embroidery—the colour of Roman emperors. The colour of the winners. The suit hugged his broad shoulders perfectly, suiting his white hair. Gold cufflinks, gold rings—he looked like a sovereign among men. It was risky to do so right in front of the current president, but who was Coriolanus Snow if he was not confident in his success?
YN wore the gown from the matching collection, a floor-length masterpiece. The deep purple colour was a stark contrast to her skin tone. And jewellery, of course—she came from the Fabius family for a reason. The lavender diamonds on her necklace and earrings. They were rare—the rarest—even. Only a few violet diamonds have been mined in the past seventy years.
It was all anyone talked about behind their backs. Whispers, rumours, and so much venom dripped from the mouths of Panem's elite—that's what they were hoping for, anyway. The Snows were just as shamelessly rich as they were powerful.
That's why they now sat at the President's table, just a few faces away from them. Coriolanus smiled to himself - not even the President's wife could compare to YN. Not in fashion, not in elegance. He had an impeccable taste - even a person far away from politics could see that.
''A toast!'' the President stood up with a glass in his hand, turning to face the Coriolanus. ''I am sure many of you know who was the mastermind behind the games this year - it's my pleasure to introduce Coriolanus Snow to those of you who don't. However, not many know his story of success. From a dirt-poor background, when his greatest possession was his family name, he worked hard to achieve the position he holds today. Let us raise our glasses and celebrate his remarkable journey to success and the country of Panem - the land of opportunity!''
YN cursed under her breath as she listened to the crowd cheer for her husband. He remained stoic - the only thing that gave away his fury was his eyes - they grew as dark as the sky outside. She didn't bother to calm him - this fire was impossible to put out. The President made a fatal mistake with his speech - she knows. But the true fear crept into her heart when she saw the President's wife pass Coriolanus the dish.
Cabbage.
Under a fancy sauce, it could be transformed into a delicacy fit for their circle. But tonight, it was his last straw. The colours changed on the face of Coriolanus, from white to all shades of red. His fists clenched, and veins pulsed on his temples. The room fell silent as they observed.
''Oh, I am so sorry,'' YN chipped in. Quick, something. ''I have a terrible allergy to cabbage.''
The President's wife looked concerned. ''Oh, I didn't know.''
YN made her eyes water, throwing a coughing feat for more dramatic effect. ''I think I need to step outside for some fresh air."
She felt a warm hand on her back. ''Let me accompany you, just to make sure you're alright." her husband announced, carefully leading her towards the exit.
-
The first thing he did when they reached the women's bathroom was break the mirrors in a fit of anger. Shards of glass scattered across the floor as he paced around the room like a caged animal. YN watched as shouted and hit the walls, sitting on the bathroom floor. Beautiful one - the tile was a lovely shade of pink, contrasting with the chaos unfolding before her.
After a good few minutes, he finally calmed down and sank to the floor beside her, his face buried in his hands. Her husband, her hauntingly beautiful, pathetic husband - oh, what a sight. He looked mad, maniac, even; his blonde hair was far from its usual perfectly styled form, falling on his tear-stained cheeks.
"What do you think of me?"
His voice is hoarse, a few notes down from a honey-like. She likes it better, YN thinks - nothing of the fasçade he was trying so hard to uphold. No, just a raw hunger with a mix of equally raw despair.
"I think you are an animal, Coriolanus."
She smiles, watching his expression change. He suspected it, of course - her husband was a smart man. Still, he can't believe it - his head twitches in her direction, his gorgeous bottomless eyes shining under the weak light of the only surviving floor lamp.
"What?" he asks with such a loss in his voice YN has to fight the urge to bring him close. Not now, she thinks. It's not the time.
"A hungry, desperate, sick, sick animal with nothing to lose."
Coriolanus gets closer abruptly, clearly angered - she can't let him leave now. His arm shouts to find its place on her neck, long, slim fingers forming a circle around her throat. "You think I am after money, don't you?"
"No, no," a yelp escapes her lips, bordering a hysterical laugh. "Only fools are after money, Coriolanus, and you are no fool."
YN watches as he loses his grip a little, calmed by her words. What a pitiful, fascinating creature was her husband - one word of reassurance and he is willing to let thousands of cursings slide.
"What is it, then? What did you fantasize about in your small dull head?"
He still doesn't believe her. YN is surprised at how quickly it becomes boring.
"You want power."
Clap - the grip on her neck is tight again.
"That's why you choose the fear. People forget the hand that feeds them, but the one who beats? Never."
The frown on his face falls a little, and through the gritted teeth escapes something like a curse. "You talk an awful lot about me," he notes. "What are you hungry for?"
"You."
He laughs. That was a deep, chest laugh - YN thinks she never heard him laugh so sincerely. "You want my love? Don't lie to me, YN," he taunts, pressing a little harder on her neck.
"Not love. Love is easily swayed, is it not? No, I want you."
Coriolanus looks at her as if he never done so before. Well, he looked thousands of times, but he didn't see. His eyes study every expression in hers, every part of her face. "A hungry dog is not a loyal dog," he finally masters.
There is a certain silence after his words. YN gulps, desperatly trying to help her dried throat - the blood from his hands ran down her neck onto her exposed chest, leaving sticky, dark trails behind.
"Feed me, then."
He kisses her. He puts a force behind it, watching her hands fall on his chest for some kind of support. Coriolanus kisses her until there is no air in YN's chest anymore, and she has to push him away to take a rushed breath.
summary: It's a shame, really, to kill her so soon. He was almost enjoying her—the way she trembled under his touch, the way she whispered his name in ecstasy. But that was the way of the world. There could be only one winner, and Coriolanus knew better than to believe his wife when she promised to always be loyal. If your dog bites you, someone else is feeding it.
warnings: mentions of minor violence, mentions of cheating, not really canon-compliant, blood and shitty people in shitty relationships
word count: 3,7k
Part 1 is here
author's note: part 2 of Losing Dogs is here! thank you for the love and support that you showed for the first chapter - hope you enjoy this one too! we all love some twisted people in fiction :)
She knows.
It's in his mind when they get into the black car, away from the president's party and obnoxiously loud music, with a few new cuts on his hands and faint blue marks on her neck.
She knows.
It's the only thought in his head when it hits the pillow at almost midnight, as her warm body lays beside him, breathing even so faintly. His brain almost explodes under the pressure of guessing her thoughts, hidden behind the soft smile and gentle touch. She, the ghost wrapped in opulent sheets, is a new figure on the chessboard. The crippling fear of being watched cuts his forehead in sharp, taunting pain.
YN, the blind lamb with sharp teeth, knows.
-
He did everything right. A whisper here, a bribe there, and no one noticed how a small, silly rumour grew into a threat almost overnight, pointing its sleek, twisted fingers at the President. Corrupt, illegal activities—that's what the press called them, but the truth was much less poetic. Some lines shouldn't be crossed, and some people shouldn't be trusted.
It was supposed to be a simple payback—let the bastard simmer in his own venom, betrayed by people he considered allies. But then it became something bigger: the sacred place is never empty, and the herd of sheep is always in need of guidance. That's when Coriolanus knew what he had to do for the better future of Panem. For the pride of his family. For the satisfaction of his hunger.
He is deep in his thoughts when YN appears in the doorframe; she is careful not to make too much noise as she waits for him to look up. Beautiful, like death herself— Coriolanus saw her enough times up close to recognize the dark glimmer in her eyes.
''Come here,'' he motions, clearing the space on the table for her to sit.
She does. YN's steps are light, even in the heels she always wears. There were a lot of things money couldn't buy, and class was one of them. Nobody came close to her upbringing; therefore, nobody could come close to him.
''Here,'' he hands her his speech, a careful combination of neat letters. Coriolanus watches with starved eyes as she reads, studying every expression and passing of emotion on her dolled-up face. ''What do you think?''
''It's good, really good.'' YN nods, a small smile covering her lips. ''You were always great at this type of thing, since the academy.''
Coriolanus feels a cold sting in his abdomen; she knows him. Before he became a man, before he got a chance to truly be the person he was destined to be, YN remembers a peckish, awkward boy who was pathetic enough to let an animal fool him.
''Thank you,'' he says, placing a hand on her thigh and slowly sliding it up. He likes the way her body reacts in response, leaning closer.
It doesn't matter who he was before. He won, and he is almost at the top—a few steps, and there won't be just her body underneath him—the whole country will be in his hands.
-
Her husband is messed up. The way he fucked her in the dining hall hours before the guest arrived, in the same dining hall where they stand, brings a smile to YN's face. Nobody suspects a thing, not even her closest confidants, who now sipped from the stylish tall glasses beside YN, conversing on everything and anything but the swollenness of her lips.
Coriolanus wants to play in politics now that he has had enough of game-making. Like a small, pouty child tired of his old toys. The thought of her husband in a one-piece strikes her as funny; her mind is drawing the picture vividly. He was, for sure, a mama's boy. He still is.
It's cute, the way he kisses her aged picture when he thinks YN can't see him, or the way he buys the rose female perfume nobody ever uses—its smell still lingers in the air every time the maids change the sheets. The only woman who can truly love is a mother, he told her one day. The only woman he thought was deserving of loving back.
YN watches as he approaches the group of men with confident steps. The people are right, the way is wrong—if it were that easy to fit in their circle, it wouldn't be as important. Just like she predicted, he is quickly cast aside to the benches of dialogue; the tall figure of her husband lingers silently, waiting for the right moment to strike.
It's entertaining to see him slowly boil, which goes unnoticed by everybody else in the hall. YN observed him for years to crack his facade as swiftly as she does now. A few moments, and he will decide to walk away, unable to swallow his pride back anymore, and there will be no chance of meeting the people he desperately needs.
''Excuse me for a moment,'' YN smiles at the women beside her, placing her glass on the gilded trail. They are good people—sure, some a little less bright and some a little less assertive as she is, but still, most of the information she finds useful comes from them—silent furniture, as they often joke. They are noticed no more than vases in the corners of their grand mansions; just like their houses, their husbands come in different shapes, and just like houses, the inside is always the same. Empty.
''Good evening, gentleman!'' she chirps, putting on one of her many expressions. She never felt bad about changing her face to fit the situation better; after all, they were all just different versions of her. ''I believe you already met my husband.'' YN delicately diverts her gaze from the black mass of suits to her husband's face, sending a loving smile his way.
The men are smitten, as usual. Who could've thought the young lad was the owner of this house? YN doesn't pay them much attention; they are never the driving force behind connections. Instead, she turns to the only woman in the bleak company.
''Missis Nej, what a lovely broch! You have to tell me where you got it; the details are incredible!''
It was true—YN sees no point in lying about liking something when the compliment is right there—a beautiful dove broch with sparkly gems instead of eyes, placed on a delicate lace.
The woman's face lights up at her words. ''I made the design myself, and then my seamstress pulled it together. I am glad you like it—isn't the stitching so fine?''
''It is! I wish I was as creative as you are; my imagination is only enough for the table centerpieces.''
''You know what? I have many other drafts at home; why don't you and your husband stop by for tea for a few hours? To see if my seamstress could come up with something for you?''
''Oh, that would be absolutely wonderful! What do you think, Coriolanus?''
What can he think? Her husband is happy things are going his way, of course, but there is something else in his gaze that makes YN's heart skip a beat. Suspicion. The only thing she should be scared of was her husband's mind—the deadliest of the weapons, his paranoia. It, like a vicious exotic, has to be put away from his reach; it sinks its teeth in everything Coriolanus feeds to it, and if he does not, turns onto him.
He smiles and nods, wrapping his hand around her bare shoulders. YN thinks she ought to be more careful; it was her job to keep him on a leash, like a beat she signed to care for. Whose fault would it be if the wild thing did what wild things do—bite?
-
He almost doesn't have any opponents left. Those who dared not to support the young candidate from the party were quickly silenced, and those who tried to get their hands on Snow's place were eliminated. What was better was that nothing could be traced back to the blonde male in a red suit. YN didn't worry about that.
She had to work overtime to make sure their paths didn't cross. Coriolanus never told her his plans so she could build hers. Oh, no. She had to scurry, like a rat, searching for his ideas to make sure they didn't clash with hers because, just like her mother told her, you can't put on everything best at once.
That's why YN sits in the dim, foul-smelling room on the outcast of the city during what was supposed to be a lunch hour. She almost laughs at the thought of her Coriolanus finding out where his wife spent this afternoon— in a brothel, in clothes that weren't even hers, without her usual jewellery and signature scent.
The door to the room opens quickly, but YN doesn't even bother looking in its direction. She knew what she was going to see there, so why bother?
''YN,'' the man in his forties breathes out, ''you came.''
Jerome. A tailored suit of dark brown, matching his hair. Wealthy, pretty enough, and damn stubborn. One of the few who refused to step down in elections, one of the few who still had a huge chance at winning them.
''Of course, I did—how could I not?'' She sheds a tear, breathing in his scent and hiding her face in his lean chest. ''I missed you, J; I missed you so much.''
They used to fuck before she married Coriolanus, ever since she turned eighteen. He even wanted to marry her for some time before she married Snow. YN was quite popular with the suitors; her husband was a fool for thinking other men didn't notice her. They did.
Jerome crushes her lips with his, leaving no time for talking. He was a serious man—a tough man, even—the type to endure the hardships of life without complaining. He is the type to get what he wants, no matter the obstacles. YN thinks he could've been on top instead of her dear husband if she only chose to marry him, but Jerome is too human for her. He is a man, a man who takes pleasure in her, and YN can't stand it. She likes her lovers without weaknesses, and Jerome isn't like that.
When an hour passes, YN thinks it is time to return home; she kisses Jerome goodbye one last time and waits for him to exit the room as quickly as he enters. That's the agreement: he pays for the room under his name; he deals with hosts and room service. YN just has to be, and he is happy with that.
She waits exactly fifteen minutes before she picks up her coat from the floor and puts it on—fifteen minutes is what was needed for a junkie she hired to stab Jerome in the ally seven times—for every year of their age gap when he first kissed her at her birthday party. Symbolic: She pays attention to the details, not only on her high-end dresses. YN imagines the headlines in the papers tomorrow morning: a respected politician found dead near the whorehouse. A death fit for a pig.
She leaves the building in a good mood—one more step to being the first lady of Panem—and she still has an hour before Coriolanus returns home. YN has everything in check, down to the smallest gist, except for the blonde man in the telephone booth across the street.
-
Coriolanus is mad. Another man, behind his back, even if for the sole purpose of eliminating him. He doesn't like that YN makes arrangements when it is he who is the man of the house, the driving force behind the successes. She forgot her place, and if he has to remind her, he will. Coriolanus always liked YN better with her mouth shut.
''How are things at work?'' YN asks, twirling in front of the mirror in their bedroom. It's like she doesn't notice his annoyed stare or his jealous eyes following her every move.
Coriolanus doesn't answer. He pulls her closer and takes off her robe in one swift motion. It falls on the floor, light blue fabric pooling around his feet. He searches for something—anything—to indicate another man's presence near her body or in it. Nothing—her skin glows under the faint light of lamps, free of any marks or scratches.
Coriolanus sighed with relief, his hands letting go of YN's hips. She looks at him, confused.
''Is there anything wrong? Why did you stop?''
He wants to slap her. To make her apologize, to make her beg for his forgiveness. But something in her deep eyes and painted lips makes his head cloud, stirring around a familiar mix of emotions. Anger. Lust. Fear. Maybe she was the death herself—he wouldn't know. The way YN laughed as he kissed her exposed skin, pressing a little too hard for it to be enjoyable, made blood rush to his body. ''Tell me,'' Coriolanus whispers in her ear. "Have you ever killed?"
YN grins, holding his reddened face in her hands. ''No, never.''
Coriolanus chuckles softly, diverting his gaze to her chest. A lie.
He turns her around, pushing her body on the bed before getting on his knees. That was the night he knew she had to die.
-
It wasn't hard to make her fall in love with him. Flowers on the doorstep of the mansion just in time for her to leave the house, along with a handwritten note declaring his undying affection. Make her less alert; make her more vulnerable. YN gave him the key to her demise easily—it was always him.
Coriolanus was good at ensuring everyone benefited him, and his wife did nothing better than play right into his hands. YN willingly planned her own funeral with her every move—she knew too much about his secrets and had become a liability. If only she knew better than to play with fire, she might have stood a chance.
It's a shame, really, to kill her so soon. He was almost enjoying her—the way she trembled under his touch, the way she whispered his name in ecstasy. But that was the way of the world. There could be only one winner, and Coriolanus knew better than to believe his wife when she promised to always be loyal. If your dog bites you, someone else is feeding it.
''New wine?'' YN motions to the tall bottle on the table as they eat dinner. ''Is this the one from the Darians?''
Coriolanus shakes his head. Darians. It was like fate was testing his patience, as if one headache wasn't enough. The only one of his possible opponents in the upcoming elections held a good amount of votes, mainly because of his recognizable name. The Darians were wine magnates, with at least forty vineyards under their name. Of course, they gifted wine bottles for holidays, and of course, it was nothing but a slap in the face—Coriolanus could very much afford to buy his own bottles.
''I bought this one yesterday. Would you like a glass?'' he pours before YN has time to agree; the dark red liquor fills their glasses, turning the transparent walls slightly pink. Coriolanus watches as his wife takes a big sip, surprise evident on her face.
''It's sweet,'' she announces but quickly corrects herself. ''But it is good. Unusual, but quite nice.''
''Really?'' He acts surprised and takes a small sip, not to raise any suspicion. ''It indeed is.''
They continue their dinner as usual, with occasional remarks here and there. Everything goes according to plan, with YN drinking from her glass more than twice more. Until it doesn't.
Fifty-five minutes.
This is how long he has before the poison kills him. Given that YN weighs less and consumes more, she should start to portray the first symptoms. She doesn't.
Twenty minutes pass, and Coriolanus feels a slight nausea. Twenty-five—his head starts lightly spinning. He watches his wife put down a fork and stare at the sky through the open window. If she faints now, he would still have time to drink the antidote, but she doesn't. Instead, she smiles at his wandering gaze and asks for dessert.
When thirty minutes pass, Coriolanus feels a stream of blood travels down his chin onto the freshly washed shirt. He can't keep himself on the chair, sliding down from it on the carpeted floor. The surrounding furniture stands as if in a haze, and the only thing he can make out is the nearing steps of the heeled feet.
YN says something, kneeling beside him and putting his head on her lap, although he can't understand the word she utters. It hits him like a brick wall—the smell of roses radiating from her, the same perfume his mother wore. Her hands, although adorned with more rings than his mother could've possibly owned, are just as gentle when they touch his forehead.
''I'm sorry,'' he tries to choke out, but all that comes out of his mouth is hot, thick blood.
-
When Coriolanus wakes up in the hospital, he is frantic. The only thing he was familiar with was the only thing he tried so hard to escape. Fear. It spreads through his body, paralyzing his limbs in the white room of a singular bed. It chocks him, tugging the strings in his throat to leave hot, burning holes each time he swallows. It burns, and bites, and twists in his stomach; if he survives, YN will get her revenge.
That's why she kept him alive—to taunt and mock. He lost, once and for all, and got himself into a corner with no escape. There is no point in begging, no point in lying—his wife knows everything he did, and she won't hesitate to let the whole country know. Outsmarted, outplayed. Alone.
His eyes wander across the room in a last resort—he will take his own life, and she will have no power in making him a laughing stock. But the hospital room is empty; the only thing besides a small coffee table and bed is a pile of newspapers. Coriolanus stands up and almost falls in an attempt to reach them, yet manages to grab one. Just like he predicted, on the front page of it is the perfectly painted face of his wife; the beauty of it is disturbed only by a single tear rolling down her cheek.
POISONING ATTEMPT ON A FAMOUS POLITICIAN
Three days ago, an attempted poisoning took place in the Snow's family's mansion. Our correspondent was lucky enough to ask a few questions to YN Snow, the wife of the victim.
''Tell me, Miss Snow, why do you think you and your husband were the targets of this crime?''
''I think it is rather obvious that motive was political; we all know that my husband posed a serious threat to Ethan Darius because he was estimated to win instead of him. That's why he decided to kill him in that dirty way, like a snake, with poison, instead of losing to him in a fair competition like any gentleman would!''
''And do you think there are any correlations between Mister Darius and a string of suspicious murders of civilians and people higher in power?''
''As far as my knowledge goes, the court is still deciding on the matter, but one thing I know for sure: if Ethan Darius went as far as to try to kill his opponent, what indicates he wouldn't have done the same with others? ''
''People of Panem were moved by the love you and your husband seem to hold for each other ever since your wedding, but the way you fight for justice made many wonder - will we see you as a first lady of Panem soon?''
''I just do what any person would—it is my duty as a wife and as a citizen to advocate for those who were wronged. As for your question, I do think this happening only solidified that our country and political scene need change. And change is what my husband stands for.''
''And lastly, is there anything you wish you could say to your husband right now?''
''I would want to remind him of a simple truth: the one who is more afraid always strikes first. Thank you.''
Coriolanus didn't need to read anymore. YN made sure she wasn't going anywhere if he did something like that in the future—the public loved her before, but now they will go crazy. But that didn't bother him too much; on the contrary, he was rather impressed. Coriolanus felt fear leave his body with every breath. His place took something else, something he couldn't quite name yet—the feeling of stillness in his stomach. He wondered if that's what fullness felt like. A sweet, honey-like sensation in his veins.
-
The hall of the president's house is filled with what seems to be hundreds of people. Tables are overflowing with the most exquisite dishes, and laughter fills the air.
''Corio, look! The kids are dressed as little snowflakes—for us! Oh, isn't it so cute?'' YN coes, motioning at the girls-ballerinas in white tutus. They twirl on the stage, their movements mimicking the ones of snow falling outside.
He doesn't care if they are dressed as giant cockroaches, but he still nods in agreement. Coriolanus watches as YN steals one white rose from the piles decorating the balcony and throws it on stage, laughing in delight when girls start to argue over it.
There are flashes of cameras capturing every interaction between them; he knows that, so he places his hand on the back of the chair YN sits on. She looks as beautiful as always, perfect from every angle. His wife might be poison, dangerous, and lethal, but he is the one who knows that, when handled with care, it brings much more benefits to its owner than any other weapon.
Coriolanus already envisions their photo as the headline tomorrow morning—beside them, the big, bold letters.
Panem today.
He feels YN place a kiss on his cheek, staining it a little with her red lipstick.
Panem tomorrow.
Coriolanus smiles and brings her closer, whispering a compliment in her ear.
Panem forever.
The hall erupts with applause and cheers, some even going as far as shouting words of admiration for the new president and his wife.
They are the guard dogs, and they are the house dogs guard. And, until the last brick of it is there, they will bite.
tag list (do tell me if I'm doing it wrong) @aemondsb1tch @cecekcecekceckceckceck @queenofshinigamis @julesandro
would you considering writing more Johana x Fem!Reader? I absolutely adore your writing
Hi! First of all, thank you! Concerning fics with Johanna - yes, I do have one in mind! Can't say how quickly I will be able to write and post it, but it's definitely there! So, keep an eye out for changes in masterlist - as soon as I am done with part two for glass and mirrors and a Cato fanfic, I'm doing our favourite lesbian!
Hi! Just wanted to come and say that your writing style is so good and I love it sm!! I love your work for clove and the Coryo fics are also so good (not even a coryo fan but like dang 🤭) thank you for blessing us with your amazing work!!
Hiii! Thank you SO MUCH for this comment, it literally means the world to me!! I am the one that's blessed with people who enjoy my work - you are the best!!
pairing: young!coriolanussnow x fem!reader
summary: There is one thing the world needs to know about her: she didn't become a star overnight. She was born to be one.
warnings: canon-typical violence, mentions of mental illness, narcissism, blonde men who need therapy, unhinged women, people in shitty relationships and toxic industries
word count: 4.6k
PART TWO IS HERE
author's note: Hello and welcome to our small community of people who have fallen victim to the charming (and evil) blonde man! This fic is heavily inspired by the edits of models that pop up on my ticktock feed every day. Shout out to them and the talented editors who bless my eyes with their creations. As for YN this time, prepare to be on quite a ride because she, surprise-surprise, is evil! In my head, there has to be at least one victor who feels no remorse at all; they can't all be morally good (and relatively sane) people. Also, the obsession with beauty in this fic is, in fact, intentional, so bear with me. Feel free to comment or insult the author in the comments, but only if you are creative with it. Enjoy and see you in part 2!
In all of her short childhood, she always loved mirrors. Her grandma used to joke about it with her old friends while they shared lunch at the factory: ''That empty-headed child wants to do nothing but stare at herself all day.'' The women would laugh, their raspy voices making the glid, already filled with toxic fumes to the brim, hotter. YN didn't mind; she would pretend not to hear them, clinging to the machinery in front of her instead. She would get out of here sooner or later, and she'd see whose laughter would be left echoing all through the narrow streets.
She wasn't born to rot in this place like these people were; YN was sure of that. Not with a face like hers, with manners she taught herself from the bright magic box in their cramped commune apartment, where a few times a year the government played the show. It was supposed to be a punishment, YN reminded herself each time, but it didn't look like one. She watched the children eat more food than she had seen in a month and then cry on the stage in front of millions. She wouldn't cry if she was there, that was for certain. People die every day here, but none of them get to dress up in the jewels provided by the wealthiest people she has ever seen.
It was funny how they had all the money in the world and still chose to dress so horribly. Mismatched fabrics and smudged colours on their faces, like the colours of the lake near her house—the factories polluted it with dyes, turning the water green, purple, and sometimes even pink. That's how she got her old grey dress to be such a pretty lavender colour. It didn't matter that everyone at school laughed at her, even Miss Kyla; she was horrendously ugly anyway, her hair resembling the colour of unwashed underwear. YN wore her dress with pride, mimicking the voice of the funny multicolour-haired man on the screen, chatting with long o's and a's.
That's how she ended up here, on the first floor of the newly renovated training centre, with a drink in her freshly manicured hand. She had two hours before her stylists would need her again—a time designated for sleep, which she apparently so greatly lacks. YN doesn't care; she went without sleep for much longer than two days. Instead, she does what she loves the most—turns on a shiny screen and watches the golden letters appear: the 15th Annual Hunger Games.
It starts with reaping, as always, but YN skips that part—she doesn't like seeing herself in those dirty rags, although, as papers would later state, ''nothing could make this girl ugly, even if a potato sack was put on her body.'' She likes interviews better. Luckily, the wait is not very long; soon enough, her favourite host pops up, his hair shimmering with sea green.
''And now, our dear viewers, I am more than pleased to announce our next tribute from District 1—please let her hear how excited we are to meet her!'' His voice booms through the theatre as the crowd erupts into applause.
YN moves gracefully, a beaming smile on her face matching that of a host. Her gloved hands wave at the supposed people in front of her as if they were guests at her birthday party. But most importantly, dress. The one she chose herself, arguing over it with her stylist for the last few hours, the one that fitted her perfectly. Capitol enough to appeal to the audience, district enough to highlight that she isn't one of them—she is something new, undiscovered, and worth keeping an eye on. It's almost not a dress at all—the sparkling, sheer fabric of beautiful white, with stars gathering at her chest and bottom to finish the ''almost naked'' look. And the crowd goes crazy for it. People shout, and the splashes of the cameras blinding her create a new melody that is so unfamiliar to YN's ears. Admiration. The thing she craved for so long.
''Alright, alright,'' Lucky Flickerman smiles, gesturing for the crowd to settle down. ''We don't want to scare her off now, do we?'' He turns to her, a microphone in hand. ''What's your name, sweetheart?''
''YN Y/L/N. And I am afraid you can't scare me off, no matter how hard you try. The thing is, I am here to stay,'' she jokes, cocking an eyebrow at the man beside her.
''Oh, how I love your confidence! Now tell me—we heard you are a volunteer—the first in the history of District 1! Are there any special ties to the girl who was supposed to stand here tonight, or what's going on?''
''Well, I was dying to see you in person, of course—no pun intended.''
Oh, there weren't any ties to the girl, or the boy, for that matter. No, YN simply wanted to go at her peak chance of winning—countless years of secret preparation in the factory; working a night shift after school and full days of weekends; hours of studying every plant and animal known to mankind—all to ensure that she wouldn't waste her chance like most kids here did.
''That's an honour coming from your lips; we are happy to see you in the Capitol, Miss Y/L/N. Since you came here by choice, what strategy are you planning on using in the arena? Maybe something tied to your district's craft?''
''If you promise to keep this between us, I'll confess—I will use my charms to make everyone fall in love with me and watch them fight by promising the winner a kiss—and then I will take it from there.'' YN turns to face the lights, staring directly into the camera for a few seconds. The crowd laughs once more, some going so far as to cheer and whistle in excitement. ''But in all honesty, I think I have a fair shot—I would win in a day if it meant the unlimited supply of those amazing cupcakes with sprinkles on top.''
''Well, in that case, you should definitely get a good rest this night—you are not the only one who got your eye on them! Ladies and gentlemen, prepare for the Cupcake Games tomorrow, and don't forget to sponsor this lovely girl right here if you want to see her win! And now, a short word from our sponsors.''
Cupcake jokes are still funny to her, even after two years, although she got sick of them a week after her victory and was just as sick of all the titles papers came up with to fit her into the candy girl box. It served her well, for which she is grateful; the sponsors did send her a shitton of things, although mostly useless.
Next is the introduction of everyone else; YN doesn't care to look at it for more than just a few seconds, speeding it up to maximum. It's boring to no end—how do Capitolees watch it every year with such excitement? She stops to look only when her face appears on the screen, covered in crimson blood.
She counted six canons when she finally stopped to take a breath in and look at her surroundings. That was about right, although YN didn't count how many times she pulled a knife out of somebody's still-warm body and lurched into another nearby. The sand soaked up the blood fast, she noticed, stepping over the pile of what used to be her competitors and walking towards the cone-shaped something. Nobody in sight—each one of the ''better'' kids is now dead without a chance to kill each other, to kill her, and ''others'' will die like flies under the hot sun of what looked like a desert. YN noticed that some even left behind the given jackets; she collected them before stepping into the Cornucopia, claiming them as her own. Not everyone grew up in hot factories, she thought to herself, so they have no chance of knowing how cold it gets at night.
YN doesn't like how the uniform looks on her; the T-shirt hangs around her frame too loosely. It's evident that she didn't eat enough back then, but it was tolerable. The dried blood looked worse; with her stoic face and eye colour, the streams looked too grotesque, almost unserious; it didn't fit the look she was going for. Her hands itch to wipe it before YN remembers that it's non-existent now—the girl on the screen is just a recording. She forwards a little more, looking for the commentary of the first night from the hosts—their excitement and praise never get old—but hears knocking at her door just as she is about to press play. YN glances at the clock—it's too early for the prep team, so it must be someone else—and turns off the TV just to be sure she heard it right.
When the knocking continues, she shouts a quick ''Come in,'' after checking her reflection on the now dark screen. ''Ah, Maggie!''
''How many times do I have to repeat that my name is Mags, not Maggie? Not Mags with fangs either, to be clear. Just Mags.''
''But everyone calls you that! And I want to be special,'' YN whines, laying back on the sofa.
It's Mags. YN likes Mags. Mags is the only girl besides her on the victors' list. Mags is the one who is always down to eat lunch together or to watch the new collection in the magazines. She is funny and down to earth, and, most importantly, Mags doesn't take bullshit from anyone.
''Even more special?'' Mags smiles, opening the fridge to look for something edible. There isn't much; they both know that YN would never eat something to ruin her figure. ''I saw your photoshoot on the street today. It's beautiful.''
''Thank you,'' YN smiles. She doesn't remember which one of her campaigns was supposed to air today, but it doesn't matter. ''Are you here for the promo again?''
The curly-haired woman nods, not looking up from the shelves. ''I hate it. I wish they would just leave me alone, so I can go home and forget about all of this.''
YN is always weirded out by such comments from Victor from 4 but never says anything. Not everyone was born to be in front of the camera; if that were the case, her talent wouldn't be so special anymore. ''It's our job, Maggie. They'll never leave us alone.''
''I know.'' Mags sighed, planting her body on the sofa beside her.
They are different, but YN thinks it's better that way. They are the same age, both 20, and that's about the only thing that ties them together. YN watches as her friend's chest rises and falls as she stares at the ceiling, her long, curly hair in some type of twist. YN would never style it like that, but Mags doesn't ask, so she stares at her in silence, trying her hardest not to compare them. She knows what type of conclusion will sparkle in her brain, but she doesn't want to admit it. Mags is her friend, her only good friend, so something inside YN fights hard to leave her alone. It's an unusual feeling, almost foreign, but YN wants to make an exception. She thinks Maggie deserves it.
''Are you okay?'' the woman asks her, finally snapping out of her trance. ''You are less talkative than usual.''
''Oh, yeah—just a little tired from work, that's it.''
Work. It's not the type of work people can really get tired from, and if anybody thinks otherwise, they never worked a day in District 1. Sometimes, YN can still feel the burning cloud of steam hitting her face when she closes her eyes. The work she does in Capitol is child's play—photoshoots, interviews, promotional campaigns, and runways. She is the only one with this kind of hectic schedule, the only one who is interesting enough for the general public to want to see her everywhere they go. Multiple shows a day wasn't uncommon; photoshoots until five a.m. were basically her usual routine; she did so many of them that she never remembered the brand name for more than an hour.
''Well, I hope I don't interrupt your me-time,'' Mags notes. ''Panem knows you need it. ''
''You worry too much about me. Better tell me about how life is in 4—anything new?''
There is probably nothing exciting, but it feels nice to listen to somebody talk with such love for their home as Mags does. It's also a great opportunity. YN catches every subtle expression and every movement of her friend with attentive eyes, making sure to parrot them later. She noticed from the recording today that her speech misses a certain effortlessness.
-
Curl and twist, curl and twist—YN has learned the pattern by now, sitting in front of the gigantic mirror, surrounded by a team of stylists. Hair, make-up, nails, and toes—five people work hand in hand for her to appear for two minutes on the long podium. The backstage is loud, and a lot is going on—last-minute changes, alterations, and quick touch-ups. YN doesn't bother to look around; she closes today like a face of the collection, and after she is done with this podium, the day is finally coming to an end.
''Oh, YN, darling, here you are!'' The bald man in his forties appears on the horizon of her peripheral vision, clasping his unnaturally white hands together. ''How are you doing, my little star? Anything you need?''
She is irritated to no end; her team booked seven shows for her today; she hadn't had anything to eat in the past six hours; and the loud music makes her head throb. But she doesn't voice any of that—nobody really wants to know how she is feeling.
Just like she guessed, the man doesn't wait for her response. ''There have been some changes in the order today, sweetheart. Jenovia will be closing today, and you will walk in her dress instead,'' the man says, turning to face her styling team. ''Change the hair to fit, and take off the blue in her make-up—it won't match. Good luck!''
''Do what he says,'' YN announces, her mouth twitching just a little. She is furious. To have that blonde bitch Jenovia walk in the best dress of the collection YN inspired? Over her dead body. Or, should she say, over Jenovia's? She will figure it out but do so later. Now there are only four girls before her, so she needs to be ready.
''Three, two, one! Go, go!'' the stage coordinator shouts, opening the curtain for her.
Right and left, hip and hand, followed by the strong clicking of her five-inch heels. The music is even louder here, with the beets vibrating through the runway and pouring into her bloodstream. She doesn't pay any attention to the glass floor underneath her. Surprisingly, her training before games helped her model more than one could guess. YN doesn't see anyone but the blinding lights lining the podium—not that she needs to see the hungry faces of the spectators. It doesn't matter what piece of fabric covers her body; they are looking at who wears it. Final pose at the centre—no smile is her go-to. Hold and turn is the golden rule.
''Here you are!'' One of the seamstresses grabs her hand, pulling her into a small, curtained space with countless clothes on racks. ''Calio wants you to hold a purse for the backstage photo and lose the belt. Where the fuck is the golden belt?'' she shouts, searching for one. ''Wait here; I'll go find it,'' she finally announces, running away before YN has the chance to suggest anything.
YN looks around, carefully moving the laying rags with her foot. She mentally goes over the outfits labelled with names, rating them one by one, until her eyes stop on the white dress. The closing dress, the one she was supposed to model. Underneath it are velvety black high boots.
The idea comes to her mind quickly: she steals a needle from the nearby table and carefully places it inside the shoes, making sure it looks like an accident.
''Finally,'' the woman returns with a belt in her hands, oblivious to YN's half-smile. ''Put it on and go; they are already waiting.''
''Of course, thanks.''
YN isn't sure how much time has passed before she hears a scream, standing up from her place in the corner with a blanket around her exposed shoulders. Surely enough, Jenovia is on the floor, crying crocodile tears—a needle inside her heel deep enough to make a few of the girls around her gag.
''What the fuck happened?'' It's Calio, the boss here; he was ordering her around before.
''I don't know,'' all the blonde girl can manage before bursting into tears one more time.
''Well, can you walk?'' he asks, kneeling to take a look.
''No,'' Jenovia whispers, her hand holding her bloodied foot.
The bald man sighed, more annoyed than concerned. ''We need a replacement. You,'' he points at YN. ''Take it off and change into the dress. Quick!''
YN does what she is told in no time; she doesn't want to wait until Jenovia suddenly gets better or the man finds a better-suited girl to close. After a few minutes, she is almost ready; she only needs the lipstick to finish it off.
''We don't have time!'' the man roars, dragging her to the exit. ''Here!'' He puffs out her hair and adjusts the layers of fake pearls covering her neck. ''Three, two, one! Go, fucking go!''
And go she does. A few steps on the runway, and she discovers that lipstick is still in her hands. YN puts it in the pocket of the enormously large black coat that hides the gorgeous white dress underneath. Step after step, her long black boots draw patterns on the glass. She will have no choice but to buy them; YN doesn't care if it's stupid. They helped her, so she will have them.
It's time for the final pose: YN takes out the lipstick from her pocket and applies it with two swift motions, blowing a kiss to the camera. It will definitely be a hit with the photographers. YN throws one last look before turning around and returning to the curtained exit. On her way back, when the lights lower to follow her back, she can see a little clearer. In the sea of vibrant hair colours and clothes, the platinum-blonde hair and a simple black suit stood out too much not to notice. There is only one person who could afford to look so simple—YN knows it. An opportunity of a lifetime.
She makes another stop in the middle of the podium, right in front of his seat. The coat slides off her shoulders effortlessly, and YN catches it just when the fabric is about to hit the floor. The crowd goes crazy, clapping and whistling at her tricks, but YN has no wish to entertain them any further. YN pauses for a moment, her eyes meeting icy-blue ones, before turning away and finishing the show. There is one thing the world needs to know about her: she didn't become a star overnight. She was born to be one.
-
Since the last show, she has done fifteen more—day after day, opening and closing. Her little trick got her where she wanted to be, with more money than one person could need in a lifetime and nowhere to spend it. Even now, standing in the long hallway of the training centre, she wears nothing she bought herself; all are gifted, sent, or handed by the adoring fans. Like a rag doll, with no say in how she looks or what she does, YN hears everyone say that it was ''a price of fame''. She doesn't think so; she was told what to do long before she tasted real butter on her toast.
The sliding door to her apartment moves almost without noise. While most victors complain that the lock system reminds them of prison, YN is grateful to have it. The thought of some crazy fanatic waiting for her in the dark isn't the most pleasant one. The designer bag finds its place on the floor, soon joined by the coat—room service will clean it up later. The heels slide off her feet quickly, leaving bloodied marks on her skin, but YN doesn't care enough to do something about them.
''Forgive me for joining you without an invitation.''
YN turns around, her hands grabbing the keys in her hands tighter. She mentally goes over her means of escape or fight—a mirror could easily be broken and used as a weapon; if necessary, she could also grab a nearby ottoman. The man in the chair doesn't look too impressed with her thought process. His lips curve into a smile, blue eyes staring at her with undivided attention. A suit, not very different from the one he wore at her show, was a deep brown colour.
''Mister President,'' YN breathes out, lowering her hand.
Coriolanus Snow. Light, almost white hair frames his face like a halo, with his suit hugging his waist just enough to highlight the broad shoulders. YN saw him on TV a couple of times, but seeing him in person was something entirely different. It's like the air shifts around him and changes with his presence.
''I believe we met before,'' he humours her, his eyes shining with mischief.
The light knocking on the door doesn't leave YN any time to answer. She presses a button near it, fixing her hair before opening it. YN tries to look as composed as possible without betraying her nerves—why was he here? ''Yes?''
''The dinner, Ma'am.'' the room service declares, pushing a cart in front of her.
YN nods, even though she didn't order one. ''Leave it here,'' she says, gesturing to the place nearby. When the door closes and she is alone with the man in her room again, her heart skips a beat.
''I took the liberty of ordering; I hope you don't mind.''
Even if she did, she knew better than to say anything. Instead, YN watched as the man stood up and took the dishes from the cart, placing them on the coffee table, before turning to her once more.
''Please, have a seat.''
She does what she is told, sitting down on her king-sized bed—the chair is already taken by him—and waits for the blonde man to start speaking. He doesn't right away, choosing to pour a glass of wine for her and himself.
YN watches the dark liquor pour into the glass, swirling with each drop. She isn't hungry—she rarely was—and the soup he ordered looks more like vomit than a dish, but she still takes the spoon and carefully places it into her mouth. Her lipstick stains the silverware with colour, leaving a small circle right at the end—that's when the man finally decides to speak.
''Dare I say I am a huge fan of your work ethic? Everyone who I've spoken to is very satisfied with your,'' he pauses, searching for the fitting word, ''dedication .''
''Thank you, Mister President,'' YN replies with a polite smile before returning to her soup. She watches him only from the corner of her eye. The way he cuts his steak with his ringed fingers and the way he places a small bite in his mouth before his lips close. There is a subtle roughness in his movements, a power play of some sort.
He catches her gaze and, for a moment, is silent. ''You probably wonder why I am here in the first place, outside of the amazing steak they cook here, of course. The thing is, Miss Y/L/N, that you are popular not only with the general public but with people higher in power as well. One may even say they fell in love with the way you present yourself.''
''I am pleased to know that, Mr. President, but I am only doing my job as a victor.''
''Then you will understand the weight of my dilemma. Those people who have served Panem all their lives faithfully usually don't ask for much recognition; they work because they want to build a better future for all of us. So, when they do ask for a small favour or two, I am more than happy to satisfy them. But recently, all they ask for is you .''
''I believe I don't quite understand. They want to meet me?''
''You can phrase it like that, yes. For a night or two, of course, with all expenses covered.''
It's heavy, the understanding of what Mister President really implies. The thought of someone's hand roaming her body brings her dinner up YN's throat. ''Why?'' Her voice is shakier than she would like, but she is more focused on composing the rising anger than noticing it.
''I am sorry, Miss Y/L/N, but I am afraid there is nothing I can do; I am greatly outnumbered. Unless,'' he starts but doesn't finish his sentence.
''Unless what?''
''Unless you are seen with me.''
His piercing blue eyes look at her, but there is nothing in them. Her chances are limited, and he knows it. There is something rogue in him beneath the veil of chivalry he offers. YN smiles at him. That's what this whole charade was about—he wants her. Coriolanus Snow, the most powerful man in the whole world, wants her.
''Of course, Mr. President. That's very generous of you.''
''Mister President is too official, don't you think, Miss Y/L/N? Perhaps we could find a more informal way of addressing each other?''
''Informal?'' YN asks, tilting her head to the side. If he wants her, he'll get her. ''What about Mister Snow?'' The buttons on her shirt are easy to manage—a few quick motions, and it slides off her shoulders onto the cream cover. ''Or, Sir Coriolanus?'' The pants are a little trickier, but YN learned that backstage, every second counts, so they soon also pool around her heels, the fabric hitting the floor with a slight thud.
The blonde man watches her intently, his eyes following every move of her hands. His legs are still spread wide on the lime-green chair as he slightly leans back. YN can't tell if he is enjoying her antics or not, but frankly, she doesn't care; she is enjoying it. The way her shadow dances on the wall, the way the air shifts in the huge room, transforming it into a tiny stage. YN looks at him with mischief, with superiority, even. After all, she is the show here. Why not let Mr. Savior think it is for him?
''Come, Mister Snow,'' she says, throwing it in his face like a bone to the dog.
He doesn't have the haste to join her; on the contrary, he stands up painfully slowly. His tall figure almost seems to stretch as he raises, covering the floor lamp behind him fully. When he finally circles the table to stand above her, his presence is overwhelming. YN lets him stand between her legs, his unusually cold hand on her thigh.
''I prefer Coriolanus,'' he whispers in her ear, lowering himself enough to touch her ear with his velvety lips. He pulls away slightly, planting a kiss on her cheek instead. ''Have a most pleasant night, Miss Y/L/N.''
And then he walks away. YN watches as his figure disappears behind the sliding door before she lets out a breath she didn't realize she was holding. Her gaze instinctively finds her reflection in the nearby mirror; there is no reason to shine if no one watches her.
