I’m sure someone has talked about this before but one thing I absolutely love about tbosas is how Snow’s descent into villainy is never once presented as something that was inevitable
So many villain origin stories portray this idea of a person who tries incredibly hard to be a good person, who takes every opportunity to be kind and to better themselves, but are ultimately doomed to fail by the narrative. Their environment and their circumstances make it impossible for them to be a good person, and while this is effective from a storytelling point of view it’s not exactly accurate to real life
In real life there is always a point where a bad person makes the decision to do something bad, they make the decision to prioritise themselves, their own power, money or desires over someone else. That’s how real life dictators are made, they are presented with every opportunity to be good, and they purposefully choose to not take it
This makes Snow’s storyline so effective because he is given so many opportunities to do the right thing and yet, at every single turn, he chooses to serve himself instead, exactly like how real dictators are made
Snow, unlike most people we see in the capitol, is in a unique position where he could genuinely have the chance to understand and relate to the people from the districts. He, unlike his classmates, is poor and spends most nights going hungry, he witnessed firsthand the cruelty of the capitol when Clemensia was bitten by the snakes for nothing more than lying about doing her homework, when his sister was forced to sell herself on the streets in order to feed the both of them
Throughout his book, the three people he is closest to are Tigris (who dislikes the hunger games, is a rebel, and a victim of the capitol forced to turn to prostitution), Sejanus (who is originally from district 2, dislikes the capitol and knows he will never be accepted there, and also a rebel) and Lucy Gray (who is a victim of the hunger games, from district 12, and is also treated horribly by the capitol). These are all people who gave him an opportunity to realise the cruelty of the system he was in, a chance to directly confront his prejudices and see that people from the districts are just the same as him, and yet he still refuses to take the chance to change
He is given every opportunity, he’s sent away from the capitol to be a peacekeeper in the districts, he forms personal connections with people from the districts, he helps Sejanus perform funeral rites, and yet at every moral crossroads he comes to he makes the wrong decision. He didn’t have to become a villain, and yet he made the choice to do so anyway, despite every chance he was given
I think it’s a really effective portrayal of Snow as a character, and it’s a very effective villain origin story for the type of villain that Snow is. It never once excuses him from his actions because it highlights just how accountable he was for his actions
a hazy shade of winter |young!coriolanus snow x capitol!reader|
prompt: wedding nuptials and coriolanus' upcoming inauguration, leads to press.
my first work lol <3 reader's surname is "duke" for the series. i picture the duke family being a rothschild similar type if that makes sense???
contains: possessive snow, nothing too graphic, he's manipulative and a little dark. established relationship. mentions of corio's mom. alludes to smut but none.
Coriolanus stared back at his own reflection, fastening the buttons to his shirt. A nicer fabric, Tigris still selected it but did not have to mend it together like before. No, now the Snow’s were back in power, still climbing that ladder of socialites and success- thanks to you.
A small rapping on the door pulled his attention. “Just a moment.” Corio huffed, looking at the clock. Flickerman’s producer said nine sharp, he still had twenty minutes.
The rapping didn’t stop, following again, heavier this time. Corio’s spine straightened, icy with fear. His mind raced with possibilities- a rebel outside the door, here to kill him; or perhaps it was the guards, they’d found the guns he threw in the river years ago and we're here for him too.
Corio reached for his own weapon, slinking to the door, peeking under the crack. Two white heels.
“Corio,” Your voice whispered, a hint of a giggle. “Let me in, Corio.”
Coriolanus relaxed, setting the weapon down, tucked under his jacket. The door opened, you in your pristine white outfit, the sapphire fixture on your ring finger. “What are you doing?” Corio scanned the hall. “You’re supposed to be in your dressing room.”
“Tigris finished with me.” You waved him off, slipping under his arm into his own dressing room. “She went to join my parents in the audience, and I wanted to see you.” You hum, eyes rolling down his frame.
Corio scoffed lightly, shutting the door. “This is improper.”
“I think they’ll forgive us, Corio.” You giggle. “We are married.” Your hand laid gently against his chest, smoothing out a crease on his collar, engagement ring sparkling even in the low light of the room.
Corio’s hand found yours, admiring the ring himself. His mother’s ring turned yours, one of the few items he had left of hers- that they hadn’t lost or sold to stay afloat. He added the halo of diamonds. After all, he was marrying into the Duke family, he needed it to be flashy- to be worthy.
“We’re not married yet, my love.” Corio muttered, thumb swiping over the ring. “Still two more sleeps.”
“And a press conference,” You sighed, leaning into his soft touch. “And a press tour.”
It had been your father’s idea. Coriolanus was to be President come the new term, and since marrying into Panem’s wealthiest, the press tour to each District seemed fitting. The communication was less and less now, Corio wanted to keep it that way, but have them still feel involved. Your father loved the idea.
“Mmm, but a solo press tour.” Corio hummed, nose brushing against yours gently. “Just us for weeks, days on the train. By ourselves.” His voice rapeseed, tone dropping to that dark octave that left you squirming, tummy flipping with excitement.
“We won’t really be alone.” You pouted, lip jutting in a petulant sort of sulk. It made Corio’s lip twitch. “There will be the peacekeepers and guards and Tigris and-”
“-But we’ll have a whole carriage to ourselves. A private one. I’ve made sure of it.” Coriolanus nodded, the pad of his thumb brushing over your lip. “Just for us. A honeymoon before we come back.”
You smiled softly, hands raking up the soft fabric of his shirt, careful not to bunch or wrinkle the fabric- you knew how much he hated that. Corio’s hands found your waist, pulling you into him, lips slotting over yours. He always took the lead, and you’d let him, his domineering personality never settling even in moments of intimacy.
Two sharp knocks pulled the two of you away, Coriolanus pausing rigidly. “Come in,” You called, your hand moving respectfully to his arm, smoothing out your skirt.
“Ah, the love birds.” Lucky Flickerman grinned. “See, Juno, I told you they’d be together, and it looks like they’re decent.”
Corio’s face swelled with heat, mouth settling in a fine, thin line. Once he was sworn into oath, he’d have his tongue cut out for that vulgar comment. Your hand squeezed his bicep lightly, soothingly.
“So, I wanted to give you the run down before we are live on the air to all of Panem.” Lucky grinned, you knew he was smug at his rising fame. “President Snow and the First Lady… Do you want me to address you as Snow or Duke?”
“Snow.” Corio hissed before you could respond. His hand was firm on your waist, pulling you possessively into him. “She is a Snow, now.”
Lucky blinked, awkwardly cutting his eyes to you. “Right. So President and First Lady Snow, we’ll talk about the wedding- the dress, the ring, the proposal, the details, the guest list. Really lean into that, ok? Get the viewers excited for the district press tour after.”
You nodded, Lucky’s droning instructions a blur to you. Your eyes caught sight of your and Coriolanus in the mirror. How tall he stood next to you, proud and boasted- powerful. He always had his chin held high, looking down his nose at others. You were just glad he had lessened the way he’d glare down at you, traded it in for a softer side you weren’t sure you’d ever see.
His hand stayed on the small of your back, respectfully, but holding that same ownership, leading you through the small studio. “You look beautiful.” Corio whispered, pushing a loose strand of hair back into place, tucking it behind your ear.
You blushed under his praise, looking down at your white kitten heels. “Don’t do that.” Corio frowned, hand pressing into the middle of your spine. “Stand up, darling. Don’t hide from them. Let them know.”
You followed him out, hand in hand, waving to the studio audience under blinding lights. Since the success of the Hunger Games, the donors- your family included- had poured in money to have the studio revamped. Something nice, more enticing. Your father and mother sat next to Tigris. Your fathers eyes were narrowed, watchful in nearly a predatory sense, a warning to the both of you.
“Mr. and Mr. Snow,” Lucky grinned, a toothy smile that dazzled under the lights. “Or so it will be soon, yes? The wedding is…”
“In two days.” Coriolanus nodded, shoulders squared, eyes sparkling, his hand rested on your knee.
“Marvelous, just marvelous. And what a beautiful couple they are, aren’t they?” Lucky turned to the audience, nodding at their applause.
You felt hot, skin boiling under the harsh lights, under your father and Corio’s even harsher stares. The pressure to not falter, not even for a moment, was making you dizzy. Do not stutter, sit up straight, smile.
“And don’t forget, President Snow and his First Lady will be making their way to each of the Districts out there before the Inauguration and of course, before the fifteenth Hunger Games.” Lucky called exaggeratedly, clapping with his cards with the audience. “Don’t forget to join us for the reapings, it’s only a month away, folks. And as always, Panem today, Panem tomorrow, and Panem forever.”
A pause and it was done. The lights went up, producers nodding, pulling out screens and wires. You looked to Coriolanus, but his attention was elsewhere.
“That was amazing.” Tigris greeted you with a warm smile. “You did not have to mention me as your designer. I told you to say the company-”
“-The company didn’t design my dress, you did.” You nodded, squeezing her arm affectionately. “And I’m not letting that bitter, miserable woman get the credit that you deserved, Tigris.”
Tigris beamed, hugging you briefly, before your father made his slow approach, your mother on his arm. He took slow, calculated steps, looking nearly bored, unimpressed. It made Corio’s heart race- he wanted to mimic it, perfect it to have the same reaction.
“My girl,” Your father gave a half smile, lips curling in nearly a snarl. “You did wonderful.”
“Thank you,” You nodded politely. “I was afraid I spoke too much.”
“Nonsense,” Your mother waved you off lightly, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “You did marvelous.” Her eyes cut over to Coriolanus. “You as well, dear.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Duke.” Corio nodded, hands clasped behind his back respectfully.
“Are you happy, boy?” Your father looked at Corio, eyes beady and sharpened. “Excited for the wedding? The inauguration?” It was no secret your father and his pull were behind the election, Corio knew that.
“Of course,” Corio nodded, his hand finding yours gently, squeezing it. “I’m overjoyed, Mr. Duke. Moreso for the wedding, of course, but the inauguration as well. It will be hard to replace President Ravinstill but-”
Your father lifted his hand. “Save it, boy. This isn’t a political rally, you’ve already won.” He scoffed, shaking his head. You didn’t miss the way Coriolauns stiffened, his grip tightening on your hand. “As long as you keep my daughter happy, then you have my support.”
“Thank you, sir.” Corio forced out a smile through clenched teeth.
“The rehearsal dinner is tomorrow. At the Trinket Estate Gardens, dear.” Your mother nodded at you, like you’d forget.
“I’ll see you then.” You hugged her briefly. “Thank you for coming.”
“Of course, darling girl.” Your father hugged you, pressing a chaste kiss to the top of your head. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
He shook Corio’s hand firmly, a shake and a head nod before they were both whisked off, chatting to his other friends who showed. Corio wished he would have introduced him to a few, helped him build a rapport that way. There would be time, he reminded himself.
“Tigris,” You held Corio’s arm, craning around him towards his cousin on his other arm. “The white rose was a lovely touch.” You smiled, looking down at your corsage.
“Oh, that was Coriolanus’ idea.” Tigris hummed, looking at the blonde next to her. “He wanted you to have that.”
You beamed, looking up at your fiance. “You wanted me to have it?”
“I thought it was a nice touch.” Corio hummed, glancing down at you. “Thought you would enjoy it.”
“I do,” You mutter, lifting his hand to yours, lips brushing across his knuckles. Normally, he’d scold you for doing it in public. He was against any signs of PDA, a sign of weakness, he said. But he allowed it, even blushing from underneath his stiff collar.
“Save the I do’s for tomorrow.” Tigris grinned playfully at you. “What are you doing on your last night as a Duke? Going to District Two?”
Coriolanus glared at her, jaw set firmly. You shook your head lightly. “Packing.” You sighed. “We leave from the reception straight to the train.”
“Oh, I can help you-”
“-That’s alright.” You shake your head politely. “It’s just a few things. Sleepwear, toiletries- minimal things. But thank you.”
Tigris nodded back, pulling from Coriolanus gently. “I’ll wait for you in the car?”
“Go ahead without us.” Corio nodded. “We have to speak to a few sponsors after.”
Tigris nodded, waving goodbye to the both of you politely. You stepped into Corio’s dressing room, smoothing out your skirt. “We have to speak to sponsors?” You hummed, reaching for your zipper. “I thought you already did that?”
“I did.” Corio’s tone was chilling, clicking the lock to the door behind you. You stilled, eyes catching his gaze through the mirror.
Coriolanus stepped towards you, slow, calculated, with heavy footsteps. He grinned, satisfied, at how you shivered. His hands moved yours, unzipping your dress slowly. You stayed still, watching him for any sign of what was to come. You knew he’d never hurt you, purposefully, never risk what would happen if he laid a hand on you. Still, Corio was unpredictable- you hated the way it excited you.
“I just wanted a moment alone with my wife.” Corio’s breath was hot on the shell of your ear, shuddering under his touch when he pushed the fabric off your shoulders, exposing you. Bruising love bites on your chest from the night before. You wondered if his back still bore your long scratches from where you’d clawed and raked at his skin.
“‘M not your wife yet, Corio.” You met his gaze, rounded eyes that had his cock twitching. “Still another two sleeps.” You repeated his words from earlier, the tiniest grin on your lips.
“How do you want to spend your last night as a Duke, my love?” Corio’s lips ghosted over the skin of your cheek, hands gripping your waist.
“With you.” You whispered, leaning back against him. “I want to spend it with you, Coriolanus.”
Corio grinned, salacious and satisfied, fingers splaying over your jaw, holding you while he kissed you, slowly, passionately. Your pristine dress was on the floor, his hands in your hair, legs tangled around his waist while he melted you with every hot kiss.
depression, arguing, manipulation/toxic marriage, fucking each other over, possessiveness. it’s tamer than some of my others in an objective sense, but emphasizes dark thoughts and internal monologue.
requests always open! thanks for your kindnesses. i think this one is more experimental than the others. the objective here was to show how both of them mimic regular human feelings because they know they should, but it’s a poor pantomime. two sickos with nothing else but each other <3 i think i am going to call these works the Truculent series.
Coriolanus grew cold fast and did not tolerate heat well. He only slept only in his underclothes and wore heavy layers at the first sight of winter. His alarmingly fair complexion meant excessive sun wasn’t in the cards. In spite of his name, his scrappy build wasn’t meant to cut through harsh January terrain either. His nails chipped at labor, and his mind grew uneasy at laziness.
The world was tough on Coriolanus and he was tough right back on the word.
There was little Coriolanus was designed to do. Many people were strong, or smart, or wealthy, or drop-dead-gorgeous, or violent, or talented. There was something about every person Coriolanus could think of that made them stand out. He could easily categorized people by them. Here was the group of people known for their beautiful voices; here, those who could benchpress four-hundred pounds… Coriolanus could not be quantified like that.
Coriolanus Snow had to take what was left, like a runt. He was only good at two things: enduring and controlling. Since those were the only options leftover for him, Coriolanus became the best at them both. When, like Coriolanus, one has been gifted such shitty talents and nothing else, they have to figure out how to use them well enough to win against everyone with a better gift. Eventually, he realized his talents were not the ability to endure and the ability to control, but actually the ability to win. Eventually, he won so much, Coriolanus forgot there was ever a time when he lost (most days).
(The days he didn’t forget were the Bad Days).
Coriolanus felt like he couldn’t get out of bed on the Bad Days when the crushing weight of his failures and his ego landed across his chest. He told himself he was done with love after Lucy Gray. Disgusting Lucy Gray, a name he never wanted to even think again. He thought he would marry someone he hated and be done with love.
But junkies and addicts quit every Monday anyway.
Once he found [Y/N] again after their childhood together, there was no quitting. He knew it was bad for him, so he married what was bad for him to make sure he had an endless supply. How he hated that familiar feeling of obsession, the feeling of being so desperate that he had to rely on something other than himself. Somehow, he would have to sustain the feeling without losing his girl like an idiot. Marriage was likely the thing to steel their attempt at a bond.
Upon waking up to the alarm that morning, Coriolanus knew this was one of those Bad Days. Maybe it was the weather, the stress of Games. First year as head Gamemaker had almost driven Coriolanus mad under the pressure to succeed. He reached over to turn off the clock that buzzed painfully at six in the morning every day ending with a Y.
“Coryo…” [Y/N] mumbled, hearing him stir beside her. The sound must have woken her. She tossed an arm over his chest.
“‘Mornin’, Darling,” Coriolanus replied, wishing he were dead.
[Y/N] immediately picked up on the flatness of his tone, but she knew better than to push him too far. “All good?” She asked.
Coriolanus grumbled passively. He rarely did anything passively. Coriolanus grabbed the hand over his chest and dragged it up to the side of his face to rest it there, but only after he had kissed [Y/N] palm.
“You’re affectionate this morning.”
“I just missed you. I’ve been busy.” He said dismissively, pressing his face further into her hand.
“Well, thanks, dear, but don’t you have work?” [Y/N] asked. She propped her chin up on his shoulder to stare at him inquisitively. This attitude was odd. First thing in the morning during Games seasons, she got a kiss on the forehead and then Coriolanus was gone for a run and a shower and out til nightfall, barring special occasions.
“Don’t you?”
“Not til early evening today. Normally, you’re up and out of here first thing on a Tuesday morning,” [Y/N] told him, as she rubbed from his cheek to the side of his throat gently. She dragged her hand up his face to rest on his worried forehead. “You sick, or something?”
“No.” Coriolanus replied weakly. He closed his eyes again. He couldn’t face the legendary blunder he had made at work. Coriolanus had allowed his aides to code the program for the arena wrong. The open water was nowhere near as deep as was needed for the aquatic muttations. It was causing all sorts of trouble. The Games would end too fast if he didn’t do something, yet the stress of thinking of reaching across the nightstand for his Communicuff was paralyzing.
“You sure? You don’t feel feverish,” She confirmed. [Y/N] sat up to press her lips to his forehead just in case her cold hands had misread his temperature. “I can call the doctor, though.”
“[Y/N], stop. I’m fine.” Coriolanus lied harshly. He tried to sit up, but his psychological anguish made him feel like vomiting.
“Call in. Stay here.” She suggested, watching his weak movement to sit up.
“I’m head Gamemaker, I don’t get to call in. I need to go for a run’n I’ll be fine.”
[Y/N] raised an eyebrow. “So you aren’t currently fine? Because you said—“
“I know what the fuck I said, okay?” Coriolanus barked. “Wanna recap anything else, or can I go?”
Sharply, [Y/N] scooted away from him to the other side of the bed. His moods were hardly predictable. She sighed. “Fine,” She said, averting her eyes to her hands like a scolded girl. “I was merely concerned that you—“
Coriolanus scoffed at her and shakily stood up from the bed. He quickly stepped into the closet and stepped joggers and a wifebeater. [Y/N] hoped he would grab a jacket as well; the weather was much too cold for mid summer. The Capitol itself got disproportionately cold often. She didn’t say anything out loud, though. “Get off my ass. Can’t you sit there and be grateful for once? With all that I do for you?Fucking hell.” Coriolanus said. He did not so much as look back at her as he stormed out of the bedroom.
[Y/N] could not understand what she had done wrong. The only things she had were provided through Coriolanus or simply the man himself. Once Coriolanus was presumed out of earshot, [Y/N] dropped her head into her hands and cried. Not tears of frustration or anger, but tears of self-pity that her one lifeline had yelled at her like that.
—
By the time Coriolanus returned from his run, it appeared his wife had gone out for the day. Strange since she usually capitalized on the extra sleep if she was not working downtown with Capitol News until evening shift. Since their reckless young adulthood of media stunts, Coriolanus had watched [Y/N] grow a stifling love for spectacle. With his support and their shared deranged name recognition, she had quickly risen from an editor, to a correspondent (brief. He had helped her but her way up and out of that position) to Associate Head of Programming for Capitol News. It helped to have his wife steer both their media narratives from the inside.
Except for when she was mad at him.
Coriolanus wiped the sweat off his brow in the shower as he thought. There was no doubt in his mind that [Y/N] was going to run some sort of primetime bulletin that made him look a fool during his Games coverage that night. It was bad enough that Lucky Flickerman was beginning to look like botox had gotten better of him, in addition to Coriolanus’ own fuck up with the muttations. Fact of the matter was that viewership was down and [Y/N] was going to make it worse. She was going to make his Bad Day worse and he knew it.
He could feel his heart rate racing as he stood under the shower’s cold stream. His equally cold blue eyes glanced across the bathroom at the clock. Six-fifty AM. Realistically, he need to be into the Gameroom by no later than eight-thirty, but it frustrated him to be in later than eight. In roughly an hour, how could he perform the maximum amount of damage control? Coriolanus’ head began to ache at the thought.
She had never run that harsh of a piece on him before, but it was a Bad Day, and no doubt she was angry with him for his attitude. [Y/N] was capable of a great many horrible things. Wouldn’t Coriolanus himself want to sting somebody back who he had known was pissy with him?
When he exited the shower, Coriolanus rushed to dress himself. [Y/N] said she wasn’t working until late. But where, then, had she gone? With all the thinking about his own feelings, he hadn’t considered that conundrum.
—
Coriolanus called her secretary, a boring woman with a name neither man nor wife could recall. According to that woman, [Y/N] had not gone early to work. He rang Tigris. Tigris said [Y/N] had not been over unless she was lying which Coriolanus wouldn’t put past her. The Plinths swear they had not encountered her.
Coriolanus stared down at his datapad of phone numbers. He refrained from calling all of their friends because he didn’t want to to exude the panic he was starting to feel for letting his wife run away. None of her belongings seemed out of place. Her suitcase was present in the back of their closet. Still, Coriolanus was terrified in the back of his mind that his wife had finally left him. A year and half was a dreadful lifespan for a marriage in his opinion. [Y/N] was not getting away that easily.
However, his watch told him it was eight and the Games weren’t going to run themselves.
Throughout the day, Coriolanus could not get his heart rate to settle. It made him feel ill. So ill, in fact, that he couldn’t keep down most of breakfast, or all of lunch. He skipped dinner all together. Who was [Y/N] to up and leave him like that?
The slight rational segment of his brain told him to walk it back, but the rest of his brain paid no mind. Coriolanus had nothing going for him other than gut instincts and his gut instincts now were implying something was fundamentally wrong.
Coriolanus’ decision-making was way off of its game at work. Coriolanus, for ratings, could not allow the Hunger Games to end on a Tuesday night. Somehow, he would have to create obstacles to last the four remaining tributes til Friday. He didn’t much like those odds. He was going to cave and hand in his resignation before the end of the day, he was certain.
Though, at eight in the evening, the primetime announcement or chiron that Coriolanus was a shitty husband or a murderer never cut through his broadcast to make his Day irreparably Bad. Nor did it at eight-thirty, or even nine. Coriolanus felt shaky. Maybe with relief for his reputation, maybe because he had nothing in his system.
If nothing had aired at Coriolanus’ expense on TV, had something happened to [Y/N] while he was on his run, or later? Was this some rebel attempt to bring the head Gamemaker to his knees? An attempt from a bitter rival to play games with him? Coriolanus frowned. Many things could have happened to his wife between six in the morning and nine at night. Coriolanus could barely stand up as it was. He clocked out and summoned his driver as quick as he could.
The second Coriolanus’ key entered the lock, he started shouting with the energy he had left. The door had yet to even close behind him. “[Y/N]! [Y/N], my love! Are you here?” Coriolanus pushed open every cabinet and closet on his way to the bedroom. Empty. He checked the closet - her suitcase remained. Coriolanus had called her office on his way home. She had not shown up for work. Unheard of.
Coriolanus ran through every room of the townhouse shouting [Y/N]’s name over and over until he felt hoarse. He could only imagine what the neighbors thought. Then he saw the attic door open.
The door remained open, but the stairs to the attic had snapped back up halfway and gotten jammed. “Coryo!” He heard [Y/N] yell faintly from upstairs.
“Darling, are you… in the attic?” Coriolanus shouted back cautiously under the open door. He watched as [Y/N]’s tearstained face peered around the edges of the attic door. It was really her. Not a Jabberjay, not a setup. Coriolanus exhaled for what felt like the first time all day. “Let me come up. I’ll come to you. Hold on!” Coriolanus’ finally left behind the Bad Day as he leapt into action. Protecting his wife was his job before Gamemaker, or any other obligation. Anyone in the Capitol would remember their vows, or her smashing cake into his face much to his dismay. Marriage was socially his most binding contract of all. Coriolanus did not take contractional obligations lightly.
Coriolanus had not realized that his wife was so delicate and helpless as to get stuck in the attic. She needed him more than he thought. His heart swelled with pride. Coriolanus grabbed a broomstick and hooked the hinge in the stairs. He yanked with all his strength until the ladder descended. Quickly, he dropped a large sack of rice from the kitchen counter over the bottom step in hopes it would weight the stairs down and he took off up them.
“[Y/N], are you alright?” Coriolanus asked, popping his head through the attic door
There on the unfinished attic floor sat [Y/N], bundled up in her thin teddy she had been wearing when Coriolanus left. She had only that and a too-short blanket Tigris had crocheted as a child. There was very little in the attic at all. Some of the Grandma’am’s belongings in clear glass bins and whatever surviving relics had carried on from their post-war childhoods.
It was clear [Y/N] had been crying. “I thought you would come back.” She sniffled.
Coriolanus urgently climbed the rest of the way up the ladder and sat carefully down beside [Y/N], wrapping her in his long arms possessively. “I thought something happened to you,” Also, that you tried to leave me. “You’re freezing… How long have you been up here?”
“Since you went on your run.”
“Shit… All that time?”
[Y/N] thought her tears had long since stopped, but seeing Coriolanus appear upset about ignoring her all day made her want his attention more. She wanted him to feel bad.
The tears started flowing the second his arms were looped around her waist. [Y/N] rested her head on Coriolanus’s shoulder heavily. “Coryo, you just left. I come up here all the time to think and I didn’t think it would—“
The blonde man’s heart softened at the sight of her. “Darling, Darling, shh, don’t cry,” Coriolanus combed his hand through sobbing [Y/N]’s hair. “You’re okay. I’m here now.”
Coriolanus felt like he was able to play the role of comforter and protector nobly tonight in a way he had recently felt inadequate at. With ease, he draped her legs across his lap and adjusted her arms around his neck so that her body was completely supported by his. She clung to him like a desperate child. The skin-to-skin contact was most appreciated by Coriolanus after the Day he’d had. Coriolanus excitedly drew a breathe from her neck, taking in her scent.
[Y/N] sobbed dramatically into Coriolanus’ dress shirt, but he pretended not to care like a good husband. “I’m sorry. I c-couldn’t—couldn’t get down. I th-thought you would come get me. I shout-ted for you,” she played up her tears. [Y/N] played up everything for attention; they both knew that. But the situation was mutually beneficial for people that liked attention so damn much. “You didn’t hear me.” You never hear me.
“Oh, Princess…” Coriolanus rubbed his hands up and down her arms, hoping it would warm her up. He pulled away from her regrettably and stripped off his blazer. He wrapped it around her shoulders and pulled it carefully in front of her. He knew [Y/N] would like the gesture. Now, Coriolanus did not say I’m sorry. It was not his fault that [Y/N] had fled to the attic. He did instead try to make good from now forward. “I was so worried, I started to think something happened to you. I wanted to give you space, but then I didn’t hear from you all day. I’m relieved to know the only monster that got you was the attic,” Coriolanus leaned into her neck to kiss her in his favorite place. “You sat up here in all this junk and dust today; how are you still so stunning?”
[Y/N] laughed through a wet sniffle as Coriolanus searing kissed her neck. “I didn’t know I’d worried you this much.” She muttered.
“I didn’t know I’d upset you this much,” Coriolanus agreed. That was as close to I’m sorry as she was going to get. “What did you do up here all day?”
“W-Went through some boxes. Found your old uniform.” [Y/N] smiled back.
“My Peacekeeper uniform?” Coriolanus asked in surprise. He hoped that she had not found anything else, if there was anything more scathing up in the attic.
“Mhm,” she affirmed. [Y/N] stood shakily from the floor, snot dripping from her nose. Snot, which she knew better than to wipe on the sleeve of his blazer. She followed where the beams were in the floor nimbly so she didn’t put her foot through the ceiling below her. [Y/N] collected a decently sized metal crate with a handle on it. PRIVATE SNOW, CORIOLANUS B. was stamped on top of the dusty, dented metal. She carried it back to Coriolanus and sat down with it in front of him.
“I didn’t go through everything in here, that felt intrusive, but I did pull this out,” they both knew that was a lie and that she had absolutely gone through every item, but Coriolanus let her keep going without cutting in. [Y/N] decided she would still let him explain the history behind every item he wanted to share anyway.
When she shook the long gray-blue jacket out of the box, something happened that hadn’t happened last time she took the jacket out. “Coriolanus, what’s this?” [Y/N] asked, plucking a bulky chain off the floor that had tumbled from the coat’s breast pocket.
“Ah, I’d forgotten where those went. Dog tags from my time in Twelve.” Coriolanus said.
“I still have my father’s. You were like a real soldier then, huh?”
“Peacekeeper.” Coriolanus corrected.
“Yes, Peacekeeper.” [Y/N] agreed quietly.
[Y/N] held the two identical pendants in her hands.
SNOW, CORIOLANUS
CITADEL, CAPITOL
4147769218S 12
O NEG
CREMATE
His entire identity all on two pieces of nickel. While she squinted at the embossed metal, Coriolanus leaned forward across the box that had once held his entire world and grabbed the chain she was holding as well as her hands. [Y/N]’s red weepy eyes met his crystal clear blue ones. “Would you like them?”
“You don’t want to keep them?”
“Certainly not. My name right there on your chest? That’s preferable to them sitting in a dusty box forever. People will know who you belong to if you wander off like this again. ‘Know you’re not, hm, like… up for finders-keepers.” Coriolanus shifted them out of [Y/N]’s hands and dropped the chain around her neck as if it were the finest gold necklace he had ever purchased her.
Coriolanus put that box up in the attic because he had not wanted to think about it ever again. Above all, though, Coriolanus Snow was an opportunistic man and he put those dog tags on [Y/N] just like he had Lucy Gray because he knew this move was flattering. If it worked once, it would work again. Sickeningly, he pulled out the same words he had used before too: “There. All mine.”
the thing I really love about tbosas is that you go into the story thinking you know who’s the songbird and who’s the snake but “songbirds” and “snakes” are both plural because as individuals Lucy Grey and Coryo are both a songbird and a snake in their own right, in this essay I will
warnings/tags: minors DNI, DUB-CON, movie/book spoilers probably, obsession, manipulation (overt LMFAO), victor!Reader, apprentice!Coriolanus -> president!Coriolanus, cheating (not on reader), isolation, jealousy, semi non-linear narrative, these tags are not exhaustive
word count: 7.7k
summary: to the victor go the spoils.
divider by @/cafekitsune
+ logged in again just to post this, who knew coriolanus snow would make me sososo insane aldkfjasd this is humiliating, thank you for all the love on 'brood parasitism' so happy we're all sick in the head about him 💔 not edited, not proofread, dick was in my hand when writing this, bye!
A rose lies in your bed.
The pristine white petals are harsh against your bedsheets. You have the finest of threads stretched across your bed and yet, one single rose can make them look dingy. With delicate hands, you pick up the rose. There is no telltale prick against your skin and this absence of thorns makes dread spool around your gut in a death grip.
Methodically, you begin to undress. You are freshly showered and bare underneath your robe. As much as he enjoys the easy access, on a night like this, you know it better to err on the side of caution.
You pick through your drawers dutifully before settling on a red scrap of fabric posing as underwear. Your movements are mechanical and efficient as your slide it up your legs. You pull over an old short of his, stretching the bottom out in some semblance of modesty. You have done this song and dance in so many ways, you don’t think you know anything other than placating him.
The door opens as you crawl into bed. You put the rose in a vase and placed yourself in its spot.
“Congratulations are in order, I hear,” you say with a grin.
He strips off his jacket. With his makeup washed away, the dark circles of his eyes are prominent. An exhausted but pleased smile softens his face. It is the most human you have seen him.
The sight terrifies you.
His pants pool onto the ground along with his underwear. He sighs tiredly as he joins you in bed, drawing you into a deep kiss. You let him take his fill before gently pushing him away.
“Congratulations President Snow,” you say, pushing back his hair. The hair gel is gone leaving his curls to fall loosely against his forehead. He will not appreciate the comment but you do wish he’d wear his hair curly more often.
He kisses you lightly. Against your lips, he muses, “I don’t like how that sounds coming from you.”
“It was a one-off then, Coryo.”
He advances forward, corralling onto the bed. You let him lay you down, mouth pressed to yours. His hand climbs up your throat to hold you into place. The usual fear burns at your gut but you fight past it in an attempt to nip at his fingers. To him it is playful but part of you hopes to tear at his fingers until all that is left is blood and bone.
“How does it feel knowing you’re fucking the President of Panem?” he teases.
You take a moment. Then you lean up, breaking out of his loose hold, and say, “Not as good as it feels knowing I’m fucking Coriolanus Snow.”
His face smooths out before he huffs out a laugh. “Flattery was never your strong suit.”
You kiss the corner of his mouth. “Mm, good thing I don’t need it, right?”
Possessiveness crosses his face. “No, you do not,” he agrees darkly before pushing you down on the sheets again.
He mouths at your exposed chest. His hands are wide enough to span across your stomach. Your skin burns underneath his scorching palm as he thumbs at your tits. You shiver as he rolls them. The sensation goes straight to your cunt and you shift your hips so you rub yourself against the knee slotted between your thighs.
“Eager, are we?”
“I’ve been thinking about you all day,” you admit, grinding yourself onto him. Mostly, you wondered if there would be a brave enough citizen to shoot a bullet through his forehead during his speech.
“Yeah? Doing what?” he murmurs, trailing his kisses down.
A hole in your head, you think.
You drag him up to your face before he can make it to your cunt. You won’t be able to finish with his mouth, not today.
“Instead of asking me, why don’t you just do what we both know?” you whisper, kissing the tip of his nose.
Your gentleness disarms him. He blinks at you, unaccustomed to your lack of ambition to this day. He should be used of it by now. After all, he is the one who molded you to his desires.
He curls a hand behind your hand and kisses you. You hate that it is not a dirty kiss, the sort that makes desire pool in your belly and dampen in between your thighs. It’s the sweet kind, the sort that makes your toes curl and your belly swoop as a budding pleasure settles in your cunt.
He fucks into you, nice and slow. The lazy rock of his hips is cruel. You try your hardest to stay still but you whine underneath his gentle ministrations. You bring your hips up in an effort to spur him on but Coriolanus doesn’t bite. The stretch of his cock guts you as he fills you up. The head of his cock presses deep inside of you. He adds pressure to your clit and you lose all sense for a moment.
Coriolanus’ pupils are blown out with greed. Not a trace of his too blue eyes peek over the pupil. He continues to rock into you, a slow and steady pace that makes you want to claw his eyes out. Instead, you draw him closer for a languid kiss.
“Coryo,” you whine.
“You take what I give you,” he reminds you.
But he does pick up the pace. He splits you open on his cock, fucking you in earnest. Your breath catches in your throat when he brushes all the right spots in you without fail. It’s humiliating how well Coriolanus knows you, knows your body, but it makes it easier to swallow what’s he forced you to enjoy.
It’s not all bad letting Coriolanus act as if he knows you better than you know yourself.
With one final thrust, he groans as he empties himself deep inside of you. The cum painted inside you feels as the branding it is.
-
You won the 14th Hunger Games.
As far as victors went, you were a forgettable one. District 1 had won the 12th Games and District 4 the 13th. Another winner from District 1 only meant the betting was becoming stale and unimagined. It didn’t help the Gamemakers had miscalculated and killed off half of the tributes in the first night with a dramatically changing environment.
Phantom scars littered your arms and shoulders from the blisters gained from the sweltering heat. You were lucky enough to make a tentative alliance with your fellow District tribute and stave off frostbite when the Gamemakers decided scalding to death was not a pleasant viewing experience.
You slit his throat in his sleep in those early morning hours. His body remained warm enough to keep you from succumbing to the chill.
From there, it was a matter of picking off the weakest. The Leftovers, you had deemed in your mind. Leaving the other tributes nameless kept them subhuman. If you couldn’t see your enemy as human, it made them all the easier to kill.
Your deceptions kept the Capitol viewers on their toes while gaining the hatred of your peers. It was difficult to not be hyper vigilant of how you would be seen by your friends and family if you made it back. Judgments deemed on the basis of cruelty were hard to shake off, no matter the situation that brought upon said cruelty.
There was not much left for you when you came home. The tour stretched your acting abilities until they snapped and the shredded remains meant you could no longer be who you were before the Games. The allotted time you were given to adjust to life outside of the Games went and passed without much change on your part. The smiles you wore and the laughs you forced were too manufactured to pass as reminiscent of the girl you were. The riches and the home and the glory should have fixed you right up and yet, you were certain dying in the Games was preferable to surviving them.
Your family couldn’t understand. They loved you but you were not you anymore. You lost your mother’s gentleness and your father’s fire. Your sister taught you to see the good in people and she could no longer see the good in you.
It was a peculiar type of loneliness. You saw your family and friends everyday. You hosted more dinners and gatherings than your family did before the Games. You were surrounded by those you loved. But the accidental touches stopped. Your father hadn’t rested a hand on top of your head in a year. Your mother flinched whenever your hugs were more than a loose wrapping of your arms around her. Your sister took to sitting away from you at any given chance.
Gossip was a luxury for you, one you were unable to afford. Your friends prattled on about the things happening at work, about the newest buzz in the Capitol, and if you were lucky, any new developments in their relationships. But personal information was notably absent. Once, Glitter had accidentally let slip that Rolex’s brother was to be back home for the next month and the frantic shaking of Rolex’s head had Glitter desperately trying to smooth out her mistake. It was a mercy for yourself when you ignored the slip up and began asking about Rolex’s boss and his obsession with staples.
You made it home but it seemed the keys were changed in your absence.
Your riches were too close to the Capitol to be considered District 1 anymore and you were too District to be considered anything other than a toy for the Capitol citizens. It was the worst of both worlds. Too little given to you and too much taken from you.
The limbo was never discussed amongst the victors you met. It was impossible to win the Hunger Games and not leave a part of yourself behind. Yet, the other victors were able to leave behind the part of them that won them the Games. Yours followed you like a shadow.
It was wrong of you to survive. It was wrong of all victors to survive. But you were the one who made the choices you did without mourning.
They came back right and you came back decayed.
-
You pluck the petals off of the rose. It is a pink one, muted in both color and smell. A dud from what is left of his Grandma’am’s garden if Tigris is to be believed.
Coriolanus sent a bouquet alongside of the maid he gifted you. She will not meet your eyes nor will she speak unless spoken to. You soon grow tired of trying to engage with her and leave her be.
While she may not want to speak to you, she trails after you. Her steps are too quiet to echo after yours but her presence is apparent. She pretends to clean as you curl up on the couch with a book in hand. When her back faces you as she dusts off your TV, you look up with your head propped on your fist.
The gatherings in your home stopped after two years passed. Work keeps your family and friends busy or so they say. The sole visitor you have had since then is Coriolanus. His presence keeps the ghosts at bay for he is what haunts the corners of your home these days. But there is always a price to pay for someone’s kindness.
The maid freezes when she grabs a picture frame to wipe off. It is a feat she keeps from turning around. Perhaps she can feel your eyes on her, waiting for the judgment.
With no one visiting but Coriolanus, he took it upon himself to enhance your home as he saw fit. You have no taste for interior design but you think the touches he brought to be garish. It isn’t until one of the other District 1victors dropped by that you realized how insidious Coriolanus could be. The victor’s face had gone white as a sheet and he stuttered out an excuse to leave within moments of looking around your living room.
Pieces of Volumnia’s muttations lay scattered where space allowed. You have yet to determine if any of the pieces maintain their deadly aspects or if Coriolanus thought them to be decorative to the keen eye. Interspersed between your regular photos are photos of you and Coriolanus’ escapades. Neither of your faces are shown and you suppose they are quite tasteful in nature. But they are impossible to ignore when put in front of you. Even fewer are photos of your kills from your Games. A reminder from Coriolanus you have not yet understood.
The maid looks at such a photo right now. Her shaky hand puts it back in its place. She doesn’t waver when she gets to the next photo.
So you begin to talk.
You talk about your Games. You talk about how the other victors are. You talk about anything and everything except for Coriolanus Snow. But you give hints.
You leave no stone unturned as you tell her of the things you were required to do as a victor. Then you tell her your fears. Your worry that you will never adjust to whatever took your place. That you share your skin with someone you tell yourself is trying to live but is someone you no longer believes to have good intentions anymore. Whatever good is left has been corroded until there is no distinction between morality and survival.
Her back faces you the entire time you speak. Your throat grows hoarse as you get to the end. She leaves the living room for a long time. So much time passes, you believe you got rid of her.
And then she comes back with a warm cup of tea. The faint smell of honey wafts to you as she hands it to you. Her warmed fingers graze yours as she passes the cup to you. It’s the first human touch you’ve had in years.
Her voice isn’t shaky as she says, “My name is Lucille, ma’am.”
-
It was the 16th Hunger Games when you met Coriolanus Snow.
With so few victors, the mentoring program could not go on as initially pictured. Volumnia worried for a repeat of the harm that befall the the Academy students in the 10th Games if they were to mentor once more and so, it was decided the handful of victors they had would suffice as teachers.
You were assigned the topic of strategy. Though the terrain would be drastically different, you were expected to coach them how to adapt at the snap of a finger. To determine when allies were necessary and when allies could be discarded. To warn them of how to survive until the last day.
Volumnia’s notes emphasized the need for entertainment. She drew out a naked construction of the arena they were considering and advised you to lead the tributes to lean a certain way when it came to taking out their other fellow tributes. The more barbaric, the better.
You have spent hours pouring over the barren desert Volumnia wished to use and the close contact weapons she decided to stuff the Cornucopia with. It seemed they were testing out the preferred lengths of Games for the Capitol citizens. There would be no place to hide nor the chance to sneak up on an opponent if they finalized this as the arena. A finite pool of water would be placed in the middle of the arena. The tributes would have until it ran out to win the Games as water was not among the donations this year.
You rubbed your eyes. The notes on the page were becoming fuzzy as you read them over again. Each time you hoped you misread what Volumnia was planning and each time, those hopes were dashed as the words stayed the same.
“You’re quite studious.”
You startled at the amused voice.
“Not as vigilant as you are studious, hm?”
An unmistakable blonde man stood in your cramped room. His too blue eyes swept over your meager things. No judgment was cast but you highly doubted the carefully crafted neutral expression on his face was for your benefit.
“Mr. Snow,” you greeted. “It is an honor.” The platitude chafed at your pride. Here you were forced to compliment the man who made your life a considerable hell. What made it worse was he appeared as the sort of person who took considerable glee in worsening the condition of the Games on a whim.
“You know.” He took a step towards you. His too blonde hair became waxy yellow underneath the shitty light from your lamp. You sucked in your cheeks enough to keep you from smiling. “I betted on you during your Games.”
Your stare slid to the mostly closed door behind him. The flattery was unnecessary. Whatever he wished to ask of you would be done whether you wanted to or not. He was Coriolanus Snow. You, of all people, had no right to decline.
Your practiced smile came out but not with ease. The unused muscles ached. “I hope I won you a sizable pot then.”
“You gave me much more than I bargained for.” He inclined his head in a mockery of gratitude. If you weren’t so used to how the Capitol people treated you, you might’ve taken him at face value. “I was hoping I could see what you have come up with.”
Your notes were rudimentary at worst and mediocre at best. You weren’t one to fully flesh out your ideas before you acted upon them in the arena. Strategic planning would do fuck all for the tributes when it came down to the wire.
With reluctance, you started ripping out the pages from your notebook. Coriolanus stopped you by placing a palm down on the paper. He leaned down until the warmth of his skin radiated to your cheek. His finger went to trace your first sentence. An interested hum reverberated through his chest.
“I specialized in military strategy under Dr. Gaul,” he said distractedly as he read through your hastily written notes.
“You would be better suited for this then,” you sighed. You wanted to lean back in your chair but that meant leaning back into Coriolanus. You were sure he wouldn’t want a District girl sullying his ironed suit.
He glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, a pitiful attempt at humility straightening his mouth. “You have insights I could not dream of.” The lie is said without thought.
The truth must be the difficult one for him to say.
“Poisoning the water is the obvious choice for the victor, is it not?” he asked, pointing at your scratched out sentence.
“Dr. Gaul doesn’t want to rush the ending. And tampering with the water supply is a surefire way to ensure to your shoot yourself in the foot as well.” A tribute will make an attempt, you were sure. And that tribute will not be the victor of the 16th Hunger Games. “I need to dissuade them from tactics like that. An acceptable time to poison the water supply would be when there are a handful left and even then.” You kiss your teeth. “But you know this. Master strategist you are and everything.” Your words did not cross into mocking territory but it was a close call.
“The terrain won’t work. I suspect Dr. Gaul knows that but only she knows why she has given me such an impossible task,” you said with a touch of frustration. It was clear you would never figure out a strategy that would be beneficial to anyone competing. Why would she give you this when she had a top graduate such as Coriolanus Snow in her arsenal?
He didn’t speak, scouring over the rest of your scrawl. Then, he said offhandedly, “I assigned you this.”
Your conflicting emotions warred with one another. Confusion won out. “Why?” At his raised brows, you tacked on, “Mr. Snow.” And then for good measure, “Sir.”
He picked up your notebook, folding the cover over. He leaned against the edge of your table, thigh uncomfortably close to you arm as he held your notebook loosely. Unease snaked its way up your back, finding a home in the base of your skull. Your skin prickled much as it did when you first stepped foot into the arena.
“You were careful during your Games,” he said. “You observed. You did not make friends though your fellow tributes would have considered you one. You chose yourself.”
Everyone had to choose themselves in order to win the Games. It was the spoken rule.
“I wanted to test out my suspicions,” he continued, tapping on the notebook. “And you’ve exceeded my expectations. I look forward to seeing how you teach these tributes,” his mouth curled haughtily, “To be entertaining.”
-
The champagne tastes of apples. It’s sweet and delicate unlike the man laid out in front of you.
“Move in with me,” Coriolanus says when the first glass goes down.
To your credit, you only choke a little bit on what’s left in the glass. “What?”
“The maid says all you do is read and stare out the window,” he informs, plucking the glass from you. “If you are going to waste away, I’d prefer you do it where I can see you.”
It’s meant to be a playful jab but it rings false. Coriolanus is a charmer but he has an intensity that tends to belie his words.
The confirmation of why he sent the maid makes your stomach twist. The tabs he keeps on you is alarming. You are a victor. You should be nothing more in his eyes.
“Will I find the victor from District 4 residing there as well or is this an exclusive offer?” you ask, only partially teasing.
His eyes gleam. “What will you do if she is there?”
“Nothing,” you say easily. Coriolanus is the future President of Panem. He can have whoever he wants whenever he wants. Though, it will surprise you if Mags has found herself entrapped in Coriolanus’ web. She taught you better. “You are not mine to covet.”
He sits up, soundless on the expensive sheets. Your head is leaned against your knees and supported by your wrapped over arms. He tips your chin up, stare aimed at your mouth. “It’s just the two of us here. You can be honest,” he encourages, pressing his thumb to the center of your bottom lip.
He has taken so much from you. He won’t have your jealousy as well.
“I know my place, Coryo. I like my place,” you emphasize.
“Your place is where I can see you,” Coriolanus says rigidly. Not beside him but underneath him.
You take a look around the room. Coriolanus has a separate room for your dalliances. He cannot have you sully his main bedroom but it is obvious he spends most of his time in here with or without your presence. Traces of him linger throughout the room despite how much care he’s taken to make this a home away from home for you.
Surely he does not think keeping you here will be enough to stop rumors from spreading. Many whisper of Coriolanus’ favorite tribute but none have been brave enough to call it as it looks.
“Do you need me to say yes?” you ask, tilting your head. The slope of your neck gains his focus and he drops his hand to rest at the base of your throat.
You are Coriolanus’ to use as he sees fit. But he enjoys giving you the illusion of choice. You can’t complain if you are the one who gives in. It is your loneliness that has brought you to him, not his.
He doesn’t say anything. You answer him anyway.
“When do I move in?”
-
The party was terrible.
Powerful men sidled up to you, intent on asking for more than you would give. Disgust roiled in your gut but you kept your smile relaxed and your laughs loose. It would not do to have your hand forced by those above.
It took over an hour for you to find a moment to yourself. You escaped to a secluded corner. The oily feel of those men’s hands lingered on your exposed skin and you ached to wash it off. You hated these celebrations where you were paraded alongside the other victors like a bauble to be kept on a shelf. You couldn’t even be sickened by the lack of humanity. These people lived as if the Districts were zoo animals meant for their entertainment. It would be more sickening to see you as human and still treat you like this.
Your privacy did not last long. An unfortunately familiar voice called out your name. You turned around as if pulled by a string.
“I think I liked it better when you were my little secret,” Coriolanus drawled when he got close. A drink dangled from his hand.
You took it from him and sipped it. “I liked it better when I was forgotten,” you said grumpily. The drink burned down your throat but did nothing to soothe your anxieties. You were not meant to be a performer. You were meant to sit at home and hope the masses were bewitched by the next victor to come. The more years that separated you from your win, the better.
Coriolanus watched how your throat bobbed as you swallowed. He followed the line of your neck to your exposed cleavage. There was a subtle twitch of his nose. “I can’t say I disagree.”
“Weren’t you the one who suggested the victors come?” you asked. A walk of shame of sorts.
“It does good for the people to see victors as accessible.” To reestablish the disparity between those of the Capitol and the Districts despite the elevated status as well as remind the victors they were not above those who put them in this position. Two birds, one stone.
“Accessible enough to proposition?” you wondered. The winner of the 17th Games was a beautiful girl from District 11. Through the victor grapevine, you heard of the hopeful demands for the popular victor. It was a relief you were only remembered when it suited the Capitol to showcase their victors.
Coriolanus stiffened. Without the drink in hand, his fingers closed in on themselves. “Someone propositioned you?” he asked slowly.
You took another sip. The burn did not get tolerable. “Just two men.” At first, they tried to pass it off as a joke in the hopes your reaction would be favorable. Then they became more pointed until you were able to work in your exit.
“Did you happen to get their names?”
You mulled over those conversations. If they told you their names, you were not listening. Shrugging, you shook your head.
He hummed. “It is of no matter. They should have known better.”
You wanted to scoff. What exactly was it they should have known? You were only free to proposition on weekends not weekdays?
Your sourness must not be as hidden as you hoped for Coriolanus wrapped an arm around your waist to bring you close. It wasn’t the first time Coriolanus had touched you so intimately but it was the first time he did so in such a public place. Coriolanus holds onto you like he owns you. It chills the breath in your lungs.
“You were my find,” he said softly, “I will not share you.”
-
You haven’t left Coriolanus’ house in weeks.
The calls from your family became scarcer and scarcer until you are left staring at the landline with a pained frown. You know their numbers by heart but Coriolanus hates when you make calls.
He has left you to critique the new batch of interns’ ideas for the time being. His ascension to President of Panem means he must wean himself off of his Gamemaker duties. He isn’t quite ready to leave it to the Crane he has chosen as his replacement but he doesn’t have enough time in the day to do as meticulous of a review as he used to.
This is where you come in. You go through their essays alongside the ideas the apprentices wish to implement and leave them on Coriolanus’ desk if they are worthy. So far, only a handful have made it to his desk.
A sick sense of relief makes your limbs go heavy. You will never have to face these ideas if they come to fruition. Your Games were barbaric but the future Games will be vile. And you now have a hand in their creation.
Nausea brews in your stomach. You push your chair back, wincing at the squeal of the wood dragging against the floor. You need to find Lucille. She is the only familiar face left in your life outside of Coriolanus. She is reticent with her words but she sits with you in companionable silence whenever you ask for some tea. It is the only comfort you have in this desolate home.
You leave the office to search for her. She is usually not too far but you are unable to find her. The staff tend to avoid eye contact. But Lucille’s outright ignorance is unheard of.
You call her name out loudly. No answer.
Frowning, you go to your room. Maybe she is cleaning the bathroom and can’t hear you from there. You crack open the door, whispering her name so as to not scare her too badly. While she’s grown more comfortable, she is still a skittish girl.
Technically it is not your room. You and Coriolanus share a room as you anticipated but you have unofficially designated this corner room of the house as yours. It’s bare with meager furnishings in comparison to the rest of the ostentatious house. It makes it easier to act as if you have not been plucked from your home.
The door meets resistance as you try to push it fully open. Using a little bit of strength, you push on the door until it finally gives in enough for you to step into the room. You accidentally kick something heavy as you step inside. You look down, heart burrowed in your throat.
Lucille is on the ground.
She isn’t moving. Her chest doesn’t rise and so it doesn’t fall and you think something is very, very, very wrong.
“Lucille?” you say, voice quavering.
You roll her shoulder over until her face is visible. Dried blood streams from her eyes and some of it is smeared underneath her nose and across her mouth. Her body is cool to the touch and her limbs are stiff as rigor mortis has set in.
You don’t scream when you realize she’s dead.
You don’t know how you go from closing Lucille’s eyes to Coriolanus bathing you. He blocks your eyes as he pours warm water over your head. You blink away the stray drops.
He’s lathering up a washcloth when you shift your head to him. He doesn’t startle at you. A smile tugs at his mouth.
He doesn’t ask how you are. “I’m going to be working from home for a few days,” Coriolanus tells you. He runs the washcloth across your shoulders. The scent of roses tickle your nose. He’s used his body wash.
The last time someone else had bathed you, you had weeping blisters dirtying the water and bits of brains underneath your nails. You have opted for showers since then.
“I left some of the interns’ papers on your desk,” you say robotically.
He dips the washcloth into the water and then scrubs your back with it. It’s in your head but you can feel your blisters splitting open once more. The Capitol soap had been strong enough to cauterize the wounds on impact. Coriolanus’ soap, on the other hand, only provides a gentle sting as it’s run across your skin.
You prefer the scalding pain.
“Anything promising?” he prods.
You allow him to lengthen your arm so he can wipe it down. “No.”
“Then why are they on my desk?”
“Thought you could use the laugh.” You twist in the tub to look at him fully. “And because I know you could rework them into something usable. If you don’t already have something in mind that is.”
Coriolanus puffs air from his nose. He leans forward and wipes off your face. “I got you a gift.”
His fingers trail over your thigh. You are pliant underneath his touch. Gifts from Coriolanus are gifts for Coriolanus you have come to find out.
He takes his hand away and searches his pocket. He presents you with a necklace. It is a hefty piece based on how it hangs off of his finger. A rose is engraved on the pendant.
A not so subtle present it seems.
“May I?” Coriolanus motions towards your neck.
You turn around and let him snap it into place. Except there is no sign of a clasp. You hear Coriolanus dig through his pockets again before producing something he twists into the necklace. When you look back at him, he’s pocketing a golden key.
“Just in case,” he says when he notices how your stare remains focused on his pocket. “Let me dry you off.”
You stand up in the tub and let him towel you off. Your hand goes up to the necklace. It slowly warms against your skin and you feel just how heavy it sits on your neck.
Like a collar.
-
The first time he took you to bed, you cried.
He didn’t break your trust because he never gave you any reason to trust him. But something shattered in you all the same.
A finger pressed inside of you, testing your resistance.
You told yourself you wanted this. You shyly reciprocated when he kissed you. His touches were gentle as he led you to his bed. It wasn’t long before his kiss became hungry and he was pushing your dress upwards. Something warm pooled in your gut when he licked into your mouth. Your thighs rubbed together instinctively and the pleasant tingle made you moan. He smiled into the kiss, teeth knocking against yours before he went to unhook your bra. It was off faster than you could process the feel of his skin against yours and your hands went to cover your chest instinctively. Coriolanus clicked his tongue in disapproval.
“Let me see you,” he said softly.
“Coriolanus, I’ve never—” You didn’t know why the admission embarrassed you. It wasn’t unusual for someone your age to be a virgin but it wasn’t common either. With how beautiful Coriolanus was, you were sure he had his fair share of partners. Your embarrassment grew when Coriolanus smirked, a knowing gleam in his eyes.
“I was saving you for myself,” he said with a cocky shrug.
You didn’t have time to process what he meant as his finger dipped underneath your underwear. You immediately tightened around the tip of his digit. Your belly swooped when he sunk his finger in deeper. You take him with a surprising amount of ease despite how you clench down on him. His slipped a second finger in, forcing tears to prick your eyes.
“Coriolanus, slow down,” you begged. The stretch of your cunt as he began to scissor you made your eyes bulge and you grabbed at his forearm. “It’s too much.”
His continued to finger you, thumb brushing against your clit when your pleads became too loud. Arousal dripped down his hand as he circled your clit in tandem with his fingers, working you open until your mouth dropped.
“I’ll tell you when it’s too much,” he promised, nudging your thighs further open. He crooked his fingers and brushed against a spot that had you moaning in a way you never had. Your voice hadn’t ever gone so high in your life.
“There we go,” he murmured.
He opened you up at his leisure, swallowing your cries with heady kisses. You didn’t know people could kiss like this. It made lust coil in your belly until you thought there was no more you could take. The warmth building up in the base of your spine became an inferno when Coriolanus curled his fingers in just the right way to send you careening into pure pleasure.
He didn’t give you a moment to enjoy the aftermath. He stripped his pants off cock slapping against his stomach. Precum smeared across the skin and he gathered it with his fingers. His hand fell to his cock and he pumped it a few times, hissing at the feel of himself.
The sight of his cock cooled whatever leftover arousal you had from your orgasm. Poison began to drip into your lust and you wanted to tell Coriolanus to stop, to give you a moment to reconsider. But it was too late. You were too late.
The words died in your throat before you could croak them out when he slowly inched himself into you. You keened at the painful stretch and you clenched down on his cock.
Coriolanus shushed you. He placed a soothing kiss against the corner of your mouth as he pushed past your resisting walls. Tears began to spill from your eyes as he bottomed out. You could swear you felt him in your throat.
Your breathing became jagged and shallow as he pressed his weight down on you to force you into place. He pulled back until the tip of his cock rested at your entrance before thrusting back in. He kept his pace slow and steady to work into you, kissing away your tears when you mewled in pain every time his cock dragged against your walls.
“Look at you taking me,” he praised. “Fuck, you’re better than I imagined.”
It was shameful how a little bit of praise from Coriolanus relaxed you to where he could speed up his pace. You shifted your hips when his cock rubbed against that same spot his fingers had. A deeper rooted pleasure sparked in your belly. Its ceiling for intensity was frightening and you wanted Coriolanus as far away from that place as possible.
But he was not a magnanimous man. Coriolanus filled you completely, hips flushed against you. He rocked his hips, searching for what made you clench so tightly mere seconds ago. Your tears flowed harder when an experimental thrust had you seizing up. You didn’t want to feel good from Coriolanus’ cock.
He lit up at your reaction. Snaking his hand down, he elevated your leg. The change in angle nearly made you come. He drove deep into you, carving out a home for himself.
A foreign hunger tore at you and you knew you were painfully close.
“Coriolanus, please, don’t make me,” you cried, tears dripping from your lashes. “I don’t want to.”
His thrusts picked up pace because he was a sick son of a bitch.
“Call me Coryo,” he said, pushing your legs closer to your ears.
“Coryo, stop, I don’t want—” And then the choice was out of your hands.
He fucked into you relentlessly. The change of angle had him grinding against your clit and a violent spasm followed you. The orgasm ripped through your and you bit into the meat of Coriolanus’ arm. Your body felt bloodless in the wake of such destruction. Black began to darken the edges of your vision as Coriolanus kept fucking into you, murmuring praises against your hot skin as he kept your legs towards your ears.
The rest was a blur.
-
Coriolanus locks the door.
You have been in the main bedroom plenty of times. He’s fucked you on the bed he shares with Livia more times than she has ever seen this bed.
But he has never let you inside when others are here.
“Coryo,” you say, eyes flicking to his white knuckles. “The stakeholders are outside. I can’t be seen here.”
“Don’t worry. They love that there are victors on site today. Makes for easy access,” he says with false pleasantry. He palms at the open cuts in your dress. “Easier access,” he corrects meanly.
“Coryo, you can’t,” you say firmly, trying to push off his hands.
Your refusal incites him. “You didn’t seem to mind much when you let Aelius touch you so indecently,” Coriolanus snarls in your ear.
His teeth dig into your neck so harshly the skin broken beneath his canines. You yelp at the sudden pain. It intertwines with the arousal bubbling in your belly, pulling you deeper under the enthrall of Coriolanus.
“It wasn’t like that,” you gasp. Aelius placed his hand on your back on accident, mistaking you for his wife for one fatal second. “He didn’t mean—“
“I don’t give a fuck what he meant,” he snaps. “Or that it wasn’t like that. You shouldn’t be letting anyone touch you.” Coriolanus bites down viciously. Blood stains his teeth as he says, “They know better. You are my victor.”
Voices echo in the hallway outside. Dread lines your bones when you recognize Livia’s giggle as she leads someone to the office. It is one thing for the President to have a pet but it is another thing for the President to play favorites. “Coriolanus, not now,” you murmur.
“Yes, now.” He rucks up your dress, smoothing his hands over your thighs. “Should I give them a show?” He drags his bloodied mouth from your neck to the underside of your jaw. “Better yet, should I let them have a taste?”
You hate this game. Coriolanus has all of you and yet he demands for more. He would rather kill you than let anyone see you in this state. It is getting to the point where he’d prefer to kill anyone that sees you, period. The allure of showing you off wore off a long time ago but there are games even the President must play.
You grab his face so he’s level with you. You speak against his mouth, lips brushing his with each breathy word. “I’m yours to do as you see fit, Coryo.”
It used to eviscerate you swearing yourself as his. The first time they were uttered, you knew it was a jail sentence. Coriolanus never lets you to go back on your word. Promises from you are forever. He keeps all of his promises and he expects you to do the same.
His cock presses against you insistently, swelling at your obedience. “I do my best to take care of you. Always.”
Words mean nothing to you so you say, “I know, Coryo. It’s what I appreciate most about you.”
The sticky feel of his cum accompanies you back to the dinner table.
-
He fucked you on his wedding night.
The roses he sent were serrated. The deep scratches welled with blood when you mistakenly grabbed the roses without checking reopened and made a mess of his back. You scrabbled at the tight muscles, hands slipping as your blood smoothed any traction you could find.
“Coryo,” you gasped. “Slow down.”
Predictably, he did not not. He slid out just enough to thrust back in harshly. He ground his hips to meet yours, forcing you to take him in deeper than you have before. You tightened around him as he pressed against a spot that made your toes curl. A wanton moan slipped from you when he kept thrusting into that same spot with pinpoint accuracy.
“She means nothing to me,” he grunted, hips knocking into you. “Nothing.”
You wanted to tell him it was okay if she did mean something, if she meant everything to him. Because then, at least you would be free to go.
“I hate her. That’s why I married her,” he said, slowing down.
Coriolanus fucked you harder now with longer thrusts that stretched you out so perfectly, you would let him slit your throat in this very moment. Your thighs trembled as Coriolanus widened them to fit himself better against you. His eyes were desperate as he drove into you deeply.
“Say this changes nothing,” he ordered harshly. “Say it and I’ll let you come.” He angled his hips until he found what made you seize up with brutal precision.
“It changes nothing,” you said through a sharp breath. Your mind swam with how overloaded your senses were. You didn’t know where Coriolanus began and where you ended. Maybe it was that it began and ended all with Coriolanus.
He hiked your leg up to his waist as a reward. “It’s only ever going to be you,” he confessed. “I’ll take care of everything. Let me do everything for you.”
And the words shouldn’t be comforting. A promise from a cuntstruck man on the verge of falling over the edge. They should be meaningless.
But it was you that was meaningless. You were a victor with no successes to your name. You were only as valuable as this man decided you were worth. And there was no escaping a man like this.
You felt yourself sucking him in until you cried out, your orgasm washing over you and making you anew. It didn’t take him long to follow you. He was never one to leave you alone for long.
He collapsed atop of you. His nose tucked into the base of your throat, breathing you in. You brought your hand up, tracing random patterns across his back. His heart raced against you, thrumming dangerously. It sped up when he propped his chin on your chest to look at you. The pinch near his eyes was when you knew.
As you knew the sun rose in the east and set in the west, the sky was blue, and there were no victors in the Hunger Games, you knew Coriolanus loved you.
He wished it was your wedding he was celebrating. He wished it was you he recited his vows to. He wished you were the woman he could have on his arm.
The realization cleaved you open.
Of course he loved you. He had took you apart, laid you bare, and put you back together with reverence. Kissed each bone he rearranged and took a bite out of your heart lest you forgot the feel of his love.
All roads would lead back to Coriolanus Snow eventually.
this fic is finished. there will never be a part 2. thanks!
⇢☾Warning: NSFW | Snow is his own warning, mentions of killing, mentions of caging/locking you up (doesn't do it though), hair pulling, breath play if you squint, creampie, unprotected sex (wrap it dumbfucks), pinv sex, blowjob, male masterbation, cunnilingus, mating press, mentions of Lucy Gray, no spoilers | lmk if I forgot anything!
⇢☾Pairing: young president Snow x fem! Reader
⇢☾Summary: Snow realizing his feelings for you, being fucked up about it and fucks you!
⇢☾A/N: don't romanticize, it's dark romance so y'all are warned! This is set in the same au as The Study (you don't have to read it beforehand but it's recommended)
< masterlist > < bc: @cafekitsune > <tag list>
It started slowly, so slow that Snow didn't even realize it. It started with that night in the study after he had you. He didn't touch you again, denying himself of you. You, his wife, a little bird stuck in a cage. The First Lady of Panem was nothing but a doll, a showcase piece for the country.
You played the role well enough, but you weren't a doll at all. You brought life in what was otherwise a stone-cold mannor. The workers cook your favorite, making sure you're the most well-accommodated. Like a Queen. How their shoulders relax and the smile that springs up when they do the tasks that you assigned them. You earned their respect and their loyalty.
You were dangerous yet harmless. It baffled Coriolanus to no end. It started slow. He coincidentally met you in the hallways more and more. After that night, you couldn't make eye contact with him, no longer did you greet him with an awkward hello or a shy smile.
You look down at the floor whenever he passes you by, your body flushing from the mere second of proximity. So obvious and adorable. He loved how easy you were to read, how open you were. Whatever your lips hide, your eyes show. Whatever your soul hides, your body shows.
It started slow. The monthly dinners with the First Lady turned weekly. Every Sunday now he had you sit across him for dinner and he would ask you about your day. Just to be polite, mind you, don't look into it. He would be annoyed by those one-word answers but would never show it. His fingers subtly grasped the glass of wine tighter than he should, his heart pricking his brain into paranoia. ‘What else?’ he wanted to ask, ‘Stop saying it was good. Tell me what made it good.’
Instead of uttering those words, cameras were placed on every inch of the manner with the audio functions so everything is recorded for his and only his view. He watched you walking through the library, your fingertips touching the spines of the books you already read (which was most of them), you didn't even realize new books were added to the collection, all similar to the ones you liked. He watched you stroll the gardens, your face in a frown at the neverending white roses. A red rose and several other flowers were added the next day.
It started slow. He began to talk about his day more and more trying to fill a silence. He started asking for your opinion and oh, how that lighted your eyes up that you were finally doing what you were meant to do. Supporting him not as a doll but as a wife. You begin to talk about your days more, trusting him with your day-to-day activities. You tell him about friends and family, something he wasn't interested in (he has files on every single person you mentioned).
The nights that were dedicated to his needed sleep turned into the witching hours in which he would stroke his cock over the memory of you. His mouth biting into the pillow to stop his groans, hearing them would mean admitting his need for you and he rejected that notion. His cock was oversensitive because he couldn't stop. He couldn't stop fucking into his fist, again and again thinking about you. Not just your pussy but you. Your desperate moans, your lips marking his neck, your slick walls, and everything of you. Your tears, your head on his chest when he had fucked you. Everything.
He wanted to pin you against a wall. He wanted to bend over during dinner. He wanted you on his lap in his study. He wanted to push you to the bed and fuck you until the bed breaks. He wanted you!
The realization made him spill onto his bed sheets for the nth time. A gasp escaped his lips as he realized how deeply you are rooted in him now. He needed to kill you. He can't afford this again. Whatever this is. Obsession? Love? Was there ever a difference? He needed this to end.
‘You don't deserve to be loved,’ he thinks, you were no Lucy Gray after all, you were different. You could never compare to his first and only (not anymore) love. But he had caged you, he had you and knew your every move. The rumors that spread of cheating were seized along with the man who flirted with you. True to your words, you hadn't fallen to the temptations of the Capitol, rejecting their offers politely rather than basking in their attention like before.
‘Good,’ he thought, he had killed everyone who had touched you and it was hard to hide the evidence. “I am so much better than her,” he muttered, “I could do so much better.” He asked himself, ‘Why? After all the promises I made to myself of never repeating the mistake.’
He didn't get a reply but he dreamt of you.
Breakfast had passed, lunch too, he hadn't seen you once today. A quick peek at his monitors showed that you were sleeping in your room. He clenched his jaw, a part of him hating you for sleeping in because it deprived him of seeing you. A part of his heart warmed because your hair was a mess, the shirt you were wearing while sleeping was his, and you looked so darn pretty.
Coriolanus convinced himself that he was going to your room to wake you up. Nobody should sleep this late into the day. It wasn't healthy, and he needed the First Lady to remain healthy. That was all.
He stepped into the room, his footsteps quiet so he didn't alert you. He sits down on the bed, your sleeping figure beside him. Your mouth had dried drool on the corners which made him disgusted but amusement all the same. His hand went to your cheek, he couldn't control the action of his thumb stroking your cheek.
“I should lock you up forever,” he whispered as softly as possible, almost inaudible. “In this room, so no one can see you but me.”
He knew by now his thoughts weren't normal and it would never be. That's him and he had accepted himself. He leaned in closer, his lips inches away from yours. He stopped right before he closed the gap. He takes a deep breath, taking in your scent before pulling back.
His hand goes to your shoulder, he shakes you. “Wake up, bird,” he said, his eyes softening when he saw you wake up and peer at him with confused eyes. You yawn, and sit up, your eyes wide when you look at him. You rub them with your hand and blink.
“Is there anything wrong, Coryo?” You asked softly, “Anything I can do to help.” “You should shower and eat first,” he said instead, “and next time don't sleep in. I don't like indiscipline.”
“Sorry,” you mutter, “I was finishing a book.” Your eyes flicker to him, “It's nice by the way! I will tell you about it during dinner.” He wanted to hear about it now, he wanted to pull you closer and kiss your lips, he wanted to push you into the mattress and breed you. He wanted to clean you up after and feed you every kind of feed.
He clenched his jaw, trying to get rid of such thoughts. “We'll see,” he said before walking out of the room, accidentally slamming the door. The first sign of Snow losing control.
The second sign of Coriolanus losing control was how his breath hitched when he saw you during dinner. You are wearing yet another one of his shirts (how do you even get your hands on them) and that's it. A white shirt that reached your knees, you had forgone pants and opted for shorts that couldn't even be seen. Your legs were in complete view, the same legs he wanted wrapped around his waist.
He didn't say a single comment even when it was clear you were waiting for one. ‘Were you trying to seduce him?’ he thinks, ‘Or something else.’ He felt paranoid about you wearing his shirt. Did you want him? Want him to bend you over, press your face onto the table and fuck you like you were an animal?
He felt his pants getting tighter from his thoughts, flashes of what he could do to you, what he had done to you. He couldn't focus as you talked during dinner, he made a mental note to watch the cameras later to know the words you had blessed him with.
It hits him like a wave when dinner ends and you come to him with a book. Tabs were spilling out and it was a hardcover of an old classic that he had to read during the academy.
“You once told me that you liked this book, I spent last night annotating it! I did a few finishing touches before dinner…”
That explains your attire, you were busy formatting this gift for him. He took the book from your hand, he wanted to throw it across the room, he wanted to set it on fire. It was now his most precious treasure, more important than Panem itself.
The truth he denied washes over him. Making him take a sharp breath and your eyebrows etch together in concern. He had once a girl dedicate songs for him, now he had a wife dedicating booms for him. ‘It would be a mistake,’ he told himself, ‘It won't be a mistake if I don't repeat the past.’
The desires he shoved at the back of his mind sprang forward and he made a decision. The third sign of Coriolanus surrendering to himself was that he had everyone including the guards leave the dining room. Making your eyes widen from the sudden instruction.
“Is there anything wrong-” you begin to ask before Snow interrupts you. “Here is what's going to happen now. You're gonna be on your knees, you'll take my cock in your mouth and you'll make me cum. Then I will take you to our room and I'll fuck you until you can't remember your name.”
You blink once, twice just staring into his eyes that revealed nothing before you went closer to him and got down on your knees for him. “Like this?” You asked, breathless, your cheeks flushed. He smirked, “Exactly like this, pet.”
“Now part those pretty lips for me,” he said as he unzipped his pants and set his hard cock free. He lets out a chuckle as he sees you eyeing his cock like a long-lost lover. Guess he wasn't the only one thinking about that time.
You part your mouth wide enough for him as he pushes his cock in slowly. No matter how desperate he was a gentleman for his wife. He knew better than to gag you. He stopped when his cock had completely disappeared, his length engulfed into your wet, hot mouth.
He throws back his head as his dick hits the back of your throat. He relishes the sound of your choking around his length. He lets out his groan, trying his hardest not to cum down your throat so soon. His hand is in your hair, keeping you in place like an obedient pet.
You try your best to take in a deep breath as your tongue swirls around his length as much as possible. You weren't the best at blowjobs, but you knew the sloppier the better. Saliva ran down your cheek as you tried your best to focus on his cock underside, your tongue dragging itself across a pulsing vein that reached his cockhead.
You moan around his length as the taste of pre-cum bursts in your mouth. You close your eyes and try your best, bopping your head up and down. You clenched your fist, trying your best not to gag when his cock gets deeper into your throat.
Meanwhile, Snow was a wreck of a man, the heat of your mouth ruining his capability of having coherent thoughts. You were sucking his soul through his dick it seemed to him. His fingers tangled in your locks, gripping your hair tighter as a way to anchor himself to reality.
His blue eyes dilated to almost black as he looks at you taking his cock so well. Like you were made for it. Made for his cock. Made for him. Meant to be his wife, his bird, his pet, and his love. It's destiny, he decided as he pulls you off his cock and uses his suit sleeves to wipe your mouth and chin.
‘Everything leads to this,’ he thought, as he pulled you onto his lap and pressed a kiss to your lips. The saltiness of his taste in your mouth does not deter his tongue from tasting you.
“Go to my- our room,” he whispered to you as he broke the kiss. “I'll be there soon,” he promises as he nuzzles into your neck, his lips kissing your skin. You nod and get off his lap. Your feet drag you into his room.
Meanwhile, Coriolanus takes a deep breath, trying to maintain whatever pathetic excuse of sanity he had held. It didn't work. His cock was hard enough to hurt and his brain made him think. He thinks of removing you, he thinks of keeping you. He thinks of plans to protect you, backup plans to make sure you remain untouched while still maintaining the image of the First Lady. His true possessiveness and obsession flares up in his mind.
‘It won't be a mistake if I don't repeat the past,’ he told himself, repeating that line to his head.
He takes a deep breath, a glance at the cameras shows workers and guards kept the halls clear and you were in his room and on his bed waiting for him. Waiting for him to ravish you as you kept playing with the buttons of the shirt, and your underwear on the floor. Your face was crimson but your lower lip was in a darker shade of red with how much you bitten it because of nervousness.
He lets out a huff of air before adjusting himself accordingly. Coriolanus Snow was many things, gentlemen included and gentlemen don't keep their ladies waiting.
You freeze as he enters the room. You swallow nervously, your fingers pausing on the shirt button you were playing with. He glances at the panties that were on the floor and he gives you a little smirk. “Take it all off, my wife,” he said as his hands worked to undress him. His suit was on the floor, his shirt joining it soon enough.
You have to press your thighs together as you see his skin again, a whimper escaping your lips at the sight. He was so beautiful, craved by the angels, breathed to life by the devil. Soon, his pants and boxers were getting ridden off.
You check him out, your gaze hungry. Your fingers shake with desire as you take off your (his) shirt. You let it fall, exposing yourself completely to him, like he did for you. His eyes rack you up, causing a flush to every visible inch of your skin.
“Open your legs,” he said, as he walked closer and got down on his knees for you. “I am hungry,” he said, while his lips pressed to your knee and his lustful eyes bewitched you. You had to bite your tongue to not let a moan from his mere words. You spread your legs wide, letting your cunt come into his view.
Your folds that were glistening with your arousal and your slit which was the cause of your juices fluttered around nothing from his gaze. “Exquisite,” he had whispered, the praise warming you up and making your pussy clench harder. “Eager too,” he chuckles, looking up at you but you refuse to meet his gaze.
“Have your meal,” you mumbled, embarrassed. He pressed a wet kiss to your inner thigh, making your breath hitch from the contact. A sharp moan escapes when he bites, his teeth digging into the flesh and your hand falls onto his hair. Your fingers grip the blonde locks but you don't try to push him away. Your legs tried to close around him, but his hands made sure to keep them spread as he liked it.
He pulled away, admiring the mark before he pressed another wet kiss to it. His fingers grip your thighs, they hold tight enough to leave marks too.
He takes in a deep breath, nuzzling into your thigh. Your primal scent makes him go wild, his nail digging into your skin as he brings his lips closer to your pussy. One swipe of his tongue onto your folds and he groans louder than you have ever heard him to do so.
“You taste like fucking candy,” he lets out, as his nose bumps into your clit, his tongue messily swirling around your folds, gathering as much of your juices as possible. Your legs were all on his shoulders now as he all but pressed his face, burying himself in your cunt. He takes in a deep breath through his mouth before he begins to ravish you properly.
His mouth taking in your entire pussy and sucking it with such devotion it made you see stars. He laps at your pussy, his tongue never stopping to devour you. You pulled him even closer, your thighs closing around his head. The action only made him. You couldn't see it, but his eyes rolled back from the lack of air and your taste that quickly became his favorite.
His teeth pulled at the outer lips of your pussy, making you cry out and gush more juices. He licks it all up. Before his attention goes to your little bud, his mouth kisses it at first. Then he takes your clit into his mouth to suck without any mercy.
It makes you cry out, the soles of your feet digging into his back as your hips begin to rut against his face. You have no control over your actions. You were gripping his hair so tight you were afraid that you tore away a few strands. Overwhelming pleasure attacked all of your senses as he didn't stop his merciless actions.
You arch your back, your lips moaning his name as heat begins to gather in your body. You cry out, “Close! Coryo! Fuck!” Pleads begin to leave your mouth as your hips grind faster, your clit nudged his nose as his tongue is now inside your walls, fucking you with his tongue.
Your eyes widen, and you let out a silent scream when his teeth nip your swollen clit. You lay on the bed, panting as your pussy cums on his face. Your arousal makes a mess on his face which makes you even more slick when he pulls back and gets on top of you.
You looked into his eyes, his cold blue eyes that were nearly black now. He was panting, both of your breaths mixing into the air. With whatever senses you have left, you use your palm to clean up some of the mess on his face.
As soon as you finish up, he holds your hand. His mouth on your palm with broad strokes of his tongue he licks the remaining of your juices clean. “Can't let it go to waste, my bird,” he whispered to you as he leaned down. His body caging yours or were you caging him down with your legs around his waist? He pressed a kiss to your cheek. Sweet and gentle, and so unlike him but you don't dare question his affections. May it be sweet or savory, you accept it with your arms wide open.
“Want you,” you whispered to him. “You'll have me when I see fit,” he replied, his mouth pressing open-mouthed kisses to your neck before they reached the flesh of your breasts. One of his hands squeezed your breast and his thumb rubbed circles on your nipple. His lips paid attention to the underside of it, licking the skin around the round flesh before his teeth sank in making you gasp. He sucks harshly, his hold on your breast getting rougher as he forms the mark on your skin. When he's assured that a hickey will be formed, his lips pull back and he presses a kiss to the mark.
“You're mine,” he whispered, his lips brushing against your skin before he takes a nipple into his mouth and sucks just as harshly as before. You moan, “Yours, Snow!” Your hands on his shoulders, your nails digging into his flesh. His fingers play and squeeze your other breast while he continues to suck your bud. Your cunt despite having a previous earthsharing orgasm begins to pulse with need. You whimper, “Corio, please!”
Coryo pulls away, his eyebrows etched in annoyance, as much as he likes to hear you beg, he would rather focus on his task of marking you up. He leans up and presses his lips to you. You moan into his mouth as you taste yourself on his tongue. Your fingers tangling themselves into his curls bringing him even closer to you. He breaks the kiss, “I'll teach you to be obedient later, my pet.”
You let out a whimper when he pressed a hard kiss against your lips. His hands travel down to your hips. “Get ready,” he whispered to you, “I meant my words.” I'll fuck you until you can't remember your name. Remembering his earlier words, you whine loudly, “Please!”
His hand grips your hip tightly as his other hand holds his hard cock and guides it to your entrance. Just to be a little tease, he swipes his mushroom tip all over your cunt, his cockhead bumping your swollen clit making you arch your back and your nails dig into his flesh harder, making him moan as well.
He finally pressed his tip into your slit, his cock gliding in smoothly because of how wet you were. He groans as his dick gets sucked into warmth. His head is between the space of your shoulder. He was panting, his hot breath hitting your skin as he pushed in inch by inch. Your hands are on his back, your legs around his waist as you encourage him to go deeper into you with your soft moans.
His teeth sink into your neck to stop a groan, as his cock reaches your deepest spot. While your nails drag themselves across his back to create red lines. Both of you finding ways to anchor yourself to reality, to not go insane with the pleasure you find in each other.
“Move,” you plead, “Please, Coryo, need you to fuck me. Need you!” Snow decided to have mercy on you both, his hips began to move shallowly, and he refused to completely pull back. He refused the concept of depriving his dick of your sweet, wet pussy. “Faster,” you beg, his deep thrust hits at your every spot, some you didn't even know existed. It fried at your senses, your mind going haywire, your body getting desperate for another release.
“No,” he barks near your ear, his mouth biting your earlobe before he begins to kiss your jaw and then to your collarbone. His lips suck purple and blue bruises on your skin while his hips grind into you. Making you go dizzy and insane with how his cockhead kept grazing your g-spot.
“Please, please,” you babble, “You're fucking me so good, Coryo! I can't take it, please! Fuck me harder, love!” His hips had stopped moving as he heard your words. His head leaned up to you, his lips brushing against yours as he whispered, “What did you say?”
You looked straight into his eyes, not hiding the love you had for him, letting it flow through your words and your body. “Love,” you whispered, your lips pressing a delicate kiss that could shatter everything you had built with Snow. “I love you,” you whispered. One of your hands moves to his cheek, caressing him. “You don't have to do anything in return, just know that I love you.” You smile at him, knowing it's more likely that he won't ever return your feelings.
You prepared yourself for a harsh rejection but instead, his hips begin to move again. Harder, faster than before, his cockhead kissing your cervix with his thrusts, his fingers digging into your hips marking it. You won't be able to walk later but that didn't matter.
What mattered was how perfect Coriolanus had begun to fuck you. No, it wasn't a fuck. This was something more. Something changed with your confession, something changed and will remain changed for the rest of both of your lives.
One of his hands reached upward, his fingers snaking around your throat. He pressed it in, not enough to block your breathing but enough to make you lightheaded. Your pussy which was already tight, clenched around him further making him groan right against your ear.
“Lover indeed,” he whispered, his words that you nearly missed, your heart understood what he meant. You gasp, “Kiss me.” You knew that even without him saying those words, he could love you all the same.
Snow complies, his lips clashing with yours. His hips rutting into you as his hands guide your legs into the mating press position, making you cry out into the kiss as his cock reaches even deeper than before causing a small bump into your stomach that neither of you notices.
The kiss got open-mouthed, desperate with how his tongue tangled with yours. It was filth filled with the pathetic, insanity of love you both felt for each other. His thrusts got faster, and sloppier as he was close to his end. Your cunt pulsating around his length as you too were close to shattering again.
What it took for both of you to reach the end was him breaking the kiss to whisper, “I should kill you. I should kill you for making me a lovesick fool again.”
The words even when you know can mean your doom makes you cum like nothing else. Your lips cry out as your walls begin to milk his cock for what it's worth. He groans into your mouth, letting himself feel your fluttering cunt before he thrusts into you once, twice, and finds his release. His cock spilling into you, his cum painting your insides white, marking you.
He pulls out, his back covered with scratches, his curls clinging to his forehead and his lips swollen from the kisses. You looked just as much of a mess as he did, with marks all over your body.
He thinks to himself as he lies beside you. He wasn't going to kill you now. Not in ten years or fifty but your end would only be when he decides.
i might just be projecting but i feel like coryo would be so into like the concept of “taking” someone’s virginity. he’s all about things being his … i 😵💫
coriolanus likes to own things.
he likes that his closet is full of an extensive assortment of coats. he likes that the new apartment that his family lives in is under his name. and he likes that his significant other is his.
there's a little while where he's satisfied with just the label. he's satisfied with hickies and slight public affection so everyone knows. but then he wants something deeper. something that runs to the core and will stay with them forever.
luckily, he comes to know that you're a virgin, and a situation has never been more perfect in coriolanus' eyes.
he's teasing, a simple, "you're a virgin?" spoken under his breath as if it's something to be ashamed of. and if you do start to behave as if you're ashamed, ducking your head and hesitantly confirming what he already knows to be true, he's quick to haphazardly clean up the mess he's made. though, it's less of a clean and more of a polish.
he slides a hand under your chin, lifting your head gently. "it's nothing to be ashamed about," although he'd made you feel just that.
it's all because he wants what he's destined to have. but he won't take it unless you want him to. he needs you to trust him, to willingly give it up for him. because it makes it all the more thrilling.
knowing that someone has put enough faith in him to willingly let him own something so sacred. he's not a romantic, far from it in fact. but the sheer thought of the ownership of it gets him.
being able to walk around as if he literally has your virginity in his back pocket. having you forever tied to him in a way that would leave you thinking of him, even if you dared to physically separate yourself from him.
it's a rush that coriolanus (still young and getting used to having power) can't get from anywhere else.
i’m obsessed with the significance of the hunger games’ utilization of food as a metaphor for a character, their perspective, and their story. on that note, coriolanus and tigrid witnessing a starving man eating his maid’s leg.
understandably, a large amount of coryo’s food metaphors are centered around his distaste for food he considers undesirable. or, food that doesn’t live up to that which he is entitled to.
but i’m stuck on cannibalism. coriolanus knows what its like to be starving. he has never literally eaten another person, can barely wrap his head around eating “poor people food”. but coriolanus knew, from a young age, that desperation turned a man into an animal. he decided he would never succumb to that hunger, would never let desperation control him. yet he still deluded himself into believing he killed in self defense, that he killed to survive.
coriolanus says the hunger games are intended to reveal what humans become when they are desperate to survive. president snow somehow convinced himself that district-born were subhuman, yet he acknowledges their humanity as a definitive statement. the purpose of his greatest achievement; turning humans into animals.
humans, if starved for long enough, will become cannibals, or die trying to be anything else. the districts have eaten each other, and then their own tails.
coriolanus, with an infinitely widening margin of what is and is not starvation, kills whenever he is threatened with the possibility of hunger. somehow, he thinks this is different. that he is not terrified of starving just like every child he has locked into a cage to secure his own fullness.
eat his own words, eat his past, eat himself whole; both the starving man and the maid. maybe he died realizing, for the last time, that he’s always been an animal. his final exhale around a mouthful of blood.
pairing ; young!coriolanus snow x capitol!reader (gender-neutral)
synopsis ; when you laughed, airy and light and reminiscent to that of wind chimes, coryo wished he could bottle up the sound and keep it as his, only his.
words ; 1.5k
themes ; mild fluff/angst, slightly suggestive
warnings / includes ; set before events of tbosas so no actual spoilers, making out, clemensia appearance, mentions of other characters, he's not exactly toxic yet but the seeds are very much planted, i tried to keep him in character as best i could, let's pretend the academy also serves dinner
a/n ; this man has consumed me body and soul. this fic was inspired by the song wool by flatland cavalry on the movie soundtrack! let me know if you guys would like a second part :)
main masterlist.
Coriolanus Snow was a wolf in sheep’s clothing. He bore an aristocratic last name—yet you noticed that his dress shirt’s buttons seemed to be various different shades of black and slightly misshapen. His voice, so sweetly saccharine, charming, seductive—would whisper falsities like it was second nature. He would often claim that he wasn’t hungry, but you’d catch the longing glint in his eyes as he eyed the steaming bread rolls Sejanus slathered with generous helpings of butter.
Control. That was all he needed.
It crumbled, ever so slightly, when you nudged your slice of apple pie in his direction. His eye twitched, and you pursed your lips, pulling your plate back to you. You ate quietly, and Coryo stared at you all the while, as if he were mentally dissecting your mind—studying you.
You knew. It was all too clear, even if he wouldn’t tell you. And if he wouldn’t tell his closest friend—or, the closest thing he had to a friend, the two of you certainly did things that friends wouldn’t do—he most definitely wouldn’t let it slip that he was financially strapped to anyone else.
That same day, he met you in the back of the library. The two of you were supposed to be studying history—Professor Demigloss was one of the nicer teachers at the academy, but that didn’t mean he was any less strict with grades. And neither you nor Coryo could afford slipping now. Not if you both wanted to get into university. Being on top meant that there was only greater distance to fall.
But there were… distractions.
Mainly, his foot knocking against yours under the table. Your hand over his jostling knee. His teeth digging into his bottom lip. When you shifted so that your thighs brushed against his, the books spread out over the table were entirely forgotten.
He pushed you against the bookshelves a mere second later, the wood digging into your back uncomfortably, and kissed you until you grew dizzy. You were a welcome distraction—he could taste the apples on your tongue. The way you snaked your arms around his neck, toying with his pale blonde curls, pulling him closer until his body slotted against yours just perfectly—clicking into place like a pair of magnets facing opposite directions. It was desperate and heavy and he could only barely pull away to inhale sharply before cradling the base of your head to tilt your jaw back and kiss you even harder. Coryo swallowed any muffled whimpers that slipped from you when his free hand traveled lower.
Lower, lower, dangerously low—
When Clemensia’s voice echoed through the library in search of her lab partner, the two of you sprang apart, gasping for air.
She rounded the bend, and her dark eyes landed on the two of you. Keen, observant, narrowed. Coriolanus was flushed, hair mussed, lips swollen, chest rising and falling erratically. You were looking anywhere but the two of them, smoothing out your clothes and wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.
“Oh! I guess I’ll just have to find another time to bother you, Coriolanus,” she tittered, sickly sweet. She tilted her head with a tempered smile. “What’re you guys studying?”
Snow rolled his eyes in exasperation. “History,” he said. Curt, simple.
“Right.” She eyed you curiously. When she spoke again, it was directed more to you than him, sounding uncharacteristically void of frigid scorn. “I’d be careful if I were you. You sure he’s not just sleeping with you because you’re the top of the class?”
You stiffened, and Coryo bristled.
“I’ll be fine, Clem. See you tomorrow.”
There was another beat of terse silence. Her eyes darted warily between the two of you, and she whisked away in a flutter of red and black.
You blew out a breath. Your mouth tingled with the phantom memory of his lips planted over yours, and your cheeks flushed with heat. The two of you sat back down, both quiet. You worked in fluid tandem with each other, as you always did. His hands kept to himself this time.
“I’m not using you,” he whispered, eventually. “It’s not like that.”
“I know,” you replied hesitantly, testing the waters. “It’s not like you’d need to. Your grades are just fine as is.”
The two of you kept working until your fingers cramped with overuse and his head pulsed with the beginnings of a migraine.
“Dinner?” you asked once the clock struck six, nudging him. “I think they’ll be serving mashed potatoes today.”
His stomach clenched at the thought of warm food. Control.
“Sure,” he replied coolly, flicking his books closed and gathering up all the papers to stuff into his bag. “I’m sick of mashed potatoes, though.”
You shot him an incredulous smile, brows quirking up. He was lying, but you didn’t know. “Not even when it’s seasoned with roasted garlic? A dash of the freshest of herbs?”
The blue of his eyes gleamed when they bore into yours. “Not even then.”
“You’re a strange man, Coriolanus Snow.” Your lips twisted downward, but it was more of a smile than a frown. When your eyes darted below to glance at his school uniform, you couldn’t help but notice the unironed creases in the carmine fabric. One of the buttons—the very top one—was oddly shaped and a different color from all the rest. It reminded you of his dress shirt. You quite liked that dress shirt. He looked handsome in it, but you chalked it up to his uncanny ability to look handsome in just about anything.
Your head tilted to the side, fixed on the button. You knew. He knew that you knew. Panic seized in his chest, an irrational clawing sensation searing within his lungs. Would you tell the rest of the class? What would you say to them? That he was living as filthily as a District boy? That he skipped meals because he couldn’t afford them? That his cousin mended his clothes for him?
But your frown-smile deepened. Fondness stained your expression, clear as day. Coriolanus found himself surprised, as he often did around you.
“I love your buttons, by the way,” you mumbled, reaching out to trace it with a finger. He held his breath on instinct. “Is it a stylistic choice? Having them all irregular like this?”
Stylistic. Coriolanus almost laughed.
“Mhm. It’ll be in fashion one day. I’m just ahead of the trends,” he murmured charmingly. A bluff.
When you laughed, airy and light and reminiscent to that of wind chimes, Coryo wished he could bottle up the sound and keep it as his, only his.
“Maybe I’ll start wearing mismatched buttons now, too. Rebel against uniformity.” You stood up from your chair as you spoke, not catching the way Coriolanus’ expression faltered momentarily with your last three words. It was a joke, he had to remind himself. Just a joke. “Come on. Let’s go have dinner. I’m starving.”
He jerkily stood up. Grabbed your hand just because he could, fingers folding over your wrist. He could feel your pulse, thumping quicker and quicker. You regarded him curiously. Snow’s remaining spindly hand cradled your face and he stepped closer, intuitive eyes roaming over your face, wondering just how much of you was real. How much of you was lying, just as he was?
His lips fell over yours again. This time, the kiss was sweeter. Slower, more languid. His nose brushed over your cheekbone, warm to the touch. You hummed pleasantly against him, before placing a hand flat over his chest—over the crooked button—and pulled away with a dazed smile. It felt dangerously good that you hadn’t tugged your hand out of his grasp yet. His grip tightened in a near possessive manner.
As the two of you began walking out of the library, Coriolanus couldn’t help but think back to your hyperbole—about how far from starving you truly were. You wouldn’t ever know, not when your family was the very epitome of Capitol wealth. But he was glad he wasn’t the only one lying, for once, even if your lie was merely an inflation of the truth.
After dinner, Coryo worked off the top button of his uniform with repeated tugs to the threads, pulling apart Tigris’ handiwork. He slid it over the table to you, watching the way your countenance softened in endearment. He kissed you again in the dark hallways outside the cafeteria, finding it difficult to get your lips to melt away from your tightly-stretched grin.
He walked home with a mirroring smile and a missing button that night. One less piece of the wolf’s sheeply clothes.
Something I keep thinking about from TBOSBAS is just how consistently Dr. Gual’s worldview is proven to be wrong. For all her and Snow’s talk of “this is who people are when released from control,” all three of the games we see in the series prove that wrong time and time again.
Lamina mercy kills Marcus to save him from further pain and suffering. Reaper spends his whole time in the arena — to his dying breaths — honoring the dead around him. Katniss sings to Rue as she dies and openly, publicly mourns her death. Thresh saves Katniss’s life, not for his own benefit, because arguably she is one of his biggest threats still in the arena at that point, but out of love for Rue. Mags volunteers for Annie. The Morphlings sacrifice themselves for Peeta and Katniss.
That is Gual’s “humanity unmasked.” Even when their own lives are at stake, even when they are pitted against each other in a literal fight to the death, these children’s love and compassion and humanity still finds ways to come through. Because Lucy Gray is right, there is an inherent goodness in us all.
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