Summary: A new young wife means the president of Panem only has one thing on his mind, an heir.
Kinks: Breeding kink, Creampie, Pregnancy kink ?
Rough.
That seemed to be the only way to properly describe Coriolanus Snow. Abrasive, sharp, deadly. The kind of man who dominates, demands every drop of sanity from his victims. Unfortunately, all of his evil is buried under a beautifully stoney face and charisma that could seduce bricks.
Your father was wealthy, a Capitol property owner that knew a thing or two about how to negotiate up in profit, living lavishly above most other Capitolites, that’s what brought Coriolanus in, if that was the shiny bronze attracting him to the surface, you were the gold layers down he struck. You were bright eyed, soft, beautiful. How could he not want you all to himself? So shapable, pliable into the perfect kiln ready doll of his own creation.
You couldn’t even hate yourself for falling as hard as you did, anyone would’ve. What started as innocent walks and lavish gifts tuned quickly into intimate dinners and promises whispered into the shell of your ear as you danced to some string quartet— his hand much too tight on your hip. Your father was eager to agree to the arrangement, your mother gushing over how the president was interested in you, your own heart lurching at the prospect of being picked. You were 18 after all, and 24 is a perfectly normal age for you to marry.
The engagment news swept bright the Capitol and tumbled down the slopes onto the districts like fire. Young aristocrat engaged to the president! Freshly 18 and already a bride? The high ranking women passed you in the street in envy, you relished in it. Slowly, Coriolanus’ attention became more constant. You were to be by his side all hours of the day, hand in his, hips flush, arms linked. Slowly, you obliged,
Even now your wedding was, as to be expected, a spectral. For months, a strange unease had been bubbling beneath your surface about your husband to be. You hadn’t seen your friends in months, your parents didn’t talk to you a whole bunch anymore, all you had was him. He loved it.
Your reception dress glittered elegantly, shining bright under the fluttering gaze of the chandelier. A mixture of absolute happiness at the idea of being the First Lady, which had not fully sunk, and the strange flight you feel when you see your husband. His arm, however was around iron clad to your figure the whole day, keeping it right where he wanted you.
Through everything you’d been prepared for in becoming his fiancee, his obsessed with having i you u with cold was one you should’ve but didn’t expect. Every baby he saw was something that could be yours, every pregnancy announcement made him even more jittery. Your body was young and ripe for him, and he’d be damned if he didn’t make sure of a future hair as fast as possible.
The only thing more powerful than a man was his lineaage.
“…You two are just so picky to have found each other, you’re perfect..” some older Capitol woman gushed about your relationship happily, looking down at the grip Coriolanus’ fingers made on the fabric of your dress. “You’ll be set for life” she beamed “I’m sure you’re just bursting at the seems.
You nod almost too stiffly, a plethora of emotions swirling around your brain, one was that definitely. But as time went on you started it not be able to breathe anymore, body on edge and skin on fire. Perhaps that was normal? Was that love? Coriolanus said it was, and you were too nervous to say anything counter “I’m just riveted.” You say elegantly, leaning into his body.
A low and happy growl bubbles from his chest, possessive, claiming.
The end of the parry comes sooner than you’re ready for, I’m a haze, you’re ushered to a private car with Coriolanus, every single citizen of the nation sending you off happily to your new life with your husband. The clapping drowned out any nerves temporarily, chilling your bones, but as people got farther away and it was just you and him? The nerves set your skin afire.
“You’re so beautiful..” he pulls you into his lap on the backseat. “My beautiful bride. You ready for what’s next? I expect obedience” he mumbles, thumb tracing your cheek in a subtle warning. He was about to take what he wanted. That’s all Coriolanus did, he took, and you were no exception.
The car ride feels much too long, your hands shaking as his penthouse enters your view. Before you can love, he picks you up and starts to strode inside impatiently. Your arms wrap around his neck and your body leans into his subconsciously. The lobby had been cleared in preparation, your souls alone in the whole building as he stepped into the elevator and clicked all the way up.
On the ride up, his lips found solace in your jaw, nibbling gently against your cheek and neck too. He was unable to control himself anymore.
Your body becomes his the moment his penthouse door opens. You feel the air shift from the stiff façade of the wedding to the primal want oozing from Coriolanus’ pores. Before you can take anything in, you’re being pushed down onto his your bed, a look you’ve never seen clouding his features. A single curl loose from his gel slick back hanging low over his cheekbone casts a shadow over his face. “You’re.. so.. fuck” he pushes up the fabric of your dress. “Up.” He suddenly stops himself.
Your eyes open, sitting up skeptically when he stands back. “Take it off, lemme see what’s under.” His greedy gaze takes in every fine detail of your body.
You oblige, as much as your senses wanted to reject him, your body was almost pulsing with a mirrored need for him. You unlace and drop the heavy corset, the skirt following impromptu. Under what was probably your 5th dress of the iight, your body was wrapped in expensive and delicate lace, gentle patterns that accentuated the curve and dip of your supple figure.
You see the visible shift in his attitude, he doesn’t hold back anymore. It almost scared you how turned on he was, launching at you full speed and folding your body in half before you can comprehend what’s going on.
“Just relax baby..” he finally murmurs “it’ll be so good, just let me in okay?” He lets his pants drop.
You can’t even see his cock, not until the tip is prodding at your sensitive hole “oh..!” You breathe in, legs soundly by your head as he pushes on your stomach.
“That’s it..” a rough finger finds your clit, starting to press on the nerve ending as your twitch. His cock pushes in, a rough, burning starch making your vision hazy. “Oh fuck.. oh yeah..” he groans, you can tell he’s trying to remain in control while also fucking you for the first time. “Oh you’re so ripe.. you’re gonna be so round with my heir”
It hurt, the sting became worse as Coriolanus got faster, your eyes flutter shut, jaw moving open and lower body jerking to compensate for the pain, the pleasure, and the size.
Beyond everything, his cock was impassive.
“Oh yes.. oh.. fuck!” He rolls your clit between his forefingers, relishing in the way your abdomen tightens and your eyes get hazy. “Gonna.. fill this womb..” he grunts out, bicep muscle straining against the bed “gonna have you..” round.. and.. stuffed!” He growls between thrusts.
All you can manage to mewl is a pathetic “Coriolanus..!l” as your first orgasm threatens your senses.
“Yeah? Gonna come? C’mon, you got it, take it baby, it’ll be the first of many..” he groans and keeps your legs open for him as much as possible.
Like a satisfying sneeze, your body lets go. Your orgasm is intense, almost shuttering. Your legs shake under the force of his penetrating cock and your bucking hips. Coriolanus moans loudly “squeezing me.. filthy bride.. so fucking dirty f’me” he huffs. “Just.. one.. fuck..!”
You feel him burry himself to the hilt, cumming as deep and hard as he can, filling up your womb as best he can. Your hand, almost asleep by how your body was contented, strokes his hair as he stays plugged into your hole.
“You can take one more, my bride..” he decides, giving you little time to adjust to his sensation.
One more turns onto about 3 more, soon cum was pooling down and you couldn’t feel your thighs anymore. Only when you were go glossy and fucked out your eyes were red, he finally let up on your body. “So fucking pretty.. my bride…” he pulls out with a wet pop, unceremoniously having a finger inside to keep you plugged “gotta make sure it takes.” He copes into your ear to nip any objections.
Your body was too limp to argue, you knew it was just the beginning. A few weeks later, a positive test would confirm that.
The Monster and His Wife (Coriolanus Snow x Reader)
Prompt sent in by a friend who got it from a c.ai bot by @myheartbelongs (apparently. That’s what I was told.)
Warnings: heavy emotional manipulation (on both sides), reader is feisty, reader is going through it, kinda arranged marriage, rivals to lovers, reader likes to goad coriolanus, mentions of old paintings to represent relationship, both don’t really know what they want and switch up every now and again, reader doesn’t give a damn about pissing corio off, reader might be going a bit crazy cause if you were married to corio who wouldnt go crazy?, probably already been done, corio nickname not coryo, reader wears dresses sometimes, allusions to sex
Word Count: 7.4k
*dividers made by @enchanthings
The first time Coriolanus met you, he knew you were perfect. You touched his hand and he felt… nothing. It would be a perfect marriage; never being able to be manipulated or vulnerable with you because he didn’t love you. And you knew this, plain as day.
One night, Coriolanus sat up in bed, taking your hand in his. “Something on your mind?” The moonlight cast a dim ray onto his face, his blond hair becoming even lighter.
You were staring off into space when he took your hand. You glanced down at where his strong hand pressed into your palm, fingers forcing their way between yours. “No,” you replied simply. And it was truthful: you were thinking of nothing in particular, the only emotion running through you was the contemplation of another day of being the First Lady.
He hummed in acknowledgment as he ran his thumb over your knuckles, pulling you closer to him. He looked at you intensely, his gaze calculating as if he was analysing you. “You’re sure you’re alright, dear?”
Any other woman would smile up at him, sure that he cared for her. But after being married for almost five months, you knew better. You saw the deeper analysis of his stare, you felt the facet of control he was exerting by holding your hand. So you nodded again, staying silent. Your gaze wandered off again before shaking your head and saying, “sorry, I suppose I’m not being very talkative right now. How was your day?”
Coriolanus let out a soft exhale. He didn't mind that you weren't talkative. He found you easier to manage when you were silent, rather than when you made it your mission to retort to every comment. And in any case, he had no interest in your conversations. Only your arguments. They kept him on his toes and were a good exercise for his wit.
He shifted his position on the bed, sitting with his back pressed against the headboard. “My day was fine,” he replied evenly. “The usual presidential obligations.”
You hummed noncommittally, waiting for him to ask you about your day. When he didn’t, you sucked in a breath and said, “well, then goodnight, I suppose.” Your tone was clipped, and of course Coriolanus knew it, but he didn’t comment as you got under the covers and clicked off the bedside light. He didn’t move to do the same – instead, he remained seated against the headboard, his silhouette rigid in the dim light.
“Goodnight,” he replied smoothly, his voice cool and detached. His hand lingered atop the covers, his fingers tapping idly against the fabric. Your husband made no move to touch you, to offer any semblance of warmth. After a pause, he added, almost as an afterthought, “try not to let your thoughts keep you awake.” The words were clinical, empty, and unnecessary. Not a comfort, just an observation. Then, he turned away slightly, reaching for the book on his nightstand. Another practiced distance between you.
Your brows furrowed together in confusion at his words, but you shook off the uneasiness and tried to go to sleep. It took longer than normal, as if he sadistically knew that planting that fitful seed in your mind would keep you up. Of course he knew. Coriolanus’ mind games never stopped, after all. After a good twenty minutes, you huffed and reached up to turn on the light. “You haven’t turned a page,” you stated, looking over at him.
A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he heard you. He knew you'd break eventually, and here you were, unable to resist the urge to say something. He let out an exasperated sigh, feigning annoyance at your interruption. Without looking up from the book, he replied dryly, “no, I haven't. Your keen observation skills are truly remarkable.”
You sat up next to him, hands in your lap. “And why haven’t you?”
He closed the book with a soft thud, turning to face you with a slightly bemused expression. It was infuriating. “Because, my dearest,” he began, a hint of condescension laced in his tone, “not everyone requires constant mental stimulation. Some of us appreciate the quiet, the absence of mindless chatter.”
“Then why open the book?” you asked, mimicking his condescending. You suddenly remembered that he wanted this. He wanted to rile you up for whatever twisted reason he had. You took a breath, trying to calm down.
Oh, how he relished this little game of power, the subtle jabs at one another. It was practically entertaining. “Because,” he replied calmly, placing the book in his lap. You could almost detect a hint of arrogance in his voice. “I like to pretend to read. It allows me to appear intelligent without actually having to exert mental effort. Something you wouldn't understand, I assume.”
Your brows curved up and you couldn’t help but snort. “That’s ridiculous! So what I’m hearing is that the President of our nation doesn’t know how to read?” Arrogance dripped into your tone as Coriolanus got exactly what he wanted from you.
His pale eyes gleamed with amusement, though not the warm kind. The kind that made you wonder if he was laughing with you or at you. “Oh, Y/n,” Coriolanus murmured, tilting his head slightly. “Careful now. You forget yourself.” His fingers tapped against the cover of the book. His smile was razor-thin, always giving the impression that he knew something you didn’t. “Are you implying that the Capitol elected an illiterate leader? That would reflect poorly on all of us, wouldn’t it?” How he hoped you pushed further.
“Well, the nation has never asked you to read in front of it before,” you replied coolly. “Perhaps I’ll get a television network to ask you to read stories for the youth and then they’ll see how idiotic you actually are.”
For a fleeting moment, the corner of his mouth twitched, betraying a glimmer of amusement. “You are quite the comedian tonight, aren't you?” His voice was smooth as silk, but dripping with sarcasm. “I'm sure the nation would be thrilled to see their beloved President stumble over a children's book. Such high entertainment value.” His fingers kept drumming against the book, his eyes never leaving you.
Your gaze swept over the room, yet never landed on him. Your bedroom was ornate and perfect, though the two people who inhabited it were anything but. “Hmm,” you mused quietly. “Maybe I’m just frustrated with you is all. Though ‘beloved’ is a high title to place upon yourself.”
His fingers stilled against the book cover. “Beloved is a fact, not a title,” he countered smoothly, his voice laced with quiet authority. “And frustration? I wonder why that is. Could it be that you crave something I simply cannot give you?” His eyes flicked over your face, searching for any crack in your composure. He enjoyed your irritation, your defiance. It was far more interesting than when you were silently obedient.
You were still not looking at him, instead staring at the painting hung opposite your canopy bed. The painting, Venus and Mars, by an old Renaissance painter that somehow survived all those years, ironically expressed the message that love always conquered war. Coriolanus had gifted it to you for your wedding. “Not what you cannot give me,” you corrected him, “though that was a close guess. More of what you took away.”
His gaze followed yours to the painting: Venus and Mars laying languidly after having sex, a display of love and war fused into one. How poetic, he had thought when he gifted it. Not because it reflected anything between you two, but because it amused him – the illusion of devotion wrapped in mockery.
“Took away?” he repeated. “What, precisely, have I stolen from you, dear? Your freedom? Your joy?” He clicked his tongue in disapproval. “Or is this about something far more trivial?” Obviously, he knew the answer. He just wanted to hear you say it.
You finally turned and looked at your husband. You assumed the same position as him, propped against the headrest. “The ability for someone else to love me,” you told him, no sadness or remorse in your voice; only plain, strict fact. You had come to that conclusion early on the marriage and had come to accept it.
He took note of your cool, collected composure and felt a strange sort of amusement, or maybe almost respect. Most people would be weeping hysterically, begging him for reassurances and apologies. But you? No. That wouldn't be your style. “You miss being loved. You miss being wanted.” He let the words hang in the air between you, his gaze searching yours for any hint of vulnerability. Vulnerability was weakness, but he didn’t know if he wanted you to be weak or not. It would be easier to control you, obviously, but it would be much more fun to chip away at your confidence slowly but surely.
“Once again missing the point, Mr. President,” you smirked. “No, I miss my delusions of grandeur. I miss the thought that maybe someday, I would have been loved. What do you miss?” you asked him in a whisper.
For a moment, Coriolanus’ composure faltered by just a fraction, almost imperceptible. Delusions of grandeur… Was that how you saw your hopes for love? A product of delusions? He almost pitied you. “Miss,” he echoed, his mind working to find a response that didn't feel like an admittance of his own regrets. “I miss nothing,” he lied easily. “I have all I need.”
“Of course,” you whispered out mockingly, eyes turning back to the painting. “Why would the great President ever show any ounce of humanity?”
He knows your game. You're baiting him, trying to provoke a reaction. He wouldn't give in. “You mistake humanity for joy.” His voice was a cool, controlled murmur, now teaching you a lesson like you were beneath him. “Humanity is an exploitable trait. One I cannot afford to harbor. Something you clearly don't understand.”
“An exploitable trait like me?” you replied swiftly, almost as if you had been waiting for him to say it. “One there just for convenience? But that won’t bring any liabilities?” You took in a breath and continued, “yes, my placidity to be First Lady comes and goes, but then I always remember who I actually am. And I find myself wondering why me… out of all the other obedient girls?”
There it is. The defiance he'd been anticipating. He could deal with your sarcasm, your subtle jabs. But this was treading on dangerous territory.
“You were chosen for many reasons, dear,” the President said finally, his tone deceptively calm. “Your obedience was one. Your compliance another. And your... shall we say, 'manageability.' Your family's prestige and your own background made it an easy arrangement.” His gaze locked with yours. “Don't confuse convenience with affection.” His tone was suddenly very harsh.
“Oh, I never did,” you assured him. “But let’s be truthful… am I really obedient? Am I compliant? If I was, wouldn’t I be turned over and asleep right now? No…” you mused. “You wanted someone with just a bit of wit to keep you on your toes. Someone to verbally spar with to keep things interesting.”
A slow, dangerous smile spread across his lips. You'd almost caught him. You were close enough to the truth to be interesting, yet far enough away to remain unharmed. “Is that what you think?” he asked, his fingers drumming lightly against the book again. “That I keep you around for entertainment? Y/n, Y/n... if I wanted verbal sparring, I'd hold another Cabinet meeting.” His gaze hardened just slightly. “No. You're here because you serve a purpose. Whether you're obedient or not is irrelevant, so long as you continue to serve.”
There was a pause. Then, softer, colder: “Do try not to overestimate your importance.”
His words hit closer to home than you would like to admit, but you didn’t let it show. “Isn’t obedience the same as serving?” you asked him lowly. “If I fail to be obedient, then I won’t be serving your purpose,” you rationalised.
“Obedience is blind,” he stated, his voice dropping to something almost intimate, if intimacy could ever be cold and calculated. “Serving is strategic. You don't have to be obedient to serve my purpose, Y/n. You just have to be... useful.”
His fingers stilled, resting against the book's cover. “And right now?” Coriolanus tilted his head, feigning thoughtfulness. “You're very useful.”
The unspoken threat lingered beneath the words. Usefulness isn't permanent.
You blinked slowly, fingers twitching around the duvet once more. “And I suppose you’ll never tell me your… purpose for me?” you asked after a long moment, gears racing in your head as you tried to think of a way to come out on top. But you didn’t think you could. And you detested that feeling.
“No,” he replied simply, his tone almost casual. “I won't.” He leaned back, the cover of the book against his palm. “You don't need to know your purpose, Y/n. You just need to do your part.” The words were cold and unfeeling, serving as a stark reminder of your place in this arrangement.
“And how can I do my part if I don’t know my purpose?” you asked, voice lowering once more. “If I keep ‘disobeying’, then it’s futile. Wouldn’t you rather me know what you expect me to do?”
He exhaled sharply through his nose as a silent laugh, devoid of humor. “Do you truly believe I'd leave anything to chance?” His fingers tapped idly against the book's spine. “You'll play your role perfectly, Y/n. Because the alternative…” He let the threat hang, unspoken. The Capitol didn’t forgive disobedience. Neither did he. “Your purpose,” Coriolanus continued, “is whatever I decide it is. Today, tomorrow – it doesn't matter. You'll adapt.” His smile was slow and undeniably cruel. “You always do, dear.”
After a beat, you said, “you never truly answered my question… why not a more manageable girl from an equally prestigious family? One who wouldn’t even be having this conversation with you because she would roll over and do exactly what was asked? Or are you too afraid to admit that you actually like the way I challenge you?”
His jaw clenched involuntarily. The worst part about you provoking him is that he enjoyed it. Or, at the very least, Coriolanus found your insolence somewhat amusing. He could practically admire the fire that burned inside you even after all he put you through. The moonlight cast long shadows across the room and he didn’t dare look away from you. “Don't mistake interest for affection.”
“Oh, so there is interest,” you muttered, eyes locked on the satin sheets. A very slow smirk pulled at your lips. “And that still doesn’t answer the question.”
Coriolanus had no choice but to answer it now, otherwise risking looking like he hadn’t planned something perfectly. His fingers tightened around the book, just enough for you to notice. “You're right,” he admitted. “I could have chosen someone more pliable. But pliable is boring. And I have little patience for boredom.” He didn’t speak for a moment, a calculated risk that paid off. “Does that satisfy you?” His tone dripped with condescension. “Or shall we keep playing this tiresome game?”
“Hmm,” you whispered out, “and here I thought you liked my games.”
You turned over again and shut off the light. And for some reason, even though he had just been smug a couple moments before, there was now a loathing feeling in him as if you had won that round. Perhaps the war was his, but the battle was yours.
He turned sharply away from you, his back rigid as he faced the opposite wall. Silence stretched between you. But he didn’t retaliate, because you had won. And he would never forget it.
“Sleep well, Y/n.”
The words sounded more like a threat than a farewell.
The next morning you woke just a couple moments after your husband, just in time to see him getting up for the day. It was moments like those when you were able to forget the chasm between you two.
Coriolanus’ movements were stiff as he pulled himself upright, rubbing his temple as if trying to chase away the remnants of sleep, or, perhaps, last night's conversation. The morning light softened the sharp angles of his face, making him look younger. Coriolanus paused when he noticed you stirring, his icy blue eyes flickering in your direction. If you could believe it, there was a fraction of a moment where it seemed like he forgot his hatred towards you and he could imagine you were his wife that he loved.
Then it was gone.
His voice was cool as he stood. “You’re awake.” It was a statement, not a greeting.
You let out a scoff, stretching and turning farther into your pillow. “Astute observation,” you grumbled. From the moment you were awake, your brain had to formulate sharp responses to his own insults. It was utterly exhausting.
He sighed, his jaw tightening in annoyance. Of course. You could never wake without a witty comment, could you? His eyes flitted across your form which was still half-buried beneath the sheets. You looked practically vulnerable. Your eyes were closed as you burrowed underneath the covers again. There were pillow lines on your cheeks and you curled into a little ball to conserve your warmth.
His breath caught…
It was involuntary and something primal and very stupid. He stared at you curled into the sheets, tangled in the sleep-warm fabric. The urge to reach out clawed at him, but of course, he didn't. Instead, he strode toward the bathroom, his voice biting as he said, “you’re impossible.” Coriolanus slammed the door harder than necessary. You could hear the sink running and the sharp rustle of fabric as he prepared for the day and you let out a breath. Finally, the door creaked open again. He stepped out, perfectly composed except for the faint tension in his jaw.
Your eyes raked over him and you commented offhandedly, “you look nice.” Indeed he did – he was dressed in a white button-up shirt and a deep red suit and pants.
Coriolanus adjusted his sleeves, pulling at them sharply. He huffed and turned away, ignoring the way your eyes ran over him like a physical touch. “Flattery doesn't suit you,” he sneered, ignoring the heat creeping up his neck and flicked at his collar.
“It wasn’t flattery, but if you must take it at that, so be it,” you chuckled, turning onto your other side towards where he moved to the door. “And must I remind you, you’re the one who sought after me. All this drama and ridiculousness is something you chose. I could happily be with another man right now who loves me for as is,” you said, something you always loved to remind him of.
His hands, already halfway into tying his tie, halted abruptly.
Another man. The rush of fury through him wasn’t because of possessiveness or jealousy. No, it was the idea that you believed you could escape him. That you could belong to anyone else.
The President forced his fingers to resume their precise movements. "Ah, yes," he muttered, his voice dripping with false amusement. “The man who loves you.” His eyes flicked to you, icy and sharp. “Tell me, Y/n, what kind of pathetic fool would that be? Because whoever he is... he certainly doesn’t exist.”
“He does in my mind,” you said, letting his words roll off you so early in the morning. But, as it often happened, you knew his cruel phrases would come back and haunt you late at night, adding to your own insecurities. Both of you knew that was exactly his intention.
After a short second, he muttered, “shut up.”
One of your eyes peeked open to look at him, unused to his playground taunts. “What?” you mocked. “My imaginary husband is making you jealous?” You chuckled and turned back around.
It was the way you laughed, practically carefree, that made him so pissed. “Your imaginary husband?” he echoed. “How charming, dear.”
“He is, isn’t he?” you yawned, snuggling under the covers again. You even reached across to grab Coriolanus’ own pillow and tucked it next to you as something to hold.
His pillow– that was his pillow! It took every ounce of his willpower not to snap. He wanted to yank the damn thing out of your grasp and rip it in half. Watching you do such a thing, wrapped in his sheets, and smelling like him... it drove him insane. But instead of admitting that, Coriolanus remarked, “you're an idiot, you know that, right?” That was the thing he couldn’t stand about you sometimes: that you didn’t seem to care about his insults.
After a long enough pause, you asked, “I’m assuming we’re still having lunch and dinner together? Our assistants seem to have this idea of attempting to curate a perfect family in their eyes.”
Of course the Capitol needed its perfect First Couple. His image has always been more important than his reality. “Obviously,” he rolled his eyes, already moving toward the door. “Appearances must be maintained.” He didn’t turn back to look at you as he spoke to the empty air between you. “Be punctual.”
Just to spite him, you were fifteen minutes late. You entered wearing a pink dress and chatting with a female advisor. Coriolanus was already sitting at the long table, hands clasped on the table. His eyes were already on the door when you entered, jaw clenched. However, there were servants and guards present, so his voice remained perfectly composed as he interrupted your conversation. “Dearest.”
The room fell silent, all eyes flicking between the two of you. The perfect First Couple.
He smiled and extended a hand toward your seat beside him. “You're late.” His whisper was only for you, venomous and quiet. “And that dress is simply appalling.”
You mirrored his charming smile, sitting down and tucking your dress in. “Shut up,” you scowled at him as you dismissed everyone else in the room.
“Did you intentionally aim to humiliate me?” he hissed, “are you deliberately being late and wearing that ridiculous pink abomination?”
“First off, you were the one who wanted me to wear more red, your ‘colour,’” you taunted. “And secondly, I was quite literally fulfilling my role as First Lady and trying to find more donors for my children's programs.”
“Don't lie to me,” he said. “Your little program isn't a priority. Certainly not enough to justify disrespecting my time.” His fingers tapped against the table.
“I would like to think the future of Pamen is important to you since they will be the ones under your rule,” you countered.
His lips curled into a sneer. “Pamen? Is that truly your concern?” He leaned in slightly, voice lowering to a venomous whisper. His eyes flicked over your dress he supposedly hated. “Or is this just another performance? Another way to defy me?” Coriolanus’ fingers drummed faster on the table.
You took some of the food from the table and loaded it onto your plate while his fingers kept drumming. And drumming. “Well I’m sorry that the wife you chose has a personality she’s not willing to give up.”
“Your personality is childish and self-absorbed, Y/n. Stop acting like a petulant little girl.”
“Divorce is always an option,” you smirked, taking a bite of food. His fingers were still drumming on the table and you reached over and placed your hand on his rather forcefully.
The moment your hand touched his, his fingers stilled. How dare you make his thoughts race in a thousand different directions, all centered on you? Above all, he's fuming. You dare to place your hand on his? To touch him in a silent command? He supposed he should rip your hand away. Instead, he let it linger until you took it off.
You placed some food on his plate for him and motioned to it. “You’re hungry,” you stated.
“I'm not a damn child,” he grumbled. “I can feed myself.”
“And yet you wait until I’m here and throw a tantrum because you don’t like my dress.” You rolled your eyes. “Just eat.”
He stabbed at the food. “I did not throw a tantrum,” he retorted, taking an unnecessarily aggressive bite to emphasize the point.
“Uh huh,” you said, clearly unconvinced. After some moments of silence, you asked, “what’ve you been up to today?”
The simple domesticity of the question caught Coriolanus off guard. “Meetings,” he answered stiffly. Then, begrudgingly: “you?”
It was an olive branch. Tiny and fragile, but an olive branch nevertheless. He already regretted it.
You sighed and a little crease appeared between your brows. “Yes, I’ve been trying to negotiate the fine details of some of my programs. It’s been hard to pick the select few I actually want to move forward with, but as of now, I really think the education and women empowerment projects will be beneficial. And of course, the program for impoverished children,” you added, giving him a side eye. You knew of his past, after all, and the dismal conditions he grew up in. Soon after news of your engagement broke to the public, you had received a letter from someone claiming to be Coriolanus’ cousin. The letter detailed everything about their upbringing but encouraged you not to reach out to them again. They did leave a way of contact, however, in direst need.
“The children's program," he repeated after a moment. His lips were pressed slightly together. “That's... still your top priority?” It seemed as if each word was strained to come out. Coriolanus wanted to argue and to tell you to drop the program entirely, but something stopped him. Perhaps memories of cold winters with empty pantries was the thing that made him pause.
“...Fine,” he said through gritted teeth. He didn’t look at you as he spoke again, “just don’t embarrass me.”
“Oh, I'd never dream of it”
He clicked his tongue. “Don't sass me.”
You sighed, your knife pressing down into the plate as you cut up your food. “We just had this conversation last night, Coriolanus,” you said. “You were the one to wed me. You knew the wife you were getting.”
Of course you'd bring up the fact that he chose you, knowing full well the brat he was signing up for. He worked his jaw so he wouldn’t smile. “Trust me,” he snarked, eyes narrowing. “I'll never forget that mistake.”
“Divorce is always an option,” you repeated yourself from a moment ago.
How could you be so naïve? Divorce was out of the question, and Coriolanus knew that you were aware of this. He would never give the Capitol such satisfaction.
But still, to have you make such a casual suggestion about leaving him… He gripped the edge of the table so hard, his knuckles went white. “If you say that again–”
“You need to learn how to control your temper,” you said. “Or am I the only one that upsets you?”
“Yes," he exclaimed before he could stop himself – before he could even think – because it was true. No one else dared provoke him. No one else could. “Happy now?”
And suddenly, your stare fell back down to your plate. In unusual and aching honesty, you whispered out, “no,” between cracked lips.
He blinked. He expected more bantering, more cruelty. Certainly not vulnerability. He tried to maintain his irritation, but his heart betrayed him.
But then you sighed and took another bite, chewing at your food. “I don’t think I’ve been happy for a while now,” you told him, voice steady once more. “Thanks to you.”
His fingers tightened around the edge of the table again, but not in anger. There was something else coiled beneath his ribs, something tight and uncomfortable. He wanted to retaliate and snap back that you’re not the only one unhappy here, but he didn’t. Instead, he exhaled sharply through his nose and turned his gaze back to his plate. “Then we’re even,” he muttered.
It was the closest to an admission you’ll ever get.
But you were on a roll. It seemed like you were just talking to yourself now as you said, “I think what hurts the most is what I spoke of earlier: that you took me away from a life of potential happiness. You’re depriving me of a husband who would actually love me. And for what? So we would both be miserable? I still have yet to understand your mind, Mr. Snow, and why you didn’t choose a prettier girl who would fall over backwards for you.”
His jaw locked but his hands stayed still this time. No drumming. No fists.
Just silence.
Because what could he say? That he chose you for reasons he didn’t fully understand himself? That every time he looked at you, something in him twists violently between want and rage? That the idea of you with another man — loved, happy, and free — made his chest burn with something he refused to name?
No.
Instead, he exhaled a breath, and said, low and final, “you will never understand.” Then, always one to get the last word, he stood abruptly, chair scraping against marble. “And you’ll never be free of me.”
Coriolanus walked out without another word.
Both of you skipped dinner. He spent his evening in his office with a glass and a bottle of gin, seething silently. You’re depriving me of a husband who would actually love me. His mind replayed different versions of your last conversations over and over again. What would be different if he said something else? The President cursed his brain for conjuring images of you with another man. Of you laughing. Of you smiling. The image of another man touching you… taking you…
Coriolanus gripped his glass tighter.
By the time he stepped into your bedroom, tipsy and red-faced, you’re already under the covers, turned away from him. He stood in the doorway, staring. The moonlight cast you in such an innocent nature. His fingernails dug into the palm of his hand, a strange urge to reach beneath the covers and to pull you closer wafting over him. What would it be like to bury his face in your neck, feel your heartbeat, and to know you loved him? He wanted to. He wanted to so badly.
It must be the alcohol talking.
Coriolanus Snow was not supposed to want. He chose you for that exact reason: he didn’t want you. You wouldn’t be a liability or a weakness. And yet, there you were, slowly becoming one without even knowing it. He detested it because it terrified him. So he got ready for bed as loudly as possible, rousing you from your peace. He climbed into the enormous bed designed so he wouldn’t have to touch or look at you. But even then, there was a certain warmth radiating from your body making his skin prickle with awareness. He shifted closer. Just an inch. Just enough to feel the heat of you.
Pathetic.
He knew you were still awake. He could tell by the shift in the sheets. Coriolanus should rip his heart out for it wanting you to turn over and talk to him. He should grind it to dust for being the one to turn over on his side and speaking first.
“Y/n.”
You let out a hum and his hand reached out towards your back, fingers pressing along the bedsheets. You could feel the dip but stayed still, your back still towards him. His lips parted and let out a breath at the small, secret relief that you were awake. He stayed quiet for a while, fingers digging into the sheets. The President’s eyes squeezed shut as the thought of pulling you to him, wrapping his arms around you, and burying his face in your hair crossed his mind. He felt like a little boy again, wanting the safety of a loving touch. He wanted–
He swallowed thickly. “Are you still angry?”
You couldn’t help but let out a low little chuckle. You turned to face him, blankets rustling over you. “You’re still just a man, aren’t you, Coriolanus Snow?” you asked, reaching over to gently brush a lock of his hair away from his face.
He didn’t pull away. God, he should have. Then maybe he wouldn’t be in this mess of aching for you. Instead, his hand slowly rose to cover yours where it lingered against his hair. “Shut up,” he whispered.
When you had first touched him, he had felt nothing. It truly made you the perfect candidate for his wife. But now everything he knew was wrong and maddening.
“I think a small part of me will always be mad at you,” you answered softly.
His fingers gripped yours tighter, bringing your hand down to his lips. “Only a small part?” Coriolanus whispered, the corner of his mouth twitching up. He could live with only a small part.
“Unfortunately, yes. Only a small part.” After a beat, you repeated back at him, “are you still angry at me?”
“I'm angrier with myself,” he admitted suddenly. “Not you.” You could feel the ghost of his breath on the back of your hand.
“Hmm, and why with yourself?” you asked, though both of you know you could see through him. A smug little smile lifted your lips. “Is it because you’re feeling something for me? This wasn’t part of your plan, was it? You weren’t supposed to love your wife.”
How did you always know, even when he refused to believe it himself?
Coriolanus pulled your hand to press his lips against it. He exhaled, surrendering, before he muttered, “no.” His other hand lifted, so slow and even trembling, to ghost along your jaw. He couldn’t remember the last time he trembled. “It wasn’t part of the plan.”
“Ah, dear husband.” You rolled your eyes with affection. “Who could have ever seen this coming?” you couldn’t help but joke. You pulled away from him and turned back around, leaving him cold and empty.
He moved without thinking, reaching out towards you, but then he stopped. Close, so close that he could feel the warmth radiating from your body. It was like his body needed to touch you on its own accord. It craved– no, he craved you. “Turn back around,” Coriolanus demanded.
“No,” you replied quietly to his ragged request. Instead, you shifted back towards him so you were tucked into the crook of his body.
You could hear the hitch of his breath in his throat as you settled against his chest. The tension in his muscles was obvious and it almost felt like your back was to a brick wall. But then, he melted. His arms wrapped around you instinctively, pulling you flush against him, silently thanking you over and over that you were letting him touch you. His lips pressed against the nape of your neck before he tried to compose himself.
“...Fine.”
A little laugh escaped you at his acquiescence. “That’s what I thought,” you teased gently.
His arms tightened around you as you laughed. His breath fanned warm against your neck, slow and steady, matching yours. And when sleep finally pulled him under, his hold didn't slacken.
Not even a little.
Four days later, when Coriolanus was in his study working on long lists of papers and orders and treaties, you opened the door without knocking. His head snapped up but the irritation in his eyes didn't reach his usual sharpness. Not when you were standing there, bathed in sunlight, looking entirely too pleased with yourself, no, he couldn’t be too mad.
He really should’ve reprimanded you for barging in unannounced. Instead, he set his pen down and leaned back in his chair. “Do you ever knock?”
“Not this time,” you said, walking over to his desk.
“You're insufferable,” he muttered. “What do you want?”
“Is it a crime to want to see my husband?”
He exhaled sharply, grumbling, “unbelievable.” He paused and glanced outside to the gardens that sprawled out below his window. “Fine.”
Coriolanus stood, chair scraping back, and rounded the desk, his papers long forgotten. “Come. We're going for a walk.” You looped your arm through his and he had to remind himself to keep walking.
“Oh thank god.” You stepped out into the gardens and you couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief. It had been a long day and it wasn’t even half over yet. The gardens were filled with rose bushes, something Coriolanus ordered the moment he stepped foot into the presidency.
His hand slowly ran down your arm until he was holding your hand, fingers curled around yours. It felt different from when he would first hold your hand earlier in the marriage. Back then, it felt cold and boring. Now he seemed to do it with intent.
You strolled along next to him for a while silently and he glanced over at you. “You’re wearing red,” he observed.
“And you’re wearing white.”
Coriolanus hummed.
After a little while more, you admitted, “I quite like your wit, did you know that? I need a partner who can keep me thinking. It’s nice.”
His brows rose up at the compliment. Coriolanus’ shoulders drew back, almost as if he was preening at your appreciation. His grip on your hand tightened as he asked slowly, “is that a compliment?” He shouldn’t care so much about your answer.
You paused and your brows furrowed a touch. “Unfortunately, I think it is,” you sighed out before chuckling. “I can’t think of a reason it wouldn’t be.”
He couldn’t stop himself from murmuring, “disgusting.” He doesn't let go of your hand for the rest of the walk.
Every so often he would ask you another question or you would make a comment on the roses in the garden. As you headed back towards the house, however, you asked him plainly, “I know you’ll never love me, but could you ever imagine us, say, forty years down the line, being friends?”
The President stopped dead in his tracks before turning to face you fully. His expression was unreadable but his voice was soft when he finally spoke, “...Friends?” He decided he now had a personal vendetta against the word. It just felt so small. So insignificant. His thumb pressed into your pulse point before he muttered, “no. Not friends.”
You didn’t dare to break eye contact even as your breaking heart beat pitifully. The blue in his eyes was so striking but you forced yourself to stay steady. “Good to know,” you said honestly. “Thank you.”
For a moment, neither of you breathed. His hand lifted, ghosting over your jaw and tilting your face up higher. “You’re welcome.”
Truthfully, he didn’t know what you would be in forty years and that terrified him. Coriolanus Snow was a planner who had his life down to a science. You were an unidentified element he hadn’t equated in.
“Coriolanus,” you said, rolling your eyes. “You’re being dramatic and we both know it. Where’s the stoic witty man I know and hate?” you asked jokingly.
Is that what you truly wanted? Did you want him to go back to that evil man? Should he shape himself into what you were expecting if it led to more affection from you? You wanted the stoic, detached version of him — the version that didn’t feel — when all he could think about was the way your skin felt beneath his fingertips.
He hated that he couldn’t give you what you wanted. “You want that man? Fine.” He stepped back and straightened his jacket with deliberate precision. His stare was ice. “There. Happy?”
Underneath his composure, his fingers trembled because he wasn’t that man anymore.
Finally, you paused and looked back at him. “Well, are you that man?” you asked quietly. “Or did the great President of Panem change?”
“Does it matter?” he snapped without meaning to. “Isn't this what you want? For me to be the phlegmatic bastard, just as you always call me?” He scoffed, lips twisting into a cold smirk. “So be it.” Yet, behind his eyes a thousand different emotions burned. Anger, despair, rage, grief, loss, desire, and something else. Something terrifyingly human.
He began to stride back to the palace and you picked up your skirts to jog after him. “Coriolanus,” you huffed before realising he didn’t plan on turning around. “Coriolanus!” you exclaimed again. You followed after him, all the way until he reached his study. “Stop acting like a child and speak to me like a man!” you shouted.
His hands slammed down on his desk, papers scattering, and he whirled around, eyes burning with fury. “Speak like a man?" he repeated, voice shaking. “What would you have me say, Y/n? That I loathe this? That I hate feeling anything for you? That I hate how you look at me, how you touch me, and yet I still crave it?” His chest heaved before he snapped, “is that man enough for you?”
Suddenly, he was still. He should not have admitted that.
Now you knew.
His eyes slowly lifted to your face. Your eyes were wide and your chest rose and fell. Then, you took a step closer to him. Then another. And then you were hurrying to close the distance and you slammed into him, wrapping your arms around him in a hug.
Every movement, every muscle, every nerve went rigid as your body pressed against his. His hands lifted as if to push you back to protect himself, but they instead dug into the fabric of your dress, clutching at you like a lifeline. His throat tightened and his breath turned ragged against your hair.
God, he hated this. He hated you. He hated how much he needed you. But he didn’t pull away, not even when the first crack splintered through his chest and not even when his heart shattered in his ribcage. Because finally… he felt human. The great President of Panem, the monster in the dark, reduced to a man. A man desperately grasping for something more. How ironic that love was all that was needed to break him fully.
“Damn you,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Damn you, dear.” For the first time since he could remember, Coriolanus yielded. His body bowed and his forehead pressed against yours. “Damn you,” he whispered again. He sounded weak and broken, but he didn’t pull away. For all his hatred and rage… he loved you.
And he hated that too.
“It wasn’t supposed to be like this, hmm?” you finally murmured, repeating yourself from four days ago. “I was supposed to just be here. Someone you didn’t care for so there wouldn’t be any vulnerability?”
The laugh that ripped from him sounded more like a strangled sob, his entire body sagging towards you and his head buried into the crook of your neck as he whispered, “yes.” This was never supposed to happen. You were never meant to mean something to him. Nothing should’ve been able to break down the walls he had so carefully built. “You weren't supposed to matter.”
“I know,” you said. “Neither were you.”
“You're an insufferable woman.”
“Says the man who wanted to manipulate me into a boring wife,” you chuckled, because even in your vulnerable moments, you couldn’t help but tease him. “You know I’ll never let that go, yes? I’ll lord it over you forever. Until our dying days.”
His voice had lost its edge, replaced instead with a strange warmth. “You're the worst, you know that?”
“That’s what everyone says,” you sighed, rolling your eyes jokingly. “I really am a terrible choice for First Lady, hmm?”
“Absolutely awful,” he agreed quietly. “Completely insufferable.” Even as the words left his lips, his hands were sliding against your waist, drawing you closer. Your mouth opened to retort something, so instead of dignifying your jokes with another response, he leaned down pressed his lips against yours in a kiss that said everything he couldn't put into words. His hands slid up, rough and desperate, one tangling in your hair, and the other clutching your waist. When he finally pulled back, breathless and aching, his voice was raw. “Happy now?”
“Very.” For after all, the line between love and hate was only obsession.
Hello! I would like to request a Coriolanus snow x fem!reader where the reader is pregnant and they are under attacked and she gets knocked out or passes out and Corio finds her?and in the end she and the baby(s) are fine? Or if you wanted during the rebel attack the reader gets very badly hurt and concerns the doctors a whole and he thinks he going to lose her? She wakes up.
(Sorry if it’s confusing.. it can be two separate fics or one of your choosing! :) )
Incompetent Beings | C.S.
summary: ^^^ everything mentioned above in the request
No matter what he did—even if he just breathed—everyone would still, stupefied from how commanding his presence was. With every speech and every interview, the crowd was left with awe and fear of the man. But even so, everyone knew the President had one weakness.
That weakness being you.
Everyone in Panem could see the way he softened ever so slightly when you appeared—it was like a goddess emerging from a light and he was ready to surrender. Unfortunately, that only made things worse for him when they were visiting District 12 and they decided it was the best time to rebel against the President.
You were already being led away toward the safe house in District 12 as Coriolanus had made a safe house in every District—knowing their history of violence all too well. The copious amount of peacekeepers leading you there made you an even bigger target than before.
Truly, you sometimes believed your husband wasn’t the brightest in some areas that related to you.
“Ma’am, the President requested you stay put while he handles everything outside—“
“I’m aware of that, but I also am concerned for the safety of my husband and leaving me in here with no knowledge of what is happening outside isn’t—“
“Get down!”
The ground shook as Coriolanus tried mediating the faults between the Capitol and District 12, his eyes immediately darting toward the peacekeepers who took away the leader of the rebellion. The fate of the man was already decided the second he opened his loose mouth anyway.
Coriolanus rubbed his temple as he took a seat once more and creased his brows when the door to the meeting room opened, his voice tired yet sharp as he addressed whoever entered. “What is it?”
“Mr. President, there’s been an attack by the safe house.” A peacekeeper spoke, his voice ringing clear in the air.
It took less than a beat for Coriolanus to get up from his seat and head for the door, hands curling around his suit jacket as two more peacekeepers flanked his sides. The drive to the site was less than appealing, his lead peacekeeper recalling everything he was told when he first got the call.
“The men and women who—“
“I’m not sure you understand right now.” Coriolanus cut the peacekeeper of and spoke with a calmness in his voice that sent shivers down the spines of everyone riding with him. “I don’t care how this was orchestrated. I would like to know if my wife is well and safe.”
The peacekeeper cleared his throat and met Coriolanus’ piercing eyes, his voice barely holding on as he spoke. “We’re still searching the area for her, sir.”
Silence filled the air before Coriolanus spoke.
“Are you telling me my wife is currently missing?” He raised his brows and clasped his hands together, a dangerous look in his eyes. When no one answered, he sighed and waved a hand. “Well, I guess we have to drive faster, don’t we?”
Almost immediately, the peacekeepers relayed to one another about their President’s commands, the car going well over 90 miles per hour before they came across the rebel bombing right at the outskirts of 12. There were already other peacekeepers tracking down those fallen from the attack, and another group merely searching for you.
Coriolanus knew the men and women sent out to search for you weren’t nearly looking as hard as they made it seem because he found you within a minute of hopping out of the military car.
However, it was unlucky that he found you passed out and buried under muck and rubble from the explosion.
While maintaining his dignified demeanor—or what was left of it when he ran over to you with crazed eyes—Coriolanus pushed the pieces of wood and rock away from your body, cradling you in his arms while peacekeepers rushed around the two of you like complete fools.
If Coriolanus was being truly honest, the ride to the hospital seemed like a blur. His mind was elsewhere—thinking about what he could’ve done better to prevent this, and if you weren’t too badly hurt—praying you weren’t. Coriolanus swore he would protect you and everything that came with you, especially when you were carrying the Snow heir.
The entire west wing of the hospital was cleared out for you, staff members zipping their mouths shut when they saw the President take long strides down the hall with you cradled in his arms, his tone commanding as the doctors walked beside him with clipboards and barely there expressions.
It wasn’t until hours later that Coriolanus was able to breathe again. Albeit, still shallowly given the circumstances.
He was sitting beside you, your limp hand clutched in his as he stared over your figure. You were lying in a white hospital bed, head bandaged with IVs sticking out of your arm. The doctors said you were okay, and that the baby was fine, but Coriolanus stopped listening to their judgment when they dismissed his mother and his unborn little sister back during the first rebellion.
“Mr. President, Mayor Gallowood wants to speak with you.” A peacekeeper reported, saluting Coriolanus as she stood before him.
“I’m busy.” He waved her offhandedly, eyes trained on your furrowed brows—clearly still deep in thought as you lay unconscious. “We’ll deal with the rest of District Twelve later. For now, they're on lockdown.”
“Sir—“
“Dismissed.” Coriolanus spoke with a touch of finality, pursing his lips when the door shut again. Sighing, he kissed your knuckles and brought them to his forehead. “God, how am I supposed to deal with incompetent beings without you, my love.”
He sighed and kissed your knuckles again, watching your vitals with every heartbeat that passed. To him, you were the one thing grounding him in a world of pure horror—the horror that no one else but you knew about. If you were gone, there really wasn’t a point in being a commanding President at all.
Time ticked slowly the more Coriolanus sat still by your side, only ever getting up to use the restroom that was in your private hospital room. Even so, he would listen for anything irregular coming from you. It had been three days since he last left the room to lead the country—yet everyone was still holding their breathes as if he was watching their every move.
But the only person he really was watching was you.
When you finally stirred, Coriolanus instantly shot up from his seat and clicked the button on the side of your bed, his hand still wrapped around yours as it twitched in confusion.
“Coryo?” You mutter, voice raspy from not using for so long. You tried sitting up, but were gently forced back down by him, confusion still swimming in your mind. “What are you—?”
“I thought you were never going to wake up.” He murmured and cradled your face in his hands, his eyes searching yours for the first time in days. “How are you feeling?”
“Terribly tired and sore.” You frown slightly and crease your brows, scanning his face in worry. “What happened? You look like you haven’t gotten any sleep, Coryo…”
He exhaled softly and kissed your forehead, pulling away and lacing his hand with yours when the doctors and nurses came into the room. “You did enough sleeping for the both of us, I’ll be okay as long as you are.”
You looked at him in confusion again before shifting your attention to the doctors who were asking you far too many questions for you to catch up. By the time you were able to answer with no issue—and find out what happened to you—they were already scanning your stomach for the fetus.
“Your daughter is alright, Mrs. Snow. And your vitals are excellent, so you can expect to be out of here by tonight or tomorrow morning at the latest.” One doctor flashed the sonogram of your baby to you and Coriolanus, a small smile making its way to Coriolanus’ face before schooling it.
The doctor handed Coriolanus a prescription for some cream for your bruises, saying it was to help expedite the discoloration on your skin and ease the pain you would feel once the medication wore off.
You nod and thank her, watching all the doctors and nurses walk out before the door on the room clicked shut. You looked back over to your husband with bright eyes, excitement shining in them.
“Did you hear her?”
“I did.” He helped you sit up properly this time, tucking a piece of hair behind your hair and smiling at your giddiness. He chuckled under his breath when the shine in your eyes intensified, “We’re having a baby girl.”
“We’re having a baby girl.” You repeat almost in disbelief, squeezing his hand in mild shock at the information revealed.
Coriolanus pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his blue eyes meeting yours. “And I’m glad both you and her are safe. But next time we have to come out to the District’s—especially twelve—you’re staying with me.”
“Dramatic, Coryo.” You tease and plant a kiss to his lips.
“Careful.” He corrected and smiled when you kissed his lips again. He pulled away and thumbed your cheek. His gaze turned serious after the scene of you lying unconscious appeared in his mind once more. “I’m not going to see my wife in another hospital bed again unless our daughter is coming, alright?”
You nod and tilt your head to the side, the same glint Coriolanus always wore when speaking to those lower than him reflecting in your own eyes. “And those rebels?”
Coriolanus hummed, sitting up straight and tugging at the cuffs of his sleeves. “Already taken care of.”
in which the president gets a late-night drunk call from an ex-situationship.
young!president!coriolanus snow x ex-situationship!reader
warnings: intoxication, mild angst, hints at slightly toxic relationship but not rlly?, smoking, attempts at initiating intimacy while drunk, situationships
Coriolanus was awake. He was always awake. He'd been at his desk for the past two hours pretending to read a trade proposal from District Six, which amounted to the same stack of paper shuffled from one side of the desk to the other while he smoked and stared at the middle distance and tried, with middling success, not to think about her.
He was getting better at it. He thought. Some days.
A buzzing caught his attention. He saw his phone, vibrating on the edge of his desk.
With a sigh, he picked it up. Probably Tigris or Grandma'am.
But no. It was her.
His chest did something he refused to name. His thumb hovered.
She never called. Not since— not since it all went wrong. He'd half-convinced himself she'd deleted his number. He'd considered deleting hers. More than once. Hadn't.
He picked up on the third ring. "Hello."
"Coriolanus." Her voice was warm and slightly blurred at the edges. Loud music somewhere behind her, the clink of glasses, the ambient roar of a crowded room. "Hi."
Oh.
She was drunk.
"Hello," he said again, because he was apparently capable of nothing else.
"I—" A giggle, soft and helpless. He had never heard her giggle before, not like this, at least. It did something catastrophic to him. "I'm out. With my friends. It's— we went to Marchetti's. You know Marchetti's?"
"I do not frequent Marchetti's, no."
"It's on the Corso," she whined, as if trying to convince him he did in fact frequent the club. "The one with the— the hanging lights, all gold, it's very pretty. You'd hate it."
"Probably."
"I had four drinks," she announced. "Maybe five."
"That's very forthcoming of you."
"I'm a forthcoming person." She enunciated the word as if he'd made it up. A pause. The music swelled behind her and then muffled, like she'd moved into a quieter corner. Her voice got softer. "Corio-laaaanus."
"Still here."
"Can you come get me?"
He was quiet for a second. Just one. "Is something wrong?"
She gave a dramatic sigh. "No, not really. My friends are all with guys, and… well the guys are annoying, and the drinks are expensive…" She cut herself off with a little hiccup.
He was already closing the trade proposal, already reaching for his keys — not his driver, he decided without fully examining why. Not tonight. He grabbed his coat off the chair.
"Stay where you are," he said.
"Okay," She sounded relieved in a way that he could tell she was smiling. "Thank you."
He hung up before she could say anything else.
Marchetti's was exactly as advertised.
Gold hanging lights, yes. A crowd of well-dressed Capitol C-listers and twenty-somethings brushing up on each other as some artsy DJ mixed songs he'd never heard but sounded vaguely synthlike. Something with too much bass. Not somewhere he could ever go. Not elite, not tightly exclusive enough to avoid paparazzi, stares, whispers. At least it was less suffocating, in that way.
The coat check girl recognized him immediately and had the grace to look terrified.
He found her at the bar.
She was laughing at something one of her friends had said, head tipped back, one hand loose around a mostly-empty glass, her dress a short thing with a low back, the color of deep water. She hadn't seen him yet. He watched her laugh for two seconds longer than was defensible and then crossed the room.
She turned, some instinct, and her face—
There it was. That thing. That specific, involuntary opening of her expression, like something released.
"Coriolanus," she said, too brightly.
He stepped close, quick, dipped his head toward hers. "Keep your voice down," he murmured, low near her ear. "I'm not exactly dressed for an anonymous Tuesday night at Marchetti's."
She blinked. Then looked him up and down — the coat, the cufflinks, the general unavoidable fact of him — and pressed her lips together against a smile. "Right," she whispered. Conspiratorial. Delighted. "Sorry. Hi."
"Hi." He straightened. "Ready?"
Her friends were watching with enormous interest. He was aware of the whispers even if he couldn't make out the words. He didn't need to. He'd been in enough rooms to know the specific frequency of wait, is that—
"—is that actually—"
"—yes—"
"—but she said a friend was picking her up—"
"—she voted against him in the general—"
One of them, a girl with silver-dusted cheekbones, was very clearly trying not to visibly react to the President of Panem appearing at their bar to collect her friend. He appreciated the effort."She called the right person," she smiled.
"Apparently," he said, which made her laugh.
He helped her off the barstool. She came off it sideways, heels not entirely cooperating, and his hand went to her waist automatically — steadying, nothing more, just making sure she didn't pitch forward onto the marble floor of Marchetti's, which would be unfortunate for everyone. She grabbed his lapel with her free hand and looked up at him and smiled, slow and warm.
"You came inside," she said.
"I wasn't going to have you standing on the street."
"You said—"
"I said don't wait outside," he reminded her as he guided her forward gently, hand still at her waist.
"Oh, yeah," she giggled.
"Say goodbye to your friends," he murmured, gently turning her to face them as she clung to the arm he had politely at her waist.
She faced them, beaming as she waved. Her friends waved with the barely-contained energy of women who would be dissecting this the moment the door closed behind them. He kept his expression politely neutral and his hand on her back and got her out the door.
The night air hit them and she inhaled deeply, tipping her face up for a second, and then turned to him and tucked her arm through his without asking, her hand curling around his forearm. He let her. She came up to his shoulder and she leaned into him slightly as they walked, compensating for the heels on the uneven stone, and he adjusted his pace accordingly and said nothing about it.
"Cold," she declared.
"Yes, it is. I told you to take my coat."
"You're warm though."
He said nothing. She pressed fractionally closer.
The car was a block down. She managed it, mostly — one near-stumble off a raised curb that his hand at her arm caught before she noticed it herself, and one pause where she stopped to look at a floral arrangement in a closed shop window with an expression of profound interest that had him waiting with what he privately considered extraordinary patience.
"Come on," he said eventually.
"They're beautiful—"
"They're carnations."
"Well yes," she said, as if this proved her point entirely. "I love flowers," she sighed dreamily.
He watched her. Allowed her to watch the flowers as he watched her.
He eventually got her to the car, and opened the passenger door. She looked at him and then at the seat and made a small deliberate effort to get in gracefully, which he tactfully pretended to observe nothing about. When she reached for the seatbelt and the buckle evaded her twice, he leaned across, took it from her hands, and clicked it into place himself. His face was approximately six inches from hers in the process.
She looked well. That was the problem. Her cheeks were flushed pink from the cold and the drinks, her lipstick mostly faded, a few strands of hair falling across her forehead. She looked soft. Happy-drunk, not sloppy. Which was its own kind of torture.
"Tell me your address."
She gave him the address in pieces, losing it twice before getting the cross street right.
He pulled out into the road.
Twelve seconds of silence.
"Where are we going?" she said.
He exhaled through his nose, which was the closest he'd come to laughing in weeks. "Your apartment."
"Oh." A beat. "Right. Yeah."
He drove carefully. He didn't usually — on his own, the car was the one place no one was watching and the roads in the Capitol at 2AM were empty and long, and he drove the way he did most things when no one could see: without restraint. But with her buckled in beside him he kept both hands on the wheel and the speed reasonable and took the turns smooth, none of the sharp decisive cuts he usually took through the Corso.
She didn't seem to notice, her cheek dropping against the headrest as she watched the Capitol lights smear by through the window. Gold and neon. He'd driven this route a thousand times and never looked at it. She was looking at it like it was beautiful.
"Coriolanus?
"Yes?"
"What if I don't want to go to my apartment?"
He hesitated. "Then you can tell me that."
She turned her head on the headrest to look at him. He could feel it. Kept his gaze forward.
"I want to go to yours," she said.
He said nothing.
"Coriolanus."
"I heard you."
"Then—"
"No."
She was quiet. He felt her shift in the seat, resettling, and he made the mistake of glancing over. She was looking at him with those eyes — wide and soft and slightly glassy from the drinks — and the expression on her face was not the face of someone asking a casual question. It was the face of someone asking something they'd been not-asking for a long time.
He looked back at the road.
"You've wanted to for months," she said. "I know you have. And I—" she stopped. "I want to. I really want to, Coriolanus."
"I know," he said. Evenly. With great effort.
"So why—"
"Because you're drunk."
"I'm not that drunk—"
"You are." The light changed. He drove. "And we're not doing this."
"We were doing it fine for—"
"That was different."
"How?"
He pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek. "Because now you're drunk and I'm stone cold sober and the answer is no."
She was quiet for a moment. Thinking, he could feel it. Then:
"Come on," she said, and her voice had dropped into something lower, something deliberate, and he felt her hand settle on his forearm where it rested on the gear shift. Light. Warm. "Don't you want to?"
"Take your hand off my arm."
She didn't. She traced one finger along the inside of his wrist instead, barely anything, and he was suddenly aware of every individual nerve ending in his left arm.
"Please," she murmured. "It's not complicated, you just—"
"I said no." Firm. Final. He kept his voice even. "And if you do that again I'll pull over."
She withdrew her hand. Sat back.
He turned onto the Corso, the familiar stretch of it, the lights of the mansions bleeding gold across the road. "Go to sleep."
"I don't want to go to sleep, I want—"
"I know what you want."
She went quiet at that. Something in his tone, probably. He hadn't meant it to come out like that — too tight, too much in it. He pressed his teeth together.
"Are you angry at me?" she said quietly.
Shit. "No."
"You sound—"
"I'm not angry." He glanced at her. She was watching him with something gone uncertain in her face, the confidence of a moment ago folded back, and she looked suddenly younger, softer. A little worried. "I promise."
"I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable." She pulled at the hem of her dress absently. "I just— I thought maybe— I mean you're so—" she stopped, and laughed at herself a little, embarrassed. "God. Sorry. I know this is weird. It's weird, right? We're so weird right now. We're in a weird place and I just— I saw you and I—" she pressed a hand briefly over her eyes. "You're just very big and gorgeous and I've wanted to for so long and I'm sorry, I shouldn't have— I don't want you to be uncomfortable, I'm being mean—"
His voice came out gentler than he intended. "Stop apologizing."
"I just—"
"I'm not uncomfortable," he said. "I'm not angry. I'm not— " he paused, choosing. "I just don't want you to wake up uncertain about it. Something you have to piece back together the next morning and decide whether you regret."
Silence.
"I wouldn't regret it," she said, quieter now.
"Maybe not. But I wouldn't know that, would I?" He turned onto her street. "And I'd like to know."
He could feel her looking at him again. He didn't look back.
"Okay," she acquiesced softly.
When he looked at her she was smiling at something outside the window again.
He finally parked on the street outside her building, and came around to her side before she'd fully negotiated with the door handle. She took his hand getting out and then didn't quite let go of it, which he allowed.
She made it across the pavement fine. It was the stairs that presented the problem.
There were only six of them, leading up to the building entrance, but somewhere between the third and fourth her heel caught the lip of the step and she lurched forward with a small sound of surprise and he caught her from behind without thinking — arms around her, her back against his chest, her weight light and sudden in his hands.
"Oh," she said.
"Mm," he said.
She turned in his arms to look up at him, their faces close in the lamplight, and for a moment neither of them moved. He was very aware of his hands at her waist. She was very aware of everything, by the look on her face.
"Thank you," she said softly.
"Can you walk?"
"Probably."
"Probably," he repeated. He looked at the remaining stairs. Then he bent slightly, tucked one arm behind her knees, and lifted her. If she had any protests, she didn't voice them, letting her head drop to the crook of his neck.
He carried her up the remaining stairs without particular effort and set her down at the top with complete composure, as if this were something he did regularly. "Key."
She stared at him for a second, puzzled.
"To your apartment," he said again.
"Right." She opened her bag. Found it on the third attempt.
Her apartment was dark and warm, the particular specific warmth of a lived-in place. Something came barreling out of the dark with a scrabble of claws on the floor. Fig launched himself from somewhere with absolutely no sense of occasion, skittering on the floorboards in his frantic bid to reach her. She caught him, laughing breathlessly, burying her face briefly in his curls. The dog then transferred his attention to Coriolanus with equal enthusiasm, apparently harboring no grudge about the months of absence. Then the animal transferred itself entirely to him, paws on his knee, looking up with an expression of immediate and unconditional faith.
Coriolanus looked down at him.
The dog looked up at him.
He crouched and allowed it.
He crouched, because apparently that was happening, and let it sniff his hand and then his face when it decided to go further than invited. Its paws on his shoulders were slightly damp. It smelled like biscuits.
"He likes you," she noted, from where she was tugging off her shoes.
"He likes everyone."
"He really doesn't, actually." She stood, slightly wobbly, and padded toward her bedroom. "Fig hated my last boyfriend. Barked every time he came over."
"Good instincts."
She laughed from the other room.
He found a glass in the kitchen, filled it with water, found another and left both on her nightstand. She was sitting on the edge of her bed looking approximately forty percent asleep, her coat already discarded somewhere in the hallway. He picked it up on his way in and hung it over the chair in the corner.
"Here." He handed her the water.
She drank, obedient, looking up at him over the rim of the glass with those sleepy, soft eyes. The room was dim. One small lamp. She looked— he didn't finish the thought.
"Thank you," she mumbled sleepily, suddenly leaning into his chest and wrapping her arms around him loosely.
He hesitated, but cupped the back of her head and rested a gentle hand on her shoulderblades, just for a second. Her embrace brought in the cold air and the faint smell of something floral and sweet — her perfume mixed with whatever she'd been drinking.
"Lie down," he said.
She did, rolling sideways, and he pulled the blanket up over her with perhaps more care than was strictly necessary.
"Sleep," he murmured.
Mm." Her eyes were already closing. Fig circled three times at the foot of the bed and settled against her legs. "Coriolanus."
"What?"
She sighed, paused long enough that he thought she'd gone under.
"Don't go yet."
He stood there for a moment longer than he needed to.
The lamp made everything warm. She looked— she was—
He looked at her and the thing in his chest that he'd been pressing down for months sat there quietly, waiting to be named, and he refused. He refused, and he turned off the lamp, and he stood in the doorway for exactly one second.
Then he let himself out.
He sat in his car for eleven minutes.
He knew because he watched the clock without meaning to, the numbers cycling in the corner of his vision while he sat with his hands loose on the wheel and the engine off and the city doing its indifferent, glittering thing around him.
She'd asked him to stay. She'd asked him to come home with her in the car and he'd said no, and she'd apologized, I didn't want to make you uncomfortable, you're just so— and she'd looked at him with those drunk-honest eyes and he had stayed firm and unmoved and driven her home and carried her up the stairs and pulled her blanket up and it had been the right thing, it had absolutely been the right thing.
He started the engine and drove home through the gold-lit empty streets.
Did not sleep.
He went home, poured two fingers of something he didn't taste, sat at his desk with the trade proposal still open in front of him, and watched the city lighten incrementally from black to grey to the pale, reluctant gold of early Capitol morning.
At 5:30 he changed and went out.
He ran the Corso route. Six kilometers, the same circuit he'd run since coming home from his Peacekeeper days when his body had gotten used to the exertion. The city was quiet at this hour, just his security detail, the street cleaners and the early delivery vans and the occasional dog walker. He ran hard, fast enough to make his lungs work for it, and it helped him shut off his mind for at least forty minutes.
He'd been on a poster on this street. The infrastructure one. He passed the spot without meaning to — the column where it had been plastered, replaced now with something about the Spring Civic Festival — and his pace faltered for half a stride before he corrected it.
She'd rolled her eyes at it, probably, she hated his campaign. Told her friends she wasn't voting for him.
Then called him at 1AM because her friends were all with guys and the drinks were expensive and she wanted him specifically, for some cruel reason, to come get her.
He ran harder.
The gym was in the lower level of his building, private, nobody in it at this hour. He went through the routine mechanically — weights, then the bag, then weights again until his arms ached in that productive, emptying way. He was good at this. Discipline. Routine. Giving the body a problem it could actually solve.
He was not good at the other thing. The thing where someone tucked their head against his neck in a dimly lit hallway and said don't go yet and he stood there wanting to stay more than he'd wanted anything in recent memory.
He hit the bag.
She'd only reached out because she was drunk. That was the part he kept returning to, the part that sat worst. Sober, she kept the distance. Sober, she was careful, managed, aware of everything between them. It was only when her defenses went down that she reached for him. Which meant that reaching for him was something she was actively, consciously choosing not to do.
He couldn't blame her. He'd given her reasons.
He hit the bag again.
He thought about her waking up. Right about now, probably — the particular grey of early morning coming through her curtains, Fig shifting at the foot of the bed, that slow reluctant return to consciousness. He thought about the moment she'd piece it together. The shoes by the door. The water glasses. The blanket tucked. His name in her recent calls.
He wondered what she'd do with it. Whether she'd text. Whether she'd pretend it hadn't happened.
Probably the latter.
He wrapped his hands, started again.
He hadn't meant to come inside the bar either. He'd meant to wait outside, and then he'd pulled up and thought about her sitting alone on the street in a dress in the cold and had gotten out of the car instead.
He hadn't meant for any of it, if he was honest. Not the months of her. Not what she'd become in them. Not the fact that he'd sat outside her building for eleven minutes like some— like some—
He stopped.
Stood with his hands against the bag, breathing.
The gym was quiet. His reflection in the mirror across the room looked back at him, shirt dark with sweat, jaw set, and said nothing helpful.
He showered. Changed. Went back upstairs.
His phone was on the kitchen counter where he'd left it. He looked at it the way he looked at things he wasn't going to touch and then made coffee and stood at the window and watched the Capitol do its morning thing, all pale gold and pigeons and the distant sound of the city waking up.
He picked up the phone.
One notification. Her name.
He looked at it for a moment. Put the coffee down.
Opened it.
hi :) sorry for calling so late you really didn't have to come all the way out but i'm very glad you did
thank you for being very gentlemanly about everything lol. and fig thanks you too probably
are you busy this morning? do you want to get breakfast?
He read it twice.
Then a third time.
She'd woken up and pieced it together and her first instinct had been — this. An open door. Are you busy this morning. Like it was simple. Like she was choosing, clear-eyed and sober, in the morning light, to reach toward him.
The thing in his chest that he'd been refusing to name did something he was going to have to deal with eventually.
He typed back before he could think about it too hard.
