Request: Hello! I have request for a Coriolanus Snow x Fem! Reader. Where the reader is pregnant and has to give a speech maybe during him becoming president but in the middle of it she goes into labour.
Pairing: Coriolanus snow x Fem!reader
Word count: 1.5k
warnings: pregnancy, light mentions of labor, classism, district versus capital opinions, the reader is from the capital
~~~~~~
You weren’t the first choice. You knew that. But did it stop you from turning him away his advances?
Absolutely not.
You were kind, sweet, and everyone around you knew who you were. Growing up with the Snows and your close friends, you weren’t the standout. It wasn’t a bad thing—it just was.
You came from a wealthy family. Generational wealth that had taken a hit during the War, but quickly bounced back when your family invested in clothing manufacturing. Your family helped sponsor the reconstruction of factories destroyed in Eight, and soon, the business boomed. Your wealth grew, surpassing anything you’d ever imagined.
But despite having access to the finest fashion first, you remained the same sweet girl. Always willing to give a skirt, blouse, or dress with a flaw to Tigress, saying, “It would be a shame to waste it. I just don’t have the talents to fix it.” Tigress always smiled in return.
Watching you during the Hunger Games years ago had been painful. When the games changed, and Academy students had to mentor District tributes, you were assigned Wovey, a poor thirteen-year-old from District Eight. You did everything in your power to keep your promise to get her home. But near the end, after Wovey drank some water and died within minutes, your frustration boiled over. You demanded answers, questioned the contents of the water, and felt humiliated. You had failed, and it ate at you, gnawing at your pride.
After the Games, life seemed to return to normal—for you, at least. News broke about Coriolanus Snow’s involvement in cheating and his banishment to District 12 as a peacekeeper, and the gossip spread like wildfire.
You’d liked him—been acquaintances. You exchanged basic pleasantries, nothing more. He was smart. Incredibly so. Even in silence, his eyes were constantly assessing, watching everything.
You felt sorry for him. Sorry that he was stuck in an awful district with awful people. Sorry that he’d been manipulated by Lucy Gray, that District girl who you believed was only using him. How awful those District people were.
Then, near the end of summer, after Sejanus Plinth’s death, Coryo returned to the Capital. And he was different—hardened, colder, more toned. But the way he looked at you was also different.
It began with simple compliments during classes at University. Compliments that made you blush. Then came walks to class, studying together, dinners. And before you knew it, you were standing beside him as the First Lady of Panem, ever so cold, calculating, and calculating. You saw the side of him he only allowed you to see—the soft, loving Coryo you had come to know and love.
And now here you were. Just two years into his presidency. The grand hall of your home was packed, its glittering elite seated in perfect rows as cameras broadcasted the event to the districts. Tonight, the event was designed to be a spectacle—a night of carefully crafted rhetoric.
You stood at the podium, poised, regal, your silk gown flowing over the unmistakable curve of your belly. Coriolanus had urged you to rest, to stay seated during the event, but you insisted. This speech was important.
The initiative you were launching, The Future of Panem Fund, symbolized progress—a new focus on education and healthcare for the next generation. It reinforced Coriolanus’ image as a leader who not only brought order but invested in the future. As his wife, you played a key role in solidifying that vision.
Standing before the audience, you smiled, your voice unwavering. “Good evening. I would like to thank you all for taking the time to come tonight. I assure you, it will be worth it,” you began, the polished ease of a practiced speaker settling over you. A sweet smile, a perfect face, the ideal First Lady for their perfect President.
“For too long, we have focused on the present—on survival, rebuilding, improving. But tonight, we look beyond the now. We look to what comes next. What comes tomorrow.”
A wave of nods rippled through the audience, all of them hanging on your words. You had crafted this speech carefully, balancing inspiration and strength.”
“The Future of Panem Fund is not just an initiative; it is a promise.” Your hand rested lightly on your belly. “A promise that every child in the Capital will have access to education, healthcare, and the resources to grow strong and capable.”
Applause rippled through the hall, and beside you, Coriolanus stood composed, his sharp gaze never leaving you.
You took a steadying breath before continuing. “Because the future of Panem is not written by chance. It is shaped by those with the will to guide it. Together, we will build a nation that does not just survive—but thrives.”
The applause swelled, echoing through the hall. You allowed a brief smile, savoring the moment—
And then, the contraction hit.
Your breath hitched, pain radiating through your abdomen. You gripped the podium, forcing yourself to maintain a serene expression. You weren’t going to falter.
Coriolanus noticed instantly.
Though he didn’t move, you could feel his attention shift, his calculating mind assessing every detail.
Still, you pressed on. “This fund will ensure that every—” Another contraction. This time, your breath left you in a slow, controlled exhale. You gave a short laugh, shaking your head.
Oh.
Oh, this was happening.
You turned to Coriolanus and, in a voice that carried through the microphone, murmured with quiet amusement, “I do believe I’m in labor, my dearest.”
Silence.
Then the hall erupted.
Laughter, cheers, applause—thousands of people on their feet, reveling in the spectacle. This was their perfect moment—their President, his wife, and the arrival of their child, the future of Panem.
But Coriolanus didn’t see it that way.
For the first time, his mask cracked. His usually unreadable expression betrayed sheer disbelief.
You, however, were laughing softly, gripping the podium as another contraction struck. “Well,” you exhaled, glancing back at the crowd, “it seems the future of Panem is arriving a little earlier than expected.”
More laughter, more cheers, more applause. Half the room was celebrating, while reporters scrambled to capture every moment as though it was a privilege to witness.
Coriolanus finally snapped into action.
“Go,” he barked sharply to the peacekeepers, “Bring the doctor. Now.”
The peacekeepers moved immediately, but Coriolanus was already at your side, one hand pressed to your back, the other reaching to steady you. His grip was firm, unwavering, but you felt the tension radiating off him. More peacekeepers formed around you, escorting you out of the hall and to the private part of your home.
“You should have been resting,” he muttered lowly, his voice tight as he guided you away from the podium.
You smirked despite the pain. “And miss my big speech? Not a chance.”
His jaw clenched, but a faint twitch of his lips betrayed something softer. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet,” you teased breathlessly, leaning into his support as another contraction hit, a small groan escaping, “you married me.”
Cameras flashed as Coriolanus led you toward the exit, his grip protective, unyielding. The crowd cheered, watching their leader—newly cemented in power—prepare to welcome his heir, the new generation to rule Panem.
