Where Cora Writes Fanfic

“You know you don’t have to say yes.” his voice is soft as feathers against her skin, and she stiffens her shoulders to hold back a shiver. “You could tell me no.” the silk sheets rustle lightly as he rises, and she watches his reflection in the glass, watery sunlight painting the pale planes of his body with gold. 

She snorts and reaches up to run her hands through her own mussed tresses. She forces her gaze back to the street.  

“Sure I could, darlin. Cause you’re that kinda man.” the kind who was used to hearing the word. The kind who took it oh so well. 

His answering chuckle is self-depracating, and she doesn’t believe it for a second. He’s become a better politician in the years they’ve been apart. There’s more rustling behind her, and she assumes he’s putting his trousers back on. It can’t be his shirt; she’s wearing that. 

She doesn’t think too hard about why it was his shirt she reached for when she left the bed. Maybe it was just convenient. 

The scent of roses was already clinging to her skin. 

She starts a little when his hands land on her hips, sliding across her belly and around her waist to pull her back against him. His breath warms the space beneath her ear. 

“I wouldn’t force you, Lucy Gray.” 

She was wrong. He hasn’t redressed. 

It takes every ounce of control she has not to melt back into him. His body is hot and solid and familiar, and for a moment she wants to forget that this is all a game they’re playing. A dance of power that she can’t afford to lose. 

His teeth catch on her earlobe, his fingers splaying across her hips, and she gasps softly. 

“I know.”  

That she could tell him no should be laughable. As laughable as she was trying to pretend it is. But the truth is, she could. She is perhaps the one person in this damnable city who could. 

That she could deny him is her power in this aspect of their dance. 

That she hasn’t, is his. 

That thought galvanizes her, and she pulls away from his hold, crossing the room to retrieve her gown from the edge of the bed. His shirt pools on the floor and she steps into the dress, honey gold and off-the-shoulder, and pulls it into place over her bust. When she glances over her shoulder, he’s leaning against the window, watching her with eyes two shades darker than her beloved lake. 

The thought crosses her mind that if the windows in her apartment weren’t all one-way glass, he would have an embarrassing PR scandal to deal with, because he still hasn’t bothered with his pants. 

She almost giggles. 

“Lace me up, handsome?"

His mouth curves and he pushes away from the window, stalking across the room to do up her dress with long, clever fingers, and she bites her lip, letting herself wish for just this single second that this is something other than pretend.   

But that’s all it can ever be. 

She turns when he’s finished, reaches up to smooth a curl back into place along his brow.

“You better get dressed too, darlin. Ain’t gonna impress many backers in nothin but your skin.” 

He smirks, leans around her, and scoops his shirt from the floor. It’s so expensive there isn’t a wrinkle in sight as he shrugs it on, leaving it open as he sits on the edge of the bed to pull on the equally expensive slacks. Her eyes follow the movement of the cloth against his skin, and she turns away; forces herself to leave the room.

He is so beautiful. 

He stops to press a kiss to her mouth before he leaves, imperious and demanding, and she responds in kind, sinking her teeth into the soft flesh of his lip. He jerks back, but it isn’t rage that lights his eyes as he wipes the blood away. 

She breathes, deep and long through her nose, trying to center herself back in the here and now. The past is gone; it does her no good to dwell there, to return to those moments when she was so afraid. 

But her body refuses to stop shaking, and her mind spirals in an unending loop of terror and betrayal.

“Lucy Gray?” 

The words are rough with sleep, and she flinches away, rolling onto her side and curling protectively around herself. He hardly ever stays; she’s wondered if sleeping beside her feels too intimate. Too real. 

Of course tonight would be the one night he does. 

“Lucy Gray, what’s wrong?”

He says it like there isn’t anything that could be wrong. Like everything isn’t. Like this is how things should be. Like she belongs here, beside him in a bed in a Capitol apartment years and miles away from everything she’s ever known.

His words blend with the fragments of her dreams, and this time the scream escapes through the gaps in her fingers. 

“Lucy Gray!” his hands are on her, pulling her toward him, into him, and her vision flashes white with fear and anger and hurt. Gunshots echo in her ears and the scent of roses fills her nose, and her skin is white-hot under his touch. She thrashes wildly, legs tangling in the blankets, fingers curling into claws, trying to escape, to hurt, to exercise the demons that refuse to leave her skin. The arena. The woods. This man. 

They tumble from the bed together, the floor cold and bruisingly hard, and she cries out again when he lands on top of her. A hiss escapes through his teeth, but he doesn’t lift his weight off of her, even as she struggles and her nails bite into his skin. Instead he shifts, just a little, pinning her legs with his and catching her face in his hands. 

“It’s okay, Lucy Gray, you’re safe.” his forehead presses against hers, and she stares up into those blue blue eyes, trying to ground herself in them, in their cold, familiar, beauty.

“I’m never safe.” The words come out on a harsh exhale, as she strains and shakes in his hold, an accusation as much as a statement. She will never be safe. Hers is not a safe world, and he is not a safe man. 

He meets her gaze without flinching, then tilts his head, pressing his lips to her forehead.

He doesn’t correct her.

She wishes he would. Wishes she could believe him. Wants so badly to be safe.

She closes her eyes, focuses on controlling her breathing, on prying her nails free of his flesh, one by one. Blood runs in dark rivulets from the wounds, bisecting his luminescently pale skin.

After a moment he draws back , propping himself on his elbows, though his hands stay where they are, cradling her face in his palms. 

“Okay?” 

She nods without opening her eyes. Maybe she should be embarrassed, but she can’t bring herself to be. Why should she hide this from him? It is as much a part of her as he is. As much his fault as her failing.

“Good.” He starts to roll off of her, and she stops him, wrapping her arms around him and flattening her palms against his back. He freezes, and she presses her forehead to his shoulder, feeling his blood sticky against her cheek as she breathes him in. She can feel the roughness of a scar, old and long healed, beneath her right hand. 

There is irony, that his presence can both cause and soothe her panic. That she finds both fear and comfort in him. That moments ago she didn’t want him anywhere near her, and now all she wants is his touch. 

He lets her hold him for a few minutes, until their breaths sync and her heartbeat is slow and steady in her ears, and then he pulls away, rolling up onto his knees and leaving her feeling cold and a little lost. Then he scoops her up, eyes shadowed and expression unreadable in the dark of their- her- room, and deposits her back on the bed with movements that are measured and carefully controlled. Purposefully gentle. He cups her jaw and kisses her with slow, gentle thoroughness that breaks off abruptly, and he tilts her chip up, forcing her to meet his somber gaze. 

“I will keep you safe.” 

And then he’s gone. The light flicks on in the bathroom and she hears water running, and she realizes he must be washing the scratches she carved into his skin. She pulls her knees up to her chest and rests her chin on them, feeling his blood drying on her own cheek. 

In the drivers' seat, Adrin makes another turn, eyes attentively focused on the road and expression blank. He never gives any signs that he can hear them at all.

It's been a week since she met Livia at the cafe. Three days since Coryo reappeared at her apartment, wearing a coat the color of the blood that should have coated hands that were clean and unblemished, and held her through the night.

And now he wants her to sing at his wedding.

She should keep her mouth shut. Nod and smile and just let it lie.

But that isn't who she is, what they are.

“Lemme give you some wedding advice, darlin’?” she says it coolly, reaching over to pluck one of the candies from the bowl between their seats. "The first piece would be to find a bride who’s less of a raging bitch.” She refuses to look at him as she says it, unwrapping the candy with careful fingers and popping it into her mouth. The bittersweet taste of lime suffuses her mouth as he makes a huffing sound that could be laughter, but there is no amusement in his voice when he speaks; his response is crisp and cool as ever. 

“I would rather you didn't,” he retorts, “but that’s fair, considering I would’ve given you similar advice. But I would have asked why you would choose to marry a driveling sycophant.” 

She’s never heard him sound so….dismissive. 

“Leod was good to me.” it’s out of her mouth before she can stop to think “He protected me.” 

He stiffens beside her, his whole body going taut in the seat as he turns to look at her. 

“I protect you.” 

She gives him a derisive snort, caution thrown to the winds, and finally turns to glare at him.

A part of her has been afraid of him, angry at him, for fifteen years, no matter how much she loves him.

She doesn't want to be afraid, be angry, anymore.

“Sure ya do, darlin. Right up until you try to kill me.” 

Gunshots. 

Color floods his face, riding high on his cheekbones, and his eyes are pools of raging blue fire, and she should be terrified. 

She finds in this moment she has no room left to fear him.

“I never wanted you dead.” he growls, jaw tight, and she laughs bitterly. Spits the candy out onto the floor.

“You did. You wanted me dead and forgotten. I’m more a liability than an asset to you and your campaign. Something you have to work so hard to take care of. So why don’t you just kill me right now, hm? Why don’t you just get it over and done with so you can get on with your perfect life and your perfect plans?” she leans across the console, invading his space. “Why not save yourself some trouble?” 

He moves so fast she almost doesn’t catch it, but she doesn’t need to. His hand wraps around her throat, his skin icy cold and burning, and he leans in, his face mere inches from her own. 

“If I wanted you dead, Lucy Gray, you would be.” 

She laughs. Feels his palm flex against her throat. 

“Would I? Then why am I not?” 

For a moment, they just stare at each other, ice blue into fumed oak. Then something in his face loosens, and his grip shifts, just a little, suddenly tugging her closer instead of threatening her air. His forehead rests against hers with the softness of newfallen snow, and something settles into her chest with the resounding rightness of a perfect harmony.

"You've been in my blood from the first time I heard you sing." he whispers, and his voice is a little hoarse. "I spent fifteen years thinking I'd killed you. That I destroyed the only other person I've ever given a single fuck about." He swallows, and then his eyes are blazing. "And I would much rather put up with the trouble of keeping you, Lucy Gray, than ever see your ghost again."

He's out of the car before she can respond, leaving her with nothing but the feel of his hand on her throat, the echo of his voice in her ears, and a new, confident sureness that seeps into her like the heady warmth of wine.

The memories run together, splashes of color and pain that bleed and swirl into one another until he can't tell what was real, and he presses his back into the wall behind him, rough wood stabbing splinters into his skin as he tries and fails to focus on the here and now.

A small room. A crowd of strangers. voices raised in alarm. Too much light. Too much noise.

Lucy Gray.

She appears in front of him, dark eyes wide with consternation, hands pressing into his chest with the heat of a brand.

"Coriolanus, Coriolanus, you're safe," there's a shake in her voice, but she's trying to be firm, and he blinks, shakes his head, tries to focus on her, on his surroundings, on anything but the wildfire in his veins. His hands come up, fingers biting into her upper arms, too hard, too hard, but he's afraid if he doesn't hold on he'll drown in the madness they injected into his blood.

"Lucy Gray?" it comes out hoarse, question and plea, and something in her face softens, eases. Her hands slide up, trailing lightning up his neck to cup his face in her palms.

"I'm right here, darlin'. You're safe. We're safe."

He wants to believe her. Wants it to be true.

But Dr. Gaul's laughter still rings in his ears, over and over and over again. Her voice, high with glee.

"No one will ever think to make a mockery of my Games again, once I'm finished with you."

He drops his head, presses his forehead to Lucy Gray's and tries to breathe. To control the hammering beat of his heart against his ribs.

Was Dr. Gaul finished with him? He can't remember.

"That's it, sugar, just breathe," Lucy Gray hums, hands at the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his curls. "You're gonna be just fine."

There are other people, nearby. He can hear them now, shifting and murmuring, and his head jerks up, something strange and feral in his chest. Lucy Gray makes soothing sounds, tongue tutting against the roof of her mouth. "It's just my family darlin. Just the Covey. No one here's gonna hurt you."

Four people, ranged through the room. Two girls, two boys, all frozen under his gaze. The older three keep their eyes away, unwilling to meet the wild thing in his, but the youngest blinks back at him from atop a table, green eyes curious and soft between soft wisps of blonde. No weapons. No needles. No threat to be found.

His heart is finally starting to slow. Lucy Gray's smile is a gentle, careful thing. Her fingers are still in his hair.

"You alright?"

He doesn't know. He nods anyway, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply, pressing his head back into the wall as he breaths in the hot, hazy summer air that fills the space, the soft scent of the daisies and daffodils in the vase on the table, the unique, slightly spicy apple-blossom aroma that belongs to Lucy Gray. He forces his body to relax, to loosen his grip on Lucy Gray's arms, one finger at a time.

Twelve. He's in District Twelve. Not the lab. Not the Capitol. Dr. Gaul can't touch him here.

The thought is almost laughable. Dr. Gaul doesn't need to be here. Whatever she did to him, it is done. He will suffer her punishment for his decisions, no matter that he escaped her hold.

"Are you hungry?" it's the girl on the table who speaks, her voice piping and sweet, and he flinches at the sound. Lucy Gray starts to pull away, and his grip tightens automatically. She winces, but stills in his hold, traces a soothing pattern down his chest, light touches designed to calm and distract.

He wishes they didn't burn.

"Come sit down," she coaxes, catching his eyes again, and this time when she pulls away, he forces himself to let her, even as he shakes. The feral thing in his ribcage writhes in protest, as if she is the only thing that can keep him sane, his only tether to the here and now. Then she takes his hand, twining their fingers as she tugs him gently toward the table, and it calms just slightly, just enough to let him step away from the wall, to let him settle gingerly into a chair as the small blonde girl slides easily off the table.

Of everyone in the room, she seems the least bothered by him, by the wreck that he is, and he wonders, distantly, if she imagines all Capitol people are like this. With monsters under their skin.

The rest of the Covey shifts restlessly around the edges of his vision, watching him out of the corners of their eyes. It makes him nervous, restless, and he starts to stand again, and then Lucy Gray's arms slide around his shoulders from behind, her chin against his temple and the smell of spices filling his nose, and he stays in the chair.

She hasn't seen him since that night, and the knowledge aches in her bones. He's a murderer, a scheming, manipulative liar, and she misses him like she misses the sun on a cold winter night. She'd asked Adrin to take her to see Tigris this morning in an attempt to escape the itchy, exhausting feeling of craving his presence when it should be the last thing she should want, and they'd ended up here, at Tigris favorite cafe.

The chair the woman takes is Tigris', abandoned for a quick trip to the powder room.

Lucy Gray can appreciate an opportunistic predator.

There is nothing about this woman that isn't polished and perfect; her hair is sleek and swept back from her face with gold clips , her rose blouse cut just low enough to be playful but not so low as to be scandalous, her face powdered just heavily enough to mask imperfections without looking papery.

She can see why he chose her. It doesn't make her despise her less.

"To tell you the truth, sugar, I don't think much of anything of you." Lucy Gray puts her teacup down and reaches for her scone instead, ripping off a chunk with her fingers and raising it to her lips. "I don't even know your name." the taste of buttery pastry and chocolate fills her mouth, and she watches a slight flush tint the other woman's cheeks mauve.

It's the only sign of discomfort she gives.

"I am the future first lady of Panem." she retorts coolly. "Livia Cardew. Soon to be Livia Snow. And you," she narrows her gaze, just a little, "Will not tarnish that." she folds her hands on the table, the crystal clear stone in her engagement ring sparkling with the movement.

Lucy Gray snorts inelegantly and smirks, because she wants this woman as flustered as she's trying to make her.

"How could lil old me possibly do such a thing?" she asks coyly, and Livia frowns.

It's almost amusing, really, how each woman could be seen to have the higher ground in this battle. How each has something the other does not.

Livia has the ring, the public knowledge and approval.

Lucy Gray has the death of a man who dared to touch her and the smell of musk and roses in her sheets.

Livia's eyes narrow.

"You think I don't know?" she hisses, "You think I'm so blind? I remember you, you know. I remember how you seduced him back then. Strung him along with kisses and your little songs." her lip curls. "And now here you are again, trying to slither your way out of the gutter, or drag him back down with you." she seems to realize how worked up she's getting, that her voice has become just a little too high, because she pauses to take a long breath through her nose, hands moving to smooth the collar of her blouse as though it too might have been ruffled. "I will not let that happen. The wedding is in two weeks. The election is in three."

She rises from the chair then, and looks down her nose at Lucy Gray.

"Enjoy the time you have left."

Then she turns and stalks from the cafe.

Lucy Gray takes another bite of her scone.

She has no doubt that if Miss Livia Cardew wants to do something about her, she will, and there isn't a damn thing she could do about it.

Her wrist throbs as though in protest. She ignores it and reaches for the nightgown waiting on the edge of her bed.

She's very nearly asleep when she hears the elevator bell chime.

The tiled floor is chilly beneath the bare soles of her feet, and she only makes it as far as the doorway by the time he walks out of the elevator, one hand tugging at his tie as the other jerks back through his hair with obvious agitation. He pauses at the sight of her in the doorway, and she raises her chin to meet his gaze. She's still not happy with him. But…

'You of all people could understand that marriage and love sometimes have very little to do with each other.'

Does it really matter, if he's married or going to be? When he already- will always- belong to her in the same way she does to him? A way neither of them can ever belong to anyone else?

The idea of the blonde beauty on his arm still burns.

She wonders if that's how he felt about seeing her with Leod. If that's how he feels when he remembers she's supposed to belong to someone else.

"Party all done?" she askes evenly, leaning her head against the doorframe and folding her arms across her belly.

"About twenty minutes ago."

He came straight from the party to her.

He resumes his motion, finally tugging the tie free and dropping in onto the table near the door, then returning to his collar to undo the first few buttons. Her eyes follow the motion, watching the way the moonlight plays against the newly exposed hollow of his throat.

"And you don't have anywhere else to be?" an echo from their first heated encounter, back in the Mayor's mansion in Twelve. A challenge.

She wonders if he hears it too.

"Would you rather I leave?"

If she told him yes, would he go? Turn around and stalk back into the elevator and leave her to return to her bed alone?

Does she want him to?

He waits in silence for her answer, the line of his jaw hard and stark in the moonlight as he unbuttons his cuffs with quick, sharp movements. And she almost tells him to go, just because she wants to know if he would.

But then she uncrosses her arms and takes a step into the room, silken nightdress brushing against her thighs.

Because she doesn't want to go to bed alone. Because despite her every instinct, despite thier history and the knowledge that he is the worst man in the world for her, she wants him. Has always wanted him. He's a poison in her blood, and it is far too late to find a cure.

She pauses before him, a breath of air between her body and his.

Maybe this will kill her, one day. Maybe he will.

She reaches up, wraps her hand around the back of his neck, and pulls him down.

She's already cheated death more times than is fair, anyway.

He answers her kiss with the same deep hunger she offers him, one hand sliding slowly down her side to pull her closer as the other cups the base of her skull, angling her chin to deepen the kiss.

She'd almost forgotten about the bruises.

He goes still when she flinches, the hand he was sliding down her hip lifting ever so slightly away before returning, gently testing the spot again, and she can't help a soft hiss at the zing of pain. For another moment, he doesn't move. Then he pulls back, dropping to a knee with uncionscious grace, his hand falling with him, only to skim back up, catching the hem of her nightdress and dragging it up with it until he can see the rapidly purpling handprint that wraps her hip like a dark brand.

He goes utterly, inhumanly, still. As though he truly could be the statue she compared him to earlier in the evening. His head is tilted down, his eyes veiled in shadow, but she doesn't need to see them to feel the anger rising from him like a miasma. His touch on her hip is a brand all it's own.

She needs him to move. Can't stand the stillness. The sensation of doom that is slowly growing stronger in her chest.

Surely he can't be angry at her…but then, for all that he is a clever man, he's not always entirely rational…

"Coryo-" she reaches for him, but he catches her hand before she can touch him. His grip is gentle, and he turns his head to examine the fainter ring of bruises circling her wrist, his thumb sweeping gently over the yellow-green marks.

"Tigris used to call me that." he murmurs, voice a toneless echo of his usual speech. He's right in front of her, but part of him feels far, far away. "A long time ago." He draws her hand to his face, presses an open-mouthed kiss to her palm. There is still so much rage in him, for such a careful touch.

His chin tilts, and she finally gets a glimpse of his eyes.

They're darker than she's seen them in…

Years.

She should be so very, very afraid.

He stands then, the motion as smooth and elegant as the fall had been, and scoops her into his arms.

She expects his control to shatter, then. Expects him to be rough and demanding and sharp to match the shards of jagged glass in his gaze. It wouldn't be the first time their lovemaking has been less than gentle.

She's wrong.

He is so tender. Every touch, every kiss, every caress a focused study in sensual, intense seduction. He doesn't touch the bruises again. Doesn't say another word. He simply takes his time, methodical and thorough, waking every nerve in her body and stoking a fire in her veins until she's sweaty and boneless beneath him, and the only word she can say is his name.

Coriolanus. Coryo.

Coryo.

It's still dark when she rouses to the feeling of him rising from the bed. Her body protests the loss of his, but she's too drowsy to do more than turn her head on his pillow, watching as he steps back into his white slacks and shirt, a pale ghost in the light of the slowly setting moon.

"Running away now?" she mumbles. But it doesn't feel like he is. He's not moving like a lover fleeing before the sunlight can reveal an unpalatable truth. It feels more like a decision, like some necessity pulling him from her bed to be dealt with. He doesn't look like he's even slept.

He glances over at her words, as though only just noticing she's awake, fingers rapidly doing up the buttons of his shirt with practiced ease.

"I have something that needs to be done."

"Sounds like somethin someone runnin' would say," she retorts, a yawn forcing the sentence to an early end. She tries to roll over, but her whole body is deeply, pleasantly sore now, and she gives up without much effort.

"Lucy Gray." he bends over the bed, presses a kiss to her temple. "Go back to sleep."

I love you.

She doesn't say it. At least, she doesn't think she does. The world fades to darkness again, the pleasant tingle of her skin and smell of roses lulling her back to sleep.

When she finally rises the next morning, there is no coverage of the previous night's presidential fundraiser on the television that usually plays silently in the corner of her sitting room.

Instead, Lucky Flickerman stares grimly from the corner of the screen as a banner scrolls across the top, bearing the words 'Politician Found Dead' in bold dark lettering.

For a moment, she just stares. Then she reaches out and flicks the button on the side to activate the volume.

"Mr. Zeifer Daveaux was found dead in the early hours of this morning, in what was clearly an attempt by Distric rebels to stir fear and unrest in this leadup to the Presidential election." Lucky's voice is professionally detatched, even as his face projects deep concern and distress. "Mr. Daveaux suffered several injuries, prior to his death, including trauma to the face and abdomen, as well as the amputation of both of his hands. Authorities state that they believe the culprit to have fled."

She doesn't hear any more. Blood rushes in her ears and the floor seems to shift beneath her feet.

"I have something that needs to be done."

She covers her mouth with her hands, resisting the urge to throw up the coffee she just drank.

He killed Zeifer. Or had him killed, if the difference matters. Killed and dismembered.

For touching her.

She swallows, swallows again. Remembers the fear she felt when Zeifer asked if he could 'borrow' her. Remembers Coriolanus' face when he saw the bruises darkening her skin.

There are tears running over her fingers.