#first lady

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?”