Freshly bathed and slathered in lotion emitting a delicious aroma, you stand bare before the bathroom mirror, sparingly applying a cream to your face that could without doubt cover the entirety of your rent back home.

Though you are technically of Capitol descent, given your fathers birth, district 8 was home to you for the first chunk of your life. Only when he reached 20 years of service was he able to wed your mother and claim you (albeit only having done the latter). Strategic man he is, he was able to weasel his way into the Capitol once more, and inevitably become one of the many to offer their daughters to young President Snow.

Why Coriolanus had chosen you amongst the glistening bounty, you hadn’t a clue. Though not terrible to look at, you find yourself quite plain. Not to mention you are of unremarkable birth. Nonetheless, you were betrothed the year before last and wed over the summer. First lady is a suffocating title, one adorned by a woman reminiscent of a pretty, exotic bird, promptly coaxed and placed into a gilded cage.

At some point you’d padded to the walk in closet, mindlessly getting dressed in the silken sleep set selected for you by a maid. The nightgown is long and ivory, brushing your ankles, with a lace trimmed robe to match.

Abruptly, you feel large hands against press to your midsection, startling you out of your mental detachment.

“Did you miss me?” Coriolanus asks in a hushed sort of tone, ring clad fingers dipping lower, lower…

You sigh lightly, bare lashes kissing your cheeks as you shut your eyes to ground yourself. His halfway decent moods prompt you to feel guilt for the loathing you cannot help but harbor for your husband, but his unpredictable temper makes him foul company.

“I always miss you when you’re gone.” You settle for. You feel him smile against your crown.

“Come,” He orders, taking you by the hand and guiding out of the walk in and towards your large shared bed.

Much to your dread, Coriolanus has grown impatient for an heir. A blond, blue eyed son to mold in his image as he believes he has done you. Perfect, pure as snow. Inhuman. He forces trying for a baby upon you a couple of times a week, give or take according to his stuffed schedule.

The backs of your knees hit the mattress, and the feel of the cool, fluffy bedding pressing your nightgown against bare skin tickles. He is shrugging off his coat, then unfastening his belt, then tossing the imported leather to the carpet and covering your frame with his own.

. . .

He thrusts into you without mercy, broad shoulders level with your face as you are fucked like a doll. One could say that is what all are turned into after too much time spent at the presidential manor — a statue. Inanimate objects, serving at the pleasure of the president.

Sometimes he attempts to talk dirty to you. You loathe it. Though, in certain light — now, for example, as the days hair gel is worn, allowing a near white curl to fall against his forehead.. his biceps straining from holding up his weight, looking delectably bite-able — it is undeniable that your husband is a handsome man.

And though when he speaks it is often reminiscent of watching paint dry in your mind, he is somewhat fond of you. One less familiar with his ways than you wouldn’t notice, but it is thinly woven into your partnership. How he will see you out of conversations clearly boring you. The fresh white roses he has set for you in the breakfast nook each morning.

With a throaty grunt, Coriolanus fills you up, only now collapsing his full body weight upon you to prevent any of his spend leaking out. After a moment, he lifts his head, unsettlingly blue eyes boring into yours. He brushes a fallen strand of hair from your face.

“Mm.” He hums thoughtfully, gaze flicking downwards. A low chuckle escapes his plush lips.

“You ought not to bother contributing to society. Seems a waste, as lovely as you look like this.” Coriolanus condescendingly proclaims. With that, he pulls out and promptly slaps your thigh, causing you to gasp.

You hope he drops dead. Then, he kisses you for the very first time this evening, hungrily. He tastes like posca, and it makes your head spin senselessly.

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