#OC2ndPOV

[dotieeee]

The Gamemaker's Apprentice

Level 4

Pairing: Dark!Young!Coriolanus Snow x You, named!Reader

Overall Warnings:

NON-CON, DUB-CON, Dark!Young!Coriolanus Snow, Snow himself should be a warning, lots of blackmailing, gaslighting, manipulation, obsession, possesiveness, eventual forced marriage, eventual loss of virginity, breeding kink, canon-compliant major character death, reader is named but has no physical descriptions in the fic so one might also consider her an OC but in 2nd POV, will have canon inconsistencies, and other stuff that may be added

Masterlist

Level 4 Warnings:

Snow being a manipulative and gaslighting creep, shady deals done behind your back, things begin escalating here!!!

Replay Level 3

Ready? Level 4 Start:

The doorbell to your apartment rings just as you’re setting the table for three. You get the door, and true enough, your only guest for tonight waits on the other side, carrying a box wrapped in a scarlet bow on one hand and a large bouquet of red roses on the other.

He hands the flowers to you as you invite him in and take his coat.

“These are lovely, thank you,” you beam at him. You bask in the aroma of the fresh flowers, but Coryo’s nose seems to focus on something different.

“Pasta, and garlic bread? It smells wonderful,” he compliments. He hands you the box, which you assume is cake, and asks, “Where shall I…?”

“I’ll put that in the fridge and put these – ” you gesture at the flowers – “In a vase. Take a seat and I’ll get you a drink. Any preference?”

He gracefully sits on the sofa and, giving you a warm smile, he replies, “Just tea, please.”

You hear the oven ding in the kitchen, followed by a shout from your uncle, who seems to be in his office.

“Plumcake, can you take the garlic bread out of the oven, please?”

“‘Plumcake?’” Coryo asks with a teasing grin. “I’ve never heard of that before.”

“It’s just a nickname,” you reply a little more defensively than you mean to. “I’ll get you the tea in a moment.”

“I’ll help,” he says. You try to get him to stay put, but he’s already following you into the kitchen.

He helps with the garlic bread, and as he’s removing the gloves, he says, “Can I call you that?”

To say you’re mortified is an understatement. “Please, no.”

“Why not?” He gives you a wide-eyed innocent look as he accepts his tea. “It makes perfect sense; your name already gives it away.”

But your Uncle Cas chooses that moment to enter the kitchen.

“Sorry about that, plumcake, I – oh.”

“Uncle, this is Coriolanus,” you begin introducing the two. “I know you’ve already met, but I might as well. Coryo, meet my Uncle Cas.”

Your uncle puts on a pleasant smile and greets your guest. “Coriolanus! I’m glad you could join us.”

Coryo’s posture straightens as he extends his hand and addresses him formally. “Mr Innis. Thank you for having me, pleasure’s all mine.”

Uncle Cas shakes his hand and declares, “So, who’s hungry?”

Dinner begins without any hitches, and the conversation in between is lighthearted. Coryo is just as charming as always, and your uncle is just as delightful a host.

“This is delicious, Mr Innis,” Coryo praises, referring to the pasta.

Your uncle, seated at the head of the table, brushes it off with a laugh. “If I cooked that, you’d be on the floor by now, heaving and having seizures. That’s Nellie’s, although I take full credit for the sourdough bread.”

Coryo turns to you from across the table with a grin. “One learns something new every day. Are there any more talents you’re keeping hidden from me?”

“Oh no, this isn’t a talent: it’s survival. Otherwise, my uncle’s cooking would’ve poisoned me,” you shoot your uncle a pointed look, before turning back to your friend. “And I wouldn’t have made it past the age of seven. But I’m glad you like it.”

“I do. I have not had a home-cooked meal in a while since I moved out from Corso I, and it felt a tad too excessive to hire a cook with me being out for most of the day,” Coryo admits.

His moving out is news to you. “Wait. You moved out? Since when? And where?”

“A month ago, to a new building near the University and the Citadel. It’s a wonderful place, I have it all to myself – an albeit late gift from Mr Plinth for my twentieth birthday. But I’m still trying to settle in.”

“Oh, but that’s nice, still!” you say, before biting into a piece of garlic bread. “You get the place to yourself, practice your independence, and all – ”

“Nellie, I know it’s your birthday and you can perfectly take care of yourself, but I’m not buying you an apartment,” your uncle interrupts flatly.

“What, I didn’t say anything!”

The pasta is eventually cleared up, making way to dessert. When you take out the cake from the fridge and out of the box, you gasp audibly.

Coryo bought you your favourite cake flavour: chocolate cherry.

You gape at him and ask, “How did you know?”

But he just flashes a mischievous look at you. “I’ll never tell.”

After all of you get each other’s fill of the cake – the most delicious of its kind you’ve ever had – your uncle volunteers to clear the table so you and your friend can move to the living room to talk. You decide to bring out the only bottle of wine you have in the pantry.

“No maids tonight?” Coryo questions, setting down the bottle on the coffee table and pouring the red liquid halfway through your tall glass.

“We have two in shifts; they alternate each morning. Uncle decided a long time ago to not hire stay-at-home maids, or a cook, so we could both learn a little responsibility.”

“Hmm. And he doesn’t drink?”

You shake your head as you sip. “No. He’s been sober since I can remember.” You put down your glass with pursed lips.

Coryo’s lips are upturned as he observes you through the rim of his glass. “You don’t drink either, from the looks of it.”

You grin dryly in admittance. You watch as he takes another sip before his expression shifts to excitement.

“I have been meaning to give you this all night.” He takes out a tiny, velvet box from inside his waistcoat pocket. “Your birthday gift,” he whispers.

Too stunned to speak, you gulp lightly when you take it.

“Open it,” he urges.

You flip the lid to reveal a plum-coloured, tear-drop-shaped diamond charm attached to what looks like a fine, white gold chain necklace. Your jaw drops at its sheer elegance. Judging by his look, he’s extremely pleased at your reaction.

“See? ‘Plumcake’ is fitting. Or...how about ‘sugarplum?’ That way, only I get to use it.”

His use of pet names even fails to faze you. “Coryo, this is too much...” you begin, but he just shushes you with a finger to your lips.

His eyes are half-lidded, glinting in the dim lighting, his tone hushed as he says, “Turn around so I can put it on you.”

You do as he says, only because that stare of his unnerved you a little.

His fingertips graze your collarbone as he gathers your hair to the side. You feel the weight of the diamond necklace around your neck: cold, heavy, a little stifling, just like his proximity. His hands finish with the clasp of the necklace, but they remain on your shoulders.

You’re overreacting, you tell yourself.

You almost jump as you feel warm breath brush against your earlobe, and his voice, an octave lower, whispers, “Happy birthday, plumcake.”

You get a sudden urge not to turn around.

In an attempt to break the tension, you lightly joke, “Call me that one more time and I’ll put poison in your tea.”

But his lips brush against your hair this time, and he lets out a breathy laugh that tickles the shell of your ear. “For you, sugarplum, I’d drink it in a heartbeat and ask for seconds.”

Goosebumps erupt on your arm as you feel his fingertips ghost over your back when he releases your shoulders.

“Hmm. I like the sound of that better.”

A pause ensues, but all you can hear is your thrumming pulse, accelerating when you hear his next request:

“Turn back around so I can see you wearing it.”

You breathe sharply and steel yourself to comply.

There’s an odd glint in his gaze that chills you, except you’re not sure what it is or why you’re frozen in place with it. The corner of Coryo’s mouth lifts, he strokes your jaw and lifts your chin while a forefinger traces a line on your cheek. Your lower lip trembles every so slightly.

“My pretty little sugarplum.”

He releases you in the blink of an eye, his smile once more broad and friendly, just as your uncle walks into the living room to declare he’s finished cleaning up.

It’s nothing, you assure yourself.

You’re desperate to change the subject, so you ask your friend if he wants to take home some of the leftover pasta which he gratefully accepts.

“That way, I’ll have something you made for breakfast,” he says.

When you hand him the glass container filled with the food, he addresses your uncle, who’s quietly leaning against the kitchen entryway watching the two of you.

“I have to confess: I actually have a bit of an ulterior motive for coming over, Mr Innis.”

“Oh?”

“The Plinths, specifically Mr Plinth, want to invite you and Nellie for dinner this Sunday. I suspect Mr Plinth wants to make a proposal that will benefit his business and yours.”

Your uncle’s expression lights up, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “That’s two days from now. I wonder what it could be about. Any chance he’s elaborated?” he asks.

Coryo just smiles apologetically and responds, “I’m afraid that’s the extent of what I was told. Their new home is just a floor below ours at Corso I, and the dinner is at seven, if you choose to accept.”

Uncle Cas nods thoughtfully. “Alright. Tell Strabo we’ll be there. Should we bring anything?”

“They will take care of everything, Mr Innis, don’t you worry.”

Your friend, thanking you both for dinner and wishing you once more a happy birthday, shakes your uncle’s hand and finally bids farewell for the night.

Relief takes over your form the moment you close the door behind him.

“Nellie.”

You glance at your uncle with tired, heavy eyes. He gives you a concerned once-over.

“Are you okay?” he asks quietly, placing both his hands on your shoulder. His stare lands on the necklace you’re still wearing, his eyes narrowing at it, before flicking back to yours.

Did he see... anything in the living room before he walked in?

“Yeah,” you say. You immediately regret how unconvinced you sound. “I’m just tired, uncle. Are we really going to the Plinths?”

“Do we have a reason not to?”

You chew on the insides of your cheek, unable to come up with an answer. You doubt he’d believe it if you say, ‘I just don’t feel right about it.’

Uncle Cas observes you with his hands in his pocket, but he lets out a drawn-out exhale. “We’ll go, but we’ll leave when things get uncomfortable, okay? Get some sleep.”

You hadn’t originally planned on enrolling for summer classes, but you figure you need the distraction, and the extra credits can’t hurt.

No matter what you do, however, no matter how much work you take on yourself in your uncle’s private lab, you can’t seem to get your mind off your friend’s peculiar behaviour towards you after dinner. Perhaps it was all just a friendly gesture to him, and he meant nothing by it; you just misread the whole situation. Maybe you could pin it to booze, but as far as you can remember, he had barely finished half a glass then. Whatever it was, it still leaves you perturbed every time you think about it. And what’s worse is you don’t know why you feel that way.

Thankfully, you don’t see a single platinum-blond hair of Coriolanus Snow for the next two days; so far, he’s only had coffee and some of your favourite pastries delivered to the Uni’s private lab. How he found out you’re there, you don’t want to know. After you finish enrolling in the subjects you felt you needed, you bury yourself in your code work, unsure how you’re going to face a lousy two or three hours sitting down with the family of the dead man you love and the friend whose recent actions have increasingly confused and unsettled you.

And then, there’s Ma Plinth. You have not had a chance to even talk to her or ask her how she’s been since Sejanus’s death. She’s still obviously devastated, that much you know. If she ever finds out about your feelings for her son, or that you have not gotten over him after all this time, who knows what she’ll do or say? Who knows what kind of grief could resurface if she starts talking to you about him?

Just that thought alone makes you dread the dinner with the Plinths all the more.

Saturday arrives without much fanfare, but your misgivings increase tenfold.

“Uncle Cas, do I really have to be there?” you grumble as you adjust your black dress and your hair tie for the umpteenth time. “Coriolanus said it’s a business proposal, I might not even be needed.”

You find your uncle in the living room waiting for you with a deadpan smile.

“Welcome to adulthood, plumcake, where half the places you go to are places you don’t even want to be in.”

You shoot him a half-hearted glare, but he just laughs.

“That’s the spirit.”

You can’t help but pout. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“What are you talking about? I’m the epitome of misery.”

You don’t have to walk that far, seeing as the new Plinth home is just directly across, located in the most luxurious of the Corso buildings. You and your uncle are greeted by a jovial Strabo Plinth with Coriolanus in tow looking like his usual charming self. You greet Sir Plinth politely.

“Ah, the Innis princess! My, you’ve grown into a fine, young woman, Prunella Innis,” he praises. He then addresses the young man behind him. “Coriolanus, see to it that Nellie is taken care of, will you?”

With his arms behind his back, he nods with a smile. “Yes sir, I will.”

Satisfied, Plinth senior turns his attention back to your Uncle Cas, saying, “Why don’t we leave the kids to talk, Acacius? I heard of Innis Tech’s recent CapNet acquisition…”

The two older adults walk away in deep conversation about business, leaving you alone with your friend. You try to avoid eye contact with him, but you can’t keep from brushing past him as you cross the foyer.

“You look pretty,” he leans closer to your ear as you walk by. You mutter your thanks, intending to get as far away from him as the Plinth apartment can afford you, only to be blocked by the arm he places in front of you to keep you in place.

“Nellie, is something wrong?”

He sidesteps to fully face you. You cross your arms and stare right at his collar just so you can keep from looking into those blue orbs.

“Did I say or do something to hurt you?”

“No, I – ”

“Then, what is it? Why are you upset?”

You bite your lower lip, unsure what to tell him. What exactly are you upset about?

“It’s nothing,” you whisper.

“There is clearly something that’s making you unhappy. You can tell me what that is.”

“I said it’s nothi – ”

“Nellie, you’re pushing me away again.”

The obvious hurt in his voice makes you look up at him. “I don’t mean to,” you admit. You could never intentionally hurt him.

“Then what is this about? Is this about that night at your place?” He dips his head further when you avert your gaze. With a finger, he lifts your chin, making you observe his reproachful expression. “Whatever I did, whatever I said, I did because I like you. I like your company; I like being around you. I’ve always felt I could be more open to you compared to everyone else. You’re different that way, Nellie. Is it so bad to want to give a person I like a gift on her birthday?”

Of course not. Is it possible that your head got in the way of your friendship again? Feeling sheepish, you begin explaining yourself. “No, I’m sorry, I’m being foolish. I don’t know why I’m reacting this way. I should be thankful for your gift, Coryo.”

Your friend’s expression softens considerably.

“I’m sorry.”

He kisses your hair gently and flashes you a smile when he pulls away. “All is forgiven, sugarplum. I can never stay upset at you.”

You simply misinterpreted his actions. Right?

Maybe that is what happened. Before you can mull over your feelings, however, Ma Plinth enters the foyer, and with an audible gasp, she makes a beeline towards you. You take a small, backward step between you and your friend, a little embarrassed that you’ve been caught so close to each other by no less than Sejanus’s mother. You think you saw Coryo’s jaw tick at the distance, but Ma encases you in an affectionate embrace and his features are once more genial.

What is it they said about seeing things you’re expecting to see? You’re being unfair to him again.

You hug the mother of the man you loved just as fondly, hoping you can convey everything you want to say to her with just a single touch. She releases you, beaming with pure joy as she lifts your chin with both palms. “My dear Nellie, look at you, you look even prettier than the last time I saw you. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you. You don’t come by anymore.”

You flash her a contrite smile, regretting not keeping in touch with her. Even after all those times, she still greets you the same way. Unable to think of anything else to say, you settle with, “You look well, Ma. Thank you for having us tonight. I’m sorry, I promise I’ll come visit you more.”

She waves a dismissive hand and takes you by the arm.

“Oh, dear, I understand. Coriolanus talks about you all the time, and he’s been relaying how busy you’ve been under your uncle’s tutelage. He’s told me you work in the same position as he does. Acacius must be so proud.”

“Well, I have to admit; Coryo has had significantly more success in the field than I have.”

Your friend glows at your compliment as he steps beside you and Ma. “Don’t sell yourself short, my dear Nellie. I’m sure you’ve made great progress in your own right,” he says as he places his hand on your arm.

You let her lead you away to a lounge where you’re served tea by a maid. Ma leads the conversation, settling for a recipe that she thinks you might like to try. Coryo just observes the entire time, chiming in when necessary. A little while later, another maid announces dinner time, and you follow Ma to the dining room, your friend trailing behind. Plinth senior pulls up the chair to his right for his wife, before taking his seat at the head of the table. Coryo also pulls up the chair beside Ma’s for you and takes the seat directly across from you.

Strabo flashes him a look of pride. “It’s the important women in our lives who have to be served the most.”

You decide to completely ignore this comment and just smile politely.

Dinner is served in several dishes by several maids, with everyone, especially your uncle, praising Ma’s spectacular cooking. Lighthearted conversation ensues about the Plinth and Innis seniors’ work, followed by yours and Coryo’s, which of course veer into the Hunger Games.

Again, you smile politely throughout the conversation, wishing the night is over and you’re back at home swathed in blankets and dozing off.

Eventually, the torture subsides with dessert – a perfectly crafted panna cotta courtesy of Ma – and Strabo formally requests a private audience with your Uncle Cas and takes your friend with him.

You’re left sitting beside Ma on the couch back in the lounge where you had tea earlier.

“Bring me the magazines while you’re at it,” she tells the maid serving you another cup of tea.

The magazines turn out to be a pile of bridal catalogues – Panem’s most stylish wedding gowns and bridesmaids’ collectionsn plus some of the most extravagant, highly in demand wedding plans in high society – an appalling treasure-trove of overpriced matrimonial junk only to be used once and then promptly discarded as soon as the magic is over.

“I have always loved this part,” Ma tells you excitedly as she flips the latest edition magazine open. “Nellie, do tell me what you think of this theme.”

She extends the catalogue for you to see – a lavender and pastel-green-themed set of table decor adorned with fresh lavender flowers, baby’s breath, and other greens.

“It’s pretty, Ma,” you say. It’s true. But why is she showing you this?

She exclaims ‘Ooh!’ at another one she finds – this time, a shade of atrocious pink and alien-puke green – which she shows with just as much gusto. She shows you several more, before declaring – more to herself than to you – that shades of dark red might be the way to go.

Just when you thought it couldn’t get any worse, she gets to the bridal gowns section.

Either she’s getting remarried, or she’s officially gone loopy.

“Ma, you seem keen on planning this wedding. Is this for a friend of yours?” you ask her after she shows you the seventh gown.

She waves her hand and says vaguely, “Oh dear, it’s for family. It hasn’t been confirmed yet, but I suppose it’s only a matter of time.”

Eventually, Ma sighs dreamily, relaxing on the couch and sipping her tea. She goes quiet for a few moments before abruptly addressing you, making you almost jump in your seat.

“You know, Nellie, dear, between you and me, I’ve always thought Sejanus had taken a...special liking to you.”

And there it is. The one conversation with her you had been trying avoid.

She senses absolutely nothing of your reluctance to discuss anything to do with her son.

“He would never admit it to me, but I could tell,” she continues. “He would always get nervous about having you over for your school projects. He would suddenly be very nit-picky with the food and he would fuss over the clothes he’s wearing...”

She trails off, her eyes glistening with moisture. You may have lost your first love, but she lost her only son. Your heart squeezes at the thought of her suffering quietly while everyone around her seems to have moved on.

You hold the hands she has folded on her lap and confess.

“I’m so sorry, Ma. I wish I had come by more often after...” You inhale sharply to avoid saying it out loud. “I loved your son, I want you to know that. I love him to this day. I promise I’ll be around more, it’s the least I could do.”

Sejanus would be so disappointed in you for waiting so long to say this to his mother.

She tears up at your words and pulls you in for a hug.

“My dear girl, there is nothing to be sorry for. I knew you were hurting, too. I’m glad my son had you in his life.” She pulls away and lifts your chin, flashing you a wet smile. You shed your own tears, but her warmth is so comforting you can’t help but smile too.

She’s almost as warm as him.

“And now, my other son has you in his life, and for that I’m grateful,” she adds.

What?

You blink twice to make sure you heard correctly.

She goes back to her tea once more as she wipes her eyes with a handkerchief.

“I worry constantly about him, with him moving out and living independently. I suppose there was nothing I could have done; Coriolanus had always been adamant about chasing after his dreams that way. But now that he has you, I can worry less.”

Oh no. She can’t be thinking that you and Coriolanus are together, can she?

“Uh, Ma, there’s – ”

Somewhere in the lush apartment, a door bursts open, indicating the end of the conversation between the men.

“Ah, Nellie! There you are.”

Uncle Cas enters the lounge with a breezy smile. But something’s off, you can tell. You know your uncle well and long enough to figure out that he isn’t in the best mood. He tilts his head imperceptibly at you, indicating his want to leave.

Oh, he’s pissed.

“Thank you for having Nellie and me, Mrs Plinth,” he addresses the Plinth matriarch with a kind smile as you get to your feet. “I’d love to stay a little while longer, but I have early summer classes to attend tomorrow, and Nellie has to help me with the preparations.”

A carefree Plinth senior makes his appearance in the lounge with an unreadable Coriolanus following behind him.

Your friend’s eyes, however, are nothing but enraged.

What the fuck happened in there?

“Strabo, by your leave,” your uncle says with a tip of his head. “Thank you, you three, for a wonderful meal.”

Mr Plinth nods with a wide smile. “You are welcome anytime, Acacius. Again, if you change your mind, we are more than willing to re-discuss our terms.”

“Of course.”

You take your turn thanking Mr and Mrs Plinth and bid your friend a good night. His eyes relax visibly as he returns your farewell.

And just like that, you find yourselves out of their home and back into yours. In one piece, safe and sound.

Uncle Cas plops down onto the living room sofa with a groan of exhaustion.

“That was...eventful,” you say.

“Yeah, no kidding,” he murmurs to himself while he stares at the ceiling.

You take the empty couch next to the sofa.

“You lied to them. You don’t have a summer class, not until Thursday.”

“Eh. They don’t know that.”

You wonder what would make your uncle want to leave like that when the Plinths hosted you so graciously. “Uncle? How’d the business proposal go?”

He sighs, removing his shoes, as he debates within himself. “It went...as well as you’d hope.”

You narrow your eyes in confusion. “And...?”

He gets up with a flat smile and walks off to his bedroom, presumably to deposit his shoes. You follow him, wondering why he’s stalling. You lean against his bedroom doorway with your arms crossed.

“And I ultimately decided that their values don’t align with mine and I declined the proposal,” he says. “Happy? Now go to bed. Whether I have a class or not, those class guides aren’t going to print themselves tomorrow. They may need a certain apprentice of mine to get them printed, sorted, and stapled.”

You ignore the reminder of more work in favour of extracting more information. “Your values don’t align,” you insist. “Which is business talk for ‘we’ve nothing in common that we’re practically enemies, and it will never work out, so I told them to fuck off.’”

He gives you a pointed look as he exits his room. “Language, plumcake. But yes, essentially.”

You follow him to his office, where he turns on his computer and begins typing furiously at a program you’re not familiar with.

“Uncle Cas, did you just make enemies out of the Plinths?”

“Nah, I’m sure they don’t see it that way. On the other hand...” he trails off and doesn’t add anything more, leaving you hanging and all the more confounded.

You finally give up. If he wants to be this secretive about it, fine. “Thanks for an enlightening exchange. Good night, uncle.”

He just hums in acknowledgement. You turn to exit his office, but he calls your name at the last minute.

“Nellie? About Snow...”

Oh no. He, too, can’t be thinking you and your friend are together, can he?

“What about him?”

“You know what, never mind,” he dismisses. “There’s an envelope on my desk at the University lab that I’d like you to bring to Dr Kay tomorrow. At the Citadel.”

Now, this stumps you. Your uncle made you a promise he’d never make you work there. “Why now?”

“Dr Kay needs it. She’s been pestering me about it for days. She wears those ridiculously large pink glasses, she’s not hard to miss.” As if he reads the dread on your face, he adds, “It’s not going to take you long. Bring it to her, and then you can leave, go back to the University, and print those class guides.”

You nod, however reluctantly.

“Nellie? I need you to listen carefully. There’s a reason why I gave you my word never to bring you to the Citadel, despite being my official apprentice. Lingering inside that place can get you in trouble.”

Your uncle’s serious warning stays with you when you finally get to bed, and it’s the first thing you recall when you wake. He’s gone, presumably to his work at the Citadel, so you do as you’re told. You make a quick way of retrieving the typical-looking envelope before you ask the driver to take you to the place you’d never thought you’d ever enter.

The car isn’t allowed beyond the gates, so you approach the Peacekeeper station on foot, where you through retina scanning. They probably would’ve confiscated your bag if you brought it with you. One of them makes a move to take the envelope, but you take a step back.

“Acacius Innis wants me to give this to Dr Kay. I’m assuming it’s top secret,” you defend.

He nods in understanding and beckons you to follow. With your escort, you trudge down a long, empty grey hallway.

There’s a certain special kind of relationship that the Capitol has with Brutalist architecture. Brutalism was designed to be cold, imposing, and utilitarian. It has beauty, you suppose, but the type of beauty that’s distant, almost desolate, and unforgiving.

The elevator takes you deep underground, eventually opening its doors to a bright open space, strewn with long, white tables, and high ceilings covered in what look like glass panels. You exit, turning to the peacekeeper to ask for directions, but the elevator door closes behind you.

Maybe you could’ve asked your uncle for a map in hindsight.

Moving along the path to your right, you get a closer look at the glass panels to discover they’re actually cages.

Cages upon cages, stacked sky-high, containing a slew of creatures, some genetically altered beyond recognition.

Lingering inside that place can get you in trouble.

As your uncle’s words echo in your head, you walk quickly, averting your gaze from the glass cages and doubling your motivation to find this Dr Kay. You meet no other human being as you tread aimlessly, and soon enough it becomes harder and harder to navigate the seemingly endless rows of glass cages without at least peeking at them, or risk going around in circles. Eventually, you find yourself in a section labelled ‘Aviary,’ surrounded by cages filled with nothing but winged creatures of all sizes and shapes, cooing and caw-ing in sickening discordance. You walk several more steps before you hear a voice.

“Fetch the doughnuts.”

Finally, a person!

“Hello?” you call out. You hear someone echo it. You call out again, walking in the direction of the sound. “Excuse me?”

“Excuse me?”

It echoes again, this time sounding more familiar.

“Excuse me? Excuse me?” The voice repeats. And then it clicks: the voice is familiar because it’s yours, and it’s coming from a cage to your left.

Jabberjays. Of course.

The plumage is unmistakable from the books you’ve read. Sleek black feathers, morphing to bluish-purple at the base of its neck.

Eventually, the others catch on, and in a few seconds, all you can hear is the maddening sound of your own confusion being repeated a hundred-fold. You clutch the envelope close, having a half-mind to just come back later when you hear a pair of heels catching up on you.

“Wait, are you Acacius Innis’s niece?”

You turn around to find yourself face to face with a woman wearing pink glasses too big for her face.

“Dr Kay!” You sigh in relief.

“Come with me over there, it’s much quieter.”

Glad to finally be away from the birds, you’re quick to fall into step with her, only stopping when you reach a table stacked to the edge with documents and envelopes not unlike the one you’re holding.

“Your uncle told me he’d have you bring the papers over?”

You nod and hand it over.

“They’re quite unnerving, huh?” she says with a smile, referring to the jabberjays.

Sheepishly, you laugh. That’s an understatement; they’d make perfect devices for psychological torture. “Yes, a bit. How did you get that many?”

“We had them flown from District 12, actually. It took a joint effort of peacekeepers to gather them.”

This information piques your interest. Coryo was stationed in District 12 as a peacekeeper. Maybe be rounded off a few of them.

“When did they get here, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Uh, September four, if I remember correctly,” she says absently as she struggles with opening the envelope. “...because we had to quarantine them from the rest of the birds, one of them died the day after they arrived. It kick-started a vaccination campaign in the entire Genetics department.”

September four. Two days before Sejanus was executed.

A wave of ice-cold realisation hits you.

“The jabberjays...they can record human voices with a remote, right?” you ask, masking your suspicion with curiosity.

“Yes, if they’re on ‘record,’ otherwise they’d mimic pretty much any sound they fancy.”

Determined to seek answers, you press on, carefully choosing your words. “It’s surprising how they still function so well after all those years...”

Dr Kay smiles warmly at you. “You Innises...so naturally inquisitive. Your uncle is the same, you know. We’ve worked on a handful of projects together before...but yes. Some of the peacekeepers even tested them out before they were sent here. You know, I was wondering when your uncle would bring you around, you’re his apprentice, right?”

“Oh, he occupies me with administrative stuff at school.” Your reply becomes automatic, your mind running on overdrive. Like an algorithm being fed with new information to process.

“Yeah, that sounds like your uncle, alright.” She finally succeeds with prying the files out of the envelope, but you’re only vaguely taking this in. “There must be a mistake, these are test papers for Advanced Trigonometry.”

“Huh? I’m sorry, I must’ve grabbed the wrong files...” Your eyes glaze over the papers as you try to calm your inner turmoil.

A peacekeeper ratted Sejanus out.

As soon as you come to a terrifying conclusion, it’s all your mind could run.

“Nellie! There you are, I just knew you’d get lost.”

Your uncle breaks you from your trancelike state. Addressing Dr Kay, he says, “I had the files all along, I totally forgot I wedged them hastily yesterday inside my briefcase.” He hands the female doctor a similar-looking envelope.

“They really should label these...” Dr Kay mutters.

“So sorry, plumcake. Here. For your trouble.”

Uncle Cas digs into his lab pocket and hands you a lollipop.

You have to get your shit together.

You inspect the candy as you take it, noting how it’s melted in its plastic wrapper and has lint sticking all over it.

“Does the Citadel know you’re casually carrying around a level three biohazard in your lab pocket? How long has this thing been in there?” you joke. Dr Kay’s laughter echoes through the glass-cage-laden hall.

“Try it and then let me know. If you get hives after, we’ll chalk it up to science,” he says just as cheekily. “Run along now. I’ll walk you to the upper level, you might get lost again.”

“Good to know she has your sense of humour,” Dr Kay comments lightly.

Your uncle takes you by the shoulder and guides you to the elevator. “You know what, go straight home, Nellie. Take the day off. The class guides can wait until tomorrow.”

Safe with your uncle inside the elevator, you finally had time to piece together in your head the information you had accidentally stumbled upon.

A peacekeeper must’ve recorded Sejanus on a confession using a jabberjay. It’s not a coincidence only one of them died after the birds got to the Citadel. Whoever killed the bird knew who betrayed your friend and ultimately got him killed, and they did it to cover their tracks.

Coriolanus most likely rubbed shoulders with them, too, and he doesn’t even know it.

The elevator takes you to the top floor with a ding. Uncle Cas escorts you to the gates, but before he takes his leave of you, he casually leans closer so only you can hear what he says:

“Whatever you found out in there, plan your next move wisely.”

With a final strange look, he turns away and disappears inside the building.

Another less outlandish idea crosses your mind: maybe your uncle didn’t forget about the file. He planned your trip to the Citadel on purpose.

Did Acacius Innis just lead you to unearth the truth about Sejanus’s death?

You understand why, but the timing...why now?

You decide to take your uncle’s advice and head straight home – your brain possesses too little processing power to run that much information at once. Like a microprocessing chip that’s overheating and about to crash, running a program that’s too big for its capacity.

Once home, you head straight to the kitchen in a trance. You take out a pint of ice cream from the freezer, and without even sitting down, you demolish it in one go as you lean heavily on the counter. You eat so fast, that you barely taste the flavour: brownie ala mode.

A snide voice invades your thoughts – the familiar one that always resurfaces just before you make incorrect assumptions that lead to horrible decisions.

What if it was Coriolanus?

It takes the loud clang of your spoon on the kitchen floor for you to recognise that voice and push it away.

How could you think that of Coriolanus? There you are again, not giving him a chance and judging him without basis. He wouldn’t betray his best friend. He wouldn’t lie to you. He certainly would never kill Sejanus then worm his way into the Plinths in place of their dead son, and still be able to live with himself. It’s impossible. It’s just your mind trying once more to sabotage the only friendship you’ve gained since Sejanus died; something in you that refuses to allow yourself to live a normal fucking life for once.

Coryo isn’t a cold-blooded sociopath.

You barely make it to the bathroom when you begin retching uncontrollably. As you empty your stomach of the entire pint of ice cream you ate, a single thought makes you even sicker to yourself for even thinking of it: What if he did it?

Enter Level 5

Author notes:

Please reblog and comment, it's always appreciated!!!

Any guesses what went on in the meeting with Strabo?? 🤭🤔 lemme knoooow!!!

#dark!coriolanus snow #dark!coriolanus snow x reader #young!coriolanus snow #young!coriolanus snow x reader #named!reader #or #OC2ndPOV #18+ only #dark!coriolanus snow fic #dark!coriolanus #dark!coriolanus fic #dark!fic

[dotieeee]

The Gamemaker's Apprentice

Level 16

Pairing: Dark!Young!Coriolanus Snow x You, named!Reader

Overall Warnings:

NON-CON, DUB-CON, Dark!Young!Coriolanus Snow, Snow himself should be a warning, lots of blackmailing, gaslighting, manipulation, obsession, possesiveness, eventual forced marriage, eventual loss of virginity, breeding kink, canon-compliant major character death, reader is named but has no physical descriptions in the fic so one might also consider her an OC but in 2nd POV, will have canon inconsistencies, drugging, somnophilia, and other stuff that may be added

Masterlist

Level 16 Warnings:

Non-consensual dom-sub dynamic (belt-flogging), alcoholic consumption, bullying

Replay Level 15

Ready? Level 16 Start:

You didn’t really want to be here. Not at all, no sir.

You were a big fan of routine. Every day from Monday to Friday, Ms Rosenthal would come by at your home to supervise your studies. You’ve heard her compliment you many times to Uncle Cas about how you’re quite a few levels too advanced for children your age; you’ve been getting perfect scores in all your arithmetic tests; your reading and writing skills are superb.

Two months ago, however, Uncle had decided to take a pause on the routine and mentioned it was perhaps time to try something new: going to school for a day to see how you’d like it. This, you didn't understand. You’ve been doing exceptionally well with your studies, kept your nose clean and everything – so how come Uncle had to disrupt the way things were just because your psychologist told him to?

“Nellie is just eight and she needs to spend time with people her age, Mr Innis. She may be intellectually gifted, but besides her tutoring sessions, you may want to see her enrolled in any of our elementary schools and be around with other kids to prevent emotionally stunted growth.”

According to your research, the psychologist just called you aloof and immature.

But Uncle Cas pleaded that you give this day a chance. Just this first day of school, and he said if you didn’t like it, he wouldn’t pressure you to stay.

So far, except for odd stares from the other kids on the playground, you’d been left alone on a stone bench reading a book you had brought for comfort.

Algebra I For Beginners.

You wanted to be like your uncle working with computers one day, and he said if you wanted a leg-up, Algebra was the way to start. You took out a notebook and a pencil, intending to begin with an equation on page thirty-one, when you spotted several kids convening around the base of one of the slides, whispering among themselves. One of them, the blonde girl with pigtails in the middle, pointed to someone on the swing – a boy with thick brown curls and downcast brown eyes – followed by everyone else’s laughter. Anyone from a distance like yours could easily see that they were making fun of him for whatever reason – all of them except the tall boy with blond wavy locks and bright blue eyes, who ignored both the laughter and the boy on the swing, merely hanging back to observe. There was something a tad snobbish in his facial expression, but you couldn’t really tell. Maybe that’s just how he usually looked. You’d later discover how correct your initial assumption would be.

One of the kids, you didn’t see who, pelted the boy with brown curls with a pebble, but it hit the sand near him, loud enough to attract his attention.

From across the short distance you heard one of them say, “Hey, is it true they eat babies in the districts?”

Everyone, save the blond boy, burst into raucous laughter and went on to call him names you’ve only heard on television before, which made you frown a bit.

The boy was clearly minding his own business. Why would they bother him at all by calling him needlessly cruel names?

You abandoned your book and your bag and approached them.

“Excuse me,” you politely interjected. “What did he do?”

The girl with pigtails in the middle said, “Who are you?”

“That doesn’t matter,” you said.

They whispered among themselves, which you only caught glimpses of.

“You think she’s District too?”

“She doesn’t sound like it…”

“I haven’t seen her before…”

One of them quipped, “He’s District. Are you?”

“That shouldn’t matter, either. Everyone should be treated fairly.”

“You know what my father calls your type? A rebel s-sin..synthesiser,” a brown-haired girl said with contempt.

“I think the correct word would be ‘sympathiser,’” you replied with a tilt of your head, which earned an eye roll from the girl.

“Whatever, freak,” she said snootily. “Ugh, I’m leaving, this isn’t fun anymore.”

Everyone in the group groaned but they dispersed. The blond boy, however, stared at you with mild interest, which he tried to hide using a blank expression. You ignored him in favour of talking to the brown-haired boy – he could’ve stopped his ‘friends’ from calling him terrible names, but instead, he just stood back and did nothing.

“Don’t mind them,” you gave him what you thought was a friendly smile. “They’re all just huge shitbags.”

Both the boys seemed taken aback by your language. Your uncle always had to tell you not to say things like that, but you hear him use that kind of language all the time, especially in the kitchen. “My name is Prunella Innis. You can call me Nellie.”

You held out your hand to the brown-eyed boy, which he shook tentatively.

The blond boy confidently strode over to you and took out his palm. “Coriolanus. Coriolanus Snow.”

“Hi,” you flashed him the same smile and shook his hand lightly. You then turned to the other boy, who got out of his perch on the swing and introduced himself, sniffling.

“My name’s Sejanus Plinth.”

“I know,” Coriolanus said matter-of-factly. “I heard your family just moved to the Capitol.”

The boy named Sejanus nodded, but there was something sad behind his eyes. To try and make him feel better, you said, “Sejanus, huh? Mine did about two years ago.”

Both the boys gave you surprised looks; you shrugged it off and said, “So what? It certainly didn’t do my parents any favours.”

Sejanus actually cracked a smile, but Coriolanus’s real expression remained masked behind what you could tell was a fake smile.

A word you recently learned, ‘elitist,’ crossed your mind. You’d discover much later that assumption too, would be correct.

“You’ve been here since the middle of the war? I haven’t seen you in school before,” the curious blond asked.

“I’m homeschooled.” And if you had anything to say about it, you liked it better that way.

Sejanus bashfully showed a tiny brown bag. You peered inside and saw gumdrops. Your uncle didn’t hoard gumdrops as much as he did with chocolates, so you suspected that he didn’t like them very much. You took one, saying ‘thank you’, and Coriolanus took some after you.

“Am I going to see you around?” Sejanus asked you, looking somewhat hopeful.

Your smile faltered a little. “Probably not.”

Sejanus’s brows drew together. “Why not?”

“My uncle says I don’t have to stay if I don’t like it. And I’ve decided that I don’t.”

“So you’re going to keep studying…at home?” Coriolanus wondered with a tone that sounded like it was a foreign concept to him.

“Yes.”

You smiled at them both and went back to your bench to pick up where you left off in the book. Your uncle emerged not much later from the building with an expectant look on his face. That look immediately morphed into exasperation once he saw you begin packing your bag.

“Let me guess: the place didn’t even stand a chance.”

Nodding, you added, “The kids here are hostile; therefore I think the environment may be cutthroat.”

Your Uncle Cas sighed to himself and commented under his breath, “You know, sometimes I think your vocabulary is a punishment for my past actions…”

Ignoring this, you glanced up at your uncle with an innocent grin and asked, “So, do we get ice cream after?”

“A big, whopping ‘no.’ Not a damn chance.”

Uncle Cas only laughed at the pout on your face, but you glanced back at the boys named Sejanus and Coriolanus, nodding farewell to them both. The corner of Coriolanus’s mouth twitched upwards and Sejanus gave you a small wave. Your gaze lingered just a little on Sejanus’s warm brown eyes.

You would see both of them again in a few years’ time, but that little girl walking away from the schoolyard didn’t yet know that the boys would remain a permanent fixture in her life: one of them, taking her heart with him to his grave, and the other, forcibly twining with and shaping her entire future for the worse.

Nine fifty-eight on a Friday night is quite a busy time for Club She Said. The girls-only membership club is already packed with well-dressed rich Capitol women with pretty drinks in their hands, chattering about and giggling among themselves. The company whom you invited seems to have arrived surprisingly earlier than you have and is sitting at the bar seemingly engaged in a lively conversation with the lady bartender.

“You’re early,” you comment as you take the seat beside her.

“It’s called ‘growth. You should try it sometime, it wouldn’t hurt,” Livia Cardew jabs at you as she sips her drink.

Your maid of honour, casually dissing you. You roll your eyes in mild amusement as she orders a drink called The Dark Lady on your behalf – a blackberry-lemon smash – and say, “This is a nice place. It feels cosy and...safe.”

Your eyes dart around the club, spotting nothing but female staff – waitresses, DJs, bouncers – plus the numerous cliques who seem to be having a blast catching up with their girlfriends over drinks without the presence of their male partners. You’re thankful Livia chose this place on your behalf – even with your fiancé’s money and influence, this is a place he’ll never be allowed to enter.

Livia grinned smugly at your compliment. “Well, with your ridiculous time limit, I figured we both deserve to spend it wisely and without your boyfriend breathing down your neck.” She gives you a dead-eyed look and adds, “Honestly, he’s the only man I know who gives his girl just a measly one hour and thirty minutes to be out and about on a Friday night. So, unless he’s horny and he wants to fuck all the time, he’s just being an ass.”

This, you can’t agree more.

The lady bartender arrives with your drink, elegantly presented in a tall, slender glass, garnished with fresh blackberries and a lemon wedge. You thank her and turn to Livia to reply, “What can I say, I hit the jackpot. Oh my, this is amazing.” You had just taken a sip of the drink, which is by far the best you’ve ever had, to which the bartender beams in thanks.

Livia lets out screech of excitement. “Wait till you try Better Than Sex...”

She then proceeds to explain the drink’s etymology in great detail – a drink made of coffee liqueur, chocolate liqueur, full-cream milk and cherry grenadine, garnished with whipped cream and chocolate shavings. She goes on from She Said’s cocktails to showing you photos of bridesmaids’ gowns which she fishes out of her purse.

“I think this one fits your theme best,” she says as she points to a photo. “Besides, I look fucking fabulous in that colour and cut.”

Then she starts pointing out to you who’s sleeping with whom in the club, right before she jumps into the topic of arranging your bachelorette party.

“What? Absolutely not,” you say. Images of you passed out, drunk, and being hauled home by a displeased Coriolanus cross your mind. You shiver inwardly in horror at the idea.

“And why not?” she retorts, clearly outraged. “How could you fucking pass on your own hen party? That’s like, the hen’s only chance to have a bit of fun before the cock locks her in a cage and throws away the key. Pun totally intended.”

She takes a long swig of her drink and holds out a pointer finger for emphasis. “Read: by ‘fun,’ I meant strippers.”

With your eyebrows raised, you shake your head and respond, “Try mentioning that when he’s around and see if you get more than the icy stare.”

“Oh, boo-hoo. He used to hire escorts all the time. Honestly, he’s such a hypocrite.”

It takes you quite a bit of convincing for her to finally drop it and relent.

“Ugh, fine. Forgive me for trying to take my role seriously,” she sighs as she rolls her eyes dramatically and curls her lips in mock disapproval. “Don’t blame me down the line if you start feeling unfulfilled for not trying out other dicks for size.”

The lady bartender brings another round of cocktails for two, and you both clink your glasses together before sipping. This is the most alcohol you’ve consumed not just in one night, but also your entire life. You haven’t even gone through your second glass halfway and you’re already feeling the proverbial buzz.

“Okay, Innis. Spill. I know you didn’t invite me out for drinks just to shut down my hen party-hosting skills. Plus, we’ll get to meet at that cake-tasting thing tomorrow anyway. What is this about, for real?” Livia, ever the sharp one, rests her chin on the back of her hand and stares at you inquisitively.

You meet her gaze nonchalantly and reply, “Nothing. I was just bored. Can’t wait to try the cakes out.”

There is truth to that, somehow, because aside from the wedding preparations, college classes, and Coriolanus dragging you along to these events he’s always invited to, he still hasn’t allowed you to freely roam the city, perhaps fearing you’d attempt to contact your uncle and make a run for it again.

Livia squints her eyes at you while inching closer and not breaking eye contact. “You’re a good liar,” she concludes, leaning back into her seat and nodding in approval. “I like it.”

She gestures to the bartender for another round of drinks – your eyes widen when you realise she just ordered shots – and says with a mischievous grin as they arrive, “Luckily for me, I have methods of extracting valuable information – methods, mind you, that have, so far, yielded me with satisfactory results.”

You shake your head in mirth, accepting the drink from her. She raises her glass as if taking you on a challenge.

“Mark my word: you are going to fold, Innis.”

“Bite me, Cardew.”

Both of you burst into fits of laughter and throw your heads back in unison as you empty the shot glass. Two more of those and eventually you tap out of the drinking spree, earning the scathing comment ‘lightweight’ from your drinking buddy, who isn’t too far from your level of tipsiness despite what she brags about. You decide to order a basket of bacon-jalapeño poppers to nibble on, and you manage to get through half the basket before Livia takes it away and places it behind her, well beyond your reach.

“Easy on the grease, will you please?”

You pout. “Hey, I wasn’t done with that.”

She just replies with a frown, “Watch your figure. Tigris won’t like it if she makes adjustments to your dress at the last minute.”

You finish off the piece you’re holding with a single bite and lean on the bar with a slumped posture.

“Or not. You know, maybe if you let yourself go, your boyfriend might just – ”

“It’s Sejanus’s second death anniversary tomorrow.”

A pause passes between you two, with Livia staring at you as if she doesn’t know how to react or what to say to what you just blurted without warning.

“‘District boy?’” When you shoot her a half-hearted glare, she corrects herself, her tone a little more mellow, “Sorry, force of habit. And not to be a bitch, but why do you care?”

Why, indeed? The first year, you had no trouble going through, but the second somehow seems like another empty hole in your heart, slowly growing and gnawing away at the rest of it. Like all the aches you experienced just a few months after his death has come back in full force.

“Shit.”

Livia’s curse is followed by a slump in her posture as she leans on the bar and processes the information. “So, you really love him.”

“I do. Or did. I don’t know anymore.”

She motions for two glasses of water which arrives instantly. You’re only too happy for something without any trace of booze in it and drink the entire glass in one go.

“So, you called me here,” your drinking buddy says carefully, “Because you don’t know what to do and you can’t really talk to your boyfriend about it because he’d get jealous.”

Once again, she’s spot-on. Except she missed the part where you suspect that your boyfriend might’ve also killed him. You give her just a single look and she instantly confirms her hypothesis.

“He won’t get jealous; he’ll just shut me down.”

“That’s the same thing.” She sighs audibly and stares at you sombrely.

“You’re a sucker for self-punishment, you know that?”

You merely shrug in response.

“I’m not invalidating your feelings and shit, but this isn’t helping you at all in this Snow-situation.” Livia empties the last remaining shot glass. “I know you miss him, okay? It’s pretty clear. But that’s not going to bring him back. Just because your first love is gone and you’re stuck with your sociopathic fiancé doesn’t mean you have to be miserable.”

Livia gives you a look that can only mean ‘get your shit together’ and orders one more set of cocktails. When they arrive, she takes one for herself and hands you the other.

“But that also doesn’t mean we can’t toast to his memory.”

You take the glass and raise it. “To Sejanus Plinth.”

She copies your movement, muttering, “To your District Lover Boy, Sejanus Plinth.”

You both empty your glasses at the same time and you almost slam the glass back on the table. Never in a lifetime did you ever think toasting to your dead friend over a fruity-boozy drink could feel so cathartic, but here you are.

“There. Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, get your shit together, Innis. You’re smarter than that.”

Despite her harsh reprimand, you find yourself chuckling, to which she just rolls her eyes, smirking exasperatedly.

“You know, he gives me so much grief for asking you to be my maid of honour.”

Livia lets out a shriek of glee. “I’d pay a fortune to have seen his reaction when you told him.”

“Oh, he was beyond m-miffed.” Your words are beginning to slur, indicating you probably had way too much of your capacity. “I was jus’ wondering why you accepted. Curious, ‘is’all.”

“If you’re asking if I’m over’im – ” her own garbled words are interrupted by her loud burp, which startles the waitress passing by – “Yes, I am. I’m over him, swear. But if I can get laid while I’m at it, why the fuck not, right?”

Guffawing, she adds, “Jus’ wanna see him suffer. ‘Magine the guy losing you? He’d spiral the fuck down. Honessly, I tried, m’kay? All this wedding prep – I already bumped into him sooo many times, made a loooot of passes, but no-ooo, he only has eyes for you.”

Side-eying you in jest, she adds, “No accounting for taste.”

You giggle. You actually giggle along with her as she shoves your arm playfully. Then, both of you share a look and dart like lightning to the washroom, throwing up in separate cubicles in unison. Having let some of that out, you begin feeling just a tad better even if the buzz still lingers.

You’re on the sink washing your hands when you notice the time on your watch.

Shit.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

“I have to go.” According to the time, you’ve gone thirty minutes over your fiancé’s time limit.

Livia lets out a groan as she emerges from her stall. “Yeah, me too. I’m so hammered. I already paid, you get the next one. And you better not pull a District and go cheap on me, Innis.”

“Trust me, Cardew. When I pay, you can go drown in it for all I care.”

She snorts in laughter on the way outside the She Said Club, where she says her driver is waiting in the parking lot.

“Look sharp, Innis. Your executioner has arrived,” she mutters so only you can hear.

True enough, you look into the icy blue glare of Coriolanus Snow, leaning against the service car door, the stone-cold smile on his face concealing his ire.

“Did you have fun, sugarplum?” he says as he approaches.

From behind you, Livia fakes a retching noise.

You, however, are rooted to your spot as you try your best to appear sober.

“Livia, pardon me, but I have to take my fiancée home.” Coriolanus’s falsely cheery tone is disarming, as usual.

“You heard him. To the gallows, you go.” Livia pats you on the back and mumbles a ‘good luck’ under her breath before addressing the male. “See you both tomorrow. Try not to tire her out too much tonight, will you, Coriolanus? She can’t miss this; you know how she lo-oooves cakes. Loves them.”

Inwardly, you groan the way she just tries to rile him up, but he seems to keep a level head as always. In fact, he goes on to give her a wider grin.

“You shouldn’t concern yourself too much with what my fiancée and I do behind closed doors, Livia, and I am well aware how important this is for her.”

Livia just blows a loud raspberry in his direction before getting inside her car and driving off. A firm, large hand immediately grips your arm and the now stern voice of your fiancé chills your blood.

“Come, Nellie. We will talk when we get home.”

And you all but get shoved into the car before it drives you both home, where you suspect he might just pop off.

To the gallows, you go, alright.

Coriolanus Snow had never thought he’d see you again, but here you were, in the same year as him and in his class, sitting just a few seats before him to his right, listening aptly to Professor Cecil drone on about a linear equation on the board that he was well aware you’d be able to solve blindfolded and with hands tied behind your back.

You had left an impression on him when he met you in that playground all those years ago. Even if he remembered you using such colourful language unbecoming of a girl, there had already been something behind your eyes and in the way you spoke that he couldn’t pinpoint then.

He'd later discover the correct adjective: erudite.

Everything about you perplexed him to no end: your perfectly natural Capitol accent, your exemplary manners, your sharp wit, your gifted mind…

Your District origins.

Coriolanus had never thought someone of your calibre could emerge from such a place, yet here you were: an enigma he didn’t know what to feel about.

Festus elbowed him discreetly, distracting him from his thoughts and passing a crudely written note.

u crushing on district-homeschool freak?

Festus sniggered behind a closed fist to avoid drawing attention to himself. Coriolanus grinned imperceptibly and wrote down below the scribble a tasteful reply before handing it back to him:

Fuck off, kindly

The note comes back with more of Festus Creed’s infamous chicken-scratch handwriting:

really pretty though. too bad she’s district.

Coriolanus crumpled the note and tossed it in his bag and went back to staring at the back of your head.

Now, Festus’s former observation he could firmly attest to. You were undeniably easy on the eyes and considered one of the prettiest in his class. Over the next few weeks, he would find out that even the boys in the upper class agreed, with the way they would throw stares at you when you walk by them in the hallways. Unfortunately, he can’t confirm the part about you being District; you weren’t really forthcoming about your personal life to anyone yet. He’s heard of rumours circulating about you being born to a former Capitol actress, though, so the thought that maybe you’re not even District. Maybe someone else spread the idea of your District roots out of jealousy, and maybe you hinting at them when he first met you was just a way to make the real District rat feel good about himself.

Because if you were indeed not of Capitol origins, then that meant the Districts had the capacity to produce more children like you, which they could one day weaponise to try and overthrow the government once more. An army of district kids like you, putting the ones like Arachne, for instance, from the Capitol to shame…

Coriolanus shuddered at the thought.

He’d later discover another aspect of you: that underneath your well-mannered demeanour, you hid what he can only describe as intellectual savagery.

It was lunch break sometime in the first semester. You were alone at a table as usual, declining the nicer girls’ offer of sitting with them at their table.

Coriolanus sat with Festus Creed, Sejanus Plinth, and some of his other male classmates were sitting just a few tables away when Arachne Crane, for whatever reason, had just decided to cause a scene in her usual fashion, backed up by Juno and her other lackeys. The group seemed to have come from the Talent Show rehearsal and approached your table looking just about as menacing as a pack of squirrels ganging up on a rattlesnake.

“Hey, district-homeschool freak,” he heard Arachne call out, as she leaned on your table.

Coriolanus saw a hint of danger flash in your eyes before you stood with grace and an uncannily calm air.

“Oh, so she thinks she’s so tough, huh?” one of the girls quipped behind their leader, but he didn’t see who it was.

“Not at all. I’m just supposed to stand when somebody’s addressing me,” even your tone came off as non-confrontational. “It’s called courtesy, you might’ve heard of it.”

Arachne sneered. “Is that what they teach you at home? What else did they teach you, how to fold your laundry? How to be more submissive to your future husband?” The group laughed with her in a jeering manner.

Plastering a cold smile, you responded, “On the contrary, Arachne, they teach me Algebra II. We’re currently on the radian measure which you wouldn’t know because you’re not on that level yet. I could ask you what they teach you here, but judging by the way you talk, I’d say not that much. In fact, I fear for the state of the Capitol Academe.”

Arachne’s eyes narrowed at the insult. “Just because you have money for tutors doesn’t mean you’re smart.”

“True,” you said. “Money can’t buy intellect.”

“Well, it can’t buy class, either,” Arachne countered a little more loudly.

“I know. I can tell,” you said, clearly unfazed by her increasingly hostile behaviour. “Because you clearly have neither of the two. Are we finished?” You took a quiet, demure sip from your juice pack, before continuing, “Because this is boring me. That’s great Talent Show material, by the way: boring people to death.”

Arachne hid her hurt by scoffing, muttering, “Come on, this is pathetic.”

As they left you alone, you sat back down with the grace of a princess and continued your lunch like nothing happened. Festus kicked him under the table, grinning obnoxiously, and said, “What’s the matter, Snow? Scared that she’ll bite?”

Coriolanus curled his lips in a challenge and kicked him back, while the rest of the table chuckled, still in disbelief at what they just witnessed. He could’ve sworn it was this very moment that made you earn his classmates’ respect, even if you eventually revealed your underlying intolerance for blood and gore during a Hunger Games rerun in History class.

With his eyes glued on you across the mess hall, he couldn’t deny that the way you maintained your cool while hurling witty insults was a form of art you seemed to have mastered.

Later on, he would have his first proper conversation with you in an empty classroom when he arrived earlier than he had planned for a math period. You had been there earlier than he was, your razor-sharp focus on a fourth-year pre-calculus problem written on the board, your arms crossed in full-concentration mode. He watched you take a piece of chalk and attempt to correct what seemed like a solution written by a student.

It took him ten seconds. Ten seconds before he could stop himself and break the silence.

“What made you change your mind about attending school?” Coriolanus asked.

“Hello to you, too,” you turned to face him with a smile momentarily before shifting back your attention to the problem on the board. “Psychologist’s orders. She said I needed to spend time with people my age.”

As if he wasn’t already curious about you – or at least, matters concerning you – you had to add this to the mix.

“Why are you in freshman year?”

“As opposed to what, being locked up in an insane asylum? They have pretty rigorous qualifications that I haven’t met yet.”

It was this moment that he decided he liked your humour immensely. Coriolanus let out a genuine laugh, and you turned to grin at him before you writing a few more lines and returned the piece of chalk to the side of the board.

“No, I meant, why aren’t you in a higher year?” He clarified. “That’s clearly senior-level material.”

“It’s just math,” you shrugged. “Outside that, I’m just like everyone else.”

“I highly doubt that,” a voice said.

You both turned to the voice at the same time to find Sejanus Plinth standing at the classroom doorway.

Ah yes. The District rat.

Now, Coriolanus could confirm that he was, beyond a reasonable doubt, full-blooded, cloddish-accented, one hundred-percent District. The blond quickly masked the sneer of disdain forming on his face with his usual grin as a greeting. He spared you a glance and you both catch each other’s eye. He had thought for a moment that he’d seen a flash of recognition behind them – had you caught that scornful look he had for the District rat? But before he could even confirm, you were already smiling warmly at the other boy – that other boy who was leagues below who you deserved (even if you were part District). That boy with a bag of gumdrops you both briefly interacted with about six years ago who needed you to come to rescue him from almost being ganged up by a bunch of other children.

Sejanus Plinth, who would later grow closer to you and thus would divulge to his best friend the tragic events that would explain your need for a psychologist. Sejanus, who’d later reveal to him that he’s developed a crush on you. Private Plinth, who’d be too chickenshit to tell you until before he left for District 12 and ultimately stayed there.

The teenage Coriolanus might not have been aware then, but the two would have profound, lasting influences in his life: the girl, he’d fall madly in love with and force into marriage, and the boy, very much dead yet he’d still be competing with for her love.

Behind you, you hear the apartment door slamming close and you almost jump at the noise.

You sit on the loveseat in the living room, where Oscar the cat greets you with a head bump on your leg. Before you can pet him, however, Coriolanus picks him up gently and exits, presumably to put him back inside his playroom. He soon returns, pausing on the other side of the coffee table and staring down at you with an utmost displeased expression. Nowhere near comparable as when he found you crouching inside a wooden crate in the middle of a botched escape attempt, but it’s still significant.

“Explain why you went over thirty minutes beyond what you were allowed to spend outside.”

With his hands inside his pockets, he draws to his full height and glares at you icily while he waits for you to speak up and defend yourself. You rub your face with your palms to appear more sober than you really are, but so far, the buzz is still there like an annoying fly you can’t swat off.

“How much did she make you drink?” He asks, crossing his arms in his growing impatience.

“Wha-no, she din’ make me do anything.”

Great. Because slurring your words when you’re being interrogated by a former peacekeeper leads to excellent results. Still, you can’t help but frown at the way he makes it sound like Livia forced you into it.

“Fine. How much did you drink?”

“Much.” Dammit. “I mean, plenty.”

Coriolanus pinches his nose bridge and exhales audibly. “You know you’re not a heavy drinker. You shouldn’t have allowed her to goad you into this. How could you be so irresponsible?”

“Stop talking to me like ’mma child,” you bite back and cross your arms. Inebriated or not, you will not be reduced to an invalid without an agency of your own. “I can think for myself.”

Letting out an aggravated sigh, he gives you a condescending glower. “This is exactly why I told you not to pick her. She is not a good influence on you, Nellie.”

You blink once or twice to process what he just said. You get to your feet, finally realising why he’s so upset with such a simple thing as you drinking out like a normal young adult on a Friday night.

“No, you don’t like her because I’m actually having fun with her. There’s a difference,” you conclude softly. The idea is so absurd, it sobers you up a little. “Remember when you said, I needed to reconnect with old friends or some shit? This is me doing that.”

“This is not about you making friends,” he admonishes in the same patronizing manner. “This is about who you chose as your maid of honour.”

You choose to stand your ground and glare at him. “I made it clear I’m not changing.”

“And I made it clear that I do not approve of your choice,” he says roughly. “Get her off the list and call Clemmie or Lys.”

“Or just call off this fucking wedding, how about that?”

As you harden your expression, he, in turn, gives you a look that you are aware does not bode well for you.

“I don’t like your language, Nellie.”

At this moment, you find yourself agreeing with Livia.

Who cares what he thinks?

“It’s my wedding too, okay?” you snap. You exit the living room quickly, intending to just get the argument over with and lock yourself in your room where he can leave you alone. Unfortunately, he follows you at once. “I can choose whoever I want in my own damn entourage. It’s the only thing in this...this charade that I get choice in and you’re not going to take that from me.”

Coriolanus catches up on you and grabs your arm, which you yank back without much force. “Do not talk to me that way – ”

“She’s the first real friend I’ve ever made since Seja – ”

But there’s something within you that catches you mid-speech. the temperature in the living room seems to drop several degrees, which matches the tone he uses.

“Carefully choose what you say next.”

So, you’re really not even allowed to talk about him as a friend, now. It almost physically pains you that even the man he once considered to be his best friend now refuses to even speak of him.

“Coryo, it’s his second death an – ”

“I know what fucking day it is,” he draws close and hisses in your face. “And you don’t get to use that tone on me. You don’t get to endanger yourself this way and step out of line.”

After his menacing tirade, Coriolanus pulls away. In a second, his fury instantly dissipates, replaced by a blank, even serene expression.

The calm before the storm.

“I can’t have my future wife misbehaving like this,” he says with a tone enough to chill your blood. He then closes the space between you two in a calculated manner, stopping merely inches away from you to stare down at you. “I should be nipping this in the bud.”

Your vision spins next, and you wonder for a second if the alcohol you consumed finally has gotten the better of you – until you notice an almost painful grip around your thighs: your fiancé had just hauled you off the floor and placed you over his shoulders. Before you can protest, you’re dumped unceremoniously into a soft surface. Disoriented, you make a feeble attempt to get off the surface, but you’re harshly flipped over on your stomach, unable to lift yourself off owing to being pinned down by something you can’t shake off.

You’re filled with dread the instant your mind processes what just happened: Coriolanus had just carried you to his room and is keeping you in place on his bed with his entire body draped on your back.

It's the alcohol you’d have to thank for your delayed response time.

Desperately, you claw at the pillow, as if it’ll help you out from underneath him, but you freeze when you feel his breath fan your ear with a whisper that sends shivers down your spine:

“I want you to count to from ten when I say so, sugarplum.”

You feel him pull back, the bed shifting slightly. It takes the rustling of a belt behind you to send you into hysterics; the feel of the cold, night air on your ass as your dress is lifted, revealing you in just your underwear, is enough to make you beg.

“Coryo, please, no – ”

Your words die in your throat as a sharp, white-hot pain lands on the swell of your ass, almost at the same time you hear a loud crack.

He's just hit your almost bare backside with the softer side of his leather belt, and it fucking burns to high hell.

You’re still reeling at the shock of it, but your hair is bunched and pulled, not enough to hurt but to gain your attention.

“Start counting,” he commands from behind you.

Ten. That means ten lashes of his belt. Nine more of this and you can barely handle one.

You sob out of fear, but you don’t know if it’s out of fear of pain or of him.

“Please, I won’t do it again – ”

A pained yelp escapes you the moment the belt lands on your ass again. Another hair pull, followed by his stern voice from behind you.

“Nellie, you’re prolonging this by not counting as I said. Now, I will not ask again: count to ten.”

Go to hell.

You don’t know what compels you to – perhaps it’s the thought of you being unable to sit for the next few days on any surface without wincing in pain – you inhale sharply, swallowing back the insult you’re planning to hurl, and whisper:

“Ten.”

Another cracking of the belt, followed by your cry as it hits you, followed by you shakily whispering a number. He repeats this without mercy and without reprieve – just pure malice and the intent of inflicting pain.

Sniffling, you manage to stammer “f-five,” bracing yourself for another, but it doesn’t come.

You lay flat on your stomach as you weep audibly in your helplessness and shame, belatedly realising he’s removed himself from you and has gone off fuck-knows-where. Just as you’re about to try and get up, he makes a re-entrance, having come from the bathroom. He’s completely shirtless now, eyes locked in and heading straight towards you.

You begin sobbing anew and try to crawl off the bed, but he’s instantly on you, pinning you down as he straddles your thighs with his own, taking your wrists and pinning them above you with a single hand.

“No, please…”

Directly over your ear, he whispers gently, “Sshh, shh, it’s over, sugarplum, I’m here to take care of you now.”

Despite your rather pathetic sobs, he continues cooing over your ear, while you feel something wet and cold being rubbed gently on your ass where the belt had hit you multiple times.

“It’s just a salve, my little sugarplum,” he explains. “It’ll help heal the skin faster and reduce bruising.”

The salve helps like he says, thank goodness, because after he’s massaged the area, it had numbed almost entirely – too bad it does absolutely nothing with the trembling on your hands. For the next few minutes, your fiancé strokes your hair, kisses your crown, and whispers what he thinks are comforting words, all of them a blur to you as you continue lying down on your stomach, unmoving and still trying to wrap your head around what just happened.

“You made me do that, my sugarplum,” he says, and you’re almost tempted to believe how contrite his voice is. “I will never hurt the love of my life – as long as you give me no reason to.”

You’re barely paying attention when he starts peeling off your dress entirely, even when he jerks himself off above you and spills himself on your bare back, even when he cleans you up and wraps you almost lovingly in his blanket and pulls you close to him in a cuddle you’re all-too-familiar with.

What you listen to aptly, however, is what he tells you quietly as he runs his fingers through your hair in this sick form of forced intimacy.

“I will move the wedding to a month and a half from now. Mid-October. In return, you get to keep your maid of honour, and I will lift your uncle’s exile the day before the wedding. That way, he can walk you to the aisle and hand you over to me, just like he should’ve done from the start.”

Just before you let yourself succumb to sleep in his arms, you make a mental note to ask Livia for a crucial favour as this last-ditch attempt to throw a wrench at your fiancé’s plans for the future.

Sejanus Plinth felt a little guilty as he sat beside you on his bedroom couch. You were hunched over the coffee table poring over three open books at the same time, scribbling madly on a nearly full page of your notebook, essentially doing your part and more in this supposedly partnered effort of writing a ten-page analysis of some pre-Panem fantasy trilogy. It was obvious you had been spending the recent nights getting some work done on the paper based on the way you rubbed your eyes constantly and yawned into your palms. He was supposed to have written about three pages now, but he had barely scraped one and a half, and the open notebook he had on his lap was devoid of handwriting.

Yet he still couldn’t quite believe his luck that he had you in his bedroom, the first friend he had ever made since his family’s official move to the Capitol. His friend, the smart, quiet, sassy, pretty girl who had once defended him from one of the many bouts of name-calling by his own classmates and then vanished from his life. He had little hope he’d see you again, but here you both were in your second year, your friendship stronger than ever.

“You know, experts say that staring into paper has been scientifically proven to yield a ten-page book review.”

Your cheeky little comment did not go unnoticed, but Sejanus just flashed you an innocent smile he knew you couldn’t resist. You rolled your eyes at him and proceeded to sigh, before setting your pen down and heavily leaning back on the couch.

“I guess we could take a break,” you admitted as you rubbed your eyes, and grabbed a throw pillow, hugging it to yourself.

“Speak for yourself, I can go all day,” Sejanus joked. “I’ll go get us some food.”

He stood from his couch, but before he exited the door, he looked back at you and grinned, “Nellie, try not to fall asleep before I can come back, yeah? Ma worked hard on those strudels.”

You gave him a sweet, exhausted smile, and said, “Please thank her for me. Not that I won’t be thanking her later before I get home, but still.”

“I’m sure she’d like that,” Sejanus nodded when he finally closed the door behind him.

He released a breath he didn’t know he was holding and straightened the collar of his shirt. As if having you alone in his room – albeit for completing the essay together – had him feeling nervous enough before you even arrived, his Ma just had to gush over you just as soon as you crossed the threshold.

Of course, he’d revealed to them how he met you all those years ago, carefully omitting a few details, but when he told her last week he’d have you over to visit, she had wildly assumed you to be his girlfriend, which you weren’t. Something he had always been so adamant with her about. Besides, he knew he had zero chances on you, as gifted and as talented and as attractive as you are.

Sometimes, he’d find himself wishing that weren’t the case.

It wasn’t your looks or your brains that had him developing some sort of…feelings for you. You were a breath of fresh air in the Capitol for him, starkly different from the other girls in the school who were either vapid, vain, or arrogant, or all those three at once.

“So? How is it with you and your…friend so far?”

He hadn’t even crossed the doorway to the kitchen and his Ma was already on his case. He loved her with all his heart, and he was extremely grateful for her hard work, but she could scare you away even before he had made a move.

He met his mother’s expectant smile with a tired grin and replied, “It’s going great, Ma.”

His mother beamed at him – he didn’t have the heart to take this little joy away from her when she was so excited – and told him a maid would carry the tray of food upstairs for him instead and shooed him away from her kitchen.

“She’s really pretty, by the way,” she added just as he was leaving to go back to his room.

Sejanus found you resting your head on the couch’s armrest, hugging the throw pillow to yourself and in blissful slumber.

He didn’t have the heart to take this little bit of rest away from you, either.

Sighing to himself, he grabbed a fresh velvet blanket and tucked you in it before sitting beside you and observing you. He brushed a stray lock of hair away from your face and let his fingers linger on your cheek.

You didn’t wake up until about two hours later, and by then, Sejanus had made good progress on the essay since you weren’t distracting him too much. He then spent the rest of the day doing more staring than actual schoolwork, trying to commit this day to his memory, no matter how inconsequential.

Aside from the kiss he would eventually share with you, Sejanus would constantly remember in his last days just how soft your cheek was and just how he could’ve snuck in a quick kiss on them that day if he hadn’t been so faint-hearted.

Enter Level 17 - soon

Next on Level 17 - Wedding bells toll, Snows going honeymooning on the beach, just filthy filthy smut (fucking finally lmaooo)

Author notes:

Please reblog and comment, it's always appreciated! Sorry for the delay as well, the next update will likely take about 2 weeks from now duw to work still being crazyyy. Thank you for your patience!!!

#dark!coriolanus snow #dark!coriolanus snow x reader #Young!coriolanus snow #young!coriolanus snow x reader #named!reader #or #x OC2ndPOV #18+ only #dark!coriolanus snow fic #dark!coriolanus #dark!coriolanus fic #dark!fic

[dotieeee]

The Gamemaker's Apprentice

Level 6

Pairing: Dark!Young!Coriolanus Snow x You, named!Reader

Overall Warnings:

NON-CON, DUB-CON, Dark!Young!Coriolanus Snow, Snow himself should be a warning, lots of blackmailing, gaslighting, manipulation, obsession, possesiveness, eventual forced marriage, eventual loss of virginity, breeding kink, canon-compliant major character death, reader is named but has no physical descriptions in the fic so one might also consider her an OC but in 2nd POV, will have canon inconsistencies, and other stuff that may be added

Masterlist

Level 6 Warnings:

Some noncon touching and canoodling (no spoilers)

Replay Level 5

Ready? Level 6 Start:

A knock on the ornate door reverberates inside the empty lab, giving you a tiny jolt in your chair. This must be him, coming over to ‘collect you.’

Like the Grim Reaper who’s come take your soul.

Or maybe it isn’t him. After all, the door isn’t locked, and he’s used to visiting by now to know he can just come in after a knock or two. You get up to open the door, willing your hands to stop shaking so he doesn’t see that you’re fazed by his mere presence.

How are going to win this if you start crumbling like a stale cookie whenever he’s around?

You yank the door open, expecting the Devil himself disguised in slick platinum-blond hair and a finely tailored suit, but instead, you get a man in a hat and a courier’s uniform.

“Ms Prunella Innis?” He inquires.

“Yes?”

He hands you a clipboard for you to sign and picks up this enormous white box wrapped in a satin crimson bow lying by his feet. He also hands you the bouquet he’s cradling, then strides past you to deposit the box on the nearest table. Judging by the red roses in the bundle of blooms, you know who sent you everything without even asking.

Coriolanus Snow never does subtle.

You thank the courier as he exits the lab, tipping his hat in response as he does. Gingerly, you prod the box with a finger, thinking maybe anything could come flying out of the box and rip your face out. It doesn’t move, so maybe the thing inside is dead and he just sent it for the funsies. You brace yourself as you unravel the bow, eager to just get it over with. You lift the lid and a subtle waft of roses greets you.

You gasp when you discover that the contents of the box are nowhere near what you’d been expecting.

They’re actually much worse.

Inside the box are three smaller boxes, all wrapped in red satin ribbons, placed on top of what looks like fancy crepe paper. A card lies atop the tiniest of the boxes with handwriting you can recognise from a mile away.

To my Sugarplum,

Wear this tonight. A car will pick you up from the Corso III entrance at six. We will talk about your response to my request then,

Your Coryo

The box underneath the note reveals a heart-shaped ruby necklace with a fine white gold chain, similar to the chain of that plum-coloured diamond he gave you. In the confines of the second box lies a small black silk clutch, embellished in minuscule silver beads, and embroidered with fine-spun silver, making up a pattern resembling roses. The third box contains a pair of single-strap black satin high-heeled pumps. Underneath those boxes, covered in what you originally thought was just wrapping paper, is a floor-length slip dress made of silk in the loveliest shade of crimson. Based on the superb craftsmanship of the dress alone, you can tell that it isn’t something one can buy off-the-rack. Tailor-made by Coriolanus Snow’s choice of tailor shop, judging by the logo sticker sealing the crepe wrapping paper together.

There was one time these extravagant gifts would’ve sent you in a grateful, ecstatic mood.

That feels like forever ago, now.

At the moment, your gut just stirs in discomfort, looking at this luxurious mess.

Your trepidation only mounts as you watch the clock trudge slowly from day to night. By four, you get home and prepare for the inevitable. You try not to be surprised with the way the dress hugs your figure perfectly, because then that would mean he somehow got lucky with eyeballing your dress size, or that he got ahold of your measurements through questionable means. By five-thirty, the girl in your mirror is barely recognizable – a girl you’ve never seen before, put together on the outside and nearly falling apart at the seams on the inside.

It certainly doesn’t help that the near-nauseating scent of roses still emanates from the dress you’re wearing.

The reflection staring back at you seems to mock you, telling you this is your life now, all preened up at the behest of a stranger whose pastime is pushing other people under his thumbs. Oh well. You’ll get out of this invasive mask soon, you assure yourself.

The driver who’s expecting you right at your building’s entrance wordlessly opens the car door for you. An Avox, you recognise – a product of one of the Capitol’s many sophisticated ways of punishing dissent. Because sometimes death by hanging takes the rebels out of their misery too quickly, so one brilliant mind in the Capitol one day had this brilliant idea of cutting people’s tongues off and shunning them into the lowest wrung of society so they could live a life of servitude, not subjecting anyone else to their worthless, wayward opinions.

And of course, everyone else agreed with how fucking brilliant an idea it was.

Would you have preferred Sejanus be sentenced this way and still have him alive instead of dead? You banish the thought as quickly as it had come – too morbid, even by your standards. Besides, there was no way the Capitol could’ve shut him up, even without his tongue. He still would’ve fought tooth and nail for the change he wanted to see in the world.

Ten minutes to six and you’re already pulling up to the entrance of what looks like The Palisades Hotel, the grandest luxury five-star hotel in all of Panem. There are many other cars already milling at the entrance, with small crowds forming to presumably greet each other. The Chauffeur opens your car door, and immediately after stepping out of the rental car, you spot the very man responsible for you being here instead of at home, guzzling hot chocolate and stuffing your face with angel food cake.

Coriolanus Snow seems to be engaged in a lighthearted conversation with a group of older men in flashy tuxedos you only vaguely recognise by face, but his attention shifts the moment he sees you emerge from the car. You could see him mouth ‘see you inside’ to them as one of them shakes his hand vigorously. His piercing blue eyes scan your frame a few feet away, his lilting grin never vanishing from his face as he approaches you.

He seems to have lured you into some kind of party under false pretences.

He looks flawless, as he always does: his platinum-blond locks combed back, his sleek crimson tuxedo matching yours, and a signature white rose pinned to his lapel; no wonder he almost fooled you – that blinding charm he has always allowed him to hide something sinister underneath.

You could feel your pulse race with every step he takes in your direction. It takes you a fraction of a second to realise he’s holding out his hand, which you tentatively accept. He never breaks eye contact with you as he brushes his lips over the back of your hand.

You might’ve yanked your hand away a little too fast for his liking, for you see his eyes flash danger before shifting to his usual semblance of warmth.

He leans into your ear and whispers, “Sugarplum, you are a sight to behold.”

You put on the best realistic smile you can muster. “Thank you. And thank you for the dress and...everything else.”

You stay frozen to your spot as he tucks a lock of your hair behind your ear, his fingers briefly brushing against your cheek. “There. Perfect,” he says. “And there’s no need to thank me. I like spoiling my sugarplum with only the best.”

But despite the rather depressing outlook you had coming here, there’s a glimmer of hope you see as an idea strikes you. Maybe you can get out of this early, after all.

“Coryo, Uncle Cas agreed,” you tell him at once. And then make up an excuse and bolt. Anything to get out of here and away from him. “He’s willing to transfer my apprenticeship.”

Coriolanus beams in delight at the news, his eyes twinkling as he takes the initiative to wrap your arm around his. “I’m so happy to hear that, sugarplum. The highlight of my night. Let me take you inside; a lot of people are dying to see you.”

Before you can complain, however, he all but steers you inside the lobby and to the entrance of the Palisades’ grand hall.

“Where exactly are we going, Coryo?” you ask. He never said anything about other people, but maybe they could come in handy in case you need to duck and make a run for it.

He releases a short sigh, looking apologetic and slowing his pace. “I may have forgotten to tell you that we’d be attending Mr Plinth’s birthday party tonight. I’m sorry, sugarplum, I’ve been meaning to invite you in person, but I’ve been so busy lately it slipped my mind.”

Your hand makes its way to your mouth as you gasp. “But haven’t brought him a gift…”

He is quick to dismiss your concern as he waves to someone exiting the hall. “It’s okay. I wrote both our names on the card on my gift.”

“Why would you do that?” you ask, as the massive gold-painted doors open to a grand hall lined with marble and gold, revealing a crowd of people already chatting and enjoying the booze over a full orchestra playing at the corner of the stage. You could feel the blood drain from your face as a sea of curious, ogling eyes trails on you both entering the grand hall, but you power through and smile – there’s no escaping now, at this point.

“I’m simply taking responsibility,” Coriolanus responds in a teasing tone. “Would you rather have come here without a gift?”

You look up at him while you cling onto his arm for some support. He looks every bit at home with all the attention – so undeniably different from the eighteen-year-old Academy Coriolanus fidgeting with his collar all those years ago on the day of the Reaping.

You wonder inwardly if that’s the only thing in him that’s changed, while everything else that’s rotten in him had always been there, if not amplified.

“I guess not,” you acquiesce. “Thank you. Please let me know how I can pay you back.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll think of something,” he says with a lopsided grin.

Coriolanus’s arm veers you to Mr and Ma Plinth, who are both entertaining guests. You give Mr Plinth your well-wishes for his birthday and get a motherly hug from Ma, who gushes over how ‘you look every bit like a princess.’

“My sons sure have excellent taste,” she tells Coriolanus with a wink, earning a hearty laugh from him before she pulls him into an affectionate embrace.

The dress. She’s referring to the dress for sure.

But just when you think you’re finally free to just face the farthest corner and disassociate, his arm wraps around your waist and leads you away to meet other people. People you’d rather not associate with.

The horror.

But as usual, you paint on the demurest of smiles, trying not to be fazed by the flashing of cameras in the hall. The party is apparently heavily covered by the media, so Coriolanus does his best to mesmerise everyone with his wit, his looks and his charisma, while you play the role of the dolled-up, docile arm décor, beaming and chiming in only when spoken to.

It’s nothing short of demeaning, but you’re here to play his game, and losing isn’t an option.

Coriolanus proudly introduces you to everyone you meet as his official gamemaker apprentice, much to their admiration. A lot of them, powerful, important heads in the Capitol and their children, some of whom you know by face at the University. Most of them, unfamiliar faces, but they feel the need to give you unsolicited advice – somewhere along the lines of being seen more among peers of the same societal status.

“How come we don’t see you out that often?”

“You’re so pretty, you should go out more and have fun!”

“Nellie, we usually hang out at this bar, it’s super exclusive, you should come with us sometime.”

The same thing, over and over, and you just go along, nodding or shaking your head and laughing whenever a joke is told, crack a few yourself, exchange toasts over minuscule sips of booze, and tell them through gritted teeth that you’ll see them around, only to be snatched away again by the waist by Coriolanus and be brought over to another clique. Your Uncle Cas would be laughing his ass off at you if he could see you right now.

The cycle goes on, and you find yourself getting better at it with practice. Just like a loop, repeating a set of code for x number of times, automating repetitive, boring tasks on a computer application.

The only problem with loop conditions: when poorly written, can lead to infinite loops, which can cause the application’s unresponsiveness.

You vaguely wonder how long this loop is conditioned to last.

A guy you’ve seen in one of your classes approaches you and strikes up a conversation, just when Coriolanus is looking away, his hand slack on your waist as he speaks with a Mr Rutherford.

“I read your paper on the application of artificial intelligence in automating retina-scanning and other security measures,” he says, adding for clarification when you flash him a questioning look, “It’s in the library, along with your other research papers. It’s so well put together.”

He holds out his hand as he introduces himself as Ovidius Browne, the youngest of three sons of business magnate Octavius Browne. The Brownes own a number of factories in District 6. You shake his outstretched hand. He reveals himself to be in his junior year in computer engineering, a career he decided to take to help improve their company’s factory conditions. He wonders if such levels of automation would be possible in basic manufacturing tasks like quality inspection and inventory scanning without taking jobs away or being too invasive to factory workers. It’s a terrific concept, you say, and you get so pumped with exchanging ideas that you forget to put up your facade and instead engage wholeheartedly, at least until a cold hand travels from the back of your neck down to your spine, settling on the small of your back and tracing circles with a finger.

“Browne, is it?” Coriolanus Snow’s baritone chips in.

You introduce them formally and they exchange a brief and polite handshake.

“I’d like to discuss more of that with you Ms Innis,” Ovidius says. “If we could perhaps exchange numbers – ”

“Of course, we’d love to chat, Mr Browne. I can give Nellie your office number and she’ll get in touch,” Coriolanus interrupts genially. His fingers are still drumming over your back as he continues, “Apologies, I have to take my apprentice away; there is someone I’d like her to meet.”

He grips your waist to pull you away without waiting for a response from either of you.

You shoot him a confused look. “Coryo, he was just – ”

“About to ask you to put in a good word on his behalf to your uncle? Yes, he was.” He says with an eyebrow raised in disapproval.

“But we were just talking about...tech stuff. Are you sure?”

The conversation you had with him didn’t seem like it’ll branch off into that territory.

He nods once. “A little bird may have chirped to me about a certain Browne sibling’s internship application getting rejected twice by the Dean of Computer Sciences. It’s like you said before, sugarplum: just another one of those sycophants complimenting you in exchange for something.”

How much inside information does he have stockpiled on other people? Maybe he keeps them stashed in his closet labelled ‘in case of emergency, break glass.’

Just when you thought you could talk to someone about something you’re genuinely interested in for once this night.

You’re recognised by a surprisingly pleasant, popular senior and it-girl from your college, Ursa Talbot – daughter of Labor Solicitor Ursinus Talbot – who ropes you in with her gaggle of girlfriends, chatting to you about the exclusive, invite-only social clubs she’s joined and offers to vouch for you.

Ursa’s fiancé, a fresh graduate now working for her father, joins in the conversation, rolling his eyes as the women around him start giggling and making suppressed squealing noises at someone behind you. Before you turn around to see who it is, you feel a gentle squeeze on the waist.

“Ladies, my apologies, but I’d have to take my apprentice away,” he declares with a wink, and they swoon and blush behind their hands. “I hope you enjoy the night. Nellie?”

“Yes?”

Like you’re programmed to do, you look at Coriolanus with a cheerful smile and let him haul you off.

He tells you something you don’t quite catch. With the music now reaching its climax and the chatter getting livelier, it becomes hard to hear anyone, so you have no choice but to lean closer to him to make out what he’s saying. He takes this further and tugs you close to his chest by the waist. The proximity makes you inadvertently place a hand on the lapel of his waistcoat, while he whispers to the side of your face close to your ear, “I said I’m going to introduce you to Dr Volumnia Gaul.”

You peer to your side, to where he’s eyeing, and true enough, Dr Gaul herself was there, wearing a purple and gold brocade dress cascading to the floor and leather gloves to match, her straggly, greying hair adding to her distinct look. She’s chatting away with an animated Strabo Plinth holding a dainty drink in one hand and a beetle-shaped clutch in the other.

Even in something as completely innocent and normal as a birthday party, she still stands out against the crowd as a formidable presence.

She’s what you think Coriolanus is trying to be, except for the speaking-in-riddles-and-rhymes part. Wouldn’t it be funny, a snide voice in your head says, if Coriolanus one day just starts saying ‘hippity-hoppity?’

The thought is enough is cheer you up a little bit.

Volumnia Gaul’s mismatched eyes roam over the two of you as you near her spot.

“Dr Gaul, it’s a pleasure to see you tonight. I’m glad you could join us,” he says with a tip of his head. “I know we mustn’t talk of work, but I’m sure you’ll be happy to know I have secured myself the apprentice of my dreams.”

“Mr Snow, what delightful news you bring me,” she drawls toothily. “Oh my, oh my. Prunella Innis!”

Her unnerving gaze lands on you, her gloved fingers lifting your chin as if to get a better look.

Just smile, dammit.

“The apple of young Snow’s eye. I was wondering when we’d get to meet. Finally putting a pretty face to your name is such a treat!” She releases a pleased, throaty chuckle.

You try to keep your voice as steady as you can. “Pleasure to be of your acquaintance, Dr Gaul.”

The grin she has from ear to ear does not extend to her eyes. “Clever little girl, this. I can see why...” she trails off, then flicks an odd, knowing stare at your friend. “Keep your eagle eye on this one, Mr Snow; you wouldn’t want her flying away with her teensy-weensy wings...”

Seeing as this friendly, albeit bizarre banter isn’t in your list of programmed interactions, you settle for the automated smile, careful not to let it falter.

“Of course, Dr Gaul. I’m not planning on letting her go anytime soon,” he responds just as playfully.

Thankfully, the exchange ends there, as you’re both called by party ushers to your table where the Plinth couple are sitting. Odd sitting at the table for what seems to be family and close friends only, but you keep your thoughts to yourself while the ceremony begins. The night goes on with well-wishing speeches from the Plinth senior’s closest friends and colleagues. Then, the dinner courses are served right after an honorary toast for the celebrant. Everything brought to the table by the servers looks expensive and sumptuous – all a grand display of opulence that is the seemingly infinite Plinth fortune.

And yet you find yourself only able to nibble at the food, having your appetite diminished by the stress of interacting with so many people in just less than two hours.

“You’ve barely eaten anything,” Coriolanus’s voice floats from beside you. His eyes are laced with worry as he asks, “Can I get you anything you’d like?”

Plus, having to deal with him dragging you from one place to another.

You shake your head once and assure him you’re fine. You partake of the food a little more when the dessert course comes around, much to his approval.

“I’d hate to see my sugarplum getting sick,” he says as he watches you eat a tiny forkful of birthday cake.

This you ignore in favour of savouring the cake’s decadent caramel frosting and rich custard filling, balanced with an airy lemon-and-orange-flower chiffon base. You figure if you can’t have fun tonight, the least you can do is enjoy the cake.

With the food out the way, more booze comes flowing, and it isn’t long before the orchestra plays a lively tune, and the dance floor gets filled with delighted, slightly inebriated guests waltzing and tapping to the beat, and while Strabo doesn’t join in, he and Ma both look thrilled to see everyone in high spirits, before they’re pulled separately into light chit-chat by their friends.

If Sejanus was here now, you’d both be sulking together in a corner of the grand hall sharing what would’ve been your third slice of cake, arguing over who gets the side with more frosting.

You take advantage of this moment to extricate yourself from everyone – mostly Coriolanus and his imposing presence – and excuse yourself to the powder room. Locking yourself inside a bathroom stall, you let out a drawn-out exhale of absolute relief.

Alone, finally.

You gaze wistfully at the bathroom window to your left. It’s too high for your reach, but you figure you could use one of the large potted plants as a booster and get as far away from this place as you possibly can, even if you had to go on foot.

Groaning to yourself, you stew in the fact that this freedom of yours from your deviously charming companion is short-lived. He’d soon be wondering where you’d gone, and he’d likely tear the place down just so he could find you. You doubt he’d appreciate it if he hears that you’ve locked yourself in a bathroom stall plotting your escape.

The dancing is on full blast as you step back into the grand hall. You make yourself as inconspicuous as you can, strategically darting between people to reach the open bar. You choose a bar stool that conceals you from everyone in the room and order a drink on impulse. The bartender is kind enough to humour your request for an alcohol-free concoction, which he serves with maraschino cherries on a toothpick.

“Rough night?” he asks as he wipes a glass, smiling sympathetically at you. With his greying hair and the lines on the corner of his eyes, he seems to be wearier than you are, probably from having to be at the beck and call of thirsty, snotty Capitol High Society all night.

“Very,” you sigh. “I hope it isn’t as rough as yours.”

“Are you kiddin’ me?” he shakes his head with a chortle. “I had a lady just a few clicks ago demand I make the same drink four times because she wanted a Cosmo without the cranberry juice and the lime. Coulda just ordered a shot of vodka and Cointreau, but what do I know...”

You let out a suppressed, dry laugh. “I’m sorry you to had deal with that. Thanks for the drink, it’s delicious.”

“Eh. It’s nothin',’” he shrugs. A server enters behind the bar and whispers something to him, and he promptly takes his apron off and exits, but not before bidding you a good night. He is replaced by someone younger and more stern-looking, who resumes the abandoned task of wiping the other glasses.

Just as you’re about to bite a cherry off the toothpick, a sudden waft of roses floats in your vicinity, followed by a cold hand on your lower back and an airy baritone whisper over your ear.

“I was afraid you had walked out on me.”

Coriolanus Snow’s lopsided grin is inches away from your face as he leans against the counter beside you, his eyes eventually landing on the drink you’re still halfway through finishing.

“Hmm. What would my sugarplum be drinking liquid courage for?”

You shake your head. “This is alcohol-free.”

“Good.” He straightens his posture to full height and, bending to a stiff, formal bow, he extends a hand and asks, “Prunella Innis, may I please have the honour of this dance?”

You hesitate, but knowing that every move you make is now under public scrutiny, saying no and leaving him out to dry isn’t an option.

He sweeps you away to the dance floor as soon as your fingers touch his.

With the orchestra blaring their lovely rendition of Strauss II’s Voices of Spring, you both begin swaying lightly as you place your palms on his shoulder while his hands encase both sides of your waist.

Coriolanus beams down on you as his cobalt eyes search your face.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice mixed with a tiny tinge of concern. “I really hope I haven’t overwhelmed you, I know you never liked these kinds of parties.”

Your lips thin to a wry smile. “It’s a change of scenery, alright,” you admit. “What about you? You look like you’re having the time of your life.”

His eyes twinkle as he lets out a throaty chuckle. “That’s only because I brought good company with me.”

“Really? I thought this was your whole scene.”

“Well, if you keep going with me to the next ones, it might just be.”

His air of mischief continues even as the music ends and you join in applauding the musicians. When he doesn’t make a move to cart you off the dance floor, that’s when you figure out he isn’t done dancing with you just yet.

The orchestra begins their rendition of the Snowstorm waltz, so you both exchange a curtsy, as is the norm. With his hand clasping yours and his other hand on your waist, you begin to dance, spinning and waltzing to the beat. You’re aware you shouldn’t be making a big deal out of something as trivial as a dance, but you’re still unable to meet his eyes, afraid of what you might find. You settle for staring at his tux collar and concentrating on your footwork.

Thank goodness those etiquette classes in your early teens are proving to be worth your uncle’s money.

Soon enough, your surroundings become a blur, and all you can see is him, beaming down at you as you dip, then pulling you flush to his chest so he can spin with you some more. His gaze is heavy, feverish, never leaving your face. You see a split-second flash of the entire hall, which throws you further into a daze, discovering that eyes are trained on you both and most of the dancers have vacated the floor to give you room. The heady smell of roses, courtesy of the one pinned to his lapel, blurs your sense of reality, and you beg, you pray, that you don’t hurl what little food you ate and make a fool out of yourself. He angles his head in time to another dip and he whispers to ear in a low voice.

“You’re so intoxicatingly beautiful.”

Then he pulls you close again, your foreheads almost touching as he drinks all of you in with those half-lidded blue eyes. A few more trots on the floor and the waltz ends, and you curtsy as he bows, trying not to show just how lightheaded you are and how shallow your breathing is despite the dance itself being undemanding. The animated applause that follows echoes in the hall, and you join in mechanically.

Guests come milling in pairs to fill the dance floor once more just as the next waltz plays. Coriolanus entwines his fingers with yours.

“Come with me,” he says vaguely, and you both manoeuvre your way through the dancers and ignore some of the whispering and the staring that follows you as you exit the grand hall through the several ceiling-to-ceiling doors made of glass panels. He leads you down to the marble staircase and into the hotel’s expansive inner gardens.

“I figured you needed the fresh air,” he says as soon as you both reach a wall beside a well-manicured hedge, away from leering eyes and all the gossiping.

Your posture sags against the stone wall, letting out an exhausted exhale. “Thank you,” you say.

He just watches you wordlessly, his hands behind his back, as you compose yourself. When your head clears, you become aware that you’ve strayed a tad too far from the grand hall and are a little too alone with him than you’d prefer. Eventually, you straighten, your decision to go back to the party already made.

But Coriolanus is on you the moment you do.

“I want to show you something,” he says.

He gives you no time to complain, and he all but drags you by the arm further into a dimmer section of the garden, where you can barely hear the music and the chatter from the grand hall. A few more steps and you reach a large stone greenhouse covered wall-to-wall in creeping wisteria. Surprisingly, it’s unlocked, so he easily pushes the opaque glass door open and ushers you in first, with him following closely behind.

“The roses are to your far right.”

You hear the door’s dull click as it closes.

You shouldn’t be here, you think. But you get to the edge of the greenhouse, anyway, where the nearly overwhelming odour of a mishmash of different types of roses invades your nostrils. Despite the very little light coming through the opaque glass panels of the enclosure, you see the flowers sprawled in between a narrow path leading to the back of the building. Just more stone and glass panels, no doors.

No exits. No escape.

Your heart leaps to your throat when you feel a warm breath tickle the back of your neck and a pair of arms snake around your form. Tensing up in an instant, your breath hitches when that warmth reaches your ear.

Coriolanus’s deep, hushed tone sends shivers down your spine.

“I’ve been dying to have you all to myself the moment you stepped out of that car.”

In the blink of an eye, he turns you around and captures your lips with his.

It takes a while for you to realise what he’s doing, so he takes advantage of your momentary unresponsiveness and slips his tongue inside your mouth. As he’s moving his tongue all over yours, your back hits a hard surface. He’s pinned you against the stone wall, his body hunched over as he presses himself on yours, giving you no space to slip through or to push him away. His hand wraps around the side of your head to change the angle, allowing him to deepen the kiss.

Coriolanus Snow is kissing you, passionately and possessively, and he kisses like he’s running out of breath and you’re his only source of air.

And all you could do in your state of denial, paralysis, and fear is to close your eyes and wish he was Sejanus instead.

When he shifts his angle, you tilt your head to the side so you can catch your breath. Perhaps he sees this as an act of defiance, for he cups both your cheeks with a growl, making you face him, and goes back to kissing you just as fiercely as before. This time, you instinctively keep your lips shut, but a light nip of his teeth leaves you gasping in surprise, enabling him to tangle both your tongues.

Your hands manage to wedge between your bodies, so you push him away with all the strength you have. As he reluctantly pulls away, he has the gall to look affronted, but you could’ve slapped him, too, or clawed his eyes out for putting you in such a vulnerable position; only reason prevents you from lashing out.

“I’m sorry, sugarplum. I’ve had quite the drink tonight,” he whispers breathlessly, resting his forehead on your temple.

Liar. You can barely smell anything alcohol-related on him; just the sickening scent of the flowers he’s partial to. This is all just a part of the game to him, to make you feel isolated and powerless against him. A play for power and control, and one he’s currently winning.

“We should go, Coryo.” You hate how close to begging your voice sounds. “Please, it’s a school day tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow is Saturday.”

Fuck.

Of all the excuses, that’s what you come up with?

He begins planting butterfly kisses on your temple and your cheek.

“Not for my uncle,” you scramble to correct yourself. “He often has Saturday classes and I sometimes help.”

“Skip it. You’re my apprentice now. Mine,” he says sternly. He seems to immediately amend his tone by asking, “I mean, doesn’t he have interns for that?”

Damn it.

“Yes, he does.”

You could feel him smirk against your cheek, seemingly counting this as a win. With you still effectively trapped in between the wall and his unrelenting embrace, he takes your chin with his forefinger and thumb to make you face him and latches his lips on yours.

His hand finds its way to your back, brushing against the groove of your spine. He then grips the back of your neck and turns your head to the side, allowing him to leave a trail of open-mouthed kisses on your jaw, before moving down to the column of your neck.

You cave in and beg as soon as you feel his tongue on your skin.

“Coryo, please...please stop...”

It comes out as a broken whimper, making you hate yourself even more. The dread you felt when you opened his gift, the way you had to put on a mask that you hate for people you don’t care for, the way you had to pretend to him that you don’t despise how he kept making you feel so exposed and defenceless the entire night – everything you’ve been bottling up since this morning seemed to come spilling into that plea, rendering you to feel even more helpless and alone. It takes every ounce of self-control in you not to burst into tears.

You’re not supposed to act this pathetically in front of him, but here you are.

His grip on you grows slack and he draws his head back to observe you, his jaw clenched in disapproval. You don’t care; you try to wriggle away from him, your bodies still too close for your liking. You still refuse to meet his eyes, because if you do, he might see right through your crumbling facade.

He sighs and takes a full step backwards, finally giving you space to breathe in relief.

He still finds the nerve to let out a restrained chuckle. “I’m sorry, I let my emotions get the better of me. You’re right; this is neither the time nor the place.”

Neither the time nor the place. Does that mean he’ll do it again? At this point, you can’t bring yourself to care.

“Can we go back? Please?”

He takes your hand in his with a nod. Stepping outside the greenhouse, you both stop in your tracks as you spot another couple nearby, seemingly trying to stay hidden in the bushes and in the middle of making out. It’s Ursa and her fiancé. They both pull away from each other and Ursa waves at you spiritedly while her partner looks away in embarrassment. She then drags him by the arm to the now-vacant greenhouse, both of them bursting into a giddy laughing fit.

Coriolanus just smirks at the sight. With him refusing to let your hand go, you continue your trek back to the grand hall, where the party is still in full swing, and the guests are still drinking and dancing the night away.

Your feet are sore, your lips are numb, and your soul is drained.

Yet you still put on a good final show until the party ends as if nothing happened. By eleven thirty, Mr and Ma Plinth instruct Coriolanus to call it a night and get some rest, but not before he escorts you home. Like the dutiful Plinth heir he is, he gladly obliges, and that’s how you wind up with the same car ride as he, the tension in the air so thick you could cut it through with a butter knife.

Coriolanus breaks the silence.

“I will have a car escort you from your home the Citadel starting Monday,” he says matter-of-factly. “As per Dr Gaul’s instructions, you will be excused from any summer class you’ve enrolled in.”

“But I took those classes for extra credit,” you protest mildly.

He encases your hand on your lap. “You will be granted full credits for all of them if we succeed. This is, after all, for the cause, not only of the Citadel nor of the Capitol, but of all of Panem.

“This Monday, sugarplum, is the dawn of a new era.”

You refuse point-blank to look at him or even acknowledge the comment, but judging by the excitement in his tone, despite everything he’s forced you to do this night, you already know he’s smiling and extremely pleased with himself.

After long agonising minutes, the car pulls up before the Corso III lobby entrance, so you bid him good night, which he returns with a swift peck on your cheek. You don’t even look back at the car once you get out; you run straight to the elevator, lock your apartment door and head to the safety of your bedroom.

Your first of two tasks as soon as you lock the door is to rid yourself of everything that reminds you of that accursed party – the dress, the shoes, the clutch, the necklace – and chuck them all into a corner where you hope you’d never see them again. You have a half-mind to shower to get rid of his smell on you, but you’re so tired to the bone you move on to the second and last task of the night:

Curl up in your blankets and cry your heart out.

Enter Level 7

Author notes:

Please reblog and comment, it's always appreciated!!

Next Level will include a portion of the ball in Snowball's POV!! I wanted it to be here but then it'll get too long so...🫣 also reader is going to have to work this incoming Monday lol and more sympathetic I cannot be, esp with Snowball observing 😛

#dark!coriolanus snow #dark!coriolanus snow x reader #young!coriolanus snow #young!coriolanus snow x reader #named!reader #or #x OC2ndPOV #18+ only #dark!coriolanus snow fic #dark!coriolanus #dark!coriolanus fic #dark!fic

[dotieeee]

The Gamemaker's Apprentice

Level 10

Pairing: Dark!Young!Coriolanus Snow x You, named!Reader

Overall Warnings:

NON-CON, DUB-CON, Dark!Young!Coriolanus Snow, Snow himself should be a warning, lots of blackmailing, gaslighting, manipulation, obsession, possesiveness, eventual forced marriage, eventual loss of virginity, breeding kink, canon-compliant major character death, reader is named but has no physical descriptions in the fic so one might also consider her an OC but in 2nd POV, will have canon inconsistencies, drugging, somnophilia, and other stuff that may be added

Masterlist

Level 10 Warnings:

Graphic violence, torture and experiments conducted on children (because it isn't Hunger Games without it lol), the female rage, uh, feelings?? Lmao

Replay Level 9

Ready? Level 10 Start:

“Nellie, come back to me, I’m right here…”  a muffled voice whispers above you.

“I don’t want to go with you …” you whisper back.

But the voice doesn’t seem to hear it.

“…You’re alright, sugarplum, you’re safe. Come back to me…”

The ringing in your ears grows even louder, making you wince, before halting altogether. You blink and you realise you’re back in the testing room. Back to watching three teenagers die on the big screen. Back with him.

And he’s got you in his embrace and currently kissing your hair and stroking it.

Fighting the urge to kick him in the nuts, you wrench free from his grip, not bothering to even gauge how he reacts. You watch the screen displaying the aftermath of the explosion that F1 had just set off, but it isn’t just the debris you’re seeing on the big screen that’s fully caught your attention – it’s what it set off.

The first thing you notice is the screaming. It isn’t just from one of them, but from all of them, it seems. It goes on even as the cloud of smoke and dust from the explosion clears to reveal an alarming scene:

Audrey, now apparently conscious, had just tackled Callahan to the ground and was clawing at anything of him she could reach, screaming with rage at the top of her lungs. Callahan attempts to fend himself off by pushing her away, cursing her in the process, but Audrey’s adrenaline levels on the gamemaker console are sky-high, making her a brutal, almost invincible force.

“It’s the venom, isn’t it?” F2 wonders out loud, her eyes glued to the screen. “But she was in a coma, her vitals confirmed it earlier. I thought the venom would either put her into a coma or make her aggressive?”

Coriolanus curls his lip and replies, “Perhaps her body reacted to the venom in a way that the lab has never observed before.”

Who cares, though, how differently she reacted compared to the experiments? If you don’t put a stop to this quickly, one or more of them could potentially be fatally injured.

“Let him go, Audrey!”

Tansey screams as she drags Audrey off her friend in an unexpected display of strength, so Audrey topples down to the ground. But this does not deter her. She makes a grab for the dagger inside her pouch and aims it at the younger girl, but she dodges the attack. Callahan is instantly on his feet, on the offensive, but with no weapon at hand, he’s clearly at a disadvantage.

In your mounting anxiety, you place your palms to cover your mouth as you wrack your brains hard for a way out for the teenagers.

You can only gasp, your eyes widening as the dagger in Audrey’s hand digs into Callahan’s upper abdomen, and even as far away as the camera angle captures the gruesome scene, you can see his shirt soak in the dark red liquid you’ve been dreading to see the entire night.

Callahan lets out a shuddering breath as Audrey pulls out the dagger, aiming it once more to deliver another blow – 

With a loud whack, Tansey hits Audrey’s head with a thick metal rod with just enough force to render her unconscious. Tansey drops the rod, which lands on the cement with an echoing clang.

And yet all you could look at is Callahan as he drops to the ground, bleeding freely from his stomach, except it isn’t the teenage boy you see anymore.

You recognise those bright, pretty eyes anywhere.

Coriolanus steps right in front of you and places his arms around you, presumably to block your view, but even that doesn’t stop you from peeking from his side.

It’s your mother once again, dripping in her own blood, but this time, she’s in the arena with a wound she can easily recover from. And you’re not the helpless little girl anymore who needs daddy to come patch it up for you: this time, there is something you can do to keep her alive.

You don’t even think about it as you break free from Coriolanus’s grip and walk mechanically to the main command console. Everyone’s attention is on the big screen anyway and wouldn’t see what you’d be doing.

“Nellie, where are you going?” he asks.

In the background, you hear F1 contemplate out loud whether he should activate the acid rain, but Coriolanus seems to ignore him. You hear their voices, but they’re so far away from you now.

On the main command console, you initiate the command: Alt+F4.

The console flashes a warning:

SHUTDOWN command rejected.

Shutdown cannot be completed due to: Game Status: ACTIVE.

First-level administration credentials required to override.

You press Continue, and the username and password fields appear. You know these credentials like the back of your hand, so your fingers move by themselves.

Credentials confirmed.

Warning: Command: SHUTDOWN OVERRIDE will terminate Game progress and will not save current Game data.

Press ⬅️ to Resume. Press Enter to Continue.

And without a single ounce of hesitation, you press Enter.

SHUTDOWN OVERRIDE confirmed.

Changing Game Status to: TERMINATED.

Program shutting down...

Triumph fills your heart as you read the window flashing on the big screen:

Game Status: TERMINATED.

Press CTRL + SHIFT + Enter on Main Command Station to BEGIN NEW GAME.

You actually revel in the silence that blankets the entire testing room just before the sirens in the test arena go off. Just like that, the data they were so itching to save, gone with but a few commands, never to be retrieved, thanks to your uncle’s master credentials.

It’s F3 who breaks the silence first. “Well, that was one hell of a Game.”

You could feel your mentor’s icy gaze bore holes into your psyche. F1 rubs his face with his palms and bangs his fist on the table. “Yes, it was. It’s a shame the entire data we’ve worked so hard to get for almost two years wasn’t saved – ”

Coriolanus puts a stop to his tirade with a single, calmly raised palm.

“Tell me why you did what you did, Nellie,” he says. He straightens to his full height and dons this unusually cool demeanour as if this conversation is merely a discussion of the weather.

So, you respond with a similar air. “I made a calculated decision to shut it down.”

You spare one look at the observation box where the Head Gamemaker stands with her hands clasped, her face unreadable.

Coriolanus lets out a hum. “And tell me why this specific function wasn’t brought up during the integration tests.”

You give him a nonchalant shrug. “But I did. During the demos, I highlighted the fact that the main command console is where the override requests are to be entered.”

“And in the event of an override request, I imagine our credentials would be quite useless. Those were Mr Innis’s logins.”

Since it wasn’t phrased as a question, you nod once and smile at him.

“I received word that the Peacekeepers have escorted the test subjects out of the arena for medical examination,” F2 interrupts the discussion carefully like she’s testing the waters.

A small sigh escapes your mentor’s lips before the corners of his lips lift. This puzzles you a little, the way he seems relieved.

“There is a reason why tests exist, Nellie. We’re looking for potential setbacks in the program. And it seems like this could be one of them.”

“The computer engineers are free to go for the day.”

Everyone’s heads whip to Dr Gaul currently descending from the glass observation deck. Her composure is bizarre, as well, seeing as you all but sabotaged her tests today.

“Good work so far, Misters and Miss Finley. Expect an ample addition to your bonuses at the end of the third quarter. Oh, and before you go, I will need one of you to send a memo to the other gamemakers. We will need all hands on deck next week to test the program further. Dismissed.”

The triplets give their thanks and promptly exit the room. Dr Gaul’s mismatched eyes follow them, before turning to you and your mentor the moment the door closes.

She says, “Despite the disappointment of failing to gather such valuable data for the other gamemakers, Ms Innis made the right call.”

You narrow your eyes at her declaration. Coriolanus isn’t upset with your actions, and neither is she. And your mentor mirrors the unanswered question in your head with a curious look.

“We might have more need for the three test subjects,” Dr Gaul explains further. “We could pool more of them from the districts if need be, but given our time constricts, it’d be best to keep working with the ones we already have.

“Besides, that third test subject…you’ve seen how her body reacted to the ant muttation’s venom, did you not, Mr Snow?”

“Yes, ma’am, I did,” he responds politely.

“Half the test subjects we’ve injected with the venom were rendered comatose and they stayed that way until we pulled the plug. The other half underwent bouts of severe aggression, which of course waned as the venom wore off.

“I never had a single one of them display both the symptoms…”

She trails off and strides slowly towards the door, leaving you in doubt of your actions. The three teens were spared a needless death, only to be forced to participate in more of the games. And in Audrey’s case, to be potentially experimented on by none other than the head of the Department of War’s Genetics Division.

As she reaches the door, Coriolanus beckons you by tilting his head and gripping your arm. You both follow your department head to the elevator, which drops you off to the Genetics division. Coriolanus leads you by the arm to the dreaded level.

You’ve only been here once before and that was when you first encountered the jabberjays. To say the experience was unsettling is an understatement, but this time, by the way you pass by the endless rows of glass cages containing all manners of abomination, you can tell you’re about to be shown something much worse.

Amidst the cacophony of noises let out by the genetically modified malformations on the floor, a distant sound that closely resembles a scream makes you clutch Coriolanus’s sleeve. If he notices this, he makes no mention of it.

After walking for a while, you reach the end of a hallway facing a non-descript grey wall. You must’ve reached a dead-end, but the other two don’t seem fazed or lost. Dr Gaul unveils a key sensor hidden in a niche at the wall and swipes her card, and a portion of the once-grey wall before her shifts slightly backwards before sliding to the right.

Of course. You figure if anyone is going to have an office hidden behind a wall, it has to be Volumnia Gaul.

Coriolanus must’ve been here before, for he doesn’t seem surprised. He still has you by the arm so you let yourself be dragged into the space. Inside reveals just more long tables filled with various scientific equipment, cabinets lined with jars of creatures suspended in formaldehyde, with the head gamemaker’s station on the far right corner rivalling your uncle’s set up in the office you occupy.

Their attention isn’t on the bizarre scientific display but on the left side of the room which you failed to notice before.

Thick glass windows are fitted on the wall to reveal several containment cells, perhaps for experiments. Your eyes widen at the sight of Tansey inside one of the cells, both her hands and feet tightly bound by rope, just crouched in the corner looking shaken out of her wits.

What had happened to Callahan? To Audrey? You take your arm away from your mentor and rush to the glass window, but he yanks it back with a little more force and gives you a pointed look.

“Why is she here? What is this?”

“This, Ms Innis, is leverage,” Dr Gaul replies as she approaches the window. She then turns to set her eyes on you, her smile belying the cruelty you’ve come to know her for. “The program you and your uncle built will change my Games forever. So, you understand why I am keen on putting this to use for the 12th Hunger Games.

“That is also why I think it’s in your best interest to give me full master access to your program and remove your uncle’s credentials. You will also give Mr Snow the same access as mine.”

“What do you mean…remove my uncle from the program?” your voice goes a pitch higher as you digest the insult. Your voice begins to shake as you stand your ground. “This belongs to Acacius Innis. I will not give anyone full master access without his permission. So no. You have had no hand, nor right to my uncle’s work.”

The head gamemaker’s smile just widens as she takes out a walkie-talkie and says, as if she’s ordering from a menu, “Two beetle mutts, please.”

The sound of a latch opening from one of the cells startles you. A small shaft on the wall at Tansey’s cell had just opened, and out from it comes a black and brown beetle half the size of your arm.

Volumina Gaul takes in your look of confusion and fear like fresh air.

“That is a larder beetle muttation, in case you’re wondering. Without genetic modifications, the little beetle would be content with dead flesh, but this…” she chuckles deeply to herself, “This is a thing of beauty, craving live, human flesh…did you know it takes only six of them and roughly twenty minutes to devour someone of your test tribute’s size? So tell me, Ms Innis – I’ve heard of your aptitude in mathematics – how long do you think two beetles would take for them to leave nothing but the bones of that little girl?”

She has to be bluffing, right?

“You can’t do this,” you whisper. Your eyes bulge the further the beetles go, watching as Tansey attempts to dodge it despite her tied limbs, her mouth open in a scream you can’t hear through the glass. Unable to control yourself and panicking on the inside, you say, “Please, she has nothing to do with this!”

Dr Gaul just takes strides towards her computer and waves a hand at it. “There are chips inside those bugs designed to send shocks that will incapacitate them. Do what I say, and you save your little... thing  from getting eaten alive,” she says as she bares her teeth with a smile cold enough to raise your hair. “Tick-tock, Ms Innis…”

Volumnia Gaul’s high-pitched cackle bounces off the walls of her office.

With eyes close to watering, you weigh your choices – is your uncle’s entire life’s work worth sacrificing an innocent life for?

The beetles are inches away from Tansey’s frail, writhing body, and the more she moves, the more the beetles sense her presence.

And you berate yourself for even thinking a stupid set of computer code was worth letting Tansey get hurt.

Your uncle would be ashamed of you.

“Call the beetles off…”

You walk past Coriolanus, who’s quietly observing the exchange, and enter your remote access credentials on the station. Dr Gaul watches from behind you, and with a single click, your uncle is forever erased from the program he poured his heart into. In his place, are the names of Coriolanus Snow and Volumnia Gaul.

“Call the beetles off, please! I did what you wanted me to do, now please let her go!”

“Not quite.” Volumnia Gaul tilts her head at you playfully as she uses her sing-song voice. “What is it you kids say these days? Ah, I think it goes quite like this: ‘I won’t hurt her if you tell.’

“I am aware there are other ways my work can be derailed. So you can spill the beans, Snow’s pretty pet: did you know of any other methods that could sabotage my program, my tests, and my Games?”

She can’t know. She can’t possibly know.

Your blood turns to ice, but you keep a straight face. You look her dead in the eyes and say, “No. Let her go.”

“Let me rephrase that for your sake: is there any way else you can put a wrench in my plans?”

“I’ve already told you, please, let her go, I don’t know anything!”

She lets out a small  tsk  and activates an intercom. The hellish screams that come through the loudspeaker make you cover your mouth in shock.

From the cell, you the two beetles had just dug their pincers into Tansey’s legs.

You launch yourself at the damning woman on impulse, and would’ve clawed and scratched any part of her you could reach had you laid hands on her, but Coriolanus is instantly on you, holding both your arms from behind and whispering to your ear, “Nellie, just do as she says.”

No...nonono...

“It’s in my desk drawer!”

Legs shaking, your knees buckle and you collapse to the floor as your confession dawns on you.  You just let go of your only way out of this mess...

Volumnia Gaul lets go of the intercom, cutting off the screaming in the cell.

“What was that, dear? I couldn’t quite hear that,” she taunts.

“It’s inside my desk drawer, it’s a floppy disk – please!”

You made a promise to Tansey, and you broke it.

“What’s in the disk?” Gaul asks through gritted teeth.

“A virus.”

“Who sent it?!”  She barks.

“I don’t know!” you shout back in despair. “It just came in the mail. Please, I already told you everything…”

Still on your knees with your hands being held back by the monster behind you, you keep your eyes trained on the other monster in the room. What a pitiful sight you must make, this helpless, as life is so casually thrown into the fray at their whim.

Gaul presses a button beside the cell’s intercom. In an instant, the beetles let go of the little girl and fall on their backs.

You exhale sharply in relief. 

It’s over. It’s alright, you soothe yourself. You will not cry, not in front of your enemies.

With an almost apologetic gentleness, Coriolanus helps you get on your feet. In the background, the vile woman you call your boss instructs someone through her communicuff to search your desk for the said floppy disk. You take a step back from your mentor and wait until the disk is taken to her office and Gaul locks it inside a coded safe.

Dr Gaul sighs cheerily as she addresses you both.

“I’m glad we’ve come to an agreement. Now that potential issues with the program have been dealt with, you can both go home. See you next week. The other gamemakers will be green with envy knowing the two of you got to try it first.”

She takes leisurely steps to one of her desks, humming to herself. Coriolanus bids her goodnight, but before you make your exit, you hear her call for your name. You almost ignore her.

“Ms Innis? I am promoting you to an official gamemaker post starting Monday. You are valuable to this team and to Mr Snow.”

And just like that, you find yourself shooed out of Volumnia Gaul’s office, out in the hallways and alone with him.

You begin your search for the elevator. Footfalls from behind you indicate he’s following.

“An official gamemaker…sugarplum, that makes you the youngest by just a few months. This is a milestone,” he praises. “It’s ten to eight, we can still make it to The White Knight, after all. We should celebrate.”

Your response is clipped. “No thank you, I have to go.”

“Go? We decided on dinner tonight. Where are you going?” He stops in front of you, but you sidestep him and increase your pace.

Unfortunately, he has longer strides than you, so he keeps with no difficulty.

“Nellie, what’s the matter? Hey, I’m talking to you and you’re being rude. I asked you where you’re going, so I expect an answer.”

When you refuse to reply, he grabs your arm to make you face him, but you shove them away.

“Away!” you retort. “Away from here, from - from her, away from  you ! As far away as I can. Anywhere but here with you is where the fuck I'm going.”

You intend to make a right turn even though you have zero idea where you’re going, but he grips your bicep this time and spins you around, forcing you between the wall and his towering frame. There is a stone column with a vase sitting on top of it on either side of you, effectively trapping you in all directions.

“You're not going anywhere until you tell me what's going on with you.”

The nerve of this man, acting like he has no clue. 

“Okay, I’ll humour that,” you scoff. You take a few deep breaths in an attempt to reel in your imminent outrage, but you don’t know how you can hold it in any longer. “First, you blackmail me, then you pressure me into situations I’m uncomfortable with, then you make me play that...thing, that god-awful thing, I get to relive the most horrible day of my life, and as if all that weren’t enough, you steal the only work – ”

“Hey now – ”

“ – I built that I can be proud of, and then take it apart to suit your perverse psychopathic little games...” you gasp for air and continue your tirade, “You hold me back and make me watch while that girl gets tortured – unhand me, you – you fucking – !”

“Calm down, sugarplum, this is simply just a panic attack – ”

“No, let me go – !”

A pair of lips capturing yours effectively cuts off your outburst. Coriolanus’s kiss is rough, one could even say desperate, but if he thinks he can silence you with one of his little mind games, he is sorely mistaken. You have spent what seems like forever bottling up every single emotion, but the cork has finally popped, and he will hear everything you have to say.

Even if that means facing the inevitable repercussions.

With all your strength, you push him away and finally lash out. Your palm hits his left cheek and the sharp slap echoes in the empty Citadel halls. He is visibly taken aback, and so are you, and yet it felt right. Vindictive, even.

“Don’t touch me,” you hiss, your curled fists shaking as you attempt to curtail it from delivering another blow. “I tried everything I could to keep you away from my uncle’s work. And to think it almost worked. All that time I spent with you after that day at the park, pretending you were still my friend, betraying my beliefs, painting on this face I fucking hated, playing this stupid game of yours... because that’s all this is to you. A game where you played me and you used me – ”

“‘Used you?’” Coriolanus lets out a derisive laugh. It must feel euphoric, finally letting go of that genial, affectionate facade he’s kept so perfectly around you. That’s right, let your true colours show.

“If it weren't for me,” he continues mockingly, his eyes crazed and devoid of any warmth. “You’d be rotting in that college for two more years, stuck with sorting essays and grading test papers. I brought you to the Citadel.

“I made you,” Coriolanus snarls and draws ever closer to you to drive his point. “I built you up to greater potential. Didn't you see what we just did there? We're right in the middle of the greatest breakthrough in the Games in years and here you are, throwing this childish little tantrum – ”

“This isn’t a tantrum, I’m just trying to make you see that this is wrong. We're killing people. Actual, living, breathing people! Or are too far gone to see this? My uncle and I built that program so you, and everyone else like you, could see that they’re all human. They were never just tributes, they’re no different from us – ”

“They’re nothing like us!” Coriolanus says sharply. “They wage war, they cause famine, they drive us to poverty, they kill your parents. They brought this upon themselves! The work we do is their reckoning and the Games put them in their place.”

You watch him clench and unclench his fist as he furrows his brow. He looks like he’s fighting a battle within himself with the way he gazes at you – bitter, enraged, disappointed, despondent, hurt; probably all at once. He sighs deeply, placing his hands gently on your shoulder as his fraught eyes bore into yours.

“We need these Games, Nellie. I need these games to work, and the most important thing: I need you there with me.” He cups your face to make you focus on him. 

But you refuse to be made a fool out of ever again.

“Nellie. Please.”

 He almost sounds like he’s begging. 

“Nellie, say something.”

Coriolanus Snow never begs, but how much of it exactly is real?

“I don't know you, Coriolanus Snow.”

You forcefully pry his hands away from you and take a step past him.

The next thing you know, you’re being squeezed by the bicep and pushed harshly against the wall, knocking the air out of your lungs in the process. All you can focus on is Coriolanus Snow’s frenzied eyes and his bared teeth, and the palpable fury emanating from him; for a second, that look of his churns your insides. You’ve never seen him this furious.

“You leave right now, and I will tell everyone about that letter. What’s going to happen to dear old Uncle Cas when he and everybody else find out his little niece had been consorting with a traitor?”

You get a lungful of air before responding with just as much scorn. “You want to play that card? Go ahead, I'm not scared anymore because I know my conscience is clear. Wish I could say the same of you. Now, this I can’t prove, and I could be wrong, but I think you had Sejanus killed. You want to know why I think that? 

“Because you’ve gone to such great lengths to blackmail me with that letter. And if I’m right, just the thought of it makes me sick.”

Perhaps you had not meant to sound so malicious, but so what?

“You usurped Sejanus’s place as the Plinth heir, you took his mother and father, you took everything from him.”

Coriolanus huffs and the corner of his lips curl into a sneer before he lets out a contemptuous guffaw. “So, that’s what this is, huh? Everything always has to be about him with you. The reason why you won’t let me do this is because you still love him,” he all but spits out the last three words as if the thought extremely repulsed him. Then he taunts, “Poor sensitive, foolish, dead Sejanus, stuck in District 12, Sejanus, rotting six fee – ”

“Fuck you, don’t you dare talk about him that way! Unhand me – !”

Your attempts to wrench yourself from his vice-like grip fail; he shakes your form, perhaps to make you see reason, and then he brings your foreheads together.

“Don't make me take drastic measures against you, Nellie,” he whispers with a gentleness you know is false. “Don’t make me do something we’ll both regret. But I can fix this. I can fix us. But only if you stay. Don't go. Stay with me.”

But you’ve made your decision. However you do it – whether it’s through a cordial resignation or through a virus; whatever happens when you do it – whether he reveals the truth about your letters to the world or sends you to the Districts in exile...

“I don’t ever want to see you again.”

Coriolanus Snow rewards this confession with another, harder slamming of your back against the wall, which earns an audible gasp of pain from you and clouds your vision with involuntary tears. It takes a few seconds for you to regain your composure just in time to see he’s pulled you closer, his face mere inches from yours.

“You’re not getting away from me.”

The way his whisper is laced with venom sends shivers down your spine, and the way his crazed, darkened gaze makes your blood run cold helps dawn on you the fact that he could simply murder you in cold blood right there and then and the Citadel would help him cover it up.

A set of incoming footsteps from your left alerts the both of you. He loosens his grip on your arms just as the footsteps grow closer.

It’s her. Who else can it be?

So, you take advantage of Coriolanus Snow’s momentary distraction and break away from him at last. You run to search for the elevator, and as you do, you hear the sound of something crashing on the floor followed by a loud yell of frustration. You ignore it entirely and keep your eyes peeled for the labels of each floor section until you eventually reach your target. You don’t even spare the accursed building a second glance the moment you’re out. You make a run for it.

You keep running along streets you barely recognise – your only concern is to ensure you’re several blocks away where he can’t catch up with you. And you only stop when you’re certain you’re hidden away in an alley while waiting for your breath to even out.

You’re okay, you assure yourself. You did the right thing. He can’t get to you anymore.

After puking your stomach inside-out behind a dumpster courtesy of the adrenaline rush, you crouch down and burst into sobs.

Coriolanus Snow stares vacantly at the broken pieces of china that litter the marble floor. 

He had been distracted. He had inadvertently loosened his grip on you, and you had run away from him.

The footsteps you both heard seconds before you ran come to a halt behind him, indicating the owner of the floor’s arrival. And based on her lack of a falsely cheery greeting, Coriolanus can tell she isn’t too pleased with your rather... spirited exchange.

“Mr Snow,” she chastises. “Is there a particular reason why you and your pet would make such a racket in my halls like pesky little children?”

“Dr Gaul,” he greets simply. He isn’t particularly fond of her, but at that very moment, he has never been happier to see her.

“Dr Gaul, I may need your help.”

In the safety of his luxury penthouse, Coriolanus Snow inwardly ponders on the many things that had gone wrong in matters concerning you.

Perhaps the first and most crucial of all of them is the fact that after you left, he had done what he had vowed himself not to for the past two years: he had fallen in love  again , and this time to a girl who seemed impervious to his charms, to his money, and to anything he does to make his affections mutual.

It’s hard to admit, but he had once again fallen trapped to the wiliness that is love – once more ensnared by its venomous fangs, latching onto him and spreading the disease throughout his body undetected until he was too far gone to do anything about it.

He recalls vaguely what Gaul had said about you at Strabo’s birthday party: something about you gaining little wings before flying off if he isn’t too careful.

Second: he’s fuming mad at himself for losing control over your defiance; angry at himself for falling in love again; resentful at you for giving him confusing feelings in the last few months, only to refuse him over and over.

He remembers Gaul questioning his selection of you as a potential partner. Suppose he could go back – would he choose another?

But even then, the idea of choosing anyone else other than you was laughable at best. So, no, he wouldn’t.

Maybe he could get out of this by killing you, but the more he thinks of it, the more he seems bothered by the thought of not sharing a life with you.

So, he can’t kill you, either. He’s gone too far with you and too far gone for you.

The third, however, seems unfair to pin on himself alone. He had dinner planned that night so he could reveal to the world that he intended to court you officially. If the public sees this display, you and your meddling uncle would be pressured into accepting him – after all, what would it look like to the Capitol if you refused the one and only Snow heir's advances despite his pure intentions?

That’s why your refusal to stay with him that night – your refusal  of him – led to an outburst he hadn’t been able to control. It had hurt like you stabbed him in his heart, just watching the look of hatred on your face directed at him, seeing a hint of fear in those pretty eyes of yours as you looked at him. And the way you went on a rage after he had insulted Sejanus, making him unwittingly discover that you still loved him? Cherry on fucking-top. 

But that love rightfully belongs to him, not to a mere boy rotting in the ground who only got so much as a kiss from you before he got himself killed for his folly.

It seems like Sejanus is still sabotaging his future from beyond the grave.

Had he been expecting his initial platonic attachment for you to grow? If he’s being honest with himself, he indeed had anticipated this somewhat. What he wasn’t prepared for was how he’d see you in a different light after spending that much time with you.

He’s seen the kind of girl you are: smart, headstrong, and brave; despite everything you’ve gone through, despite your apparent fear of seeing people get injured and die, you had no qualms standing up for your principles, no matter how misdirected some of those are. You had no problem standing up to him and to Volumnia Gaul a while back – an act that even he admits takes the purest form of daring-do.

And then he brought you home that night, witnessing your turmoil in your sleep.

His girl, so beautiful and smart and courageous, but also so damaged and vulnerable and exposed to him…

If he could do anything, anything, just so you wouldn’t have to cry for your mother and father in your sleep; just so you wouldn’t have to dream about the pain of losing your loved ones and fear for their safety all the time...

But then, he gets the picture: he can do something. Coriolanus Snow has the power to make sure the people who were responsible for your parents’ deaths are put in their rightful place and face their true nature.

That’s what the Games are for.

In a way, he’s trying to change the Games for you.

That being said, what is his next move? Surely he isn’t beyond using everything in his arsenal to make you see who you belong to, including eliciting the help of a fearsome figure, even if it means owing her a huge favour. Dr Gaul, the said figure, sent him home that night with a two-inch thick covert rebel force intelligence report tucked in his suitcase. He needs to study this file from cover to cover and he needs to act fast.

To keep a bird in its cage, he needs to clip its wings.

So, from behind his desk and aided with a huge pot of freshly brewed coffee, Coriolanus steels himself for a long sleepless night ahead and opens the folder. His interest is instantly piqued when he sees a name he’d never thought he’d see smack-dab on the front page of a top-secret rebel force intelligence file:

Acacius E. Innis.

Enter Level 11

Author notes:

Please reblog and comment, it's always appreciated!

Someone had kindly asked me for Nellie's family history, so we'll know more of that (including our beloved Uncle Cas's) next level :D

#dark!coriolanus snow #dark!coriolanus snow x reader #young!coriolanus snow #young!coriolanus snow x reader #named!reader #x OC2ndPOV #or #18+ only #dark!coriolanus snow fic #dark!coriolanus #dark!coriolanus fic #dark!fic

[dotieeee]

The Gamemaker's Apprentice

Level 2

Pairing: Dark!Young!Coriolanus Snow x You, named!Reader

Overall Warnings:

NON-CON, DUB-CON, Dark!Young!Coriolanus Snow, Snow himself should be a warning, lots of blackmailing, gaslighting, manipulation, obsession, possesiveness, eventual forced marriage, eventual loss of virginity, breeding kink, canon-compliant major character death, reader is named but has no physical descriptions in the fic so one might also consider her an OC but in 2nd POV, will have canon inconsistencies, and other stuff that may be added

Masterlist

Level 2 Warnings:

Light Sejanus x Reader (we all know how this goes down 🥺), canon-compliant major character death, angst, SNOW and his obsessive thoughts are obsessive af, chapter longer than anticipated

Replay Level 1

Ready? Level 2 Start:

It’s just like you had predicted: Coriolanus Snow is declared victor at the tenth Hunger Games.

But despite the success, and the prestige and this Plinth Prize that had come with it, his win had already been dampened by the chaos that ensued even before the Games had begun.

Arachne had been fatally attacked by her tribute for taunting him with a sandwich. Although her behaviour towards her tribute had been childish and uncalled for, nobody deserved to die the way she did. On the day of the funeral, the corpse of the tribute who killed her was placed on a hook like livestock and was displayed for everyone to see, and the Capitol took pride in marching the tributes along in a sickening parade. ‘Monster,’ they had called her. But Brandy, the said tribute, was a byproduct of an upbringing that taught her to ‘kill or be killed,’ born into monstrous circumstances that the Capitol had helped create. City Circle had a good look at all of them: merely children, gaunt, starving, and poorly clothed: a stark difference to the luxuries the city liked to indulge itself in.

Coriolanus had sung the Gem of Panem at the funeral for some reason, which was nice of him to do, nonetheless.

Then came the bombing at the Arena where the Games were to be held.

The mentors and the tributes had been on a tour inside when the bombs had gone off. The twins from your class, Apollo and Diana, had died in an instant. Coriolanus and a few others had to be hospitalised.

You and some of your classmates had a chance to visit him at the hospital two days after the attack. Not wanting to come empty-handed, you brought a box of brownies you baked, placed a note and left it on the nightstand beside his bed when no one was looking, not wanting to draw attention.

You suspected that your uncle hadn’t had a wink of sleep since the bombing. He was rarely home. When he was, it was only to retrieve papers or hard drives and disks he had in his home office or to sneak a few bites of food from the kitchen. Everybody in the Citadel working on the Games is stressed, he had said, working tirelessly and in shifts to avoid further mishaps. Dr. Gaul, the Head Gamemaker and your uncle’s boss at the Citadel, sounded generally unsatisfied with the way the Games are running.

Good, you had thought to yourself. Maybe this could spell the end of them. Perhaps not as good for the tributes or the mentors, though.

One night, however, you received an unusual phone call from Ma Plinth, Sejanus’s mom. She had said her son was missing and that she was going to the Snows to check up on him.

You ran to the Snow residence. Conveniently, they lived in the Main Corso building just right in front of yours, Corso III. You found Ma Plinth talking to Coriolanus at the door, practically begging him to find out where Sejanus was.

Coriolanus’s acquiesced and beckoned you inside, too.

But you never had a chance to talk, because Ma Plinth had then begun exclaiming that she just saw Sejanus on TV inside the arena.

Inside the fucking Arena.

What had possessed him to do such a thing became obvious to everyone watching: he just sprinkled breadcrumbs on his tribute’s body. It was a traditional send-off to the afterlife in District 2, you remember him telling you before.

You shared an alarmed look with Coriolanus as the phone rang. He was quick to pick it up. The rather short conversation was enough to render him even paler than usual.

He took you aside, out of earshot from Ma Plinth and Tigris, and whispered urgently:

“Gaul has told me to get him out there.”

“What? That’s insane,” you whispered back. “You’re both insane! You can’t seriously be thinking of going alone.”

Coriolanus looked worried. You’ve never seen him that worried before, but his determined tone said he wasn’t going to change his mind.

“I have to,” he said and pulled you towards the door. You understood his meaning then: go home.

“I’m coming with you, it’s not safe,” you had tried insisting.

“Exactly why you need to go home, Nellie. You’re going to need to forget this happened and stay home. I’ll bring Sejanus back.”

He didn’t even wait for your response and just took off.

You had spent the rest of the night with little sleep after, debating whether to call Coriolanus or Sejanus to check if they’d both gotten home in one piece.

Thankfully, Coriolanus had given you the call in the morning after, and Sejanus had dropped by your home that afternoon, to confirm they were safe. You had asked Sejanus then if he wanted to talk about what happened, but he just shook his head and said he simply wanted to watch you do ‘whatever it is you do on that damn computer.’ You had warned him it might bore him to death, but he said he didn’t care.

Except an hour into your coding practice, he groaned and said “At least tell me what the hell it is I’m seeing.”

And you just laughed the kind of laugh only he got to hear.

You had been at home when your uncle called and gave you the news. It was over, and Coriolanus had won everything: the Games, and the Plinth Prize money, and against all odds he succeeded in keeping the girl Lucy Gray alive. He then said there was going to be a victory party but that it had been cancelled.

Coriolanus had been cheating in the games and he was going to be sent to the Districts to become a peacekeeper to atone for this misdemeanour.

By the time you had visited his home, Tigris said he had already packed and left to await his assignment.

You wondered then whether he might have fallen genuinely for his District 12 tribute enough to put himself and everything else on the line like that, and whether he intended to follow her. Good for him, discovering his humanity amidst all the corruption and the violence and the chaos, but you couldn’t help but think the dangers and the horrors he’ll face there as a peacekeeper might be more than enough to extinguish that.

Also, you had not heard from Sejanus at all – it’s like he’s snapped and he’s shutting everyone out, and when you dropped by his house, Ma Plinth said she hadn’t seen him all day.

This is why you nearly jump and drop the box of cookies you’re about to take with you to your room when the phone rings in the living room.

You dive to take the call and nearly blow up when you hear a familiar voice.

“Nellie, I’m coming over,” Sejanus says in a hurried tone.

He’s been avoiding you for days, and now he wants to just pop in and visit? “The fuck you are. Where have you been?”

Completely ignoring your question, he repeats with a little more force, “I’m coming over,” and hangs up.

The nerve of this guy.

So you wait for him. You think of everything you’re going to tell him, keeping you away like that. You’re aware he had been through a rough patch with the Games and the pressure from his father, but he’s supposed to let you help him get through this. That’s what you’re there for, as a friend to him. So when the bell rings on your apartment door, you pull it open forcefully, hoping to give him a piece of your mind.

Anything you had planned on saying dies down in your throat the moment you see his face.

It’s like he hasn’t slept or eaten in days, by the looks of him. His normally neat curls are in disarray, and his eyes are puffy and dull and distraught.

Once you let him in and he crosses the threshold, he says:

“I’m being drafted as a peacekeeper.”

First, Coriolanus; now him?

“What is going on, Janus?” you asked in a hushed, concerned voice.

He runs a hand through his hair and rubs his face. Your eyes dart from his face to the notebook he’s holding with his other hand.

He plops down on your couch and lays his head on the backrest. He stares at the ceiling for a moment, before explaining everything.

“I’m under suspicion for treasonous...acts, I guess. They were going to expel me. Dad, he pulled a few strings to get me and Coriolanus to graduate and get high-honour diplomas. In exchange for that, I have to be sent away. They’re watching me, Nellie.”

You take the empty seat beside him as you frown. “So, they’re basically drafting you to peacekeeping for entering the Arena and performing funeral rites on your tribute?”

“Yes, among other things.”

A blanket of silence passes between the two of you.

“When?” you ask finally. It comes out coarse and full of dread.

“Later today.”

You let in a sharp intake of breath. They’re taking him away for his flagrant displays of basic human decency.

You swallow that lump in your throat and ask, “Do you know where you’d be assigned to?”

“12. I wasn’t assigned to it. I’m going to ask to be sent there. After all, somebody’s got to keep an eye out for Pretty-boy Coryo. He’s not going to last long there without me,” he says with false bravado.

The smirk on your face is half-hearted. “When...” When will I see you again? “When are you coming back?”

“I don’t know.”

Your heart sinks to your stomach. You must’ve looked so upset because he holds your hand and squeezes. It’ll be a long time before you get to feel that hand-squeeze again.

“Nellie, don’t look at me like that. I didn’t come here just to say goodbye,” Sejanus says with those reassuring brown eyes. He shows you the small notebook he brought with him. “I spent days working on that. I didn’t sleep at all last night to get it finished. I’m sorry I couldn’t see you for the past few days, I didn’t want to come to you empty-handed.”

You quell that foreboding feeling in your heart and take the notebook with curiosity.

Sejanus says proudly, “Between the two of us, you were always the one with the solutions. This time, I got mine.”

You flip the notebook filled with his neat handwriting. On the first page are the words, ‘just in case.’

“Janus, what is this?”

He excitedly leans closer to you and says, “Code. We’re going to write each other in code. Here.” He fishes out another book from inside his jacket: an old, dog-eared book of condensed romantic novels.

It’s so odd a display you could not help commenting as you take the book. “Is this a one-of-a-kind deluxe collectable from the Plinth Family library?”

Sejanus laughs softly, the warm glow in his eyes slowly returning. Happy to see it again, you laugh with him. The smile on your face stays on for a few moments. How could it not when he’s there with you?

“So, we’re using this system to write to each other,” you conclude with a more serious tone. “You suspect they’ll be monitoring our letters.”

Sejanus lets out a weary sigh. “Yeah. I know you worry a lot, so I’d like to be able to exchange updates with you without putting you in trouble. Anything I write you that’s in the tone of subversion, which to them is the only language I know now, is going to raise suspicion. And I can’t risk that of you.”

You nod in understanding. You’re going to do your best to give him that – he’s going to need news of home when he’s there, it’s the least you could do to help. And in turn, you’ll have some form of assurance knowing that he’s doing okay.

“So, I wrote down references on the notebook for common things like, say, somebody threw a party or some shit. But anything serious, like, really serious that I haven’t thought of, that’s what that one-of-a-kind deluxe collectable is for.” He points at the book for emphasis. “You’re going to need to read that. Cover to cover.”

It isn’t your go-to genre, but you can easily manage that.

“You have another copy of this book?”

“Nah, I’ve read it many times. I remember every word.” This makes you raise a derisive eyebrow, to which he adds in mock defence, “Hey, sorry I wasn’t reading differential calculus. I was a kid, and it stuck, okay?”

Still giggling, you nodded in understanding. You hold the books close to your heart and give him a thankful look.

“We’re also going to need to burn the letters as soon as we read them. We can’t take any chances.” Sejanus gazes at you with a wistful smile. “I need you to be safe here, Nellie.”

This time, he takes both of your hands in his. The thought of not seeing your friend for a long time stirs up this cold emptiness inside you that threatens to grow even before he’s left. A treacherous tear runs down your cheek, followed by another, but he cups your face to wipe it away.

“Hey, I’ll be back in no time.”

“Okay,” you breathe. “Take care of your boyfriend, yes?” He chortles at this. “Take care of yourself, Janus. Know how to choose your battles, and when.”

He bobs his head as he lets you go. The absence of his warmth on your skin is immediate. He leans further but seems to hesitate. Instead, he gets to his feet.

It’s time.

You walk him to the door. You don’t exchange goodbyes anymore, maybe because you both believe you just did or maybe because there’s no need to.

You watch as he disappears into the hall towards the elevator. You don’t know why you linger, but before you close the door, a shout of your name keeps you in place. All that enters your line of vision are dishevelled brown curls before you feel a pair of lips latch onto yours.

Such warmth. And greedily, selfishly, you lean into that warmth, you take as much as you can get, for as long as you can.

You both pull away at the same time, your faces flush and beaming with a mixture of thrill and disbelief. Sejanus brings your foreheads close.

“Wait for me,” he whispers breathlessly.

You find yourself nodding fervently even before he finishes his request.

He plants a tender, lingering kiss on your forehead. With those soft brown orbs, he stares at you for a few seconds, still blushing, as he slowly backs away. And then he bolts, for good, taking all of that warmth with him. Your fingers travel subconsciously to your lips. Already, there’s a chill in you without him there, but you’ll endure. No matter how cold it gets.

For him.

The first letter from Sejanus arrived three weeks after your conversation. Nothing too drastic or fancy, if your decoding was accurate. Just mentions of the daily grind of a peacekeeper’s life. Drab, it may be, but you were glad to hear they were being fed well and weren’t getting into trouble. He hinted at Coriolanus being depressed at still having not found Lucy Gray. You remember being highly entertained by this development. You had guessed right, yet again: the elitist Snow, lovesick and pining over a girl from the districts who represents everything he stands against. What you would’ve given to have seen it for yourself.

These letters quickly become the highlight of your week when they arrive. You recall with disdain the women from those cheaply produced serialised dramas depicting them looking out the window in anticipation of news from their lovers at war. And here you were, acting like one, getting disgustingly giddy at the thought of a letter from your friend. The universe can be so vindictive, you thought to yourself with a laugh.

It was all lighthearted and fun until it wasn’t.

The tone in his letters shifted abruptly, indicating that the events in District 12 had become more tense and he had found questionable company.

You’re with your uncle at his private computer lab in the University, getting as much leg up as you can for your incoming classes. He had reminded you how high the expectations were of you to perform leagues beyond your peers because of your family name, so you took this to heart and started going with him whenever he went to teach summer classes. He’s at the other side of a long table piled to the ceiling with computer equipment, poring over the motherboard of an old computer he had taken apart. You’re going over a line of code you had entered on an unfamiliar programming language he was showing you the ropes on when a rap on the lab door is heard. The heavy carved door opens by a tiny fraction and a mailman’s head pokes in.

“Ah, wonderful, it’s here,” Uncle Cas mutters to himself as he gets to his feet to receive what appears to be a package with the Innis Tech logo stamped with the District 3 seal.

“From your aunt,” he clarifies, noticing your curious look.

His ex-wife: a strict, sharp-tongued woman he separated from before moving to the Capitol, with whom he left the task of managing the company-owned factories in District 3. You’re not that close to her, but you still call her Aunt Marcelline. You’ve stayed in her estate during your school break trips to District 3 while she busied herself with company matters.

“I designed a set of experimental microprocessors and sent her the blueprints. She mailed me the prototypes.”

Quietly, he slides a familiar envelope towards you. It’s always your uncle who hands you Sejanus’s letters. Weird that it looks like it came with his package, but you file that information away. With your code work abandoned, you all but tear the envelope open. The last one was three weeks ago, and you had been growing more anxious as the recurrence between them went further than the last. You glance at your uncle to ensure he isn’t watching, but he’s already had his back turned to you, presumably to assemble the microprocessors. You take out your references for the code and decipher the letter at once, hoping it isn’t as nowhere as alarming as his previous one. He had, after all, hinted at meeting a known rebel and had sympathised with his plight.

What you discover has you cursing under your breath and fearful for your friend’s life.

From across the table, your uncle mutters absently, “Nothing bad, I hope.” You deliberately ignore him.

Ammunition. Sejanus is supplying the rebels with money for ammunition.

What the actual fuck, Janus?

He ends the letter with a vow to return to you so you can make a difference together, just like he does every time. Only this time, this doesn’t comfort you at all.

In the letter you send back, you advise him against making another move and ask him – beg him – to put this all to an end. Understanding their plight and saying a change is much needed? That’s fine. Supplying the rebel forces with weapons? Downright madness. And where is Coriolanus in this? Is he in it, too? Why would he let his own best friend get involved in something he could be labelled a traitor for?

His next letter after that wasn’t much better.

Nothing about acts of rebellion, or of acquiring ammunition. Instead, the entire letter is Sejanus asking if you would come with him and live in the mountains if he asked you to. If you would meet him and run away with him if he told you where and when. The worst part of it was the underlying despair in the tone as if this was a last resort. If perhaps you were normal teenagers in normal circumstances it would’ve sent butterflies flying in your stomach and you’d be a wreck muffling your squeals of excitement with a pillow – except none of this was normal, and the friend you’re writing to is in District 12, has either committed treason or on the verge of committing treason and you’re stuck in the Capitol, unable to do a damn thing to keep any of it from happening.

It takes you a while to respond to his bizarre letter of his.

If I could be there in a heartbeat, I would. If you tell me where, I’ll follow. If you tell me when, I’ll leave right at that second. But please, please, Janus, be very careful, don’t do anything else that could get you in trouble. Please, come back, and we’ll talk about this then when you do. Be safe for us.

***

You stay distracted and jittery for the next nineteen days, and by the end of the twentieth day of no word from Sejanus, you had not eaten a single bite of food in your distress. You lay on the couch and turn the TV to a late-night drama called ‘Young Hearts,’ something about a peacekeeper trying to find the lover he left behind after his twenty-year draft. Nothing young about that, you mutter yourself miserably and close your eyes, trying to think of any clue you could’ve missed in your friend’s letters.

The next thing you know, you’re being gently shaken awake by Uncle Cas calmly calling your name out with mildly drawn together in worry.

He hands you over a glass of water, which you gratefully accept. You’re extremely parched and your throat is sore.

“Nellie. You were having nightmares again.”

That figures. Rarely do you remember these nightmares, but your uncle has woken you up in this manner too many times to count for you to know you had been screaming yourself hoarse, calling out for your parents in the dead of night.

Your uncle releases an audible sigh. “What is it this time?”

You peer at his worried, exhausted eyes, feeling your own starting to sting.

“Is this about a boy? Do I have to break an eighteen-year-old’s leg?”

You burst into a laughing-crying fit, at which your uncle’s mouth upturns.

“I’m sure you know this, by now, but stressing yourself out like this...you have not had nightmares in a long time, Nellie. This isn’t good,” he admonishes softly.

You begin confessing, “It’s Sejanus –“

“– Aaaand it’s about a boy. Got it. I’ll break his arms instead when he comes back, I’ll deal with Strabo Plinth after.”

You wipe your tears with your palm as you stifle your laughter. “Uncle, please, be serious,” you let out a couple of sniffs, letting the sobs fade. “He hasn’t written in almost three weeks. What if something happened to him?”

Your uncle puts an arm around your head and tucks you under his chin. “Plumcake, communication between –“

“– the Districts take a long time to get delivered, I know. I can’t help it. But why do I feel like...like something’s wrong this time? I mean, I feel like that all the time –“

“– because you tend to overthink, plumcake,” he finishes. “Add to that missing meals, sleeping irregularly? You’re not going to help Sejanus by worrying yourself to death.”

Of course, he’s right. He’s right. You can’t both be falling apart at the same time.

You nod lightly on his shoulder, feeling a light kiss on your hair. He lets go of you, and takes out a chocolate bar from his pyjama’s front pocket, urging you to eat something. You take it with trembling hands.

“How long has this been inside your pocket?” you mumble as you chew mechanically.

Uncle Cas just snorts and scoffs, “I don’t sleep with candy on me if that’s what you’re implying.”

A comforting silence passes between you two before your uncle leans forward and peers at you with a contemplative look.

“You love this boy.”

It isn’t a question, you notice. This kind of talk with your uncle is unchartered territory, because, as he’s quoted before, you’ve never given him any kind of ‘boy trouble,’ to which he’s thankful. But this is different. Sejanus isn’t just some boy; he’s a dear friend who needs help and you’d do just about anything to get to him at that very moment.

“I...I don’t know.”

Oh, but you know. You always know.

“But you would run away with him if he asked you to?”

You turn to look at him sharply in surprise. How did he know?

As if he read your mind, he says with a dry smile, “I pulled quite a lot of strings to make sure those letters get to the only hands that are meant to handle them.”

Of course. This is Acacius Innis you’re dealing with, Panem’s most prolific computer scientist and mathematical genius. Your code was probably just another crossword puzzle for him to solve while he was casually sipping his morning coffee. He’s been protecting you all this time. How he’s doing it, you feel like you wouldn’t like the answer to, but your heart just seems to find a way to love him even more. What would you do without him, you have no idea. Tears threaten to spill once more from your eyes, so all you can manage is a wet, grateful smile.

“I was young once, too, plumcake,” He reaches to ruffle your hair, flashing you a knowing smile. “Your aunt Marcelline and I, oh boy...did I ever tell you about that time we –”

Here we go. An Acacius Innis diversionary tactic special: overwhelm his niece with tales about him and his bossy ex-wife sneaking off to abandoned warehouses to make out on top of electrical equipment. He’s used those at parties to great effect.

“You know what, maybe I will run away with Sejanus.”

“Do that and I’ll break his arms, plus his legs, when he comes back.”

The phone rings in the living room as you pack some of your clothes. Your uncle presumably picks the phone up since it quiets down, leaving you to organise your suitcase in peace.

Your uncle had advised you this morning to take a break at your Aunt Marcelline’s estate in District 3. He said you needed the change of scenery to clear your head in time for your college freshman year. You had argued with him about staying for any news of your oddly quiet friend, but he didn’t want to hear any of it.

Something is wrong and you can’t shake it off, no matter how hard you try to rationalise.

With your five days' worth of clothes packed and ready to go, you trudge to the living room to call your uncle and get the trip over with. It doesn’t feel right to leave when you have a friend from whom you have not heard a single peep.

“Uncle Cas? I’m done packing,” you call out to the living room.

You find him sitting on the sofa, leaning forward with an arm rested on his knee, his hand covering half of his face. He looks at you sombrely, rubs his face and heaves a deep sigh.

“Trip’s cancelled,” he says in a hushed tone. “Come and sit with me, Nellie.”

Something’s wrong.

But that thought, you ignore, along with that racing heartbeat echoing in your ears.

You sit on the space your uncle gestured, wiping your palms on your lap. Your uncle turns to you with an expression you’ve only ever seen him once. The same look he wore the day he picked you up at the hospital after your Mom and Dad died.

Dread pools in your gut, making you feel lightheaded and sick.

“Nellie, Sejanus is gone. He’s been executed for treason.”

A shaky breath escapes your lips as your mind races to the rational. It can’t be. He can’t be. He just wrote to you three weeks ago. He just asked you if you’d run away with him. He hasn’t even replied to the last letter you sent. You essentially said yes.

Vaguely, you feel hands cup your face, and you hear your uncle call your name, but you choose to listen to the words that replay in your head:

“Wait for me.”

You’ll never hear that voice again.

“But he promised,” you whisper, unable to see clearly. Your eyes are stinging. “He said I should wait for him. He promised.”

“Plumcake, I’m sorry.”

Your uncle encases you in a hug. It should be warm, right?

You feel nothing.

You’ll never feel his warmth again.

And just like the day your uncle came for you at the hospital, you let your grief out on his shirt, wailing for another loved one lost you were too helpless to save.

“You’ve been watching an awful lot of that drama.”

Your uncle enters the living room with a pint of chocolate chip mint ice cream and plops down the sofa before handing you a spoon. You shake your head quietly, your eyes glued to the TV.

“Alright, more for me,” your uncle mutters to himself.

The former peacekeeper had just missed the love of his life in the town square, and he was now running around the shops trying to spot the familiar face.

If only he had caught sight of her just as she turned the corner...

You adjust the thick woollen quilt around your form huddled to your knees at the corner, your mind blank for the first time in a long while of barely doing anything.

Your uncle seems to understand your need to mourn and has since respected your space, only coaxing you to eat or go out for ice cream, all of which you refuse.

But to your annoyance, no matter how much you try to adjust the quilt, it’s still pretty fucking cold.

Your uncle wordlessly wraps another blanket on you. You thank him mechanically, even if the blanket doesn’t help with anything.

How hard is it to get fucking warm in this damn house...

“Nellie, I could turn up the thermostat but we’d basically be close to steaming,” your uncle comments gently.

You flash him a weak smile and turn your attention back to the TV, where the former peacekeeper chases a woman he thinks is the girl. He catches up to her, but she struggles. They both fall on the ground just before the guy realises it isn’t his girl. It gets messy, as the girl screams for help and the guy despairs while he’s dragged away by the peacekeepers on duty.

What a load of bullshit, you think.

The phone in your uncle’s office rings, making him get up from the couch and leave the tub of ice cream on the coffee table. Your stomach rumbles – a rather bleak reminder of the last time you had eaten anything. Dragging the blankets along with you, you make tea in the kitchen as you spot your uncle out of his pyjamas and dressed in his usual wool coat.

“They need me at the lab, the driver’s waiting downstairs,” he says, poking his head in the kitchen. “You’ll be alright here, plumcake?”

“At this time?” your voice comes out hoarse from unuse.

“Yeah, what can I say? They love me there at the Citadel, they’re practically begging to get in my pants,” he shrugs. His tone is meant to be lighthearted but it lacks its usual bite. You notice the lines on his face, the bags underneath his eyes, those brows knitting slightly together in his worry. A pang of guilt hits you.

“I’ll be fine, Uncle Cas. Go do your thing. Make them love you even more, or whatever.”

He opens his mouth to say something but seems to decide against it. He ends up saying in his usual teasing tone, “Yeah, that’s the easy part. Eat something and then go to bed, will you? You’re starting to look like a fucking ghost.”

You just flash him a flat smile. He’s gone in a moment, the front door closing behind him.

You inhale the steam from the tea deeply, your hands feeling wonderful around the steaming mug of tea. The mug cools down, after a few minutes, leaving you craving for more warmth. The kettle on the stove was still warm. You abandon your half-filled mug and place your hands around that too, until the steel starts biting your fingers with the cold.

This won’t do.

Maybe a warm bath ought to.

You shed the heavy layers of blankets wrapped around you. You don’t bother taking your hoodie off or your pyjamas as you walk into the scalding bath.

You just need to be warm, after all. Then you’ll be okay. Deeply drawing in a breath, you lean against the tub and hug your knees.

Sejanus’s hug was almost this warm. So were his hands. And his lips.

It takes only a fraction of a second for you to burst into agonizing sobs.

You miss him. Terribly.

“You said you’d come back. You told me to wait for you. I’m still fucking waiting.”

But the bathroom walls only mildly echo your voice.

***

You wake up to your uncle close to screaming your name.

What’s wrong? You’re warm now, so warm. Shivers wrack your body as your Uncle Cas sets you down on the plush bathroom carpet. You’re perfectly, contentedly warm now, so the shaking should subside, right?

“Nellie, what the fuck, how long have you been in here?” your uncle chastises. He grabs as many towels as he can from the overhead cabinet and wraps them all around you. “Next time you want to kill yourself, there are more efficient methods.”

You try to choke back your tears, but they still spill. You’re warm now, but every limb and every muscle hurts.

With you wrapped in a cocoon of towels, your uncle crouches on the floor to take you in his arms. You drench his coat and his shirt, but he doesn’t care.

“I’m sorry, plumcake, I did not mean to say that,” he coos into the hair clinging to your head.

You tremble as you cling to the towels. Why does it hurt?

“What on earth were you trying to do?”

Unable to hold it in any longer, you confess. Everything you’ve been bottling up since five days ago on the day you lost your best friend.

“I’m s-orry,” you say through your sobs and chattering teeth. “Wa-want to be wa-warm. J-janus was s-so warm, and now I’ll be c-c-cold. I just w-want him to hold my hand again like he d-did when I told him...mom and d-ad...”

You feel your uncle rest his chin on your head. “I’m sorry, little plumcake. There was nothing you could’ve done.”

“I feel b-better now,” you whisper. The door to the bathroom is ajar. You see a figure with brown curls peeking inside. “Better...Janus...he’ll co-come for me...he came b-b-ack, see?” you try to point at the door, but you can’t move your arm. But he’s there and he’s waiting.

“Nellie, plumcake, there’s no one there, you’re ice cold. We need a doctor...”

Your uncle releases you as he scrambles out the bathroom. You vaguely hear him phoning his driver to bring the car around. The figure with brown curls slowly makes its way to you. The last thing you remember is him carting you off the bathroom floor and dashing out the apartment door before blackness takes over your vision.

Hypothermia, the doctor had said when you woke up. Your uncle had rushed you to the hospital around dawn, which meant you had been soaking in that tub for a few hours before he found you. You don’t remember anything after you had gotten in the tub. It wasn’t severe, thankfully, so you were discharged the next day.

You came home to an invitation in the mail from none other than Coriolanus Snow. So, he had returned from his exile in District 12, and according to the card, he will be hosting what would be Sejanus’s nineteenth birthday.

“You’re not going?” Your uncle had inquired with a surprised look.

“No. I think I’ll be busy that day, Uncle.”

“What for?”

You just gave him a small, determined smile.

“I’m getting rid of evidence.”

By the look of recognition your uncle flashes, he understood what you meant, and asked no more questions.

So, on the night of your best friend’s birthday, instead of being at the Plinth house, you’re on the rooftop, lighting a fire inside a large metal tin. You’re crouching on the gravel, vaguely wondering how the party was going.

You feel bad about not calling or visiting Ma Plinth. She had always been nice to you whenever you visited Janus, usually plying both of you so much of her delicious cooking and even making you take home leftovers. It must be extremely painful, losing the only son whom she doted and loved more than anything in the world. But you worry that when she starts talking, she’ll touch on feelings you’re actively trying to suppress. Maybe you could call her one time once you’re ready for such a conversation.

Coriolanus is probably hosting the party out of grief – in the letters, Janus hinted at growing closer to him during their stint in District 12. You watch as the flames in the tin grow and cast a comforting warmth around your form, wondering in amusement whether it was Snow Sejanus really had a crush on. You hope in your heart that Coriolanus had considered him a true friend right at the very end. That way, it’d be more comforting, knowing your dear friend had spent his final moments on earth with a person he trusted with his life.

You had kept all the letters inside a locked wooden box. You didn’t have the heart to burn them immediately after, but Sejanus had written incriminating messages in them. If anyone else were to discover them, you’d be considered a co-conspirator. You’re not worried about yourself, but your uncle...he can’t have you giving him any more trouble as you already have.

You take the letters, one by one, planting a kiss goodbye on each, before tossing them ceremoniously into the makeshift firepit. You watch with a heavy heart as they burst into flames, the smoke rising into the cold night air. You reach the bottom of the box where the tiny notebook lies. You rip each page apart, and those too, are placed on the fire. You continue, until all that’s left of the correspondence between you and Sejanus – the brave, pure soul of a man you could proudly now declare you had fallen in love with – is reduced to a pile of ash. You gather the ash and scatter it on the nearby herb box.

At least you still have that rugged condensed romance novel book, you thought to yourself with a wry chuckle.

Now done with destroying the evidence, you get to your feet with a vow to begin anew.

For him.

Another death devastated the Capitol in the following days. Casca Highbottom, Academy Dean and author of The Hunger Games. Your uncle thought he may have drunk tainted morphling, which he could’ve gotten anywhere. The authorities said it’s too broad of a scope to consider foul play, seeing as he was known as an avid user, he said.

You could’ve gone to the funeral, seeing as the man allowed you to graduate despite your albeit intentional fuckup, but you also knew everyone else would be there: everyone whose faces would remind you of your friend. You’re not sure you’re ready to face them just yet.

Uncle Cas had started preparing for his upcoming classes at Uni, so you volunteered to help exactly seven days before your classes started. The entire day was spent photocopying syllabi for student distribution, getting the computers at the public computer lab ready for use, and organising the private lab. The last one wasn’t an easy feat, what with the room piled to the walls with all the computers he has taken apart, all the drives he has accumulated, and all the books and papers he refuses to get rid of. What your uncle calls organised chaos, you simply call messy hoarding tendencies.

You’re bored out of your mind sorting through last academic year’s essays and test papers when your uncle calls you to his office at the far end of the lab.

You’ve only been inside a handful of times for short periods; otherwise, no one else is allowed. You find him playfully swivelling in his chair and playing with a stress ball, tossing it in the air and catching it.

“How’d you like to be my apprentice?”

He ceases with the chair swivel and throws the stress ball at you, which you move to catch at once. You openly gape at him, unsure if you heard correctly.

Apprenticeships for Uni deans are a big deal in the Capitol’s book.

“Since you’re here all the time being my little helper, no?” He says casually. He turns to the computer behind him and pulls up a program.

“Alright, I’ll sweeten the deal,” he continues. “Be my gamemaker apprentice. That’s better than a dean’s apprentice. You get paid and get exclusive perks, all that jazz.”

You bristle at this. He has never involved you in anything he does at the Citadel, and you’d prefer that it stays that way. Why is he bringing you in now?

Ignoring your perplexed expression, he goes on. “The best perk, in my opinion, is a membership to the White Knights Club. It’s an exclusive members-only restaurant on 3rd Street. The jazz band is okay, but they have the best angel food cake in the city.”

“Why?” you blurt out.

“They put orange extract instead of vani –“

“Not the cake, Uncle, the gamemaker apprenticeship thing,” you interrupt. “Why would you ask me that?”

Your Uncle Cas just beckons you to his computer and points at the currently running program.

On the app seems to be your Uncle’s name, his photo, and his –

“Wait, are those your...”

“Vitals? Yes,” he says proudly.

“...and hormone levels...to gauge emotion...” Your jaw drops open. “This is live?”

“Made possible by wearing this chip –“ he points at the back of his neck – “Which transmits everything in real-time, or at least it’s supposed to.”

“What do you mean?” you ask as you curiously peek at the back of his neck. True enough, there’s a chip about two inches in diameter attached to his skin. “Wait, did you put on this implant yourself? It looks like it hurts...”

“It hurts like a bitch, yes. But you get used to it quickly and it’s removable.”

He fishes a similar chip out of his drawer. He points at the two needle-like protrusions on each side of the square. “These are fitted onto the skin. And this,” he says, pointing at what looks like a microscopic piece of glass, “That’s the transmitter. I’m working on reducing the size of this chip at the moment.”

“Holy shit, Uncle Cas. They’re going to make the tributes wear these?”

He nods.

Your uncle built this entire thing? From a technical standpoint, you’re more than blown away. The program’s function on the other hand...

Before you could even explore more for yourself, he shuts down the program and locks his computer.

“What did you do that for?” you protest. “Moreover, why are you showing me this?”

“Because I haven’t finished it yet. And I need you to help me with the code.”

Oddly enough, you aren’t insulted or angry he would offer you a place among people you don’t ever want to associate with. There is no judgment between you and your Uncle Cas. You’re merely puzzled to your core.

“You’ve never talked about work at the Citadel before, Uncle. Why now?”

“Because you’re an Innis. My blood. The only person alive I can trust with my work.”

You’re touched and filled with pride that your Uncle would entrust you with something he built entirely from the ground up. But you remain unconvinced. This is, after all, an accessory to a vile creation you’d rather see disappear. You keep your eyes on your lap as you think.

“Why did you make this?”

“Because this is what’s within my control, Nellie.”

This makes you glance up at him in surprise.

“I can’t make the Games go away. Just like I can’t leave my work at the Citadel. What I can do, however, is build a tool that can help the mentors keep their tributes alive for as long as they can.”

Your uncle grins at the look of recognition on your face.

“That’s what the vitals are for...and the hormone levels...” you whisper.

“Make them see that there’s a living, breathing human being on the other side of that screen. Be more compelled to protect a person instead of putting on a show. At least that’s the hope.”

So that’s why your uncle wants only you to work on the program. Because in the hands of people like Volumnia Gaul, the program, when modified, promises something deadlier, more inhumane. You shudder inwardly at the possibilities.

“And you have my word I’m not going to make you work at Citadel.”

You inhale slowly, now understanding the responsibility he’s placing on you.

“Okay. I’ll do it.”

His shoulders sagging imperceptibly in relief, he walks over to you and ruffles your hair.

“You’re a good kid, plumcake. Thank you.”

For the next six days until the start of the classes, you dangle this over Acacius Innis’ head in exchange for ice cream, much to his tolerant amusement.

And the program? You quietly vow to help put into completion and protect with your life, hoping it will one day protect someone else’s.

***

College then begins. Every class, every book, every face – they’re all new and fresh, save a few former Academy classmates you’d thankfully spot right on time and easily dodge. There was no need to make friends or alliances anymore. For the first time in a long while, you’re having fun learning new concepts and ideas, taking in every bit of knowledge you can get your hands on. Aside from school keeping you busy and distracted, you have your apprenticeship underway, working tirelessly on your uncle’s beloved creation.

Before you know it, it’s the middle of the semester, and save for a few of your uncle’s interns and student assistants, you hardly know anyone even remotely close to your age.

And you don’t know whether to be happy about it or be scared that you’re getting increasingly apathetic to the situation.

Coriolanus Snow is here, instead of at the University attending a lecture he mildly looked forward to, only for appearances’ sake, he assures himself. Go out there, Gaul had told him, make it look like he’s slowly reintegrating into society.

“Date. Party. Indulge. You have a bright future, a good life ahead of you. Make sure they all see it.”

The Capitol loves a good comeback story, and this was his, she had claimed.

In his short lifetime thus far, he’s conned, manipulated, lied, betrayed, and murdered – he’s committed more crimes than most men of his age had ever done, and here he is, waiting for Livia Cardew at a restaurant in this farce of a date he wishes would already end even before it had started.

He might get something out of this whole dating scene in general, he supposes. After all, like any ambitious, upstanding man of the Capitol, he’d have to eventually take a wife. Procreate. Leave behind a legacy the next generation could one day look up to. Ensure the cycle goes on. A marriage projects a desire for stability and fabricates this image of a dutiful and dedicated husband, which could be useful down the line when, not if, he rises to power.

Marriages, however, complicate matters, especially those with emotional attachments involved. Those whose judgement is clouded by emotion are easily manipulated and taken advantage of.

He knows this through first-hand experience. He had not been thinking clearly with his past involvement with Lucy Gray. She became a weakness for him, a blind spot. Lucy Gray used this emotional tie of his in an attempt to throw him off balance. There is no room for that with his objectives in mind.

The maître ‘d approaches his table and relays a message from the woman he’s waiting for: that she will be a little late because her stylist ordered the wrong size dress she initially wanted to wear, but that he has nothing to worry about as it’s all handled and she’s on her way. Coriolanus’s lips curl in displeasure when the maître ‘d walks away.

If he’s going to take a wife, it has to be someone he hates and would never willingly associate with in normal circumstances. That way, this hypothetical wife wouldn’t be used as leverage against him and could never spin his emotions around and use it to bring him down. Someone like Livia Cardew, a woman whose time management skills are non-existent, you can give her today and she’d be early tomorrow.

Late because of a dress. Coriolanus would pinch his eyebrows in annoyance if he wasn’t out in public. She could practically embed her skin with diamonds and rubies and he’d still find someone else with more class by throwing a dart on a map with his eyes closed.

Just the thought of having dinner with her now leaves a bitter taste in his tongue.

Someone less revolting, then, perhaps? Someone less grating and off-putting, someone whose voice and presence he could tolerate? Someone he’s actually come to respect? Someone who made a name for herself, not because of her family name alone nor of her penchant for superficiality and promiscuity, but because of her exceptional intellect and displays of inner backbone?

Reluctant as he is to admit it, there is only one woman in all of Panem who fits that criteria.

You.

You’d certainly take a lot of work, he muses as he stirs his tea, watching as the minuscule sugar granules melt into the amber liquid. He lightly squeezes a lemon wedge into the cup, thinking how he’d have to clamp down on your rebellious tendencies and make you improve your questionable social skills. But, like any high-quality, artisanal tea with many complex flavours, there is balance in you – qualities he can appreciate that make up your multifaceted psyche: your smarts, your impeccable manners, your impressive sense of self-discipline, and that air of refinement about you that most women your age could only hope to achieve. He had felt your wariness around him when you were still classmates back at the Academy, but that didn’t stop you then from being kind to him by often offering your classroom notes and leaving him food with those thoughtful little scribbles.

But perhaps the best one out of all of them? You have had no previous lovers he could contend with (Sejanus didn’t count, he made sure of it). He knows, too, that you wouldn’t care to look for one – not so soon after your friend’s death, not with your preoccupation with your studies, and simply because he knows you wouldn’t. With your chosen field of study, he could make you work for him, perhaps as a Gamemaker, so he could make use of your abilities, and most importantly, so he could keep a close watch on you at all times. Your potential is quickly starting to appeal to him.

He’d mould you into the perfect wife: his future first lady, the perfect embodiment of the Panem woman, completely and utterly his.

Well, close to perfect, given your district roots, but he could make a compromise. After all, there was absolutely nothing in you that screamed district. He supposes he has your Capitol upbringing to thank for that. Maybe your line isn’t even district at all. Maybe the districts can produce the odd one or two capable minds, but an entire clan of geniuses?

He thinks of children. Heirs to the Snow empire. If he were to take you as his wife, the chances of his line producing a superior legacy – children who are competent and are actually worthy of inheriting the name – increase significantly, compared to him taking someone else of less calibre. The genius of the Innises, combined with the ferocity and the resilience of the Snows – he will have children who’ll grow up to be admired and feared and respected in their own right. A fitting continuation of his line, indeed.

He gets to his feet with practised grace, his decision finally made. He abandons his now-tepid tea, leaves a check with a sizeable tip and orders the maitre ‘d to give a message to his late date: something about leaving for a more urgent appointment with someone else more important somewhere else in the city. He doesn’t bother elaborating, nor does he waste any more time waiting for her. He knows there is no point.

While he looks out his car’s window to observe the Capitol’s rapidly changing infrastructure, he vaguely wonders why he’s never considered you a candidate for marriage until now. Maybe because, like everyone in class, he knew even then that you were off-limits. Everyone else thought you were Sejanus’s girl from the start and it was only a matter of time when you both acted on it. The district boy and girl, sharing the same origin story, the same values, and the same hatred for the Games, the two of you against the world. By any standards, you’re considered physically attractive – there were talks among Academy boys about how you were one of the prettiest girls in your year, and many of them would’ve pursued you had you been Capitol-born, if or you didn’t have Sejanus as your shadow, or if you had been more sociable and outgoing. Whatever. At least it’s less work for him, less jilted lovers he would’ve gladly poisoned.

He has to play this smartly, though. With you, he knows there still is a possibility of getting emotionally involved – he does care about you to some extent, after all. If he ever ends up getting more attached than that, all he has to do is use some kind of leverage against you to make you stay in line.

Perhaps he could rope in Strabo Plinth to request an audience with your uncle and cut a deal with him in exchange for your hand. But Acacius Innis? Coriolanus has interacted with him only a handful of times in the Citadel. Apart from his genius, he’s polite and easygoing, with a bit of a sarcastic streak and a huge sweet tooth (the latter two you both seem to share). All of this, a facade for a man with an unyielding set of principles and a hint of ruthlessness. There’s something else in there, too, but even he can admit your Uncle Cas is tough to read. Perhaps he can explore that when he’s found out more.

Your absence at Highbottom’s funeral had been noticeable, and you had left an even gaping hole on the night of Sejanus’ 19th birthday party. You had all but ignored the invitation he sent. He guesses you’re trying to avoid anyone and everyone that reminded you of Sejanus. You could be devastated, perhaps even regretful, that you had not pursued your budding attachments with your friend before he died. Coriolanus had tried to ignore Sejanus’ attempts to be friends then, but even he couldn’t do the same for the former Plinth heir’s soft spot for you. He was always wanting to be around you, worrying about you, stealing fleeting glances in your direction. That’s why he had seen Sejanus’s eventual confession to him of his crush on you coming from a mile away.

And there you were, oblivious to all of it. For someone with razor-sharp intuition, you insist so much on trapping yourself in your imaginary protective little bubble you had failed to see how your friend had his eye on you for a long time. He had to admit: it was amusing in its own right to watch.

And therein lies a lapse in your judgment. It means when it comes to matters involving your little sweetheart – he nearly rolls his eyes at the concept – you’re easily emotionally blindsided. You may not even realise it, but Sejanus is a tiny crack in your normally smooth, perceptive surface. A weakness, dare he say. If that blind spot still exists, he will find a way to exploit it.

In a way, maybe Sejanus deserved you. He was, after all, inherently good (so good he died from it). Sejanus Plinth: born into a life of abundance, handed every privilege his bumbling idiot of a father could afford, never knowing pain, hunger, and suffering until the last moments of his admittedly short life – and somehow, he still would’ve gotten you if he had lived. Life is really fucking unfair that way.

He didn’t care then. Nor did he care then when Sejanus basically gloated to him that he had finally mustered the courage to kiss you right before he left for District 12. But now? The thought of that innocent, stupid little kiss plagues him. Was it quick? A mere peck? Did he catch you by surprise? Did you kiss him back? It doesn’t matter now if you did, he surmises. Coriolanus could give you more of that – so much more – if that’s what it takes to make you get over this affliction. Pretty soon, you’d forget about that kiss, and Sejanus would be nothing more to you than a dead friend, tucked away and reduced to one of many memories of mere teenage naivety and pointless idealism. Just like he is to him.

But – he laughs to himself bitterly and resents himself for even thinking about it – what kind of cruel twist of irony would it be if he had to contend with the ghost of his dead best friend for his future wife’s affections?

Enter Level 3

Author notes:

Please reblog and comment, it's always appreciated!!!

l'll work on putting this on Ao3 when I get the chance. Also, sorry about the missing separators, I'm only allowed to put 10 on a post and this fic is suuuuper long but it didn't feel right if I separate it into 2 chapters 😅😅😅

#dark!coriolanus snow #dark!coriolanus snow x reader #young!coriolanus snow #young!coriolanus snow x reader #named!reader #or #x OC2ndPOV #18+ only #dark!coriolanus snow fic #dark!coriolanus #dark!coriolanus fic #dark!fic

[dotieeee]

The Gamemaker's Apprentice

Level 7

Pairing: Dark!Young!Coriolanus Snow x You, named!Reader

Overall Warnings:

NON-CON, DUB-CON, Dark!Young!Coriolanus Snow, Snow himself should be a warning, lots of blackmailing, gaslighting, manipulation, obsession, possesiveness, eventual forced marriage, eventual loss of virginity, breeding kink, canon-compliant major character death, reader is named but has no physical descriptions in the fic so one might also consider her an OC but in 2nd POV, will have canon inconsistencies, and other stuff that may be added

Masterlist

Level 7 Warnings:

Some noncon touching and canooding (no spoilers), Snow being creepy af

Replay Level 6

Ready? Level 7 Start:

For Coriolanus Snow, his days of being unsure of himself are long gone.

Sure, he was insecure all his life because of several factors – his family’s former fall from grace being one of them – but he now has almost everything most men only dare dream of: money, some semblance of power, and a bit of fame, courtesy of his increasingly long list of achievements. If life continues to favour him like it recently has, he no longer has reason to doubt himself or be nervous about anything ever again.

And yet, he could’ve sworn he felt his pulse rate spike when his eyes landed on you, stepping out of that car, in that dress – like a princess that walked straight out of those fairy tale picture books he had to burn in his childhood for warmth during the winter. He had imagined what you’d look like in your dress the night before, but he never expected reality to be a thousand times better.

Coriolanus fought the urge to kiss you on the mouth and drag you somewhere more private; instead, he kissed the back of your hand, noting how soft they were as always, but he could also smell a faint hint of roses on you. His signature scent on his girl. He felt his heart swell with satisfaction.

But then, you yanked your hand away and deprived him of the softness of your skin. Almost like you were shying away from his touch. He didn’t like it one bit.

No matter – he has nothing but time tonight to show everyone in Panem, including you, who you ultimately belonged to.

He whispered to you just what he thought of you tonight. then you thanked him for his gifts. You needn’t have; he’d have been willing to pay a hundred times more than that to have seen your reaction as you opened them. He’d spoil you even more – hell, he’d already killed for you, and he’d do so again – once you’ve accepted him as the only man in your heart.

You then gave him the news of Acacius Innis’s acceptance to transfer your apprenticeship to him, which was something he already expected. It’d be foolish at this point not to; not when you know that he’s aware of those incriminating letters Sejanus had sent you.

Sejanus giving you trouble beyond the grave – what a laugh, how his dead best friend’s actions ultimately led to his first love being drawn closer to him for the taking.

He wrapped your arm around his and took you inside, finally revealing his true intention of bringing you here. He noted your wide-eyed look at him and the gasp you let out. You were nervous, that was to be expected. Moreover, you were worried about not bringing a gift for Strabo, but he’d already taken care of that, and he knows that the Plinth senior would appreciate the gift you had brought as a couple.

The party hadn’t even begun, but a lot of important people had already arrived. The moment he entered the grand hall with you in tow, he knew everyone was ogling. The longing, envious stares he got as he carted this breathtakingly beautiful woman clinging to his arm through the hall gave him an immense ego boost.

Coriolanus Snow just revealed to all of Capitol high society that he bagged the smart, attractive and elusive heir to Panem’s most successful tech superpower.

The Plinth couple had been ecstatic that you had made it to the party. Ma mirrored his observation: you looked like royalty. Which you are in almost every sense, he agreed. The only thing he didn’t like was her comment about how similar his and her dead son’s tastes were in women.

Thank goodness that’s about the only thing we share,  Coriolanus thought.

Then, she had to pull him in for a hug. At least, he could choose to spend his time with you and go around the room and not have to deal with her and her coddling all night.

He observed you the entire time out of the corner of his eye. The way you smiled at everyone he introduced you to, the way you engaged in conversations he knew you had no interest in, the way you laughed along when a joke was cracked, the way you drank dainty sips from a drink he knew you didn’t like – all this you were doing for  his  sake, much to his elation and approval. But, of course, he wasn’t about to abandon his sugarplum to fend for herself in such a foreign environment as this. Which was why, being the dutiful future husband that he is, he couldn’t let you leave his side. True, he needed you to learn how to navigate his circle as his future betrothed, but if his girl ever needed his help and support, he’d be there to readily give it.

While he was pretending to be interested in a conversation with Mr Rutherford about the profits he had raked in the last quarter from investing in organic food company stocks, he used this precious time wisely to survey the crowd with his keen eyes.

There was a time in his life when everything he did, he did for the sake of being welcomed within their ranks. But in his short exile from them, he had discovered something for and within himself: what good is acceptance, really, when he can settle for absolute authority? This crowd, and all the others, he will one day herd. These  sheep , with their mindless chatter and their lavish clothes and their overdone makeup and their non-existent inhibition.

And Coriolanus is more than aware that among these sheep are wolves. These wolves, with their noses high in the air sniffing, and their hungry eyes aiming for rare, fresh meat – he needed to be steadfast in fending them all off and keeping them from sinking their rabid fangs into you.

One such wolf he’d already scared off: Ovidius Browne, a name he’d seen among endless piles of paper in Acacius Innis’s office (that he may have snuck in when you were busy rifling through computer parts he couldn’t name). So pure-of-heart were you that you failed to see right through the youngest Browne’s attempts at beguiling you for a third chance at securing an internship with your uncle. There will be many others like him too, but after this party, anyone who’s hoping for a chance with you will never get their hopes up ever again.

Even when he introduced you to Dr Gaul, he watched your interaction the entire time in case she did anything that might freak you out. Thankfully all she did was compliment you in her usual, eerie fashion. Even he gets unnerved by her at times, and he has the mild displeasure of working under her wing.

In other words, Coriolanus cared because you’re  his , and he was the only son and heir of the great war hero and military general Crassus Snow. His father’s blood was also his, and the Snows protect what’s rightfully theirs with all their might. He was convinced that’s  all  there was to it.

And yet, he couldn’t help noticing how very little you ate during the following dinner, or that you had snuck off instantly somewhere and lost to his view. He had scanned almost anxiously for you among the unremarkable faces in the grand hall before successfully locating the hint of a red silk dress behind one of the hall’s stone columns, right next to the bar, as if you were hiding on purpose just to get some time to yourself alone. Had he overwhelmed you? Had this little test of his proved too taxing for you?

He had to ask you during the dance, and although your response was vague, he could tell by the way you smiled at him humourlessly: you were exhausted, and yet you were still trying your best to conceal it. Putting up a façade despite being sapped of energy brought about by fraternising with people you barely know.

All for his sake. 

It was enough to make his heart melt.

That, and the dance you had executed so perfectly, awakened something in him that he’d been trying so hard to suppress, especially in your presence.

“You’re so intoxicatingly beautiful,”  he whispered. 

It was true in every way. If only you could look into his eyes, for once.

Why were you avoiding his gaze, anyway? Were you angry with him? Why were you closing off all of a sudden?

The dance ended quicker than he anticipated. He could see that you were attempting to hide your heavy breathing from him, even though the dance wasn’t that strenuous. Perhaps, you needed some air, away from this place and from everyone else, even if only momentarily?

So, with nothing but your well-being in mind, he took you to the rich inner gardens of The Palisades, just outside the grand hall.

You were thankful that he did, you said, as you leaned against the stone wall. Coriolanus had his eyes glued on you collected yourself. His gaze was first on your figure, still tense, then to your chest, heaving slowly as you steadied your breath…

He found his thoughts going astray as he stared at the base of your neck, imagining angry, red-purplish welts all over that smooth supple skin –  his  work of art – all while he suckled and bit down on the flesh he hadn’t yet marked. He went on further to your lips, picturing himself kissing them raw while you kissed him back just as passionately…

He was thankful he had his hands behind his back, or he would’ve grabbed you and made his imagination come to life.

Still, that arousal coursing through his veins refused to let up, and instead travels down to his groin, making his cock twitch.

He needed to do something about that.

So, when he saw you stand to your full height, he made a rather lame excuse of wanting to show you something, and hauled you by the arm, settling for the dimly lit, hedge-growth-covered greenhouse, where he vaguely remembered seeing rose beds. He was grateful that he found the door unlocked, so he gestured for you to get in first and instructed you to find the roses before locking the door behind him.

He had a goal now: to somehow seek relief for that aching itch you had awakened. It was partly your fault, after all.

If he could just latch his lips on you…he just needed a taste, maybe leave just a single little bruise…

He almost sighed as he wrapped his arms around you and whispered just what he’d been dying to do the moment he saw you.

He manoeuvred your body to face him and finally claimed your lips.

Coriolanus Snow knew of nothing else the moment he did.

He slipped his tongue inside your mouth to get a taste of you and pushed you into the wall. This overwhelming need to feel your heat against him made him press himself on you, but that wasn’t enough for him. You weren’t kissing him back, which irked him a bit. He cupped one side of your face to angle your head so he could kiss you deeper, wanting to burrow his tongue inside your mouth further.

He’d known hunger for most of his life, but never this kind.

But then, you had to turn away, when he hadn’t even had his fill. This frustrated him, your lack of response. This time, both his hands encased each side of your head so he could go back to satiating that appetite you had incited in him. When you refused to open your mouth for him, he nibbled at your lower lip, which made you gasp and finally allow him access.

Until he felt your palms push him away insistently.

He drew his head back in disbelief. You had been holding back from him the entire night, but this was an entirely new wall you put up. Why were you suddenly rejecting him? Hadn’t he been good to you? Had he not showered you with enough gifts? Hadn’t he shown you all night just how much he cared for your well-being?

Something put you off, that much he knew. So, he made up some excuse about having drunk too much alcohol to try and placate you as he rested his forehead on your temple.

Then, he vaguely heard you say you wanted to go home because of school.

Who’s making excuses, now?

He began kissing your temple, your cheek, any part of you his lips could reach. When he corrected you on the date, you mentioned something about helping your uncle.

Now, this was just downright insult. Why would you still work for the Innis prick, when you already work for him? He couldn’t help snapping at you, telling you to skip it, before he could amend his tone and state how your uncle had someone else to help him with whatever the hell it was he was making you do.

If you could just let him do what he wanted so he could go back to thinking of anything else besides how much he wanted to stake his claim on you.

He smirked against your cheek when you admitted defeat and hastened to squeeze your chin lightly between his forefinger and thumb so he could take care of unfinished business. He ran his fingers on your back, all the way to the back of your neck, gripping it and slanting your head so he could caress the groove of your jaw.

He moved to your neck after, this time, not being able to resist tasting that exposed skin...

But then, you begged him to stop.

Coriolanus almost ignored your plea, but there was something in him that made him pull away.

Was it the way you had asked him that made him let go of you?

He studied your face with a tense jaw. Your lips were swollen and puffy because of his kiss, your cheeks flushed with emotion, your eyes looking like you were about to cry but you were trying to hold it in...

It was the most beautiful fucking thing he had ever laid eyes on. He could’ve fucked you right then and there, had his way with you as he’d always fantasised, consequences be damned, had he not been thinking straight.

But instead, he suppressed that urge and quelled that arousal that was already halfway through manifesting. He figured the last thing he wanted to do was to scare you further away.

He took you back to the party as you had requested, catching another couple making out in the bushes, who turned out to be a couple you had met earlier. Mildly amused at the scene, he felt a little smug being seen coming out of the greenhouse with you in tow – if the girl was who he thought she was, he wouldn’t mind her spreading a little rumour about a young gamemaker and his pretty apprentice emerging from an obvious tryst in the hotel greenhouse. 

It was close to midnight when the Plinth couple sent the both of you home, instructing Coriolanus to escort you back to Corso III. He could tell you were upset by the tense silence between you. Clearly, even with his display of self-control, he had gotten carried away and might’ve unsettled you with his actions.

So what if he spooked you a little, anyway? With the incriminating letter from Sejanus, he knew you’d be reluctant not to cater to his whims, let alone refuse him. He had a half-mind to signal the driver to take them to his apartment instead, where he could simply... continue  what you had interrupted.

Instead, he just pecked you on the cheek before watching you run away from him, into your building and out of his sight. Whatever it was that compelled him to take a step backwards that night, he was sure it was only due to his gentlemanly nature.

As he got home, however, the thought of you withdrawing from him so abruptly weighed on his mind, especially since he had been so successful with getting you to be more open to him. Maybe he had indeed scared you with the threat of exposing your culpability with that stupid letter and this was just you complying with his wishes so he wouldn’t turn you in.

Unless this was some sort of ruse on your part to throw him off. He’d be foolish to put it past you and underestimate you, given your clever nature and your propensity for intrepid, often brash decisions.

His sweet, innocent little Nellie, playing a game? 

Normally, he wouldn’t stand for anyone throwing a wrench in his plans, but if he was being honest with himself, watching you trying to one-up him could be an amusing form of entertainment. Like watching a cute kitten struggle as its mother holds it in its mouth, knowing it can’t escape. Plus, it had been a while since he had any fun. After all, what kind of husband-to-be was he if he wasn’t going to indulge his little sugarplum?

It certainly made for an interesting foreplay.

A little over one in the morning later. He still couldn’t sleep and he still had his mind on you…and on your lips, and the slope of your neck, and the way he imagined you arching your back against him as he drove himself inside you over and over…

So he dealt with this distraction, having no choice but to settle for an alternative.

The woman that arrived didn’t really resemble you, but he had to make do. He sent her home at three in the morning with her sobbing pathetically as she picked up the money he left for her on the dresser. He may have said some things to her he didn’t actually mean, but she got the job done. Still, as he tossed and turned in his bed, he wondered what it’d be like to just have you lying on his bed, him snuggling close to your warmth while he wrapped his arms around you and tucked you under his chin.

As he was duty-bound to do, he assured himself. That’s all there was to it.

You lumber out of bed to the kitchen with one eye closed as the mid-morning sun hits you squarely in the face while you nurse a pounding headache. Your brain decides to add to your misery, screaming only a single word repeatedly in your head: coffee.

There’s plenty in the pot, you discover with much gratefulness. You pour yourself some of the warm, fresh brew absently, almost overfilling the cup before noticing your mistake.

Great. No more space for milk or sugar.

“Fun party last night, plumcake?”

The annoyingly smug man you call your uncle sniggers over his plate. That smirk on his face stays on even as he pours an alarming amount of syrup on his cinnamon roll.

“I’m sure my cinnamon roll didn’t do that to you,” he quips, referring to the glare you’re sending on its way. He makes a small noise of approval when he eats a forkful before taking a sip of his coffee. Your stomach makes a little noise to remind you that aside from the cake you inhaled last night, you had eaten very little.

When you finally make a decent cup for yourself, you join him on the kitchen counter, where he takes a cinnamon roll from the tray beside him and places it on a plate. He pushes the pastry towards you. You don’t bother with cutlery this time and copy him, pouring just as much of the frosting before grabbing it with your bare hands and sinking your teeth into it.

Uncle Cas makes the best cinnamon rolls ever.

The baker in question finishes his plate and comments, “I hope you didn’t eat like that last night.”

You find yourself laughing along, having already been energised by sugar and coffee. Your uncle then sets his plate aside to make room for the newspaper sitting on the edge of the counter.

“Nothing like fresh propaganda together with your morning coffee,” he drolls.

A comfortable silence ensues between the two of you as you dig into your second cinnamon roll. You bask in the calming sound of the news pages being rhythmically flipped back and forth. It seems like aeons ago since the last time you had eaten breakfast with your Uncle Cas on such a peaceful morning, without a care in the world except for written exams, term papers, and practical exams that involve testing dummy software you helped your uncle develop in secret.

You’ve turned into a different person since then.

Your uncle eventually puts the paper down and announces that he’s leaving for uni after lunch. He asks if you’re coming with him as he makes himself another cup of coffee. You decide against it. Maybe you deserve a little downtime today before you’re thrown into the lion’s den on Monday. You tell him no, and he nods in approval before going off to his office, taking his mug with him. You notice that he left the newspaper on the counter, and while you don’t normally read the news out of habit, you decide to give it a go after making out several words that include ‘business tycoon’ and ‘birthday party’ at the bottom of the front page.

True enough, there is a mention of Strabo’s grand birthday celebration on the front page, which continues in the lifestyle section. It goes on flatteringly about the Plinths’ success in the ammunitions industry and their efforts against the rebellion, plus the names of Panem’s aristocrats in attendance. You grimace at the mention of your name alongside your new mentor.

  “…Spotted at the star-studded birthday celebration of the Plinth patriarch is the honorary Plinth heir, Coriolanus Snow, victor to the 10th Hunger Games and the newly appointed, youngest Gamemaker in Panem history, and with him, Prunella Innis, heir to the Innis Tech empire, whom young Snow has taken under his wing as his new and only gamemaker-apprentice. Snow has recently gained popularity over his groundbreaking innovations…”

The article does a decent job of analysing the different lifestyle trends at the party, including the theme, the set design, and even the food, but if you thought a mere mention of your name flustered you a little, you get to the section of the article discussing the fashion trends, accompanied by an entire colour page of nothing photographs, some posed and some candidly taken, of the attendants at the party.

A photo of you and Coriolanus Snow is smack-dab in the middle, one of the largest in the set of pictures. It isn’t the inclusion of the photo on the paper that perturbs you, but the photo itself: it captured you and Coriolanus facing close to each other, his arm wrapped around your waist and his lips close to your ear as if whispering something to you, probably to point your attention to someone he knows from across the room. You don’t remember exactly when or where at the party the picture was taken because you carried out several conversations that way. Maybe it’s your stomach complaining at the abrupt presence of that much food after being empty for close to twelve hours, or maybe it just churns in offence at how it looks almost intimate. Perhaps it was chosen among many for exactly the same reasons. The caption underneath the photo mirrors your observation.

“The Gamemaker and His Apprentice: Coriolanus Snow and Prunella Innis, both looking sharp and elegant in matching crimson couture and adoringly inseparable at last night’s festivities.”

On second thought: maybe being at the University where you can be busy and distracted from your thoughts is the best way to go. With a sigh of defeat, you get up from your cosy spot on the counter and begrudgingly begin the preparations.

The car Coriolanus mentioned would take you to the Citadel picks you up at nine. Your new mentor is already waiting for you just before the grey hallway leading to the elevator. He smiles his usual disarming smile as you hit his line on vision which you return, hoping with your might that he doesn’t make a sudden move to touch you or kiss you again on your lips or your head or anywhere else.

“Good morning, Nellie,” he greets with his hands in his pockets. 

You’re grateful he decided to be professional. He leads the way to the elevator, taking you underground to your uncle’s former floor. This being your second visit to this massive underground complex doesn’t make it feel like less of a descent towards the deepest circle of hell.

The elevator door opens to reveal a rather underwhelming hallway, still grey, but starkly different from the open layout of the Genetics floor. You wordlessly follow Coriolanus as he makes a left turn, passing several doors on the way. Whatever’s inside those doors can’t be much worse than what you saw before meeting the jabberjays. You both reach a nondescript door, which he opens by scanning a proximity card on a sensor on the wall. The door beeps open, revealing a world you’d never thought you’d see.

Instead of grey walls and glass cages, you’re greeted by rows upon rows of supercomputers in varying heights, all with blinking lights, thick, tangled cords and button-and-knob panels, emitting tiny clicking and beeping noises as they do their job containing presumably the brains of your uncle’s entire Games project. Despite the cold temperature required to cool the entire structure, you pace forward without hesitation, gaping in awe at the sight of the colossal pieces that make up your uncle’s work, while Coriolanus merely hangs back to watch your reaction.

For a few seconds, you forget everything else. This was your uncle’s domain – now, it’s yours.

“I have to admit,” Coriolanus begins, interrupting your daydream. “I am overwhelmingly out of my element here, but if anyone can handle this task aside from Mr Innis, it would be you.”

Coriolanus approaches, his steps echoing despite the supercomputers’ cacophony, his friendly smile looking more sinister as his face is bathed in the blinking lights. Another figure emerges from the shadows at the end of the aisle you’re in – someone you had hoped you’d never interact with ever again.

Volumnia Gaul, with her wiry hair and mismatched eyes and her pristine lab coat and her creepy leer, has her hands clasped before her as she begins speaking.

“Ms Innis. Welcome to my team. I trust you find your new work environment to your satisfaction.”

At least I don’t have to face a human head with wings for ears.  “Thank you for having me, Dr Gaul.”

“I trust you have been briefed by your new mentor on your job description. I need not remind you that the task you are about to undertake is crucial to the future of the Hunger Games, and therefore requires aptitude, might and relentlessness, the way I know only an Innis possesses.

“Your uncle, Acacius Innis, paved the way for this very room’s existence, which is why his skills were seen fit to lead an advanced department that is to be the Capitol’s safeguard to a new digital age. In consequence, this brainchild of his lies stillborn, and who better to breathe it to life than his very own blood?”

Her sinister smile widens as she takes further steps towards you. “I could not approve more of Mr Snow’s choice of partnership.”

Dr Gaul stops a mere few feet away, sandwiching you between two ominous figures from whom escape is impossible. Any joy you felt entering your uncle’s previous work abode is effectively siphoned and replaced by an almost stifling sense of foreboding. This is a room where mistakes aren’t welcome.

“Mr Snow has told me you helped your uncle build the source code.”

That wasn’t a question, you notice. “Yes, Dr Gaul.”

She clasps both hands in barely contained perverse delight, the sound resounding in the room. “Most excellent, indeed! Then you will find no trouble seeing it to completion and Alpha testing in no time. Your mentor shall ensure you will have everything you need.”

She strides past you and falls beside the mentor in question, patting his shoulder with her gloved palm.

“I expect great things from you. From both of you.”

With a final glance between you two, she steps out of the room, taking the air of terror with her.

“They should be here any minute,” Coriolanus says.

Half of it, anyway.

“Who would they be?”

“Your uncle’s team of computer engineers.”

A male and a female, both in their late thirties, enter the room and greet both of you formally before introducing themselves as Filibert and Faustine Finley. They both wear the same white lab coats as Dr Kay.

“Around here, they call me F1,” says Filibert, “And my sister, F2.”

“Pleasure to meet you both. And please call me Nellie. Are you twins?” you ask as you shake both their hands.

F2 beams proudly as she adjusts her glasses. “Triplets, actually. Our brother, Felicien, works the night shift and, you guessed it, he’s called F3.”

Cute. If they had another sibling, they’d be calling them F4, then maybe you could Alt+F4 the fuck out of here.

They seem nice, though, and they recount their days working for Acacius Innis, whom they say they admire tremendously for his genius.

“We built this thing under his close supervision,” F1 explains, waving a hand in the air to indicate the supercomputers. “Anything even remotely hardware-related we take care of.”

F2 places a palm over her chest as she gushes in praise of Uncle Cas. “But the software? It’s all him. He never lets us touch it, and for good reason. He’s protective of his work and I can’t blame him, it’s his little baby. Promoting him as head of Cybersecurity was just a matter of time. The only shame here is we don’t get to see him around, anymore.”

F1 just rolls his eyes and smirks at you. “Translation: she has a crush on your uncle.”

“I do not!” F2 exclaims, adjusting her frames to presumably hide the blush creeping to her cheeks. “Anyway, we’re honoured to be working with you, Nellie. We were wondering when we’d see you. Apparently, all it took was Mr Snow.”

Coriolanus acknowledges this with a small dip of his head and inquires if the office is ready. They tell him that F3 finished the inspection last night and it should be good to go. You bid the siblings farewell, then saunter to another, much smaller room two doors down. It’s equipped with four identical computer stations fitted with four monitors each, placed side by side. Your mentor leads you to the one located at the end of the room, partially separated from the other four with a thick, translucent glass barrier. The station is fitted with six larger screens, and what you thought initially was a file cabinet is actually a cluster of processors connected to the workstation. You could easily tell by the bouquet of red roses on the keyboard that the station is yours.

“This is you, Nellie,” Coriolanus faces you with a fond smile. “They built me a station right beside the triplets, but unfortunately, I can’t be here the entire time.”

You try not to show relief on your face when he reveals that.

He opens a drawer on the desk and hands you a proximity card. He explains that the card works for all rooms on this floor. He also gives you an electronic device the size of your palm. You’ve seen this device in one of your uncle’s sketches before.

“I take it you’re familiar with this,” he says. “They call it the Communicuff 2. Everyone working in the Citadel has one. We can send each other voice messages using this whenever we’re away from our stations. You leave it here before you go home.”

“Was this my uncle’s?” you ask as you approach the cluster. You flip a switch and the entire thing turns on, along with the rest of the monitors.

He nods once. “This is where the great Acacius Innis did his groundbreaking work. And now, it’s yours.” He lets out a suppressed chuckle as he observes your expression. “No pressure, Nellie. I’m always here if you need me.”

Before he steps out of the office –  your office, now – he says he’ll be dropping by anytime to check your progress.

Yeah.  No fucking pressure, indeed.

Your initial suspicion of your uncle trying to stall the project was correct.

In only the first three days of working on the same station your uncle has worked on for years, you discover exactly why.

You were scrambling to finish what was left of the program to code, while simultaneously running automated unit testing in the background on the finished code to save time. The first and second unit testing results looked as intended and everything seemed working just fine. It even detailed significant improvements to the facial recognition software on the drones that will be used to send the tributes food, water, weapons, and other valuables. The third result was the one that baffled you.

You’ve seen the functions your uncle demonstrated in that simulation of his, but an entirely new addition to the list deeply disturbs you to the core. The program seems to have been built with an unsupervised machine-learning algorithm that has been programmed to learn, track, and store tribute movement using motion-tracking capabilities installed in the cameras’ software. It also indicates the need for tribute input – information obtained through retina-scanning, available footage captured from within the tribute enclosure, anything that could be uploaded into the supercomputer – which the algorithm analyses with frightening speeds. This means the program, if continuously fed with enough tribute data, has the added skill of calculating and projecting the winning odds in percentage with almost ninety-six percent accuracy. Even the mentors’ consoles get a preview of how the numbers would change before they hit ‘send’ on any item.

Your mentor arrives on time to get his progress report just as you make this discovery. You try not to show just how freaked out you are, and conceal the fact that Acacius Innis may have neglected his tasks to the Citadel on purpose, which would likely get him in trouble.

“That is excellent news, Nellie,” Coriolanus exclaims in delight. All he sends on your way are words of praise. He invades your personal space you stare at the results on your screens, his face merely inches away from yours.

The pungent smell of roses on him doesn’t help the mounting dread you’re feeling.

“This is going to revolutionise audience betting in the Games. It’s brilliant!”

It also portrays the tributes as mere pawns in a high-stakes betting game, which defeats Acacius Innis’s purpose of building the program in the first place.

Your uncle would never willingly allow such a dehumanising algorithm added to his creation, which makes you conclude he was pressured, maybe even coerced, to add it in. All traces of your uncle’s soul, sucked out of his brainchild with a  single  added feature.

You almost recoil as a kiss is planted on your temple courtesy of the man beside you.

“I’m so proud of you, sugarplum,”  he whispers in your ear.

Your heart rate goes on overdrive as flashes of the events at the greenhouse invade your thoughts.

Surely, he isn’t foolish enough to try anything within the Citadel, given that each crevice in this hellish place is being monitored by cameras?

Coriolanus draws back, perhaps distracted from the sound of the printer churning out his copy of the results summary. He dons on a professional smile. “What’s the next stage to this?”

“Uh, hang on…” You’re still flustered by his previous closeness and your recent discovery of the new feature. “Assuming I get the rest of the code done, and perform the needed unit testing on said code, the next level should be integration testing.” He tilts his head at the term curiously, so you add to clarify, “It’s a stage where we combine all the components of the program – the camera system and motion-tracking, the drones’ system and facial recognition, the software we use for vital signs, the environment control system – to run and test them as a single organism. We’ll obtain detailed performance reports on how each of these systems interact and grade them based on the seamlessness and the speed of information exchange.”

“That means we will need to set up a testing ground pretty soon,” he concludes. “Give me an estimate. How soon?”

“Six days, maybe a week, tops.”

You’re mentor’s jaw tenses. Obviously, he’s unsatisfied with your approximation. He grabs the nearest computer chair to sit right beside you.

“I heard your uncle built this in just a week,” he says with a controlled smile. You know that smile: it’s the one he uses when things don’t quite go his way.

“Well, he left it unfinished,” you can’t help but talk back.

“That may be true, and it did take him over a year to make any progress after, but you know what I think, Nellie?”

That mirthless smirk of his widens, indicating impending danger.

“I think he was stalling.”

You hold his gaze to avoid confirming his suspicion. “I don’t think he was; he probably just lost motivation. This is a creative process, after all.”

A humourless chortle escapes your mentor’s lips. “Four days. Finish this by Tuesday next week. We’re targeting to test this as soon as the day after.”

A resounding beep is heard, and Coriolanus fishes his communicuff from his pocket. He doesn’t play the voice and instead gets to his feet, adjusting his coat as he adds to your list of tasks. “Also, have the triplets prepare a list of the equipment we’re going to need for the test. I’ll need it this Friday. Everything on that list will be provided for, you have my word. I must go, Dr Gaul will be needing these.” He takes the papers from the printer and tucks them neatly inside a brown envelope branded ‘top secret.’

Uncle Cas could be a slavedriver, but Coriolanus Snow is a full-blown tyrant.

Before he treads past your cubicle to leave, he makes one more addition:

“Come with me for dinner tonight at seven. I made the reservations.”

It’s almost the weekend, and for Coriolanus Snow, that just means more work – catching up on some of the reading material his boss had suggested he peruse, visiting the Plinths for their weekly Sunday dinner, making connections with important people by way of drinking – so he’s looking forward to a night of restful sleep before his duties call on him once more.

If only you shared the same sentiment.

He finds you slumped on your desk, your chin resting on clasped hands as you watch your multiple screens with bleary eyes, struggling to keep them open. On your desk are two empty mugs, their contents long gone leaving nothing but coffee bean dregs at the bottom.

You look up at him with a weary smile, but he sees right through your attempt at masking just how exhausted this project is making you.

“It’s nearly ten, sugarplum. Why don’t we grab a late-night dinner and call it a day?” He asks. He feels a pang of guilt while observing the dullness in your gaze and the circles around your eyes.  Bone-tired, and still pretty.

“Can I take a rain check? My boss gave me a tight deadline.” Your usual jesting tone is half-hearted but still brings out a light chuckle from him.

You’re the only one who can make him laugh without even trying.

He decides right then and there to grab a chair and keep you company.

“What are you doing?” you ask with that adorable, confused look. That face you make with your eyebrows slightly drawn together, your lips puckered a little.

Coriolanus shrugs. “I’m your mentor. I refuse to leave my apprentice’s side when she’s working so hard to impress me.”

A notification pops up on your screen, which you move to address with a few taps on your keyboard.

“Are you hungry?” he asks. He purses his lips in disapproval when you shake your head.

“When was the last time you ate something? Coffee doesn’t count,” he rapidly adds, anticipating your response. He raises an eyebrow when you tell him of that croissant you had for lunch.

“That hardly counts, sugarplum,” he chastises. “I’ll get you something from the cafeteria. You stay here.”

He doesn’t wait for your response and steps out of the office at once. A few minutes later, he makes his way back with a Reuben sandwich in a paper bag and a bottle of juice, a meagre fare compared to what he knows you deserve.

He cares because any lapse in your health may reflect on his leadership, and because it’s his duty as your husband-to-be.

But then, he finds his heart melting again with the sight of you that greets him: fast asleep on your desk, using your arm as a makeshift pillow. He sheds his coat and places it on you, careful not to rouse you. The program can wait.  You’re  more important.

He sits on the empty computer chair beside you, watching you breathe steadily. He feels this intense...thing in his chest that doesn't seem to let up even when he takes a lock of your hair and strokes it. In fact, the feeling just amplifies when his fingers land on your cheek.

You stir a little at the contact and let out a tiny, humming noise.

He couldn’t be...could he?

“Mr Snow.”

Coriolanus takes his hand off you with a start. He glances at you in a panic, afraid he’s woken you up, but you’re still thankfully in slumber. He addresses the woman who managed to enter the office without him even hearing the door beep.

“Dr Gaul.”

She looks even more menacing with the office’s dim lighting. She places a finger to her lips and makes a shushing sound. “Careful you don’t wake your precious little pet,” she whispers toothily. “I’m calling it a night. I will see you this Monday.” She disappears through the door with a high-pitched giggle.

Coriolanus releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding in. He is absolutely sure involving personal matters in a professional setting isn’t doing him any favours (he’s practically made himself vulnerable by not paying attention to his surroundings), but at this moment, staring at your peaceful, sleeping figure swathed in his coat, he can’t bring himself to care.

Enter Level 8

Author notes:

Please reblog and comment, it's always appreciated!!!

Please note that I am no software developer, so despite my postponing writing due to research, there may be errors in my use of the terms. More Citadel work next chapter, and things are just about to get worse for dear reader!! Also please bear with me a little more, this is getting more slowburn-ish that I thought 😅😅

Also, what could this intense thing Snowball is feeling possibly be?? Hmmm...

#dark!coriolanus snow #dark!coriolanus snow x reader #young!coriolanus snow #young!coriolanus snow x reader #named!reader #or #x OC2ndPOV #18+ only #dark!coriolanus snow fic #dark!coriolanus #dark!coriolanus fic #dark!fic

[dotieeee]

The Gamemaker's Apprentice

Level 15

Pairing: Dark!Young!Coriolanus Snow x You, named!Reader

Overall Warnings:

NON-CON, DUB-CON, Dark!Young!Coriolanus Snow, Snow himself should be a warning, lots of blackmailing, gaslighting, manipulation, obsession, possesiveness, eventual forced marriage, eventual loss of virginity, breeding kink, canon-compliant major character death, reader is named but has no physical descriptions in the fic so one might also consider her an OC but in 2nd POV, will have canon inconsistencies, drugging, somnophilia, and other stuff that may be added

Masterlist

Level 15 Warnings:

Gaslighting galore, manipulation, angst, the silent treatment

Replay Level 14

Ready? Level 15 Start:

12th Hunger Games Ends with a Bang

District 3 Victor Callahan Brody: "I’m Happy I Ended Up in One Piece"

Sunrise of July 19th wraps up the 12th Annual Hunger Games, but for the emerging champion Callahan Brody, 17 years old, it’s the beginning of a new, more exciting life. Hailing from District 3, the 12th victor charmed his way into our hearts with his sharp wit and, eventually, with his display of intellect in the games, during which he built countless electric traps and other weapons in the arena from mere electronic scraps. He then used these improvised munitions to incapacitate his fellow tributes, leading to his win.

Brody tells us of a family waiting for him in District 3 – two younger brothers and his father – with whom he plans to share his winnings. His Victory Tour is scheduled sometime in August.

More on Brody’s family and future plans on Page 3.

Youngest Gamemakers in History to Tie the Knot

Brilliant Couple Brought Together by The Games Take Their Love to The Aisle Soon.

Coriolanus Snow, and Prunella Innis, Gamemakers, officially announced their engagement last night at the 12th Hunger Games Victory Party. The lovebirds admitted to their plan of uniting in marriage, sometime in December, on live television after reporter Lucky Flickerman inadvertently spotted the ring on the bride-to-be’s ring finger.

The power couple are heirs to the Plinth and Innis fortune, respectively. Only 20 yet considered two of the Capitol’s brightest minds, their efforts were instrumental to the success of the 12th Hunger Games, which wrapped up last Wednesday, July 19th after declaring Callahan Brody of District 3 as the winner.

More on the couple’s captivating love story on Page 4.

Youngest Gamemakers in History to Tie the Knot

Continued from Page 1:

After graduating from the Academy together, the romance between the 10th Games champion and Innis princess shortly began, and their devotion to each other only grew when the former took the latter to be his Gamemaker-apprentice. They have since worked together in revolutioniz-

“That paper came out three days ago, sugarplum.”

Startled, you almost drop the newspaper you’re reading and turn around to face Coriolanus Snow leaning against the doorway of his own office.

“I didn’t hear you come in,” you say before placing the newspaper back on his desk. You had been in search of a book to read in your boredom and had been curious to see what passes as his reading material when the paper caught your attention. You belatedly adjust the closure of your floor-length night robe when you notice that his eyes are roaming over the significantly shorter silk nightgown you’re wearing underneath.

“I just visited Tigris and the grandma’am. We should go see her together one of these days, she wants to meet you.”

You offer no reply to this, seeing as you wouldn’t have any choice in the matter, anyway.

“You know, it’s funny, because she said saw our announcement on the news, but she kept calling you Katharina. It seems like you are your mother’s spitting image.”

Given what you’ve seen your fiancé capable of, you’re not that surprised that he knows about your mother. He probably dug it up too, alongside information about your uncle, and maybe even the entire Innis history.

“Tell me something about her. Grandma’am thinks she’s lovely.”

“She was a Capitol theatre and movie actress,” you recall. Your uncle made sure he told you all about her, perhaps to help you remember her as someone else besides the woman who bled in your arms and whom you cradled even in death. “That’s probably why your grandmother recognises her. She never talked about that part of her life when she was alive. Uncle says she quit acting so she can marry my dad and move to District 3.”

Uncle Cas also kept telling you as a child how you looked exactly like her. It’s a compliment, then, if anything else. Your mother’s eyes are what you remember the most about her. You wonder if you’d still have them after everything your future husband will put you through.

“But, you already know that, don’t you?” you add, mildly annoyed that he’s bringing this up.

The last thing you want is him tarnishing your memory of her, just like he did with the memory of your first kiss.

“Just making conversation, sugarplum,” he replies chirpily as he approaches. “Have you seen her films?”

“No,” you simply respond. Eager to give him a wide berth and lock yourself in your room, you bid him goodnight, but he grabs your arm even before you can sidestep him and get out of his office.

“Sleep beside me tonight. I’ve missed you.”

Your skin prickles at the command and almost brings tears to your eyes. Over the course of a few weeks, you’ve come to learn what that meant – it always means either you on your knees and him using your mouth for his own pleasure, or him touching you the way he did after that night at the club.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to sleep in my room tonight,” you say, trying your best to sound like you’re firmly standing your ground. There were nights that he’d leave you alone, after all. Maybe, hopefully, this is one of them.

“We’ll only cuddle until we fall asleep.”

It’s a ‘no,’ then, seeing as he completely ignored your question.

“Wait for me. I’ll join you momentarily.”

Even with his tired eyes, he manages to give you an empty smile, bordering on mischief. You leave his office at once and do as you’re told, but on his bed, you get as close as the edge as you could without falling over. Unfortunately, you’re still awake when you feel the bed and the sheets shift on the other side, indicating he’s come to join you under the covers. As he always does when you’re in bed together, he draws as close as he can and snakes an arm around you, pulling you to him while he buries his face on the crook of your neck and takes a huge whiff.

The hand draped over your waist, however, undoes the tie of your robe.

“Please, I thought we’d just cuddle –”

Coriolanus shushes you in your ear gently and says, “I am simply removing your robe. It can’t be comfortable lying in that thing.”

Closing your eyes, you fight a whimper when that hand begins peeling it off from your shoulder, grazing your arm with his fingers. He takes his time with it too, but succeeds in taking it off, leaving you in your more revealing night dress. He then swiftly manoeuvres you to lie on your back, drapes his torso all over yours and kisses you on the mouth.

He makes a quick work of it that you don’t have time to react. There’s always hunger in the way he kisses you, with the way his tongue is urging yours to move against his. He moans into the kiss as if he’s drawing satisfaction from the reaction he’s forcing out of you. He tangles his fingers into your hair, while his free hand roams the side of your body. That hand then slides upwards on your thigh – that’s when you break off the kiss, which lets you take in as much air as that heavy torso on top of yours allows you to.

Coriolanus sighs heavily before he nuzzles the side of your face.

“I told you, you’d have to get used to this,” he chastises you softly, clearly displeased, but he surprisingly gets off you and resumes lying on your side in favour of spooning you.

“I love you, sugarplum. Sweet dreams.”

Sometimes, when you lie in his bed like this, you kind of wish he’d just fuck you to get it over with – maybe then, he would get tired of you faster and perhaps even change his mind about marrying you. It's not a thought you always welcome. All you know is, you’ll never get used to this, to him – maybe not ever.

There’s something about Capitol parties that reek of frivolous emptiness – people who secretly despise one another out of envy or animosity, trying to their best to one-up everyone and make a show of themselves, eating beyond their fill and drinking beyond their tolerance.

This being your engagement party does not make it any better.

To Ma and Father Plinth’s credit – Strabo has taken you to call him that – the party had been meticulously arranged. They have taken it upon themselves to host the engagement party and they took care of everything – they booked the left wing of The Palisades Hotel’s inner garden, hired the same orchestra from Strabo’s birthday party, got one of the best-reviewed caterers in the city – there hasn’t been any hitches so far, so to their credit, they have done magnificently in making this night enjoyable for everyone in attendance.

The orchestra finishes their romantic number to collective applause – you and your fiancé let each other go and join in clapping, having finished the first dance. While couples from all over the surrounding tables mill into the floor in time for the next much livelier musical number, Coriolanus escorts you by hand back to your table.

“Good to see your etiquette lessons haven’t been a total waste of money,” your Uncle Cas comments as he raises a glass and takes a huge swig, which earns a hearty laugh from you and the Plinth couple at the table.

You remember making the same inward observation during a dance that already seemed so long ago. You take a seat to your uncle’s left, while your groom takes his place on yours, taking solace in the fact that despite wanting to be miles away from this party, your uncle is here, if only for the next few hours.

Coriolanus has taken steps to ensure that the Innis senior attends to preserve the appearance of approving your match. You have no idea how he convinced the ever-unyielding Acacius Innis to be here given your uncle’s implied abhorrence of him, which he hides with passive-aggressive, sarcastic remarks at least for tonight. You probably don’t want to know either, but you are well aware that shortly before the party ends, your uncle will be on a train to District 12 to live out his exile. For how long, your husband-to-be didn’t disclose; it could be weeks, months, even years, before you see your only living blood again. Mourning that fact, however, would spoil the remaining time you have left with him.

So, even if you’re at a party celebrating your eventual bondage, you try to enjoy Uncle Cas’s company.

After what feels like mere minutes, Coriolanus gives you an almost imperceptible tilt of his head.

It’s time.

Uncle Cas seems to know, too, but he casually gets up from the table and announces his early exit, citing an early business trip to the Districts which he has to prepare for. He bids everyone he knows in the party a short farewell before Coriolanus escorts him inside one of The Palisades’ smaller empty halls with you in tow.

He gives you and your uncle just ten minutes to bid each other farewell while he stands in the corner to watch.

Ten fucking minutes.

Your husband-to-be seems to have prepared this room beforehand because two seats are waiting for you at the corner facing each other.

Your uncle is the first to break the silence.

“How have you been, plumcake?” he says with that fond smile you always see him wear around you.

You do your best not to burst into tears despite all the emotions threatening to pour out of you all at once. He’s gotten even thinner, and his now-dull eyes have more prominent circles around them. You miss him, you worry about him, you dread his stay in District 12 where he's supposed to be assigned, and most of all, you fear that you’ll never get to see him again despite Coriolanus’s promise that this will be temporary.

“I’m doing well, Uncle,” you lie, not because you don’t want him to know the truth, but because this isn’t about you. “How about you? You don’t look like you’re eating or sleeping well – where are you staying in District 12? What are they going to make you do there? Have you packed? Are they allowing us to video call? What if –”

Uncle Cas interrupts your line of questioning by cupping both sides of your face and putting on a reassuring “Plumcake, your old uncle can handle himself just fine. And as you can hear, I’m not using that voice – you know the one that sounds like I’m lying to avoid talking about it –because I know you hate that voice.”

You can’t help the tiny chuckle that comes out of you. Perhaps, he’s telling the truth. After all, he’s a former rebel leader – most likely the smartest one out of all of them, too.

“I’m not sure when I’ll be back, so until then, stay strong, yes? You inherited the best from us: your mother’s kindness, your father’s brains, and your uncle’s wit.”

With a twinkle in his eyes, he places a hand on top of your head like he does when he messes with your hair.

“Your mother and father would be so fucking proud of their little plumcake, who turned out to be the best human being I’ve ever gotten to know.”

Uncle Cas gently wipes the lone tear on your cheek with a thumb and this time, actually ruffles your hair.

“Uncle, can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“Did you ever find out who did that to Mom and Dad all those years ago?”

Your uncle dons a sad, contemplative look, which surprises you a bit. You had been expecting him to react angrily, or immediately change the topic, but he seems to debate within himself whether to respond. After a few moments, he runs his fingers through his hair and sighs.

“After the…incident, I was given two choices by the president,” he begins. “Stay a rebel, be forever hunted by the government, but have more than enough resources to find out who killed my little brother and his wife and exact revenge. That, or live in the Capitol, raise the child they left behind and give her the future they would’ve wanted for her.

“Guess what I chose?” he then flashes you a lopsided grin that doesn’t quite reach his tired, pained eyes. “So, the answer is no. I don’t know who did it. Innises hate not knowing, I am aware – we have to have an answer for every fucking thing – but, that’s that.”

“You upended your life for me. I worry that I caused your divorce, that you regret your choice –”

“Hey, none of that.” Uncle Cas interrupts you with a firm tone, “Absolutely not. Your aunt and I already had issues, to begin with; one being…well, I would often be held up for days at a peacekeeper station for interrogation and she couldn’t deal with the worry –”

“Wait, you were tortured?” you exclaim in alarm, but he’s quick to break your line of questioning.

“ – The point I’m making is, plumcake, I have never, ever regretted choosing you – not a damn second. You are the best thing that could’ve ever happened to a man like me.”

The only response you can muster to his adoring smile is just more tears cascading down your cheeks. Just like he’s always done since you were a little girl, freshly orphaned and utterly helpless, he is quick to wipe the tears away. You love your mom and dad, but there’s nothing in the world that compares to having the Acacius Innis as your uncle.

“Now hug this old bag of creaking bones, it’ll be a while before we see each other again.”

And so you do, as tightly as if a mere embrace can keep him here, and whisper, “I love you, uncle. Please stay safe in 12. Please.”

“I love you too, my little plumcake,” he whispers back. “Between you and me, I may already have a welcoming committee awaiting my arrival. So you don’t have to worry your head over me. Yes?”

When he lets go, he assures you that while his own assets are frozen until his exile is lifted, he’s transferred enough money in your name to last you a lifetime.

“I know you never cared about any of that, but if you got any more animal shelters to donate to, it’s there. Whenever you need it.” Ruffling your hair once more, he crinkles his eyes, making the lines on his face more prominent. Another question pops into your head.

“Whatever happened to Petey?”

“I haven’t heard from him or about him, which is good news.”

Worriedly, you inquire another. “And The Headless Confectioner’s?”

“Ask your fiancé,” he replies flatly. “He’s starting to give us the stink eye, I think our time is up.”

Coriolanus allows you one more quick hug with your uncle before he escorts him away.

“Sugarplum, stay in here, please. I will be back to fetch you.”

A final smile from him, and your Uncle Cas is gone, and the only thing he leaves in his wake is the dull thud of the giant door closing behind him.

You just stare at the door after, hoping this is just one big practical joke and he’s going to come bursting back in with a stupid grin on his face.

Instead, you get Coriolanus Snow, who makes a beeline towards you as soon as he reenters the hall – when he’s but an arm’s length away, he stretches out his arm with the intention of giving you a hug.

For comfort? You’d rather eat a motherboard and wash it down with thermal grease.

You swat those hands away and say scathingly, “Don’t touch me.”

He seems hurt that you spurned him and begins to say, “Nellie, I only meant – ”

But don’t wait for him to finish whatever he has to say; instead, you storm out of the hall, with him tailing you. Wanting very much to get away from him for a while, you proceed straight to the ladies’ powder room where he can’t follow. You slip a handful of bills to the bathroom attendant so she can leave you alone and spare her the trouble of listening to your pitiful sobs.

It’s all you’ve been doing much of recently.

You reluctantly emerge from the stall, wiping your eyes with a tissue and making your way to the sink. Somebody’s leaning against the washing basin’s marble slab, but you don’t look at them – probably the bathroom attendant who just decided to go back to her post.

“You’re seriously not going back out there looking like that, are you?”

The gloating, high-pitched voice makes you look up from the sink. You don’t even have to glance at the only other person in the bathroom to figure out who it is.

“Get off my case, Livia. I’m not in the mood.”

“Crying on your own engagement party? Let me guess,” she taunts. “You just found out that your fiancé doesn’t really love you and he’s only marrying you for your money, our your status…”

She eyes you from head to toe, and adds, “Or whatever the hell he sees in you.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice?” you can’t help but whisper, more to yourself than her, as you stare blankly at the sink. “Maybe then, all this would be just a little more bearable.”

Something is shoved into your line of vision. A steel flask.

“I know you don’t drink, but I think now’s a pretty good time to start,” Livia says with a smirk. She takes note of your hesitance and laughs. “That’s how horrible you think I am? I wouldn't poison my own supply.”

She takes a long swig from the flask to prove it. You feel a tad guilty not humouring her, seeing as she’s making an effort to at least strike up a conversation, so when she hands it back to you, you take it and drink.

Whiskey. It burns your throat, but you welcome the eventual buzz.

“Honestly, I didn’t know I had to spell it out for you, you weren’t this dense in the Academy,” she snaps at you, frowning, as you give her back the flask. “If you’re that unhappy, call off the wedding. Break up with him.”

You sigh and just give her a nonchalant shrug. “It’s not that simple.”

“What do you mean?”

How much are you allowed to tell her, anyway? What would she do with whatever you tell her? Do you even want to tell her?

“I can’t do any of that. Not right now…” you whisper after a pause, which she eyes you suspiciously for.

You can feel the cogs in her brain work as she tries to process your cryptic message.

“Wait…” she says slowly. “You’re seriously not…what are you implying? Is your uncle making you do this?”

Your turn to laugh. “Heavens, no. He would never.”

Livia Cardew scrunches her face in confusion. “Wha – then, who…? Oh.”

Did she finally get it? Confusion morphs into realisation, and then into horror.

“Holy shit.”

There it is. Livia has always been smart. That good quality is just often overshadowed by her obnoxious vanity, her abrasiveness, and the tendency to annoy people just for the heck of it. She quickly strides to the powder room door and pushes the lock. She faces you once more with a look that’s determined to get more answers.

“How?” Her shrill voice echoes in the space. “Why? Why you? He could’ve chosen someone else more willi – all I’m saying is…why do any of this?”

“You mean, why not you?”

Her answer is a mere purse of her lips. She has no idea how many nights you’ve wondered the same.

“Why not, indeed…” you sigh again and follow it up with an exasperated query. “Can I go, now? I still have to paint a smile. That takes quite a bit of time.”

“Why won’t you run away?”

Of course, she isn’t letting the matter go. Should you not have told her anything?

“Back to the Districts? My inter-district travel pass is revoked. Besides, you don’t think I’ve tried? I’ve run out of ideas at this point.”

Your old classmate is still frowning, but there’s a hint in there of…pity. You have no need for it, but this is the first time you see something else in her besides hostility.

“Fuck. That’s just…fucked up.”

Yes, indeed. Everything is, now. Of course, you keep that to yourself.

“Well, there’s always divorce…” she says quietly, softening her tone. She adds, “Maybe I’ll still like him then...not that I haven’t moved on…you know, we never really dated? Or talked, even.”

“Why wait? You can swoop in right now. It’s not yet official.”

Please. Please get him off my case. If anyone else can get what they want if they just put their mind to it, it’s Livia Cardew. She and Coriolanus share that characteristic, the latter is just prone to more cruelty.

A high-pitched guffaw escapes her lips. “Oh, don’t empt me. I can’t tell if you’re just being sarcastic right now…okay, no you’re not.”

“I have to go. Don’t tell anyone.” You’re not sure your warning will hold, but it has to, for her sake. “Especially him. He can’t find out that you know.”

Livia rolls her eyes. “I’m not stupid. Hey, at least we now have something in common.” When you don a questioning expression, she clarifies, “We both hate this wedding. And this marriage. And we can’t wait for it to fall apart.”

You flash her a smile, which she returns with a friendly smirk. The first interaction you share with her that isn’t antagonistic in nature.

“I’ll drink to that…” you say. “Well, back at the table, at least. Thanks for the whiskey.”

“Hey. If you want to grab a cocktail, or whatever, you know my number.”

Nodding, you walk to the door and unlock it, mentally steeling yourself for yet another round of fake happiness around people you don’t care for, the only one person you care to genuinely show your emotions to now probably miles away on a train to a place you’ve never been.

“Nellie?”

You look back at Livia Cardew halfway through pushing the door open.

“I meant what I said. I’m going to destroy your marriage.”

“I’ll drink to that too – as soon as I’m back at the table.”

You can only hope she makes good on her promise.

There’s a tense silence between you and your fiancé as you both wait for the meal to arrive. It’s the usual late Saturday breakfast, except instead of reading the morning paper, Coriolanus is staring sharply at you from the rim of his cup as he sips his usual morning tea.

You completely ignore him, just like last night.

After the party, you’ve never spoken a word to him. He kept trying to get your attention as soon as you arrived at his apartment, but, when you slammed your bedroom door on his face, he thankfully retreated to his own and let the matter go.

But this is Coriolanus Snow, and he always has to get what he wants. And right now, it seems like he wants you to say something.

“Your uncle should’ve been in District 12 about six hours ago. I booked him a hovercraft instead of a train. That way, he’ll be less tired on the journey.”

So, now, he’s concerned about Uncle Cas all of a sudden?

“He’s probably resting, as we speak. He has access to video calls every two weeks, and phone calls every week, so he will keep in touch.”

You vaguely wonder how long you can keep this up without being punished for it because that’s the next step you know he’ll take once his patience has run out.

“This is temporary, sugarplum. I’ve told you before: your uncle’s exile will be lifted.”

You’ve gone this far, you shrug inwardly. Might as well.

Coriolanus huffs as he places his cup on the saucer. “Nellie, you’re being difficult. I’m trying here.”

How about trying to get Uncle Cas back?

You keep your lips pursed when the food arrives. You poke your way through the sausages, the salad, and the cheese omelette, chewing but not tasting anything.

“Don’t play with your food.”

So you set your cutlery down neatly on the plate to indicate you’re finished and take a small sip of your coffee. The clanging of his fork and knife in his plate almost makes you jolt in your seat.

“Nellie, you’re acting like a petulant child.”

This rebuke is said through clenched teeth and makes you peer into his eyes. He meets your innocent stare with an annoyed expression, so you open your mouth and whisper – the first thing you say out loud since last night:

“This child would like to excuse herself from the table.”

Without waiting for his permission, you get to your feet, walk away from the dining room and head straight into your bedroom, with your fiancé’s bewildered, indignant eyes following you.

Later, you hear a soft knocking on your door, followed by the jingling of your door knob. This continues for a few moments, as if rattling it would make it magically unlock.

“Nellie,” Coriolanus’s muffled voice comes through your door. “I’m going out.”

Good. “I hope you don’t come back,” you whisper.

“I can get you anything you like.”

How about getting me my uncle back?

You hear him audibly exhale, and say, “I’ll be back in a few hours. We will talk, then.”

There is total silence inside the house after his footsteps retreat, indicating he’s left. True to his word, he comes back knocking a little more urgently with another request.

“Come to the living room when you’re ready, but come quickly. I have something for you.”

Deciding not to push him any further than you have, you begrudgingly step out of your bedroom and proceed to the living room, where you find him tinkering with an old portable projector he placed on the coffee table, along with a stack of disks and a player, all of which look like they’d belong on a museum display.

“I did some digging in the City Archives and found some movies they were able to salvage from the war ruins. I’m not supposed to take them out, but I may have slipped the archivist a hefty bribe to borrow them a bit,” he says with a smirk.

Coriolanus seems to catch your curious stare at the piece of old equipment.

“This seems to be your kind of thing, I know, but the archivist also taught me how to operate it.”

“Au contraire, this is the first time I’ve seen one of these.”

He just chuckles as he inserts a disk on the player. “Take a seat, then. This afternoon will be a series of firsts for you.”

He pushes a button on the player while you make yourself comfortable on one of the cushions, facing the wall where the projector begins to display what seems like a dated movie. Judging by the title that it flashes, it’s a romantic comedy with pre-war style production. Not exactly your type of genre, but you sit through the film for about fifteen minutes.

Until she comes in.

Your posture goes rigid as you feel the colour drain from your face.

“Turn it off,” you say. Coriolanus throws you a puzzled expression and pauses the film which freeze-frames at her smiling coyly at the main love interest.

“I can put on another one if you don’t like this – ”

“No, turn it off,” you repeat with a firmer tone.

Your fiancé exhales in exasperation but makes no move to stop the player. “Maybe you’re not watching what I’m watching, Nellie: that’s your mother in that film. If my mother had a movie she starred in, I’d watch it over and over.”

With your jaw set, you get up from your cushion and try to turn it off yourself, but the stop button will not work.

Coriolanus pinches the bridge of his nose and turns to face you. “I know you’re still upset about your uncle leaving, and I’m trying here, Nellie. I just want to make you happy, but you’re not letting me.”

“You really think watching a couple of old films will cheer me up?” You finally snap. “What I’m watching is not my mother. That’s just her playing a character. That’s not how I remember her, she – ”

Your gaze lands on the eyes and the smile of the woman on the screen, so starkly different from the ones in your memory, just before the fated explosion. That smile is slowly slipping away in your mind, you realise, and the thought is enough to bring tears to your eyes, which you try to choke back.

“Hey, now…” your fiancé stands, looking slightly agitated – perhaps even guilty – and removes the player’s plug from the wall socket.

“That’s not her,” you whisper, “And I want to hold on to my mom the way I remember her.”

Coriolanus moves to take you in his arms, but you take a step backwards, which is enough to deter him from coming any closer. That doesn’t stop his displeased expression though.

It was a mistake, stepping out of your room.

Judging by the orange glow of the setting sun streaming through the window curtains in your room, it’s almost nighttime, indicating you hadn’t gotten out of bed or stepped out of your lockdown for more than twenty-four hours after your husband-to-be’s misguided attempt at cheering you up.

You never heard from him the entire day, at the very least. But just when you think he’s finally learned to give you some sort of space, you hear gentle knocking on your door.

“Nellie, open the door. We have a guest.”

He doesn’t sound angry or hurt, but you make no move to acknowledge him – or the supposed guest – and burrow deeper into the comforter.

After a few moments of pure silence, Coriolanus speaks, assumably to the guest, “I don’t think she wants to be disturbed right now.”

There’s something gentle, almost childlike, about the way he speaks to them, but it's maybe just your imagination. Mere seconds later, you hear faint scratching at your door, which puzzles you a little. Coriolanus would never scratch at a door no matter how desperate he is to make you unlock it.

“See? Maybe later, we’ll knock again, okay?”

A small, high-pitched noise from outside your room makes you jump out of bed. You kneel on the floor and press your ear against the door to confirm what you just heard.

Coriolanus lets out an exhale. “I know, little man. Let’s get you some food first.”

Meow.

Your fingers, moving of their own accord, twist the doorknob and let the door swing open by a fraction.

The tiny, furry head of Oscar the cat emerges from the crack, followed by his entire form swathed in his long, shiny, tuxedo-like fur coat.

“Oscar?” You call out softly.

Meow.

The male cat traipses towards you, his adorable pink nose sniffing you and the air around you. Remembering Patty’s advice, you hold out a forefinger to him, and he rubs his cheeks on you just like the first time you met him. He accepts a shorter set of head-pats though, and immediately jumps on top of your messy comforter, lays down on his side and begins grooming his little furry paws like he owns the entire bed.

And for what feels like the first time in a long while, you let out a genuine, hearty laugh.

“It’s been a while since I’ve heard you laugh. I want to hear it more often.”

You whip your head to your doorway to see Coriolanus, still clad in his coat, leaning against it, observing the interaction with a soft gaze. He crosses the threshold and attempts to pet Oscar on the head once, but Oscar swats his hand away with a paw.

Feigning a hurt expression, your fiancé pouts comically. “Fine, be like that. I guess you don’t need your daddy now that mommy has finally paid you some attention.”

Normally, you’d bristle at his implication, but you don’t pay it any mind. He seems to take this as a sign and decides to push it a little further with you.

“Nellie, why don’t we leave Oscar alone for a while? You must be hungry, so I got you some food.”

You stare at him for what seems like a long time with so many conflicting feelings: should you be thankful that he seems to have brought Oscar home? Is it fair that you’re punishing him by way of silent treatment when he seems to be making these attempts to console you? Should you thank him for giving Oscar a home?

But he sent Uncle Cas away.

Coriolanus helps you stand, unaware of your inner turmoil. He’s right about one thing, though – you start feeling the pangs of hunger and follow him to the dining area where a maid has just finished setting up the table. He sheds his coat and gives it to the maid, but not before taking out a piece of paper from inside the coat pocket.

He hands it to you and says, “You seem like the type with zero experience in handling cats, so I wrote down some instructions for you.”

You can tell he’s teasing you by the lopsided grin he flashes, but he’s right yet again. You both take your usual place on the table in a considerably lighter silence than before, and Oscar joins in just before dessert – you make him sniff a piece of your cheesecake with your fork, but he just turns his tail on it, clearly offended. He decides to perch on the farthest end of the table with his back turned, much to you and Coriolanus’s amusement. After the meal, Coriolanus instructs you what and what not to feed the cat as he fills Oscar’s little plate with a can of jellied tuna, which Oscar seems to take a huge liking to.

After the male cat saunters away from his empty plate with his full belly swish-swoshing to the sides, your fiancé turns to you.

“Join me for tea before bed?”

You give him a single nod and follow him to the living room where a fresh pot of tea is already waiting on the coffee table. Your light, almost one-sided conversation veers into wedding preparations.

“The wedding organizer called this afternoon. He says you’re going to need to finalise the names on your entourage.”

Another nod.

“Have you even listed a name down? Let alone chosen a maid of honour?”

You hum to yourself as you put your teacup down. “I think I have someone in mind. I’d still have to ask her, though. I’ll give her a call tomorrow.”

He squints at you curiously. “Care to tell your fiancé who it is?”

Oscar the Cat takes this exact moment to jump and settle his heavy bottom on your lap. You can’t help but smile at the little guy as you rub the back of his ears and he begins to softly purr.

“I’m thinking Livia. Livia Cardew.”

Enter Level 16

Next on Level 16 - You commemorate Sejanus's second death anniversary; wedding preparations are underway; Snowball gives you news about your uncle's exile.

Author notes:

Please reblog and comment, it's always appreciated!

#dark!coriolanus snow #dark!coriolanus snow x reader #Young!coriolanus snow #young!coriolanus snow x reader #named!reader #or #x OC2ndPOV #18+ only #dark!coriolanus snow fic #dark!coriolanus #dark!coriolanus fic #dark!fic

[dotieeee]

The Gamemaker's Apprentice

Level 5

Pairing: Dark!Young!Coriolanus Snow x You, named!Reader

Overall Warnings:

NON-CON, DUB-CON, Dark!Young!Coriolanus Snow, Snow himself should be a warning, lots of blackmailing, gaslighting, manipulation, obsession. possesiveness, eventual forced marriage, eventual loss of virginity, breeding kink, canon-compliant major character death, reader is named but has no physical descriptions in the fic so one might also consider her an OC but in 2nd POV, will have canon inconsistencies, and other stuff that may be added

Masterlist

Level 5 Warnings:

Snow and his vile unclean 18+ thoughts, the blackest of mails lol, manipulation

Replay Level 4

Ready? Level 5 Start:

In Coriolanus’s mind, he can recall, word for word, the meeting he had requested Strabo Plinth to initiate with Acacius Innis.

“I’m sure you’re wondering why I called for this meeting, Acacius,” Strabo Plinth had said as soon as the servants had cleared out.

Acacius Innis and he were seated on finely upholstered chairs inside the Plinth patriarch’s office, with Strabo’s intricately carved oak desk between them, served the highest quality tea his money could buy. Coriolanus simply stood beside him, obediently there to chime in only when needed. He needed to let Plinth senior handle Innis senior – this is, after all, what Strabo did best.

In a few ways, the patriarchs were similar: they both don’t drink alcohol, they both come from the Districts, and they share an almost uncanny flair for business. But that is where their common ground ended, as far as Coriolanus was concerned. He had the Plinth patriarch essentially wrapped around his finger. The Innis patriarch, however, had always been wary of him; he could tell. He could feel Acacius’s perceptive eyes on him the entire time he’d been at your home, even if he wasn’t necessarily looking – eyes that seemed to see right through people. You shared that with him too, apparently, given how similarly you behaved with him during your Academy years. On top of that, Acacius wasn’t one to flaunt his riches as extravagantly as Strabo, as evidenced by his taste for a simpler wardrobe and refusal to hire a cook and stay-at-home help. District, his roots may be, yet he seamlessly blends well with Capitol’s high society.

And there he was, casually sipping a cup of tea as he considered Strabo’s question. He put it down with the grace one would expect from an Innis. He may spew the occasional acerbic remark, but his social etiquette is flawless.

“I had an inkling what it was about during our lovely dinner,” he said with a tight-lipped smile.

Strabo said as he stirred his tea. “Ever the sharp one, aren’t you?” His light chuckle echoed in the room. “Very well, then. I’ll get right to the point.

“I’d like to propose a union between our houses: Snows - and the Plinths in conjunction – and the Innises by way of marriage.”

Coriolanus had his eyes glued to him the entire time: if Acacius Innis felt anything at all about this proposal, he remained unfazed, his face a friendly, blank mask.

“My heir, Coriolanus,” he gestured to him beside his seat, “And your niece will make the perfect match. I understand they both now have a... camaraderie of sorts; we’d only be giving them a push forward in the right direction.”

The Innis senior’s eyes were hard, but he bobbed his head slowly as if he were weighing the offer.

Strabo continued speaking, but it was at this point that Coriolanus could guess Acacius’s response, although he still had some hope in his heart that he was wrong about it.

“I can’t think of any other couple more attractive. Nellie’s just turned twenty, right? Coriolanus, here, turned twenty several months ago. Both young and bright and excelling in their own fields. Imagine the wedding of the century, two of the most powerful clans of Panem in union...your Nellie will make a fine wife for my Coriolanus, just as he will make a dutiful husband for her. Think of the grandchildren, Acacius. They’d be adorable and frighteningly smart for their age...”

Coriolanus fought the urge to roll his eyes. Acacius Innis will never be swayed by the thought of having grandchildren. Then again, he didn’t know what he would be swayed by; the man was an impenetrable wall.

“Hmm. Does Coriolanus consent to this?” Acacius turned to him. If Coriolanus Snow was surprised by his question, he never showed it.

“I do, sir,” he replied with conviction. “I hold your niece in the highest regard.”

Acacius hummed before picking up his cup of tea and drinking.

“He’s being humble, Acacius,” Strabo confirms. “You’ve seen them together, they’re practically a couple. So, what do you say?”

“No.”

Coriolanus felt his eye twitch.

Innis Senior could’ve just punched him in the face, and he could’ve gotten less of a reaction.

Even Strabo was at a loss for words. “'No?’ Acacius...think of what this union could mean for our heirs. Their combined might will one day rule all of Panem. You see, Coriolanus is setting his eyes on politics. Not just any political seat: he aims for the presidency. I have no doubt he will ascend to the greatest of political heights.”

Could he not have begun his pitch with that, instead?

Acacius smiles wryly. “I’m sure Coriolanus will achieve anything he puts his mind to, Strabo. He has the makings of a powerful man,” he sighs. “But this isn’t about his ambition. This is about Nellie’s life. I cannot, in good conscience, choose for her on her behalf.”

Strabo tilts his head with a questioning look. “Surely, Nellie will understand your choice, given you have her best interests at heart?”

“Precisely why I could never do that to her. She trusts me and my judgement, and I can’t betray her trust like that.”

“What if I told you I could make you a shareholder at my company’s military weapons division? We have, after all, profited greatly for the past decade. Our financial forecasts project even greater growth for the next few years, thanks to reinforced peacekeeping policies. I can guarantee you a hefty slice of the pie."

Acacius clasps his hands together and leans forward on the desk with a polite smile.

“My sincerest apologies, Strabo. I cannot agree with this proposal of yours, and I don’t think there is anything you could offer me that will make me accept. It would be unfair to my niece to seal her fate without her consent. You understand hard work, more than anyone else. I raised Nellie as my own after her parents died, and I’ve worked hard for her to have choices in life where most don’t. I’d like to imagine that extends even to matters concerning matrimony. Whoever she chooses to marry, if she chooses to marry at all, shouldn’t be decided among three men in a room, over a meeting she wasn’t not even allowed in.”

Coriolanus felt a vein in his temple throb. Of course, he was livid. What made him even more furious was the fact that Strabo had the gall to look moved by Innis senior’s speech.

He wanted nothing but to strangle the both of them then and there.

But, as usual, Coriolanus Snow was a man of utter composure. He said nothing, kept his face a blank mask, as he listened to Strabo basically taking Acacius’s side.

“Very well, Acacius, my old friend. Your niece is lucky to have you as a father figure. We do what we can to protect our children, and for that, you have my utmost respect.”

A thought crossed Coriolanus’s mind at Strabo’s words.

Acacius had just inadvertently revealed his weakness. You.

Not such an impenetrable wall, after all.

As if pouring salt over an open wound, Strabo patted Coriolanus on the back and added, “Coriolanus will just have to earn Nellie’s hand the hard way, I’m afraid. Oh, and do come to my birthday party this Friday night at the Palisades? The invitations were mailed out last week, and if you’re not busy, you can bring Nellie with you.”

“Friday, you say?” Acacius asked as he got up from his chair. “I might have to take a raincheck, my friend. I’m spearheading a new defence division at the Citadel, and I expect Friday will be hectic for me. My well wishes to you today, and your birthday gift I shall send via delivery.”

Strabo acknowledged Acacius’s smile of apology with a nod. “Of course, duties to the Capitol come first.”

The elder males shook hands firmly before they all exited the room, led by Innis senior.

To call this a disappointing turn of events was an understatement.

That sweet smile you had on your pretty little face as you bid him good night was his only solace for the rest of the evening. He wished he could see more of that smile; he wished he could have it bottled or kept it in a jar, perhaps, so he could look at it anytime he wanted. Just the thought of having something of you with him all the time made him feel a little better. Obviously, having you to himself all the time would beat having just something of you, but he hasn’t quite gotten to that yet. A certain relative of yours just made sure of that.

He thought he had a plan to get you. He knew he had no chance at winning Acacius Innis over if he alone had asked for your hand himself, but he had high hopes that with Strabo Plinth leading the conversation, he’d be more open to the idea of an alliance between your families by way of marriage. So much for that well-thought-out plan.

No matter: he had one other weapon he had at his disposal. One more leverage on you – and that obstinate prick you call an uncle – that could prove so devastating, it could have you begging him to take your soul for him to keep the dirt from surfacing.

All he had to figure out was his timing.

***

You and your uncle never talk about what transpired at the Citadel the day he asked you to bring those files. You’re still on the fence as to whether he had set you up to uncover what could plausibly be a conspiracy surrounding Sejanus’s death, but the facts you’ve gathered surrounding the incident prove too hard to overlook.

Had your uncle already known about it for a time, and had he been sitting on the information until then? Why did he choose to reveal it this way if he had indeed set you up? Why did he keep it to himself then?

And then there’s that...thing...that thought about your friend that you know you’re not supposed to entertain because of how outlandish it sounds, but a thought you can’t seem to get rid of, nonetheless.

That nagging suspicion that just won’t go away, no matter how hard you try to rationalise.

You keep going back and forth between what you can remember in Sejanus’s letters and the information Dr Kay had revealed; how Sejanus had been entangling with rebel forces; how the peacekeepers in District 12 had been ordered to gather catch jabberjays for scientific research; how he could’ve confessed to someone he trusted enough to be comfortable around with; and he could’ve been recorded by any of the peacekeepers who had access to the jabberjay remotes; how only one of the jabberjays conveniently turned up dead only a day after the birds arrived at the Capitol…

…How the only person Sejanus mentioned he trusted the most the entire time he was in District 12 was Coriolanus Snow.

Everything you know about every event that happened in District 12 circles back to him somehow, and you hate yourself for not being able to come up with a different conclusion.

Everybody says you’re smart, but look where it’s gotten you, now: with more questions and nowhere to get answers from.

Thursday. Three days have flown by since that day.

Every day for three days since you’ve woken up drenched in sweat, having dreamt of jabberjays flocking all over you, screaming your name and Sejanus’s, and Coriolanus singing to the birds a song you don’t quite understand. Today, however, your brain decided to kick it up a notch because it felt you had too little going on.

It began with Coriolanus humming a melody that doesn’t make sense when you hum it in real life, and the birds flying all around you and screaming your name and Sejanus’s in bloody murder. Sejanus made an entrance, facing you from only a few feet away. You could see from where you were that he was trying to open his mouth as if he wanted to say something from beyond the grave, but no words came out. Instead, out came from his parted lips a beak, then the head of a bird with purplish-blue plumage, followed by the entire body of the accursed bird. The bird took one look at you, then darted straight in your direction, before you woke up without much ceremony.

Fuck those birds and fuck these dreams. Just another bad thing that catapults you to another day in another one of those moods.

You have to be out, somehow. Function in society, no matter how much you hate it. No matter how much said society sickens you; even if said society would no sooner have you hanged as traitorous trash faster than you could show an ounce of condemnable humanity.

You made a promise to Sejanus to move on, and so for today, you’ll try.

There is work to be done at the University, what with summer classes underway. The class guides would’ve been taken care of by now courtesy of your uncle’s interns, but you have another task as his official apprentice – a task you can never bring yourself to abandon.

Your living room phone rings a little before noon, just as you’re trying to graze on cornflakes to try and get your day going. You temporarily leave your bowl to answer the familiar voice on the other line.

“Nellie. I haven’t seen you in days.” Coriolanus sounds a tad put out.

“Coryo.” A twinge of guilt finds its way to your voice. “I’m sorry, I’ve just been – ”

“Hiding yourself away again? Nellie, is everything alright?”

“Yes, Coryo, I’m fine.”

You can hear him heave an exasperated sigh. “Nellie, we’ve talked about this. You can freely speak your mind with me. Tell me anything.”

Anything, as in, did-you-kill-Sejanus-anything?

“I know,” you respond flatly.

Maybe you can ask him instead of moping, you think to yourself. He might know something. He might know of anyone else your friend had grown close with in District 12 apart from him. That way, maybe you could finally put away these awful thoughts and decide a course of action. Maybe you can then tell Ma and Strabo Plinth, and leave it up to them to make the next move. Maybe you can find that peacekeeper yourself and kill him with your bare hands.

Wishful thinking.

Ask him. Do something, just so you can shut that stupid voice up in your head blaming Coryo for every little unhappiness you encounter.

“We can go out today before I go to the Citadel,” he offers.

Thank goodness he beat you to it. “Really? You have time?”

“For you? Of course, I do. What do you think of getting ice cream?”

What do you think of telling the truth? “Sure, that sounds nice.”

He gives you an address and a time: The Headless Confectioner’s at two. The same candy shop and creamery your uncle gets all his sweets from. You accept.

There’s plenty of time to get some work done before then.

University life dwindles during the summer break. The only ones that are there are the professors and the few summer students looking into getting advanced credits or making up for failed subjects, allowing the school to breathe for a while and enjoy the little quiet it gets every academic year.

The lab is thankfully empty when you arrive, with your uncle currently conducting a class. You’re comforted, if only a little, at the sound your keyboard makes as you type steadily, entering countless lines of commands that will eventually make up the program.

If only there was some way you could run some tests on it besides the usual debugging.

By one thirty, you’re out of the lab, foregoing your usual car ride in favour of walking to The Headless Confectioner’s. It’s a bit of a long walk, but you figure you need the time to clear your head.

Plan your next more wisely, your uncle had said.

Perhaps you have been approaching this dilemma the wrong way. Maybe, just like all manners of mathematical problem-solving, the problem has to be examined with utmost objectivity. Your friendship with Coryo aside, the facts remain, and you’re simply trying to piece them together to come up with a logic-based conclusion.

Maybe then, you wouldn’t be so upset about asking your friend about it.

The walk gives you plenty of time to get your facts straight and construct your questions. Impartiality or not, you don’t want to needlessly hurt your friend like you did at the Plinth’s Corso home. Sejanus was his best friend, and he most likely was there on the day of his execution.

You are well too aware how witnessing death firsthand can drastically change a person.

You get to The Headless Confectioner’s and find Coryo waiting for you outside the shop. His eyes light up and his lips curl upward the moment he sees you approach. You return his smile and you both waste no time lining up the ice cream booth, where people are already milling around for the best ice cream in the city. He offers to walk you back to the University, to the park near the Computer Sciences College you both frequent.

“You’re awfully quieter than usual,” he observes. You’re both sitting on the same bench where he first offered you his friendship.

The friendship that’s entirely responsible for keeping you from spiralling down further.

“Sorry, I’ve got a lot on my mind,” you say.

He tilts his head at you, casually placing his arm on top of your part of the backrest. “Tell me. You asked if I had time, and I always would, for you.”

You give him a dry smile and breathe deeply. Ask him now, or forget ever asking him again.

“I went to the Citadel. Uncle asked me to bring something for him. I got lost, and...” you swallow that lump in your throat as you note how aptly he’s listening. “And I stumbled upon the jabberjays.”

“Hm. Interesting little things,” he mutters.

You fidget on the hem of your coat absently. “I was told that it was the peacekeepers who had caught them and they were sent here to the Capitol two days before Sejanus’s execution. A day later, one of them died.”

Your friend offers no insight, so you go on. “Coryo, someone recorded Sejanus confessing to something. Someone from the Capitol caught that recording, which led to his death.”

You turn to face your friend to find that his expression has gone rigid, his eyes are hard and cold when he meets your gaze head-on.

This must be just as painful for him to discover.

“I’m sorry that I’m bringing it up now, Coryo,” you say, your lips trembling, trying to keep your emotions at bay.

Objectivity, you remind yourself.

“I can’t imagine how hard it must be for you to relive this, but you have to hear me out,” you continue. “Someone from your ranks did that to him.

“Coryo, please,” you implore him. “Try to remember. I’ve run the math in my head over and over but it’s the only explanation I can come up with. It must be someone from your ranks, anyone at all, who might’ve gotten close to him in his last days...anyone whom he trusted enough to confess what he was doing...”

Was it you? Please, tell me it wasn’t. Please, tell me.

Coriolanus’s lips are thinned, his face unreadable and his shoulders now drawn back, yet his eyes never leave yours. Maybe he takes pity in the way you look with your eyes red and tearful, for his features eventually soften, his eyes contrite and his lips parted as he takes a handkerchief out of his breast pocket. He lifts your chin with his thumb and forefinger and wipes your tears with the cloth.

“Nellie, dear, I’m sorry. I really am.” His voice breaks with emotion as he squeezes your chin lightly. He leans into your space further, saying, “I wish I could take your pain and carry it for you. I hate to see you suffering like this.” He lets go and pulls away with a final dab of his handkerchief on your cheek, leaning once more against the bench.

“But I also wish with all my heart I had the answers you seek. Sejanus withdrew within himself in his final days. What battles he faced inwardly were his to bear, and it seems that he kept it that way until he passed.”

‘Liar’ is the only word that floats in your head.

“He was friendly with the other peacekeepers, Nellie. But as far as your deduction has led you, you’re correct: it could’ve been any of them,” he says, dipping his head a small nod. His eyes flick to yours with a strange glint, as if an idea had just crossed his mind. “Maybe there was someone he mentioned in those letters he sent you.”

Your blood runs cold at his words. You could feel it drain from your face, your heart plummeting as your pulse races, watching a corner of his lips twitch upward.

He knows about the letters. He knows.

But you reason within yourself: this doesn’t prove he had him killed. This doesn’t prove anything.

Right?

That look on him. An unmistakable look of victory. Even as you’re both sitting down, he towers over you, staring down at you with those now-hollow eyes. You suddenly don’t feel safe anymore, but you fight the urge to cower.

“Of course, I know, Nellie,” he says as if he read your mind just then. “He never mentioned anything to me about your correspondence, but after his death, I couldn’t help but look through his things for answers as to what he did to himself and why he did it.”

You mean you ransacked his stuff.

“I found a letter he failed to send tucked under his pillow. Addressed to you, Nellie.”

You almost flinch as he tucks a lock of hair behind your ear, his hand lingering to play with it.

“Except, it was written in this odd manner, and none of it made sense. I realised, given how smart you are, it must’ve been an idea of yours to write in code. I knew the both of you enough to tell you weren’t really writing about ‘daffodils’ and ‘dandelions dancing in the sunset.’”

A part of you wants to correct him that it was Sejanus’s plan, but you can’t admit it without incriminating yourself. He lets out a chuckle, but it’s humourless, just like the smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. He traces a line on your cheek, making him only one swift move away from strangling you.

“I asked myself, ‘What could my two friends be hiding, writing in code?’” You feel immense relief when he pulls his hand away.

“I knew I had to keep it hidden, because, if Sejanus actually wrote to you about his intentions to rebel and you kept it to yourself...if anyone else got a hold of it besides me and they cracked the code, you’d be labelled as complicit with his actions.

What kind of best friend would I be if I hadn’t? If I let it get into someone else’s hands? I’d be dishonouring Sejanus’s memory if I threw you to the wolves.”

Coriolanus’s smile is cold, bordering on sadistic. Behind those cerulean eyes dance a flicker of madness you know you’ve always seen before but had been actively ignoring. Could your instincts have been right about him all along? Is this a thinly veiled threat from a man who had been wearing a mask the entire time and had now taken it off in front of you?

Has your entire friendship with him been a farce?

“I want to keep you safe, my dear Nellie. Let me keep you safe,” he insists, his icy stare not matching his intentions. He crosses his legs, observing you with that ghost of a sneer, as he waits for you to squirm in your seat.

“I have just been appointed an official gamemaker. No more internships. That means I now have enough power and influence to keep that promise. But I can’t do that if I don’t even see you half the time.”

You gulp, trying to keep your composure. You will not give him the satisfaction of seeing you fumble. “What are you saying, Coryo?” You whisper hoarsely.

Coriolanus sighs and gets to his feet, his hands inside his pocket as he gazes far into the lake.

“All I’m saying is I need you close by for me to keep you safe.”

Then he turns to face you, towering over your hunched form on the bench as if he’s cowing you into submission. His voice lowers by a fraction as he speaks.

“Transfer your apprenticeship to me. I need you by my side, Nellie, as my friend, and now as my ally.”

You look up at him, his unblinking, unrelenting gaze keeping you in place. That wasn’t a request, you notice, but a command.

An order that promises repercussions if you don’t obey.

“I need an innovator like you by my side. Someone I can trust fully. I have always trusted you, Nellie. It’s refreshing, don’t you think? The way we speak our minds with each other? A free-flowing exchange of ground-breaking ideas. That’s the kind of partnership I want.”

In other words, he’ll keep the letter a secret if you do what he wants.

“You already have my uncle in your team. There is nothing I can do that he can’t do a thousand times better,” you reason, even if you see no point in reasoning with someone who’s already made up their mind.

“That is true, for now, at least. Did you know your uncle has been promoted to his own new division? Cybersecurity. We’re being ushered back into a better digital age. Something the Capitol has overlooked because of the war. He’ll be too busy for his gamemaking duties, so he’s letting go of them. Think of me as your new direct report, should you accept. I will take care of the transfer. Your tenure under your uncle’s wing will simply be carried over to mine,” he says as he paces in front of you.

Uncle Cas has been promoted? That’s good for him and all, but something in you can tell they must want him out of the way. Of what, exactly?

“There’s this...project your uncle has been working on.”

Your posture instantly stiffens. They want Uncle Cas out of the way to take control of his program. His baby, the very same program he has crafted with so much care and has entrusted you to keep from the wrong hands.

“I saw your notes, Nellie. You had a hand in it. Except, there hasn’t been much progress on the project. Dr Gaul wants that to push forward. Think of what it could mean for the twelfth Hunger Games.”

You draw your eyebrows together at the sheer betrayal he wants you to commit. “Coryo, this is madness. You can’t expect me to go behind my uncle’s back and hijack his work.”

“Sugarplum, no one is going behind anyone’s back. All you have to do is ask him. He’ll understand. This is your uncle’s legacy, and it will be yours, too. The Innis legacy. Besides, he will want you to explore your abilities outside your comfort zone. Come on, do you really expect your skills to improve when he’s keeping you inside that lab, making you label old hard drives and grade mediocre college research papers?”

Chewing the insides of your cheek, you stare at the gravel beneath your feet. He doesn’t appreciate you avoiding his gaze, for he hooks his fingers under your chin once more to look at him. You meet his hard eyes with your anxious ones.

“Nellie, your uncle is a genius. He’s unlike any other I have ever met. But you’re an Innis, too. You’re cut from the same cloth. It’s time you see yourself that way. Think of what we can accomplish together. Work for me, work with me, I get to keep you safe, and you get to show everyone in Panem what the Innis blood is made of.” He flashes a grin, baring a sliver of his perfectly white teeth.

Like a predator flashing its fangs before it pounces.

“Your place is with me, Nellie. Let me prove it. You and I: we will change the Games forever.”

Your lip trembles as his thumb skims over it. You ask in a hushed tone, “Change it...you mean for the good?”

“For good,” comes his simple reply.

You purse your lips, attempting to wrack your brains for anything that can get you out of this predicament you dug yourself into. You come up with nothing.

“I’ll ask Uncle Cas.” You concede. There is no other choice at this point.

Coriolanus dons on a look of perverse satisfaction. Then, in the blink of an eye, his expression shifts. He’s back to the Coryo you know, with that kind smile and those soft, blue eyes, like he hadn’t spent the entire time with you in the park threatening and blackmailing you to do his bidding. It’s a frighteningly impressive ability.

“Think about it, sugarplum. I have to go, but I will collect you and your response tomorrow.”

Helplessly, you stay rooted to your spot as he bends down to kiss your hair. His lips linger for a short while before he pulls away and vanishes from your line of vision.

You don’t dare move from the bench as you attempt, almost in vain, to curb an incoming panic attack. You squeeze the hem of your coat as you hyperventilate, mentally berating yourself for falling for his trap.

How could you have been this stupid? You just had to ignore every ounce of your subconscious telling you just how nefarious and dangerous this man is that you’ve willingly entangled yourself with.

Everything about your friendship with Coriolanus Snow – every moment spent with him, every word exchanged, every gift he’s ever given – all of it, a spectacular performance, a cunningly planned-out charade designed to lure into his clutches.

Think of Sejanus, you try to soothe yourself. Of his warm hands holding yours, of his warm hugs, and his soft lips as he stole your first kiss...

Your grip on your coat relaxes eventually and your breathing evens out, replaced by frustrated tears and trembling hands.

As you stare into your cup of now-melted ice cream abandoned on your side of the bench, your mind draws a blank, except for a single, all-consuming thought. You still haven’t proven whether or not Coriolanus Snow had your only true friend killed, but you’re sure of one thing now: he was never innocent.

His old self would’ve killed you without question.

The old self he had left behind in the dense forests of District 12 would’ve had a raging fit before he led you somewhere and either shot you or smothered you or poisoned you to death – probably all three, in no particular order – at the mere insinuation that he had a hand in Sejanus’s death.

But he wasn’t his old self, so the fact that it was coming back to potentially bite him like Lucy Gray’s snake only slightly disarmed him. What he is concerned more about is how you, of all people, managed to connect the dots, even if you hadn’t accused him outright. He had gone to great lengths to ensure that it stayed buried, so he’s sure you had almost come to the correct conclusion purely because of your intellect and intuition. He has to admit, you are impressive.

He isn’t his old self. His old self probably would’ve had qualms about digging into dead people’s things and stealing anything of value. But before he returned Sejanus’ belongings to the Plinths, he had all but combed through every crevice, nook and cranny for anything that may prove useful. His new self had been wise enough then to keep that peculiar letter Sejanus had penned, but never got to mail, addressed to you.

He had a hunch about its significance, but he wasn't completely sure until your conversation at the bench that afternoon. It was a little gamble, mentioning that letter, but one that he knew he had already won the instant he saw your face drain of colour at his mention of dandelions (a rather perplexing choice of code). There it was, your little blind spot, exposed so plainly to him. So, ever one for efficiency, he went on further and pushed you a little more to confirm his suspicions: Sejanus had potentially revealed to you his intent to rebel, and you had kept the knowledge to yourself.

Snow landed on top yet again: he had gained the upper hand. A shiver of excitement goes through him at the thought. He’s already used it to get you to work for him – he wonders what else he could have you do for him. You, at his mercy, submitting to his every whim...

This little mistake of yours could prove convenient for him. Gaul had since added more to his lists of tasks. In addition to keeping up appearances by way of dating, she had assigned him to investigate the progress of a top-secret computer program being developed by Acacius Innis. The project has had almost zero progress since its approval, and he is to find out why. And, thanks to his snooping around with your handwritten notes, he had concluded you had a hand in the project as your uncle’s apprentice. He had been charged to keep you close so you could work for the Citadel in Acacius’s stead just in case he proves he’s outlived his purpose.

Now? He’s got three of these tasks all but crossed out, just because you had let your emotions for Sejanus get the better of you.

You should have never mentioned Sejanus to him. That’s an error of yours he’ll have to make you pay for. If there’s one thing he and his old self had in common, it’s the fact that they’re both extremely jealous men to a fault. The drug addict Theophilus Braun figured this out the hard way. Coriolanus Snow can’t have his girl making mistakes for and because of a dead man; you should’ve known better.

You’re his girl. His girl, his bride, his wife.

And by the day after next, he’d make it clear to everyone in Panem, including you, that you are his – taken, off-limits, spoken for. He should’ve done this sooner in retrospect. You’d know by then that you had no business talking or even thinking about any other men, dead or otherwise. You’d figure it out for yourself, you’re smart. It didn’t matter now that Acacius Innis rejected Strabo’s and his proposal of arranging a marriage between him and you. Sure, he had allowed himself a bit of time to stew on his anger at your uncle, but if he gained something but that poorly orchestrated exchange, it’s the fact that the Innis patriarch is fiercely protective of you. An immovable giant, finally revealing its underbelly by accident.

Now, unlike his old self, he’d never let you out of sight or try to gun you down in a crazed frenzy; he’d never allow you to leave his side, and he’d put your useful abilities to work. In turn, your work would be displayed at the Games for the Capitol to admire, and everyone would know that Coriolanus Snow’s girl is more than a fancy arm decoration being paraded to the press and looking pretty at galas.

Coriolanus sighs as he gets inside his apartment. He comes home to the calming sound of quiet, and, making a beeline to his walk-in closet, he puts down the two sizeable boxes he had just picked up from the receptionist. A last-minute request he made to his tailor, conveniently delivered to his new address. He takes his shoes and his coat off and wastes no time inspecting the contents of the smaller box.

What he’s anticipating to see is the dress he had made for you. It has to be nothing less than perfect: it’s Strabo’s birthday party and the Capitol’s richest are going to be there. He had been meaning to formally invite you in person, but he knew he had to be wise about it and not give you room to decline. This is part of your training as his soon-to-be wife, after all: appearing more social and getting used to attending the lavish parties of high society. He had meant earlier to tell you then, that everything would be taken care of including your dress, but the mention of Sejanus genuinely threw him off. In the end, it seemed like waiting it out was the best choice.

The box’s lid comes off: crimson, just like he ordered. Of course, you had to match his tux. It’s a silk slip, flowy, simple, elegant, and most importantly, accurate to your measurements. Or at least, the measurements he got from your housemaid in exchange for but a small sum.

Another stark difference between him and his old self: he isn’t the poor, malnourished, helpless kid who had to settle for scraps and keep up appearances. He has a limitless amount of resources within his grasp now, and he uses all of it to his advantage: this luxury penthouse apartment, allowing him to finally live peacefully by himself, these finely tailored clothing he had grown partial to, even to pay off the maid who had been happy to go behind your back to take your dress size – all of these he now could afford, and more. His old self would’ve turned green with envy.

He’s satisfied with the handiwork despite the rush, and he could already imagine you wearing it for tomorrow: the way you’d turn in it, the way you’d dance in it, the way hungry, envious sets of eyes would ogle at you while he snakes his arm around your waist...

Normally, he hates the thought of having anyone’s lustful eyes on you, but he supposes that’s the price he has to pay for wanting to show you off.

Maybe after the party, he’d bring you here, and he’d get to tear the dress off you, or simply pull it up to your waist and fuck you in it as you’re bent over his work desk...

He isn’t his old self anymore. He didn’t have to suppress these desires in the confines of his own solitude. He makes one phone call, and a woman arrives at his apartment within ten minutes. He was specific with his request: he wanted one that resembled you – except she doesn’t compare to your beauty or your grace. Of course, no one does.

At least she’s wearing a red slip dress like he instructed.

He fucks the whore that night, thinking of you splayed out for him in various ways, wearing that silk crimson dress. It’s quite easy for him to imagine that it’s you because he fucks her face down – in his little fantasy, it’s you he takes several times; that it’s you underneath him, moaning and screaming out his name and begging him to fill you with his cum. He makes her leave immediately after a hefty payment, making a mental note to tell the maid in the morning that the sheets would have to be changed. Having aired out his pent-up urges, he does more work in his home office until he can barely keep his eyes open.

His old self is long dead and gone, and he takes comfort in that as he finally gives in to exhaustion.

The aroma of hot dark chocolate reaches your nostrils and somehow provides a little comfort for what has turned out to be a long day. It’s almost one in the morning, and not a wink of sleep has grazed your presence, so you’re hoping this little treat is going to help put you to bed so you can go back to dreaming of screaming birds, dead first loves and singing peacekeepers.

On impulse, you traipse to your uncle’s office, noting how his dim desk lamp is still on. Not an uncommon sight these days, to have him still awake in the dead hours of the night for many reasons – some of which he refuses to share with you.

You enter his office on a whim; you can’t sleep anyway, might as well.

You also need to talk to him about…that thing. The one Coriolanus asked you to do.

You find your uncle with his face scrunched up in absolute concentration over a chessboard.

“Can’t sleep?” He asks lazily, his cheek resting against his palm on the desk.

You simply shake your head. You offer to make him a cup of hot dark chocolate, which he refuses by a mere gesture to the three colourful mugs sitting near the edge of the table, only obscured by the lamp light not hitting that part of his desk.

“Can I?” you question him, referring to the chess game he seems to be currently playing by himself.

Uncle Cas lets out a hum. “I thought you’d never ask.”

So, you sit and observe the board, assuming black. White is currently in a solid position, having total control of the centre of the board. Your uncle takes his rook to f-one.

You move a pawn to a-four. “I hear congratulations are in order.”

Your uncle just makes another humming noise absently as he takes a pawn to f-four. Your pawn captures it immediately.

“You got promoted. Head of the new Cybersecurity division and all that...”

He just raises his eyebrows in derision. “Yeah, lucky me,” he says under his breath as he takes the same pawn of yours with a rook. “How did you find out?”

“Coriolanus told me this afternoon.”

The both of you quietly play your game, your attention dwindling until you notice you’re actually putting pressure on the opposition.

“Uncle, how do I win against an enemy who clearly has all the advantages?” you ask quietly.

For the first time since the game, your uncle looks up, now mildly interested. “Hm. What’s the end goal of this game?”

“End goal?” You’re distracted as your pawn takes his knight. “You defeat the opponent’s king.”

“No, plumcake, the real end goal.”

To focus, you rub your forehead as you scramble for a defence.

“That’s the key,” he continues. “Find out what your enemy wants and use it to gain the upper hand.”

Licking your lips, you sip some of your rapidly cooling chocolate as you watch his queen threaten your position. After a pause, you inquire, “What if I’ve never played a game like this before?”

“Then, prepare to be on the defensive when necessary,” he says thoughtfully. “You’re an Innis. You’ll figure something out.” He takes your pawn on f-five with his rook.

You heave a sigh as you prepare yourself to reveal the truth. It doesn’t matter how he reacts to it, it’s out there now. You made the wrong move, despite his warning, and you’ve nothing left to do but to own it.

“Uncle, Coriolanus wants me to transfer my apprenticeship to him.” You wait with bated breath for him to react.

Uncle Cas stitches his brows, encasing the lower half of his face with his palm. The lines on his face are evident now more than ever; you note how recently he’s lost some weight, and his cheeks are more indented than you can remember even with all that sugar in his diet. His eyes meet yours, his dark circles accentuating his serious expression.

Guilt washes over you. You’re partly to blame for his stress.

“Very well.” He bobs his head once in comprehension. He wordlessly goes back to the game, capturing your knight on e-four using his bishop.

Another thing you appreciate about him: his acuity allows him to read the situation in almost an instant.

“Tell him I’ll kill him with my bare hands if he tries anything funny.”

And just like always, he still manages to make you laugh despite everything.

You move your rook to e-four, on the defensive. “I thought you preferred breaking their legs?”

He just shrugs comically and quips, “I’m the head of Cybersecurity, I’m all about efficiency now.”

Suppressing a chuckle, you observe his rook take f-seven while you transfer your now-vulnerable queen to b-six. The white king, now on h-one, prepares for the endgame. You take your rook from e-four to e-one in what you can now foresee as a futile attempt at mitigating the attack.

Uncle Cas has a point, as always. Moving on the defensive can be an option. After all, you know Coriolanus’s goal now: he wants the program completed, and he wants you for the task. You can just opt to do whatever he wants as quickly as possible, and then cut him out of your life for good.

The white queen finally makes her move to g-six, so you take your bishop to g-seven.

Maybe, you can even opt for the offensive: figure out a way to keep Coriolanus Snow’s slimy hands off the program without alerting him.

The white queen all but slays your poor bishop on g-seven.

Your uncle leans back on his computer chair and declares, “Checkmate.”

“Ah, fuck.” Perhaps you’re not cut out for these kinds of games.

“Language, plumcake. Another one for the road?”

He rearranges the pieces for a new round. He wiggles his eyebrows with a wide smile and adds, “Winner gets the last pint of cherry chocolate chunk ice cream in the freezer.”

You grimace at the thought. “I think I’ve had just about enough ice cream for today, Uncle. How about White Knight’s angel food cake?”

His eyes light up at the challenge. “Oh, you are so fucking on.”

“How come you get to curse, and I can’t?”

He snorts haughtily at your complaint. “It’s unbecoming of a lady.”

He makes the opening move. Pawn to e-four.

Let the games begin.

Enter Level 6

Author notes:

Please reblog and comment, it's always appreciated!!!

Next level includes a ball/party scene because I can't resist, despite risking the cliché 😂😅

Also, the chances of me updating as quickly as I have for the past week is getting slim, what with work now getting busy and mostly the next levels getting more complicated plot-wise. Damn plot be getting out of hand when all I want them to do is fuck 😅😂😭 but I think weekly updates are still feasible...we'll see!!

#dark!coriolanus snow #dark!coriolanus snow x reader #young!coriolanus snow #young!coriolanus snow x reader #named!reader #or #x OC2ndPOV #18+ only #dark!coriolanus snow fic #dark!coriolanus #dark!coriolanus fic #dark!fic

[dotieeee]

The Gamemaker's Apprentice

Level 3

Pairing: Dark!Young!Coriolanus Snow x You, named!Reader

Overall Warnings:

NON-CON, DUB-CON, Dark!Young!Coriolanus Snow, Snow himself should be a warning, lots of blackmailing, gaslighting, manipulation, obsession, possesiveness, eventual forced marriage, eventual loss of virginity, breeding kink, canon-compliant major character death, reader is named but has no physical descriptions in the fic so one might also consider her an OC but in 2nd POV, will have canon inconsistencies, and other stuff that may be added

Masterlist

Level 3 Warnings:

Snow being charmingly manipulative, implied murder, reader being oblivious because she's trying to change

Replay Level 2

Ready? Level 3 Start:

A sigh of relief escapes you as you quickly traipse your way out of your last class for the day into the Computer Sciences College. You’re thankful you’ve packed your bag and had already run out just as soon as the bell rang because you had spotted a classmate of yours making a beeline towards you and weren’t really in the mood for small talk. Pathetic, really, what you’ve resorted to: running away like a skittish cat at the mere sound of a rustle in the bushes. It’s just the middle of the first semester, and they’re already driving their students up the wall with back-to-back quizzes, essays with almost unreasonable deadlines and group projects where you spend more effort trying to get the group to work together than working on the actual project itself. You wonder vaguely to yourself if this school ever bothered figuring out what its suicide rate is, or how many of its students get addicted to amphetamines by the end of the first semester.

Four in the afternoon. You can get plenty of code done on that program and still have enough time to grade the increasingly mounting pile of third-year mid-term test papers on your uncle’s file tray.

The private lab should be empty by now since there aren’t any of your uncle’s student assistants on shift. You’ll be in complete solitude for the rest of the night and go home by seven.

You stop in your tracks when you reach the door to the lab. It’s supposed to have been locked by the last student assistant to leave. Instead, the door is slightly ajar with the lights still blazing. It couldn’t be your Uncle Cas – he fully closes the door when he’s in and he prefers dimmer lighting. Whoever’s in here must’ve gotten in just before the student assistant left.

Great. Company. Just what you need. Mentally, you steel yourself for the incoming pointless small talk you’re about to be subject to and push the door open…

…Only for your breath to be taken away at the sight of your unexpected guest: blonde hair, slick and combed back neatly, wearing a luxurious crimson woollen coat over a silk waistcoat; sitting comfortably on your computer chair and flipping through one of your notebooks with mild interest...

Coriolanus Snow.

His cerulean eyes flick to yours as soon as you enter. They’re piercing and unnerving, and they’re starkly mismatched with that disarmingly charming smirk he flashes at you as he places the notebook back down on the table behind him. You make a mental note to lock those notes next time, watching him as he gets to his feet and adjusts his coat. You notice he’s brought lattes from the posh coffee shop nearby, and he takes both as he approaches you, his eyes never leaving yours.

“It’s been a while, Nellie,” he greets warmly with a slight tilt of his head. His eyes glint as he seems to scan your face.

He’s always towered over you, but at this moment it’s all the more evident with the way you have to crane your neck just to look at him.

“Hello, Coriolanus,” you greet, returning his smile as much as you could.

His smirk only grows as you study his face. He’s got plumper cheeks and a better colour, but there is something else in him that’s changed that you can’t quite pinpoint. It isn’t just his sleek hairstyle, his expensive clothes, or even the way he holds himself with an air of confident authority.

He isn’t the Coriolanus Snow you knew from the Academy anymore.

Who is he, now, you wonder?

“I heard you were back,” you say. “Oh, if you’re looking for the professor, he’s still in class and he won’t be out until five.

“I’m not looking for the professor. I came for you.”

You blink twice to make sure you heard him right. He hands one of the lattes to you and asks, “Walk with me?”

You fidget with the strap of your bag as you contemplate. He wants to talk, and you had an inkling what for. Right in front of you is the only person you know who was with Sejanus until his last moments. The only person who had the answers you seek. You don’t feel ready for this conversation, but you nod lightly as you accept the cup and utter a small ‘thank you.’

Placing your bag down on the long table, you let him lead the way, following him closely to a path just outside the Computer Sciences’ main building, overlooking a lake. The path is lined with trees shedding their leaves for autumn and the lakeshore is strewn with ornate stone benches for students who feel like taking in the great view and the fresh air. You’re both quiet at first, walking at a relaxed pace until Coriolanus breaks the silence and addresses you.

“I have been meaning to talk to you when I came back, but there was just so much to do, so many loose threads to tie up.” There is a slight crinkle in his eyes as he turns to you.

Fighting the urge to fidget on your shirt sleeve, you shrug with crossed arms and flash him a short smile. “It’s fine. Apprenticeships can take most of your free time. Dr. Gaul must be working you to the bone.”

“I could say the same of your uncle.” His eyes seem to search your face, then he blinks and points to the nearby bench, concealed among bushes and a large willow tree. “Come sit with me.”

You follow meekly and observe how he leans against the back of the chair and crosses his legs. You take the other side of the bench, your back straight as you mirror him sipping his coffee. You draw a bit of comfort from the warm, sweet liquid.

“How are you?”

You’re taken aback at how soft his voice has gotten. You had never heard him speak this way to anyone, ever. It takes you a few seconds to respond, perhaps enough for him to perceive your hesitance.

“I’m...doing better.” You lick your lips as you attempt to divert the topic. “You look well. How have you been?”

I hope the districts have been kind to you.

“I’ve been keeping myself busy, actually. Trying to keep myself distracted.” Coriolanus leans forward to better look into your eyes and hold your gaze in place. “I know you’ve been doing the same, Nellie, even if you deny it, or try to change to topic.”

Here it is.

You inhale sharply and steel yourself. “We all cope, one way or another. Some of us just learn to channel it better.”

He nods in approval. “That’s true. Learning to convert grief into productivity is an efficient way of coping. But then again, so is diversion.”

Unable to say anything else, you take another sip of the coffee. It had gone cold, but now, it’s the best cup you ever had.

“You know, he talked about you.”

Your grip on the paper cup visibly tightens. If he notices, he ignores it.

“A lot. He’d wonder out of the blue what you were doing then, or he’d look at the most random thing and remember something about you. It got on my nerves, at first.”

The tiniest of chuckles escapes your lips as his reaches your ears.

“Then it became comforting. To hear about anything else, about something close to home, about you.” His hand reaches to your lap and takes yours, squeezing lightly.

You freeze visibly, your back tensing even further. No one else, save one other hand, has squeezed yours like this. His hand may be cold, but his expression isn’t.

“Compared to all the uncertainty, it helped,” he continues. His voice falters imperceptibly as the other hand cups your cheek, making you focus on him. “You helped. Even if you didn’t know it.”

Eventually, he lets go of you. The softness in his expression does not change, you stare into his face to try to gauge what his intentions are. He’s never been open like this to you, but you suppose death could affect other people in so many ways.

Clearly, he’s handling it so much better than you. A little envy creeps into you, you can’t help it. How come he seems to be so well-adjusted despite the death of his friend? Here you are, desperately putting as many walls up as you can while he’s there, coming to terms with how he’s feeling.

That emotion is soon overtaken by a hollow ache. You miss Sejanus. Which is exactly why you’re avoiding any interaction with anyone he’s even mildly associated with in the first place.

“I’m sorry, Nellie. I couldn’t protect him. I want you to know that I tried, and that I wish things turned out differently.”

Unable to look at him, you lean against the bench and stare at the still waters.

“It wasn’t your fault, Coriolanus. You can’t take the blame for his actions.”

You blink away the moisture in your eyes.

“Before he left, he said you were looking for...someone in District 12,” you ask. “Did you ever get to find them?”

You turn to look at him, thinking you saw his jaw tense. You must be imagining it, but there is a hardness in his eyes before he blinks and it’s gone in a flash.

“I found what I needed to find,” he says simply.

You hum in contemplation.

“It seems like they don’t tend to stick around, do they? No matter how hard we want them to.”

“Maybe they weren’t meant to. Maybe the ones that are still ‘sticking around’ are the ones we get to keep.”

This time, his hand travels to yours on your lap.

“Sejanus isn’t around anymore, but I am. And you are, too. We were distant in the Academy, but I’d like to change that. I want us to be real friends, this time. Start over.”

Your confused eyes travel to his determined ones. There is genuineness with the way he’s being so open and vulnerable, so why is there a voice in your head telling you otherwise? Why is it adamant against giving him a chance to prove himself?

“Why are you doing this?” you ask in a hushed tone. Maybe then, he’ll reveal his true intentions and you could finally make a decision?

He takes his hand back and rests it on his knee.

“Let’s say we become friends,” you continue. “What if we do only because we’re trying to hold on to his memory? Then again, why would it matter?”

You mumble to yourself, “At this point, why bother?”

But Coriolanus’s friendly smile only baffles you even further. Is it possible for the Districts to change a man so drastically?

“Has anyone ever told you that you overthink a lot? You’ve been avoiding our former classmates at Uni. Me included.”

Muttering to yourself dryly, you scoff, “I’ve been avoiding everybody. You’re all not that special.”

He seems to have heard it and actually laughs.

“That’s going to get boring really soon, Nellie. Sejanus warned me about these tendencies of yours.”

“Tendencies? I don’t have tendencies.”

“Self-destructive tendencies,” he clarifies. “Do you think he’d want to see you like this?”

You offer no response.

“It’s not that complicated, Nellie. Let me help,” he insists. “You can’t stay like this forever, closed off in isolation. If Sejanus was here, he’d have dragged you out of your house and forced you to talk to people.”

An image of him pulling you by the arm and taking you to a park crosses your mind. This makes you crack up a bit. “Yeah, he’d totally do that. He was great at driving me and anyone else up a wall. And he always meant well.”

Maybe he’s right. None of this is complicated. Your instincts can’t always be right. You’re being unfair to him, pushing him away on the basis of a mere hunch.

Drawing in a huge breath, you make your choice.

“Friends, huh? It’s been a while since I’ve had one of those. Are they any fun?” You ask in a mock sardonic tone.

Coriolanus grins and raises an eyebrow. “Try me and we’ll see.” He then pauses before adding in a more serious tone. “He would’ve wanted this for us.”

“I think so, too. Alright, Coriolanus, I’ll bite. Friends.” You manage a warmer, more welcoming smile this time. Maybe this could work out, you and him. “Thanks for the coffee, by the way. Sorry I got all…dark on you.”

He gives a small shrug. “I knew what I was getting into, talking to you. And I’d like you to start calling me Coryo.”

“Coryo. Nice to meet you, I’m Nellie,” you say, feigning a formal tone, as you extend your hand out.

Coryo plays along, copying your tone, and shakes your hand. “Nellie, pleasure’s all mine,” He tilts his head in a small, playful bow. The atmosphere between you considerably lightens as the tension lifts off your body.

“'Coryo,’” his preferred nickname rolls on your tongue quite effortlessly. “I thought you hated that nickname.”

“It might have grown on me.”

He leans closer to your face without warning, his grin suddenly devious and smug.

“You know what this means?”

“What?” you say as your eyes narrow.

“You can never say ‘no’ to my invitations, now.”

“Oookay. I think I’m already regretting this.”

He knows you don’t mean it, so you both erupt in lilting laughter, ignoring how he got so close to your side of the bench. This could really work, you think to yourself. A lot has changed since the Games. The aftermath certainly matured you both beyond your years, reluctantly ushering you into young adulthood. Perhaps it’s time you see past Academy Coriolanus and let Coryo in this time.

You don’t notice the time until you hear more students walk the path and past your bench.

“Sorry, I should go back to the lab, my uncle’s probably going to need another set of papers sorted,” you say apologetically.

Coryo nods as he gets to his feet and extends his hand to you. “I’ll walk you back.”

You accept it, however odd. He bids farewell at the door of the lab, leaving you contemplating the entire night of the sudden turn of events and vaguely wondering why he didn’t let go of your hand the entire time he escorted you back.

With the midterms out of the way, life in Uni settles down a bit. Group projects are less scarce, and homework deadlines are a little more flexible. Professors start easing up on the workload, and students bask in this rare period of peace and quiet.

“Nellie, did you finish grading the Logic Circuits pop quiz from the other day?” Your uncle calls out from his office.

Well, most of the professors and the students.

You reread the top of the test paper you’re currently working on and respond, “Yeah, that’s what I’m currently working on.”

Your uncle rushes out of his office with his suitcase in tow and says “Great, I’m going to need that pile by four this afternoon. Thanks, plumcake!”

And he’s out of the door even before you can say anything. You glance at the clock – it’s an hour past lunchtime – and figure you could squeeze in thirty minutes to get some food before you go crazy or pass out, whichever comes first.

Grabbing your wallet, you’re just about ready to head out when you hear a knock on the lab door. You open it to find a man in a courier uniform with what looks like a box of pastries he asks you to sign for.

“Who is it from?” you ask.

“From Mr. Coriolanus Snow, miss.”

Huh. So, he’s sending you food now.

You take it to your cubicle and notice the card attached to the bow. It reads in neat, lovely cursive:

To my dear Nellie,

Sorry, I can’t visit today. Busy day at the Citadel. Pick you up for lunch tomorrow,

Your Coryo.

So thoughtful of him to have sent you something despite his schedule. You unravel the bow to peek at what’s inside. The delightful smell of brownies greets you as soon as you lift the box.

Although this is the first time he had food delivered to the lab, he had been dropping by almost every day to either give you sweets or to just say ‘hi.’ It’s a gesture you’ve grown to appreciate.

You take a brownie and begin to eat. Your friend just saved you a trip to the cafeteria, and wherever he got the brownies from, it’s absolutely divine.

You share some of it with a student assistant named Mathias Callahan, a senior, on shift from two to four while you both finish grading the tests.

“He was here again, Nellie?” he gasps as he inspects the package Coryo sent. “Jeez, just go out with him already. I wish my boyfriend was half this sweet.”

You just roll your eyes at him. You’ve learned how to dismiss his teasing comments by now. “He had that delivered, Matt. And, not my boyfriend. Just a friend.”

“Yeah, because friends refer to each other as ‘my dear Nellie’ and ‘your Coryo,’” he jests as he holds up the card to read. “What’s his full name?”

“Coriolanus Snow.”

Matt looks up dramatically from the fresh test papers he was stapling together. “Wait. Coriolanus Snow, as in the-tenth-Hunger-Games-winner-and-gamemaker-apprentice and the-Capitol’s-most-eligible-bachelor Coriolanus Snow?”

“The last time I checked, yes?”

He snaps his fingers in the air several times and says, “Okay, girl, you won. That boy is a total dreamboat. I don’t know why you don’t just jump him, because I certainly would.”

You shake your head with an exasperated laugh as you begin focusing on the task at hand: coding your uncle’s program. You both spend the entire afternoon in companionable silence and by the time Matt’s shift is finished, the entire box of brownies is decimated.

The lunch you have with Coryo the next day reveals that the eleventh Hunger Games is underway, and he’s already working tirelessly under Volumnia Gaul’s apprenticeship to help make it...well, worse than it already is.

You also thank him for the brownies.

“You’re welcome. I remember a certain someone slipping me a box of them when I was at the hospital about a year ago. I’m just trying to pay it forward.”

“I wonder who that is,” you simply respond.

Deliberately maintaining eye contact with you, he leans forward with a bright smile and says, “Me too.”

He sees you less, which he says he regrets, because of the preparations. Just like your Uncle Cas, who often has to leave in the middle of the night to go take care of something at the Citadel. Whenever you hang out with him, there is always a mention of the Games, with him leaving out the gory bits for your benefit. Normally you’d never stand for such a topic of conversation, but he proves to be rather insightful, as some of his ideas inspire you to develop your own plans to improve your uncle’s program.

You’re happy for him and somehow glad he’s pouring his energy into something he’s fond of doing, even if it is for the thing you hate the most. You can’t judge him for it, either, because then that would make you a hypocrite, seeing as you’re working for your uncle for the same reason. It’s a confounding feeling, and the more you try to make sense of it, the more complex everything becomes.

Overall, you’re just grateful for Coryo and his friendship, because it means you don’t have to live too much inside your head now. You are all too aware it’s not a good place to be in at the moment.

On one of your walks with him, while getting back from a coffee shop, he offers you a VIP seat at the Hunger Games right behind the Academy mentors.

“Tempting, and thank you, but I’d have to decline,” you say before sipping your latte.

Coryo’s expression turns rigid as he steps beside you. Is this his version of a pout? You can’t decide whether you find that cute or disturbing.

“I’m really sorry, Coryo,” you say apologetically. “I’m sure you did a great job with everything new you contributed to the Games, but I don’t think I can watch...”

You trail off, breathing deeply as you try to veer your attention away from images of decapitated body parts of dead parents and thick, warm red liquid seeping into your clothes –

A cold hand caresses your cheek, and you collide into something solid: Coryo just stepped right in front of you, his other arm placed on your shoulder and his eyes laced with worry.

“I lost you for a moment there. You don’t have to come, I understand completely.” The small smile he flashes is kind. “I remember you excusing yourself from Demigloss’s class in our first year at the Academy.”

“Yeah, that.” You both continue walking back to the lab. “You didn’t join in on the ‘wuss’ and the ‘crybaby’ and the ‘chicken’ part, I remember. Thank you for that, by the way.”

Tilting his head in acknowledgement, he says, “I know how it feels to lose both your mother and father. I wish I could’ve run after you, then.”

It was Sejanus who did.

“I’m guessing he told you.”

Coryo just nods solemnly. “I’m sorry for what happened, Nellie.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, too, Coryo.”

You put your hand on his shoulder in an attempt to comfort him, but he takes your arm and loops it around his, pulling you even closer to his side. You let it slide, however, seeing as he might take offence if you extricate yourself.

“Maybe we can both be miserable together,” he glances sideways at you with a corner of his lip upturned, making you chortle a bit.

You both finally reach the door to the lab. Ever one with perfect timing, Matt arrives just in time to see him casually planting a quick peck on your hair (it’s so easy for him because he’s so bloody tall).

“Ugh. Just get a room or something,” he says as he rolls his eyes.

Coryo nods in his direction in acknowledgement, then turns to you. “Lunch tomorrow, Nellie,” he says, that knowing smirk on his face just growing wider before he walks away, leaving you to deal with Matt and his smug look.

“Friends, my big fat ass,” he gloats as he opens the door to the lab.

He spends the entire two hours of his shift teasing you for it and you, ignore the way your cheeks grew hot after your friend bid farewell.

You sent Coryo a box of cookies, along with a good luck card, on the first day of the Eleventh Hunger Games. The Games itself lasted a total of nine days, and according to your Uncle Cas, as he’s putting on his tie, is a huge success. This only means your friend is going to be lauded for his stellar performance.

You had originally planned on going with your uncle to the victory party at the Academy the day it’s declared finished, wanting to congratulate your friend in person, but you fall ill with the flu the day before. Instead, you made a mental reminder to call him on his new number the next day.

The phone rings in your living room at around seven in the evening, just about an hour after your uncle left for the party. Your fever had been fluctuating for the past few hours, so you’re in bed when you hear it. You get up with difficulty, ignoring the way your vision spins a little and hoping whoever’s calling gives up by the time you get past your bedroom door. To your dismay, they don’t. You manage a weak ‘hello’ when you pick it up.

“Nellie. This is Coryo. I’m using Professor Click’s office phone. Your uncle mentioned you’re sick. How are you feeling?”

“Coryo?” you let out a soft sneeze that you stifle with a napkin.

“You’re not fine. I’m coming over.” Even on the phone, you can hear the concern in his tone.

“Are you calling from the party?” you ask, your voice a little rougher than usual. You lay down miserably on the sofa with the receiver in tow. “You can’t leave on my account, people expect you to be there. Congratulations, by the way, I heard everything went well.”

“Thank you, Nellie. But don’t change the subject,” he says.

“Relax, Coryo, it’s just the flu, I’ll be fine.”

He seems to hesitate based on the pause on the other line. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. Go back to the party, have fun, bask in all the glory and all the compliments from the sycophants who want to suck up to you, charm all the powerful people in the room even more, did I miss anything?”

He laughs audibly on the other line. “You’re even funnier when you’re sick. Did you know that?” He says fondly, before adding, “Are you sure you’re okay alone?”

“Nooo, I’m dying and this my death rattle,” you reply snarkily and let out fake a cough. He lets out another laugh. “Go back. I’m sure they’re already looking for you.”

“Alright,” he sighs. “Thank you for the cookies, by the way. Call my number when you need anything. Get well, Nellie. For me.”

You hum in agreement and say a small ‘thank you’ as you put the receiver back.

The next day, several deliveries arrive at your doorstep: a container of warm soup from a five-star restaurant, another box of the same brownies, a blend of teas, and a large bouquet of beautiful white roses with a get-well-soon card signed by him in his usual neat cursive.

You think it’s sweet, no matter how needlessly lavish. Whatever did you do to deserve a friend like him, you wonder?

The Eleventh Hunger Games’ monumental triumph propels Coriolanus Snow to even greater popularity in the Capitol, just as you expected. The downside with that though is that it’s all over the TV, the ads, magazines, the papers; everywhere you go, left and right, whoever you interact with, every conversation, somehow the Games are brought up, and you’d have to politely nod along, shake your head, and fake a smile every time. With Coryo, thankfully, the topic becomes much more technical in nature, which makes it just a tiny bit more tolerable since it’s part of what you signed up for as your uncle’s apprentice.

Unfortunately, there isn’t much development to the project despite your tirelessly working on it. If there is, you wouldn’t know, because your uncle wouldn’t let you test it. Every time you bring it up, he brushes it off and tells you that his team at the Citadel is constantly improving it and performing the tests. You suspect he’s stalling, but you’re not sure what for. Despite the stagnancy, your uncle claims they’re happy with his updates on the communicuffs they used in the recent Games. You take his word for it but continue improving on the project when you can.

Before you know it, your second year in college begins, as does your closest friend’s.

Unlike your freshman year, you discover that it’s easier this time to navigate the Uni’s social culture. You find yourself trying to weave out of social situations significantly less than usual, and you no longer actively avoid the people you recognize like you used to. Even your uncle has noticed this change.

“You seem...different,” he had commented once as he sipped his coffee. It was during one of the rare days you had breakfast together.

“'Different’ how, exactly?” you asked.

“Happier,” he said. “I like this version of you more.”

“Really?”

“Much better than that version of you walking with a storm cloud above your head. I don’t have to keep wearing a raincoat around you anymore,” he joked.

And every time you reflect on the reason for the shift, all you can come up with is Coriolanus Snow. Like your friendship with him opened up a gateway of sorts. And if you’re being honest with yourself, you don’t mind the change at all.

Like he said, Sejanus would’ve preferred this compared to you sulking and shutting everyone out.

That doesn’t necessarily mean you’re going to start attending every upperclassman’s house party whenever you get invited.

“Sorry, Theo. Parties aren’t my sort of thing.”

Theophilus Braun, or Theo, a senior and one of your uncle’s new student assistants, has just told of one such party while you’re both busy sorting and labelling the hard drives at the private lab.

Coryo is sitting in your cubicle poring through an instruction manual with disinterest, quietly observing the interaction. He had free time today, he said, and he just wanted to spend it watching you work. Odd pastime, but you’re not one to judge. Sejanus had done it many times before.

“Come on, Nellie. There’d be lots of booze, lots of people...besides, it’s the finals, everybody wants to loosen up a bit,” Theo says as he seals a box of hard drives with tape.

“Oooh, posca and people. Wow, I’ve never heard of a house party like that before,” you say flippantly as you wave your lollipop in the air.

Corio brought a pack of them today, saying he recalls what you left him on the day of the tenth Reaping.

Theo pouts at your tone. “Easy for you to say, your finals are almost over. Mine’s just halfway through. I’m going to the party tonight and my goal is to get wrecked. Might help me take my mind off that test later.”

“What about you, Coriolanus? They’d be thrilled to see you, it’d be like having a celebrity for a party guest.”

“No, thank you,” he says curtly, offering no reason to decline.

You twirl the candy in your mouth as you catalogue how many of the hard drives need to be wiped of memory, ignoring the way Coryo is staring at you from behind the manual.

“Wait. Theo, your test is in three hours. Why aren’t you studying?”

“I...can’t leave with all this work,” he mumbles.

Coryo finally puts the manual down and chimes in. “You go. I’ll help her.”

You and Theo both look at him in mild surprise.

“Really? Are you sure?” Theo asks.

Corio just nods once as he rolls up his sleeves.

“Thanks, man. Appreciate it.” Theo breathes in relief as he packs his bag and makes his way to you. “Uh, Nellie? Can I talk to you?”

“Sure.” You look up from your catalogue. His expression alone is enough for you to guess what he’s about to ask.

“Have you...given a thought about...what I said?” he asks in a hushed tone as he runs his hand through his hair.

You flash him an apologetic smile. “I have, but I’m not ready for that kind of...thing. I’m sorry, Theo.”

His expectant look turns into mild disappointment, but he smiles in understanding. “Okay. If you change your mind...”

He bids farewell and you wish him luck with his test as he steps out of the lab.

Coryo was apparently watching the exchange sharply the entire time.

“What was that about?” he asks coolly, his brows stitched slightly as he lifts a disk in the air to inspect it in the light.

Licking your lips, you say, “He asked me out to the movies this weekend.”

Coryo’s posture stiffens a little. “A date?” narrows his eyes at you.

You nod to avoid talking with your mouth full of candy.

“Theophilus Braun, son of Department of Treasury Chief of Staff Rufus Rex Braun,” he says matter-of-factly. “The Braun senior is poised to replace the current and indisposed Deputy Secretary.”

“Indisposed?”

“Bed-ridden. Old age.”

“No wonder Theo’s under a lot of stress, what with his dad being on the verge of promotion and all. Imagine what kind of pressure he must be in to perform well,” you observe.

Coryo grins mockingly and raises an eyebrow. “And he’s relieving himself of said pressure by inebriation?”

“I guess he’s picked his poison,” you respond nonchalantly. You hand him an empty drive, and his fingers brush against yours for a fraction of a second.

You spend the next hour with him helping lighten your load, until the bell rings, signalling your next class. You thank your friend profusely for his help and promise you’ll treat him to coffee tomorrow.

Unfortunately, the work is just as you left it the next day, with Theo being absent from his shift. You chalk it up to a hangover.

He’s also absent the day after that. Instead, what you find on your desk is an evidently pricey arrangement of flowers, with a note that explains why he can’t make it today: he failed his last exam and this date is his scheduled remedial.

Coryo’s gaze hardens as soon as it lands on the bouquet. “Pink carnations?” he scoffs in obvious distaste. “Vile coping mechanism, horrendous choice of flowers.”

An unusually mean insult, but he might just be in a mood today.

“You and your family favour roses, I noticed,” you say. “Looks like Theo is skipping today.”

You expected him to be there on Monday, but he’s nowhere to be found, just when you need the most help from him in checking final papers. Having no choice, you assigned the papers to the other student assistants in the morning shift.

“Theo’s absent again today, Uncle Cas,” you complain.

It’s a rare night you get to sit down with him for dinner. At the moment, he’s taking out a dish from the oven, giving it a strange look before placing it on the table. You spy with a suspicious eye on the red-brownish lumpy...thing in the dish. Your uncle’s cooking, without a doubt, isn’t a mirror of his mathematical genius.

At least he’s a decent baker.

The decent-baker-terrible-chef in question sits down on the table with you and scoops up some of what he calls ‘lasagna’ on your plate and then his. You stare blankly at the tomato sauce, beef, noodle, and cheese amalgamation, half-expecting it to gain sentience and spout prophecies in tongues at any minute.

He draws in a knackered breath and says, “I’m afraid Theophilus will no longer be fulfilling his shifts, Nellie. He’s dead.”

You set your fork down slowly in disbelief.

“Apparent overdose,” your uncle continues. “They found performance-enhancing drugs in his possession.”

That explains a lot, in your opinion. “Maybe that’s how he’s been pulling those all-nighters. He talks about staying up late all the time during his shift just so he could study. Does his family know he had a drug problem?”

Your uncle takes a forkful of his cooking and chews slowly before swallowing with an unreadable look. “It would seem like it. In any case, they declined to have an autopsy performed. Probably for publicity reasons, too.”

“Wait. They were offered an autopsy? Are the authorities suspecting foul play?”

“They suspect poisoning,” he says as he wipes his mouth with his table napkin. “But it could just be tainted drugs. Makers of these drugs don’t necessarily have to conform to quality control. Besides, autopsies are a standard for cases like this, I think.”

The sombre pause that follows is one of deep thought.

“I feel bad, Uncle Cas,” you confess.

“Why?”

“He asked me out last week. On a date.”

“He’s lucky he’s dead, then. I would’ve broken his legs.”

His joke has less snark than usual, so you let it go. Acacius Innis only gets to use this humour around you, after all.

Instead, you give him an eye roll and say, “I said no. He took it well. He was nice.” You sigh, ignoring your plate entirely. A sudden thought crosses your mind. “Did they ever get to perform an autopsy on Highbottom?”

“I’ve no idea,” he says with a non-committal shrug. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” you say slowly. “I mean, they could’ve gotten the drugs from the same source. You know how drug labs manufacture multiple drugs at the same time? Maybe they used the same equipment or something...”

Uncle Cas raises an eyebrow at you, a look he normally reserves for when you’re being too inquisitive for your own good.

“Nellie, best you keep out of this, yes? And the drugs, too.”

You nod.

“This is fucking horrible,” your uncle mutters to himself in defeat, pushing away his plate with a grimace and neatly setting down his cutlery. “I’m going to order take-out. How do you feel about calzones and gelato?”

Thank goodness your uncle knows when to give up.

“As long as the gelato’s pistachio-flavoured.”

“That is why you’re my blood.”

You laugh as you clear the table of his failed science experiment and wash the dishes. Your housemaid, Brilla, would appreciate washing less of them tomorrow.

Shortly, you get to sit down in front of the TV with your uncle and the take-out dinner. You try to focus more on the food and the drama and less on that nagging voice in your head telling you the deaths of Casca Highbottom and Theophilus Braun could somehow be related.

A few days go by, and not a word of the Braun heir’s demise reaches the Capitol media. Rumours have been circulating so far on the campus about what happened to Theophilus, but so far, they don’t go beyond that: just faint whispers of him dropping out of college due to failing grades, of him possibly being drafted to peacekeeping as a consequence…

His family seems to have gone to great lengths to bury the truth and save face. They couldn’t even see the Theo you saw: studious, fun-loving, good-natured.

Then again, he must’ve been wearing a mask, just like you, just like everyone else trying to conceal an unsightly side of themselves that other people would be appalled to behold.

Your friend is a welcome distraction to your increasingly darkening thought process. He enters after a knock on the private lab door and makes his way to you with a warm smile.

“For you,” he says as he hands you a fancy, rectangular box wrapped in a crimson bow.

Wide-eyed, you meekly accept, grinning ear-to-ear as you unravel the ribbon and peek into the box.

Chocolates.

You pick up the note that reads, ‘Don’t let your uncle see this, or he’ll eat all of it.’ You cover your mouth to stifle your laughter.

“You remember?”

“How could I not?” His eyes twinkle. “Happy twentieth birthday, my dear Nellie.”

Before you can even utter your thanks, he pulls you close and plants a gentle kiss on your head.

You fight the heat threatening to surface on your cheeks and concentrate on calming down your racing pulse.

The latter proves easier said than done.

He releases you after what seems like forever, with a smirk that makes it seem like he knows the effect he has just induced on you.

“I should go. Dr. Gaul is expecting me.”

You whisper your thanks, and he tilts his head in acknowledgement before heading towards the door.

One call of his name on impulse, and he turns to face you at once.

“Yes?”

Too late to go back. Besides, you want him there, right?

“Would you like to have dinner tonight with me and my uncle, at seven? It’s just a small celebration, nothing fancy.”

The smile on his face widens by a fraction. “I would love to, Nellie. Tell your uncle I’m bringing the cake.”

You follow his tall form as he exits the lab.

You want him there. He’s earned your friendship, it’s the least you could do.

Enter Level 4

Author notes:

Please reblog and comment, it's always appreciated!!!

Whatchutink happened to Theo?? Hmm...🤔🤔🤔 also, what could Snowball's motives be here I wonder???

#dark!coriolanus snow #dark!coriolanus snow x reader #young!coriolanus snow #young!coriolanus snow x reader #named!reader #or #x OC2ndPOV #dark!coriolanus snow fic #18+ only #dark!coriolanus #dark!coriolanus fic #dark!fic

[dotieeee]

The Gamemaker's Apprentice

Level 13

Pairing: Dark!Young!Coriolanus Snow x You, named!Reader

Overall Warnings:

NON-CON, DUB-CON, Dark!Young!Coriolanus Snow, Snow himself should be a warning, lots of blackmailing, gaslighting, manipulation, obsession, possesiveness, eventual forced marriage, eventual loss of virginity, breeding kink, canon-compliant major character death, reader is named but has no physical descriptions in the fic so one might also consider her an OC but in 2nd POV, will have canon inconsistencies, drugging, somnophilia, and other stuff that may be added

Masterlist

Level 13 Warnings:

Graphic oral non-con

Replay Level 12

Ready? Level 13 Start:

You know even without looking at the object what it is.

Now, this is odd, seeing as you don’t remember Bunny having something like this stuffed inside it, much less something shaped like a disk. Also, there aren’t any zippers or holes which could’ve been used to slip it well inside the stuffing, so someone had painstakingly taken Bunny apart to put it in and stitched it back up so neatly that it left absolutely no trace.

Could your uncle have planted this?

Personal storage devices aren’t allowed in the Citadel, but if it’s hidden somewhere they can’t really look or scan… Bunny might just be coming to work with you tomorrow.

A maid wakes you up at six for breakfast. You don’t remember asking for a wake-up call, but you figure your housemate might not take kindly to you sleeping in on an office day. As you enter the dining room and find Coriolanus Snow drinking his morning tea while reading the paper, you deduce it must be a routine for him, and one that you’re now supposed to adhere to as his guest (prisoner).

Coriolanus softly smiles at you as he gets to his feet, kissing you at your temple before whispering a fond ‘good morning.’

You join him at the table to his left and begin eating quietly, and by seven-forty-five, you’re both dressed and ready for the office. He gives your figure a once-over before stepping out of the door, donning on a satisfied look at your outfit: a crisp, white shirt tucked underneath a waistcoat, a blazer and a pencil skirt set in crimson. Just the right length, form-fitting yet comfortable, it still somehow manages to stifle you.

“You look perfect in that suit, my sugarplum,” he compliments, following a brief peck on your lips.

It’s an ensemble you found, neatly pressed and ready, by the full-length mirror in the walk-in closet right after stepping out of the shower. He didn’t instruct you to wear it, but who could have and for what other reason could it have been placed there except by him to further mould you into this image he wants you to portray?

Inside the private elevator, he issues more mandates for you to comply with as his fiancée:

“You’re not allowed to go anywhere else but to work or school, and then back to our home – anywhere else you would have to confer with me.”

“We are to visit the Plinths every weekend for wedding planning.”

“You are not to associate with anyone in the Cybersecurity department, including your uncle himself.”

When you get to your office at the Citadel, another command:

“Due to your actions last Friday that led to us losing important test data, you are prohibited from participating in any further tests and will be confined to your office where you are to complete debugging tasks.”

This, you protest against.

“Last I heard, I was an official gamemaker as of today. That means you’re no longer my mentor. You can’t keep me in here or order me around anymore.”

Coriolanus tips his head slightly to acknowledge this. “Your status may have been elevated, Nellie, that’s true, but our org structure dictates newly promoted gamemakers are mandated to undergo a three-month probationary period, which means they are to be supervised by the senior gamemaker who last took them under their wing.” He pauses to flash you a gloating smirk and adds, “Need I remind you who that is?”

With a wearied sigh, you’re forced to let the matter go, which earns you a nod of approval, his eyes belying a hint of smugness.

Bound to his house and to this office – bound to him. Is this going to be your glamourous new life as Coriolanus Snow’s wife?

Thankfully, you have a task at hand in the form of that thing hidden inside Bunny, so you let an hour pass after he steps out of your office to fish the plush out of your bag. You lay it facedown on your desk and carefully manoeuvre your way through the seams on its back with a small office blade.

“I’m sorry, Bunny,” you whisper to it. “I’ll stitch you back up once I’m done...”

From the incision you make, you rummage through the stuffing and pull the thing out with a pair of tweezers. Turns out, your guess last night was correct:

Bunny has a disk inside it and you have all the equipment in the world at your disposal to find out its secrets.

The disk looks fairly new with no labels or writing, but as your uncle advised before, you check it for malware just in case this is one of those little viruses he’s cooked up. When it turns out to be totally harmless, you proceed to install the exe. file, conspicuously named ‘install.me’ and let the application wizard run its course. It finishes installation fairly quickly, and the application pops up at once to reveal a login page. Everything about it seems typical, but oddly enough, the sign-up option is missing and only the name of the game is indicated: Chess for Bored People.

You check inside Bunny once more for any piece of paper where credentials of any sort could be written, but there’s nothing inside or outside it that could resemble any logins. Except maybe Bunny’s label – instead of a company label, it had the word ‘cherrychoc’ and what seems to be your birthdate scrambled with your initials at the end.

What your uncle is up to, you have no clue, but you enter the details you find and hit ‘login.’ A non-descript start-up ‘ding’ signals that you’re in, and the user interface of the app immediately displays a single Start Game button – you click on it, now more curious than ever.

Turns out, it’s some sort of online chess game, where you’re randomly pitted against an opponent, or an available user on the platform – to the right side of the virtual chessboard, currently greyed out and displaying ‘waiting for opponent,’ is a virtual chatroom which seems to be empty, with only the text ‘waiting for available user’ at the top.

You wait for more than an hour, so when you get that same start-up sound, you’re on it in mere seconds.

The game has begun – the opponent has just advanced a black pawn. The chatroom on the right says:

** theConfectioner has just started the chat.**

The Confectioner. It’s Uncle Cas. It has to be.

“I fucking knew it,” you say under your breath.

Hello, cherrychoc.

Welcome to your first game. As a new user, you are entitled to a free treat of your choice at The Headless Confectioner’s Sweet Shop courtesy of the game developer.

Please make the next move.

Cool, thanks!

The game goes on for the next ten minutes until The Confectioner sends another message:

Your username and IP address have not been vetted to access this game.

How did you hear of us, cherrychoc?

Uh

I just found it??

Sorry, I didn’t know this needed membership...

A few moments pass before The Confectioner replies:

Unfortunately, this game is currently for preapproved members only. I will now be ending the game.

You’re still qualified to claim your welcome treat at The Headless Confectioner’s. Please look for the Head of Customer Relations and provide your username.

On a final note, please ensure that you delete or uninstall the game from any unsafe devices you may have installed it on. You will now be logged out automatically.

Thank you for playing Chess for Bored People.

 

**theConfectioner has ended the chat.**

What the hell just happened?

You stare blankly at the now logged-out online chess game, trying to process what had just transpired.

To be fair, this sounds like something your uncle would do to try and get in touch with you: discreet, well-thought-out, and meticulously planned. If you could visit the candy shop during your lunch break, he might have something or someone waiting for you to deliver his message without alerting your eagle-eyed fiance. You quickly uninstall the game as you’re instructed and place the disk back inside Bunny before stowing it back inside your bag.

When the lunch hour rolls by, you make up your mind and decide to step out. And if your every move is being watched, he’ll likely have qualms about you stepping out of your office. True enough, you’re not even halfway through crossing the hall to the elevator when your communicuff beeps to a newly recorded voice message. You can’t help rolling your eyes as you play it.

“Nellie, you’re not supposed to step out of the office without my permission.”

Your response is every bit as snappy as you could make it.

“I’m getting food, Coryo, and I don’t think I want anything from the cafeteria. Unless you’re going to start prohibiting me from having lunch.”

The response you get is curt:

“Fine. Take the driver with you and don’t loiter. And next time, Nellie, send me a message before you step out.”

You debate whether or not you should ask him if he wants anything from the shop, but you decide against it – blackmailers and tyrants don’t really deserve sweet treats.

The Headless Confectioner’s is just as busy as usual. Aside from the shop being the largest candy store in all of Panem, it’s also renowned for making fresh candy onsite and the tours it offers to the Capitol residents. The shop occupying the building itself is closer to a small factory than a shop, given the variety and the amount of candy it seems to make on every day, plus their ice cream is without question, the best and most popular among the Capitol folk. It’s the same creamery at the forefront of the shop, beside the colourful candy displays, where you remember meeting Coriolanus Snow before that day at the park.

A polite salesman helps you find the Head of Customer Relations and directs you to the Chocolate-Making Station, where a small crowd of onlookers – mainly children and their parents – are already milling around the viewing glass watching the chocolate makers pour artisanal chocolate into moulds. He mentions looking for a man wearing a beret, and you spot him with his back turned to you in conversation with a female tour guide who’s leading the crowd. The tour guide nods and proceeds to herd the crowd to an open section beside the viewing glass, where a worker distributes chocolate pieces for free sampling. The man with the beret turns around, and the warm smile he flashes you emphasises the lines in the corner of his eyes. Even with the short beard and his lack of uniform, you’d recognise that grey hair anywhere.

The bartender from Strabo’s party and the courier who delivered those drives and the virus-laden disk.

He dips his head slightly in greeting and says, “Good morning, miss! My name is Petey, the Head of Customer Relations. How can I help you?”

Huh. You remember him with a distinguishable accent in your conversation at the party.

“Hi, I’m here to pick up the ‘welcome treat’ for cherrychoc?” You ask hesitantly, hoping you don’t sound foolish; after all, the idea of getting free stuff just for playing an online game you got booted out of seems rather outlandish.

Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to think so, for a look of acknowledgement flashes in his eyes.

“Ah yes. Chess for Bored People, is it? This way, please,” he says.

He gives no indication that he recognises you, but you follow him anyway, leading you to a massive display of assorted chocolate boxes. He asks you to pick one, but you ask him to pack two, thinking it would look bad for appearances’ sake if you don’t get one for Coriolanus, which he’ll likely take offense to. For good measure, you pick up other items – a granola bar and two ice cream sandwiches for lunch just so you can have something to show for in case he snoops in. Petey rings up your payment at an empty cash register for everything else, and when he hands you your change, he inconspicuously slips a small piece of folded-up paper in your palm, which you place in your pocket as casually as you can.

“Thank you,” you say.

Petey the bartender, the courier, and the Head of Customer Relations nods cheerfully and says, “Thank you, Ms Innis! Have a sweet day and hope to see you again soon.”

After you get back to the office, you all but scarf down the granola bars and the ice cream sandwiches, eager to find out what’s in the note. You’re grateful for the privacy that a trip to the toilet allows you, and, making sure the entire bathroom is locked and your cubicle is bolted shut, you finally take the note out of your pocket and unfurl it to read its printed-out contents.

Nellie,

First off, great work finding the disk inside your stuffed toy; it’s a stroke of luck they didn’t take the damn thing along with my other stuff. Don’t ever use that disk in the office ever again; your station may already have spyware.

Second: if you’re reading this, you must’ve already met with Petey. If he seems vaguely familiar, that’s because he is; he runs a lot of errands for me of the covert kind, like asking him to watch over you at Strabo’s party and slip that disk into the drives.

There are things you may have already found out about me courtesy of your rather pleasant husband-to-be, and I promise you I will explain everything in the future. For now, I expect you to have understood a little bit of my past and are now aware of some of my capabilities – one of which could help you get out of this once and for all.

The Headless Confectioner’s is my idea, and Petey helped me bring it to fruition. Not only is it a convenient source of the family fix, but it’s also an excellent cover for smuggling contraband in and out of the Capitol and into the Districts. It’s how your letters to the Plinth boy remained undetected: Petey slips something into candy orders bound for rich District folk (who either sell it for a huge mark-up or eat it themselves), then our contacts in the Districts take the item and ensure it gets to the right hands.

That’s how I can get you out of there: hide you among the candy crates, get dropped off, not in District 3 where they’d know to look for you, but to either of the Districts except 1 and 2, where I have loyal contacts who’d gladly take you in until we find a more suitable arrangement. These shipments are getting rarer by the day, however, due to the hefty taxes and increasingly strict laws in District trading, so we’ll need to wait. I would most likely need to follow suit for reasons I will explain soon. Return to The Headless Confectioner’s by Thursday as I will have finalised the plan by then.

For now, keep your head down and always remember that good people are looking out for you and me. You’re not alone. We are not alone.

Your Dear Old Uncle Cas

P.S.: Either burn this letter, flush it down, or eat it – whichever you pick, I won’t judge – leave no trace.

 

You breathe through your lips forcefully to curb the incoming tears.

You’re not alone.

Despite the great risk to himself, your Uncle Cas is still thinking of you and trying to help you out of your misery – along with him, many others you’ve never even met who are willing to risk themselves, nonetheless.

The least you can do is make their effort worthwhile.

That means going about your day, and the entire week, like there’s absolutely nothing going on and then going back to The Headless Confectioner’s as your uncle told you on Thursday. You tear up the note into little pieces and flush it down the toilet before going back to your office. You aren’t at all surprised to find Coriolanus waiting for you, sitting behind your desk with his legs crossed and his eyebrows slightly stitched together. He abandons the chair to approach you so he can plant a quick kiss on your cheek.

“You took your time, sugarplum. Are you alright?” He asks.

When you nod, he inquires if you’ve had lunch, and you hand him the box of chocolates you bought for him, both to divert his attention and to prove you’ve been to where you said you went. He accepts the box delightedly and rewards you with a kiss on your lips, which you’re quick to break.

“Coryo, we’re at work,” you complain quietly. “Isn’t this a bit inappropriate?”

With a huff, Coriolanus rolls his eyes, but you can tell with that ghost of a grin on his lips that this is amusing him. “Fine, if you’re going to be like that...”

Still, he swoops in for a split-second peck which catches you off guard, grinning slyly before saying, “I’ll see you later.”

“How are they?” you ask on impulse as he turns to leave.

“Who?”

“Tansey, Audrey...Callahan?”

He raises his chin and peers at you with his eyes narrowed slightly. “You care what happens to them.”

“Coryo, they were injured the last time we left.”

With a smile that doesn’t match his hard eyes, he simply responds, “They aren’t injured anymore."

He takes you to a dinner party that night – and the night after that – at The White Knight after a quick change in his apartment. It’s just another opportunity for him to make a point of this relationship to everyone who can see. You show up, hand in hand, every bit the polished and demure girlfriend he wants you to be – a term which he now introduces you by to everyone in attendance. It’s Strabo’s birthday party all over again, except he’s now more openly handsy and free with those little gestures of affection you’re now starting to get used to, albeit for all the wrong reasons.

Wednesday night, however, is a welcome change of sorts, because Coriolanus takes you to the Plinth’s Corso home for dinner. It’s where you finally see Tigris Snow again after a long while, and where she greets you and hugs you like a close friend despite the brief time you’ve spent with her in the past.

“It’s been a long while, Nellie, I’m so happy you’re here,” she says as she briefly brushes your cheek with her palm.

You’re a little taken aback at how rough her hands are for someone with an aristocratic upbringing, belying an inner strength underneath her delicate grace. She makes you wonder how someone related to Coriolanus Snow can exude so much genuine warmth.

“Coriolanus has told me all about you even back then. Congratulations to you both.”

“Thank you, Tigris,” you return her earnestness as much as you can – despite her sharing blood with the man who’s forcibly inserted himself into your life, you can tell she’s someone you can trust. Although to what extent and with what, you’ve yet to find out.

“I’m sorry, grandma’am couldn’t be here, she hasn’t been feeling well lately...”

Tigris thankfully drags you away from Coriolanus’s domineering presence after announcing your arrival to Ma and Mr Plinth, taking you to a study well out of shot from any of them.

“We never got to talk.” Tigris clasps your hands as you both sit on a sofa. “How are you?”

The last time someone asked you that, it was Ma, and you had felt her care truly for her well-being so much you opened up like a dam, only to be slammed shut by her rather misguided advice. You decide to put up a front as usual, this time, not knowing what her intentions are.

“I’m...okay, Tigris, thank you,” you say, a little too slower than you would’ve liked. She seems to pick this up at once.

Her eyebrows furrow a little as she presses you on, but she’s gentle with her approach. “I know we haven’t really spoken to each other that much, but – and this is going to sound awful of me to say – but I’ve seen how Coriolanus is when he’s fixated on something.

“Right now, he’s fixated on you, Nellie, and this news of your engagement... it’s just so sudden. Ma says they’ve been planning this for quite some time, but without you? I just can’t help but feel that something else is going on. It’s why I asked,” Tigris explains. This isn’t just some ruse or superficial concern judging by her tone and expression, and she knows better than anyone what kind of person Coriolanus has decided he wants to become.

But, where exactly do you begin?

“I...I d-don’t know,” you stammer. You look over your shoulder to make sure he isn’t around and listening in. Turning back to her, you start, “Tigris, I’m trying to find a way to get out of this.”

Her eyes widen in alarm as she catches on your meaning. “Whatever you need, Nellie, if you ever need to talk, call me. You know our number. I may not be able to do much of anything, but I can help in any way I can – ” her gaze flicks imperceptibly at something behind you and shifts her tone at once “ – and I’m thinking of adding lace appliqués and Swarovski crystals on the shoulder area – ”

“Ladies, I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

Your attention is drawn to Coriolanus’s falsely cheery tone from behind you and paint on that smile he wants to see as you turn to face him.

Tigris has done this many times before, it seems.

“I’ve been telling her that I’d like to make the wedding gown for her as my gift, Coriolanus,” she chirps. Tigris is a pro.

If he suspects anything, he doesn’t show. “I’d like that, my dear cousin,” he says, his eyes slightly warming. “My Nellie deserves nothing but the best.”

“Don’t I know it? I’m going to make a gown fit for the princess she is. You’re coming by this Saturday anyway, so I’ll take her measurements then.”

“Wonderful! Why don’t we continue this at the tea room?”

Your fiancé all but drags you away from his cousin, and for the rest of the night, he never gives you an opportunity to speak to her again without him hovering behind your back.

When you say your goodbyes, you catch Tigris’s eyes and flash her a grateful smile, your uncle’s words echoing in your mind:

You’re not alone.

Rapidly, you take out the note from your pocket, and in the safety and privacy of the same cubicle inside the bathroom, you unfurl it and read:

Nellie,

There’s a shipment of candy bound for a District 5 tradesman who’s one of us, which is all the better. The crates leave at 11:30 AM this Saturday, so do whatever you have to do to get out of there before that so Petey can secure your cover – we can’t be too careful.

As to when I’ll be joining you, I’d have to make certain arrangements first, but let me worry about that, okay? Focus on getting out of your predicament for now because that’s more urgent than me getting out.

It seems your uncle hasn’t forgotten your tendency to overthink everything. The note continues:

Don’t bring anything that will weigh you down, and don’t be late. Keep your head down for now,

Your dear old Uncle Cas

P.S.: You know what to do.

A little hope blooms in your heart despite the dangers wrought within your uncle’s plan, not to mention what the aftermath of your exodus will mean for him.

Saturday. Only a few more days before you’re at last free of Coriolanus Snow.

This prospect cheers you up a bit even after arriving at his apartment from yet another exhausting dinner party, and when you find your confiscated bag on your bed, returned intact, book included, you’re thankful that something is finally going your way somehow.

“I would’ve liked to see you dressed in one of your nightgowns before coming here,” Coriolanus comments cheekily when you approach him in his work office.

Ignoring him, you remark, “They returned my uncle’s stuff quicker than they did my bag.”

“I’ll take that as ‘thank you for getting my bag back, Coryo.’”

Grinning to himself, he leans back on his chair behind the office desk as he shuffles through his mail, before picking one envelope out and opening it. “And, if it’s efficiency in Citadel processes you want to see, you’re going to have to wait for me to become president for me to make that happen.”

Right. An egomaniacal, tyrannical dictator for a president. The country has indeed a promising future ahead.

You turn on your feet to leave him be and sleep all your problems away, but he calls your attention at the last minute.

“We have an important dinner to attend on Saturday night,” he begins.

This makes you narrow your eyes a bit. He’s never had to warn you of those beforehand, so you assume this dinner must mean something to him.

“With who?”

“Festus Creed and Persephone Price. I assume Clemmie, Livia and Lys have been invited as well, seeing as I helped Festus secure seven seats at The White Knight.” Flashing you a smile, he adds, “This is going to be quite the reunion, I imagine.”

You chew on your lip in contemplation. You’ve actively avoided seeing your former classmates after what happened to Sejanus, and you’ve only seen some of them in passing after that. The prospect of dinner with them leaves you unsure what to feel; after such a long time of keeping your distance, they’d certainly have more questions for you than you’d care to answer.

That ring heavily weighing down your left ring finger being one of them.

“And if I don’t want to come?” you ask carefully.

Coriolanus raises a chastising eyebrow at you. “As much as I’d like to keep you to myself, it wouldn’t look good if you’re not seen among your peers. When was the last time you talked to them?”

“I met Lys at a coffee shop once.”

“You just said ‘hi’ to her.”

So, he’s kept in touch with his fellow District 12 mentor? Cool.

“I’ve talked to Festus in one of my classes,” you shrug.

“You both worked once on a report.”

He seems to be close enough to Festus to catch up with him on a regular, so this isn’t surprising.

“I bumped into Clemmie at the Uni library.”

“You helped her find research material for her term paper. That hardly counts.”

Now, this stumps you. How could he have known all of these things when you’ve never mentioned them to him before?

“Gee, I’m really glad to know that even my conversations with the people I barely talk to now are being closely monitored,” you chuckle dryly and continue, “That makes me feel very safe. I wonder who among my classmates you paid to spy on me?”

He lets out an aggrieved huff at your derisive accusation. “Nellie, my point here is simple: they’re your friends,” he counters. “Our friends. It wouldn’t hurt you to at least get to know them. We’ve all been through so much together, the least you can do is be present.”

Coriolanus pins you to your spot with an unrelenting stare, his jaws clenched in disapproval. With a tone that leaves no room for dissent, he says:

“You will be there. This discussion is over.”

But you’ll be far away, then, if everything works out fine on Saturday morning. You wouldn’t even have to worry about facing any one of them, probably forever, so this time you concede and bid him good night.

Never had you felt this much anxiety and excitement at the same time, much less tried holding it in you could burst at any time. You and Coriolanus have been at the Plinths since nine in the morning on this sunny Saturday, with Ma wasting no time to excitedly show you the wedding guest list she had compiled over the past few months, which you only pretend to peruse over late breakfast.

“I had a lot of help from Coriolanus with that list,” she says chirpily, which your soon-to-be ex-fiancé acknowledges with a smile over his cup of tea.

Tigris, who’s sitting to your left, peers into the list as she spreads jam over her toast and offers her help identifying the names you’re not familiar with.

By nine-thirty, Mr Plinth emerges in the dining room and bids Ma farewell, announcing that he’ll be going golfing with one of his more demanding shareholders.

“How would you like to join us tomorrow, Coriolanus? We shall see if that charm of yours will work on old Mr Emery,” he asks his heir, who graciously accepts. He then gives Ma a peck on the cheek before sauntering away while munching on a piece of toast.

A few moments after Plinth senior leaves, the table is soon cleared by the maids, allowing Tigris to lead you inside a guest bedroom for your measurements, and you the opportunity to take her up on her offer for help.

“Alright!” Tigris says once she has locked the bedroom door. “Shall we? Extend your arms out to the side, please.”

“Uh, Tigris?” You start as soon as she drapes her tape measure over your right arm. “You told me you’d help when you can? I think I might need it today. Please?”

Her previously cheerful air shifts to something much more serious as she slowly lowers her tape measure. She nods at once, recognising your urgency.

“Of course, Nellie. What do you need?”

“I have to go at ten thirty.”

“You’re leaving? Where to?”

You inhale sharply and respond, “Away from here. This is my only chance.”

Tigris once again surprises you with her astuteness. “I take it you’re not coming back?” she asks with an increasingly growing smile.

That elation of hers is infectious as your own face lights up. “If this works, then no. Maybe not ever.”

I’ll be rid of your cousin forever.

“Good,” she says with a firm tone. “I’ll distract him. Ten thirty, right?”

“Yes.”

Her response is a resolute nod. She doesn’t say anything, but her eyes are expressive enough for you to tell that she’s happy for you that you finally found a way out.

“Thank you,” you whisper while you squeeze her hand. You owe her your freedom, and there’s nothing you can give her right now, save that gesture, to convey how grateful you are.

“Best of luck, Nellie.”

Tigris drones on in detail about the potentially fictional dress she’s planning to make for you, and you go along with her in Coriolanus’s presence. She even shows you and Ma some of her sketches, all of which look so professionally well done you almost regret not being able to see the final product she has in mind.

“If you’ll excuse me,” she says after a while. “I’ll have to check up on the grandma’am; I think I may have forgotten to leave fruit juice on her nightstand. You should come and see her some time, Nellie, when she’s better.”

“Oh good, I think this is my cue to start making lunch, as well, and no, Nellie, dear,” Ma dismisses you with a gentle pat on the cheek when you begin following her to the kitchen. “Bless your heart but can handle this. You go add whoever we may have missed on the guest list. I’m sure you have family members in mind.”

Your eyes land on their grandfather clock. Ten twenty-five.

It’s almost time.

Tigris returns a mere few minutes later, breathless and with a troubled expression.

“Coryo,” she calls out. “You have to come with me. I can’t find the grandma’am.”

Coriolanus looks up from the book he’s reading with a hint of concern in his eyes. “Did you check the rooftop?” he asks, trailing after his cousin and out of the apartment, presumably to locate the poor old woman.

You let a couple of minutes pass just in case they might still be in the hallway – Ma is still in the kitchen and well out of earshot – it’s now or never, a voice whispers in your head.

You heed the voice, grab your handbag and make a break for it.

You take the stairs and descend as fast as your feet can take you while looking behind – all you can think of is the fact that this would be over the moment he catches a glimpse of you fleeing. The elevator might be occupied as well, so you deem it an irresponsible choice. You don’t stop when you’re out of Corso I, and it takes a jog of about fifteen minutes before you get to The Headless Confectioner’s. Breathless, you look for Petey yourself in the vast shop while making yourself inconspicuous just in case anyone you know sees you. You find the Head of Customer Relations in the Jellybean aisle – he places his clipboard behind a cash register once his eyes land on you.

“Ms Innis! You’re early,” he greets with a tip of his hat. “This way, please. Your box of chocolates is still being prepared. In the meantime, have some of this.” He grabs the nearest bottle of beverage from the nearest shelf and tosses it over to you, which you barely catch.

You mutter your thanks as he leads you away on a brisk walk. You reach the back of the shop and weave through the tight spaces between the shelves before you follow him through a door labelled ‘stockroom.’ A dimly lit room the size of a parking lot greets you, but instead of cars, you see rows upon rows of shelves to your right filled with boxes and plastic bags filled with you assume are raw materials, and to your left rows of wooden crates stacked on top of each other, with two forklifts parked right at the front.

Petey exhales audibly as he closes the door behind him.

“No time to look around, ‘m afraid,” he says.

“Your accent is back,” you observe.

“Ha! Fooled ya, didn’t I? Spent so much time tryin’ to copy that damn Capitol twang.”

Dumbfounded, you simply look on as he lifts the lid on one of the wooden crates, and takes out a square-shaped plank of some sort from inside.

“Well, c’mon!” He urgently motions for you to come closer. “The earlier this shipment leaves, the better – peacekeepers have been menacin’ us all week, it’s like they’re onto us or somethin’. You didn’t let anyone play with that stupid game, didya?”

You shake your head as you peek inside the box he just opened. He helps you get inside the box and instructs you to hunker down.

“The trip is goin’ be a while, so your uncle asked me to getcha somethin’ for the road.”

Petey places a tall stack of granola bars and two water bottles inside your crate and gives you final instructions.

“When you get there, our guy’ll knock on your box the word ‘Cas’ in Morse code – and he’ll have to, you can barely hear anythin’ inside that box – so you’ll know you’re with friends. They’re nice, don’t worry; they’ll take you to their safe house where you’ll await your uncle’s next instructions. Got that?”

You nod once, to which he grins widely.

“You’ll be in good hands, kid, that much I can tell ya.”

“Petey – my uncle?”

Petey’s eyebrows draw close for a fraction of a second, but masks it with that kind smile of his.

“He’ll be fine, kid. Your uncle is tougher than all o’ us put together. Now, mind your head!”

He finally places the wooden cover on top of you, only allowing about an inch of space between the cover and the top of your head, and leaving you in almost total darkness, with the only light source being the tiny cracks between the slats of wood that the crate is made of. You then hear dull thuds of what sounds like Petey filling the rest of the space on top with chocolate boxes to further strengthen the disguise, before he seals you in.

And then, total silence.

As you hug your handbag containing the only precious possession you’ve taken with you, you’re sorely tempted to say you’re finally safe, but it’s too early to tell. You figure you would never feel safe until you’re finally in the safe house in District 5, where Coriolanus Snow can never sniff you out.

Eventually, you feel your box move, presumably being lifted by a forklift. As soon as you’re set down, you feel the ground move, which you assume is the ride to the Capitol train station. After quite a while, the truck you’re in comes to an abrupt stop; you then feel the box being forklifted again before being set down. This cycle of noises just goes on several times, but when you hear the muffled sound of a rail squealing, that’s when you find out you’re finally inside a freight train wagon.

You don’t know how long you wait inside – it may have been mere minutes, it may have been hours - until you hear muffled shouts outside. Suddenly, your box is being carted off again and then set down on a flat surface. Silence ensues after, but you can’t be there yet.

Something’s wrong.

Muted shouts arise once more, followed by sounds of wooden crates being busted open. You don’t know how much more time you had to wait until you feel your box’s cover being pried open as well. No morse code.

Something has gone terribly wrong.

You cover your mouth to prevent any noise from you, hoping and praying they don’t get past the layers of chocolate boxes Petey had placed as cover.

True enough, they leave your box alone after bouts of rummaging through the boxes. Whoever it was seemed to have been fooled by the contents, but a few agonising moments pass before you hear the dull sound of something tapping your box.

Not Morse code, but the sound of tapping to check for hollow spaces.

Without warning, your entire cover is lifted unceremoniously, revealing a looming figure in crimson you had been hoping to escape from and never see again.

Coriolanus Snow has found you yet again, and judging by the icy, almost betrayed look on his pale, hard features, he isn’t pleased the slightest bit.

The sunlight being cast on his platinum-blond hair gives the illusion of a halo – you almost mistake this to be a dream, except you are aware, even in your dreams, that he is the farthest thing from being an angel.

“Step out of the box, Nellie.”

His command is faint, but you obey anyway, trying hard to ignore your heart pounding madly in your chest.

“You’ve been sloppy, Nellie,” he says in this deceptively soft tone as he paces to and fro right before you at an unhurried pace. “Had you not used your Citadel computer to inspect that disk, I wouldn’t have had that candy shop investigated, its shipments monitored, and had my peacekeeper friends alert me for any exports to the Districts from The Headless Confectioner’s.”

He stops right before you, invading your personal space, as he stares down at you through the tip of his nose.

“I had hoped I was just being paranoid – that you wouldn’t do that to me…and yet, here we are.”

He spots the handbag you attempt to conceal behind your back.

“Give me that.”

You don’t move.

“Nellie,” his voice lowers an octave – a sign of foreboding. “It’s wise that you do what I say right now and give me that bag.”

You hand it over to him with a trembling hand, and he snatches it away. He lets out a cross between a laugh and a huff when pulls out the sole content of the bag:

Sejanus’s book.

“This book,” he says with pure disdain. “Really, Nellie? I was reading that for the past few days. It’s definitely not your choice of reading material, but it makes for a rather insightful reference to Sejanus’s last letter.”

So, he had your travel bag for quite some time and had been keeping it to himself.

“I was going to give you Sejanus’s final letter as an apology of sorts – after all, I did say some…distasteful things about our dead friend, and I thought you deserved to read our friend’s final words.”

Liar. He’s never giving you that letter, that knowing voice in your head says.

“I know what the letter says. Pity you never will, now.”

A part of your heart wilts a little at the thought. Whatever Sejanus had meant to tell you, he’ll soon be taking it to his grave.

“You’re going to destroy your evidence against me out of pettiness?” You say weakly.

“And because I don’t need it anymore,” he simply says. “Not with you constantly landing yourself in trouble and giving me something to use against you.

“Now why don’t we continue this conversation at home, sugarplum? You’ve inconvenienced quite the number of peacekeepers today, and they have other important duties to take care of.”

Still, you don’t move. Every cell in your body seems to refuse to – as if it’d rather wither and die than be with him even for a minute more.

Coriolanus exhales and pinches his nose bridge in an aggravated fashion.

“Private!” he calls out.

A pair of heavy boot steps approach and a peacekeeper salutes him and awaits his command.

“Some matches, if you please.”

The peacekeeper places a matchbox in his outstretched palm and salutes once more before marching out of sight.

“I’ve always wondered how fast paperback books burn,” he mutters, loud enough for you to hear.

Your eyes widen as you watch him throw the book on top of a nearby crate. He lights a match and holds it threateningly above the book, his face contorted in a taunting sneer.

“Have you lost your fucking mind?” You can’t help but blurt out in panic. All the wooden crates you’re surrounded with – he’s basically igniting a building-sized bonfire. “You’re going to burn this place to the ground with us in it!”

“Then you will come home with me this instant.”

With a single look into those crazed, blazing eyes, you can tell he isn’t merely fooling around. You take a tentative step closer to him, and he shakes the match until the fire goes out and picks up the book.

“For safekeeping,” he says as he tucks the book inside his coat pocket and grabs you closer by the arm.

You never had a chance to look around where you’ve been taken to – apparently a more secluded area in the Capitol train station where they store unclaimed freight packages. He drags you to a lesser-known exit at the back of the station building where his car is waiting, and he all but throws you inside and slams the door shut. His handling gets a little gentler when he escorts you from the car across his building’s lobby, but once he’s crossed the threshold to his apartment door, he grips you with bruising intensity. He takes you, squirming in vain in his grip, into his bedroom and shoves you on his bed, where you sit at its edge, avoiding his gaze and just about ready to cry but holding it all together by a thread.

“I am not angry, Nellie,” he begins, standing to his full height and looking down at you with a look that contradicted his words. “I’m disappointed and hurt that you would do this. I thought you and I had an understanding. I thought you were starting to adjust to your new life with me. Perhaps it was too early for me to trust you in that regard.”

Coriolanus grapples the back of your neck and inches closer so your noses touch. He whispers with every ounce of venom he can evoke, “You really thought you could escape me? You really thought I’d let you get away from me? This won’t do.”

He caresses your cheek with faux gentleness. “I will not have my future wife forget her place. Perhaps you need a reminder of who you really belong to.”

Your blood runs cold at his next words:

“On your knees.”

Without even thinking, your lower half slides from your perch on the bed and you kneel at his feet. You fix your terrified gaze on his shoes, but nothing can make you ignore the sound of his belt unbuckling. That alone gives you a clue as to what he’s about to make you do, and your insides twist at just the thought.

“Coryo, I’m sorry, please...”

“I don’t want your apology; I want your mouth.”

The way he shuts down your pleas ruthlessly earns a suppressed sob from you. Still, you look into his eyes and beg as more of your tears flow, hoping he still isn’t above reasoning.

“Please, Coryo, anything but this, please...”

He scoffs and curls his lips. “This is for your own good, sugarplum. So you’ll learn to never attempt to leave me again. Besides, you’re going to have to give me something in return for not executing your uncle on sight and just sending him to exile.”

Without breaking eye contact with you, he unzips and pulls his trousers down, and from his boxer briefs he takes out a fully erect, massive cock, its angry red tip swollen and dripping with precum – you shudder at the sight and close your eyes as a fresh wave of salty tears spills down your cheeks, imploring him for even an ounce of mercy.

“Coryo, please, no...”

He grips the back of your head sharply and snarls, “I said I want your mouth and I will have it.”

His free hand cups the side of your tear-stained face, his thumb prying your mouth open and pressing your tongue down.

“That’s it; open wide, sugarplum...and if you bite me, I will strap to you a chair and make you watch while I extract every single tooth from those test tributes you’re so fond of.”

A whimper passes through your throat as you look on, helpless, while Coriolanus grips his erection at the base and places its swollen tip on your tongue. The taste of him, salty and slightly bitter, and the smell of him almost makes you gag.

But nothing could’ve prepared you for the choking feeling of his entire girth being shoved as far as it could inside your mouth. He fills you up to the throat with a pleasured groan while you try your best to fight your gag reflex, your eyes watering as you focus on breathing through your nose – he isn’t even fully inside your mouth because he’s just so huge – your body automatically fights to get him out, but his hands are already firm on the back of your head to keep you in place.

“Wrap your lips around me...yes, just like that...” he strains.

“Need you to suck me off, sugarplum...”

So you do as he says, praying with all your might he makes quick work of this. He pulls out almost entirely, but shoves himself back inside your mouth with force, settling for a pace with bruising intensity.

As your jaw begins to strain from accommodating his size, your eyes inadvertently close as they water at the effort; he bunches your hair and yanks it with a commanding growl:

“This mouth is mine – look me in the eyes while I take what’s mine.”

So while he continues choking you with his cock, your tear-filled eyes stare right into his blue ones, glazed over with lust, his lewd grunts and moans filling up the room as his grip on your hair becomes vice-like.

“Sugarplum, you’re so beautiful with your mouth full of my cock...”

The praise doesn’t help quell your revulsion at being forced on your knees and used like a mere common whore.

“I need – Nellie, swirl your tongue around me – fuck, yes, you’re doing so well, sugarplum, taking my cock so well...”

You place your palms on his thighs for support as the pace and force of his assault on your throat increases – this seems to go on forever, until you feel his cock thicken inside your mouth, signalling his imminent release...

“Gonna make me come so hard with that pretty little mouth, my sugarplum...”

A few more sharp, uneven thrusts and his orgasm invades all your senses: his pleasured moans fill your ears as his tip rests on your tongue and fills your mouth with generous spurts of hot salty cum, which you can feel mixing with the drool coating your chin, and you watch as his eyelids flutter with pleasure while you smell his musk mingling with his rose scent.

Still gripping your head while his cock pumps the last of his spend into your mouth, he groans one last time and finally pulls out of your mouth, a trickle of your saliva briefly connecting your tongue and his tip. Finally, you can breathe, but not without consequences – there’s still that almost overwhelming smell and taste of him that amplifies at every intake of air. He manages a warning amidst his laboured breathing:

“Don’t spit it out.” Coriolanus tugs your hair as he commands, “Show me.”

Obediently, open your mouth, and some of his cum trickles down your chin in the process. His eyes cloud with satisfaction and his expression turns somewhat soft, almost reverent.

“You’re so breathtakingly beautiful, my sugarplum...” he praises. “I should have you do this more often.”

At this point, the stinging in your eyes brought about by the new set tears doesn’t surprise you.

“Now swallow. All of it.”

Keeping your eyes on his with as much hate as you can muster, you do his bidding.

“Show me,” he orders again.

He hums in approval when you do, and his thumb wipes the cum coating your chin and places it once more on your tongue.

“Clean it up, sugarplum.”

So you suck his thumb clean, and then, as if he hadn’t just humiliated you mere seconds before, he gently wipes all your tears on your cheeks and your drool with a handkerchief he takes from his coat pocket. He then rights his trousers while you stay kneeling on the floor, your eyes staring vacantly at his shoes.

A much gentler grip on your jaw raises your head once more to look up at him, and a hint of dread fills your gut.

Oh dear heavens. Is he going to make you do it again?

“You did well, sugarplum,” he says softly before those blue eyes darken with foreboding. His face edges nearer to yours when he bends down, hissing as he nuzzles your cheek, “But if you pull another stunt like that again; if you so much as even think of getting away, I won’t be so lenient.”

Please, you beg inwardly as a few more tears cascade down your cheeks, please, don’t make me do it again...

“You belong to me, Nellie, you got that?”

When he gets no response, he pulls away, his jaw tensing as he grips your hair and yanks it again. “Do not make me repeat myself, sugarplum. Or maybe you need me to drive the point a little further?” To drive his point, his other hand travels to the zipper of his pants.

“No, please.” You blanche at the thought of him taking you in the mouth again, so your reply is immediate. “I understand, Coryo. Please…”

Humming in satisfaction, he releases you at last; you back away from him immediately and hit the edge of the bed.

“Pick out one of the dresses I bought for you in your wardrobe. When I come back, I want my wife-to-be to look perfect and ready for tonight’s dinner.”

With this last command, Coriolanus Snow steps out of his bedroom and locks you inside his apartment yet again.

You’re not alone, your uncle wrote.

And yet, you’re cowering on the floor of your jailer’s bed, feeling very much so.

Enter Level 14

Next on Level 14 - Snowball takes Nellie to a dinner with old friends; the engagement is announced publicly; a cute character enters Nellie's life while she tries to cope with her uncle's exile and a fiancé who can no longer keep his hands to himself.

Author notes:

Please reblog and comment, it's always appreciated!

I've received asks about what to expect with the next level, and I think that helped me get grounded and stick to my plot points and avoid the chapter from gaining sentience and taking over 😂😂😂 so here it is above!!

#dark!coriolanus snow #dark!coriolanus snow x reader #Young!coriolanus snow #young!coriolanus snow x reader #named!reader #or #x OC2ndPOV #18+ only #dark!coriolanus snow fic #dark!coriolanus #dark!coriolanus fic #dark!fic

[dotieeee]

The Gamemaker's Apprentice

Level 12

Pairing: Dark!Young!Coriolanus Snow x You, named!Reader

Overall Warnings:

NON-CON, DUB-CON, Dark!Young!Coriolanus Snow, Snow himself should be a warning, lots of blackmailing, gaslighting, manipulation, obsession, possesiveness, eventual forced marriage, eventual loss of virginity, breeding kink, canon-compliant major character death, reader is named but has no physical descriptions in the fic so one might also consider her an OC but in 2nd POV, will have canon inconsistencies, drugging, somnophilia, and other stuff that may be added

Masterlist

Level 12 Warnings:

The blackest of mails, like vanta-blackmail lolol,

Replay Level 11

Ready? Level 12 Start:

The satisfied hum on the other line almost makes you throw the receiver into the wall.

“You win, okay? Let my uncle go.” You’re unable to hide the tremor in your voice as you concede. Coriolanus lets a pause pass before responding.

“Sugarplum, I’m happy you finally see things my way, but I think that’s a conversation best had in person.”

“I think it’s fine just this way, Coriolanus.”

“Now, don’t be stubborn,” he admonishes. “I will have my driver pick you up from your home in thirty minutes and bring you to me. We have much to talk about.”

Good grief. Obviously, you’d rather put in your safe space and not face him now – hell, not ever – but he’s been holding all the cards since yesterday and his tone isn’t giving you room to argue at all.

“Nellie. Thirty minutes.”

His almost-warning is followed at once by the dial tone. Having no choice, you use the remaining time preparing to head out. The warm bath you take takes a little bit of the tension off, but by the time you get inside your ride to Hell, it returns tenfold, and nothing you do save the fidgeting on the hem of your coat gives you a modicum of comfort. You arrive at the luxury apartment building where a valet opens the car door for you, and the doorman escorts you to the private elevator.

And just like that, you find yourself ringing the doorbell of Coriolanus Snow’s – now apparently your fiancé’s – penthouse.

A maid opens the door for you and motions to take your coat, before leading you to the living room. She then disappears, presumably to call for the master of the house, leaving you standing in the middle, fiddling with the hem of your dress and half-wondering whether you should make a run for it.

“Good morning, sugarplum.”

Ah, the said master of the house.

You look up to see Coriolanus grinning at you from ear to ear, wearing a thick designer crimson bathrobe with golden damask embroidery with matching house slippers. You freeze in place, which he takes advantage of; he places his arms around you and plants a single, lingering kiss on your lips.

Pulling away as he nudges your chin, he says, “You’ve made me very happy by just coming here. Have breakfast with me; the chef should be almost done.”

If you hadn’t been at a disadvantage, you’d have reacted incredulously at the nerve, as if he’s invited you here for mere casual chitchat.

“I thought you said we were going to talk,” you say.

“And we shall,” he replies. He puts an arm around your waist and, steering you into the dining room, he adds, “But first, you need to eat. When was the last time you ate anything, sugarplum?”

The smell of bacon coming from the kitchen invades your senses, and to your absolute mortification, that’s when your stomach chooses to betray you by grumbling audibly. Coriolanus laughs heartily, and for a moment you’re reminded of the days you spent with him as friends – and yet here you are now, ensnared and trapped by that friendship which you now know was just a front.

“I can’t have my future wife starving herself and risking her health,” he says with a smirk, pulling back a chair for you to the left of what you assume is his seat at the head of the dining table.

The table has been set lavishly with silver cutlery and fine chinaware, and in a few moments, you’re both served by the maid a steaming cup of tea, followed by a plate of eggs benedict with arugula salad on the side. 

Breakfast breezes by quietly, with your eyes fixed on your plate as you chew mechanically while he steals glances at you in between bites. He urges you to finish off your plate, which you comply with just to get the entire thing over with. Once he’s satisfied, he motions for the maid to clear the table and gives her one final order as she curtsies.

“Clean up, and then you’re free to go home for the day, as is the chef. My betrothed and I will need the privacy.”

You wish he’d stop referring to you like that, but it’s not like you have a choice in the matter.

Coriolanus takes you back to the living room by hand and offers you the loveseat. He then takes his place beside you with a contented sigh as he turns to face you with his legs crossed and his back leaning against the backrest.

Well-fed in his bathrobe and slippers, he paints this relaxed, almost cheerful picture you could only hope to achieve. You scoot a little more away from him as much as the two-seater couch allows you to.

He takes your trembling left hand in his cold ones and kisses the back of it before placing it on his knee as he speaks.

“We have so much to do, so much to talk about, but first, let’s discuss the matter of our story.”

Ah, yes. He can’t really tell the public about ‘winning your heart’ by way of coercion, can he?

“I told Mr and Mrs Plinth that I have good news for them, so they invited us for afternoon tea and dinner.”

With his grip impossible for you to wrench away from, your hand remains on his knee, clenched at the prospect of revealing this devastating news this quickly.

“But, why now?” you ask. “Can’t we…I don’t know, wait? Isn’t this a little bit too sudden?”

He tilts a corner of his lips as he responds, “The twelfth Hunger Games is just two weeks away, and the Capitol will surely be happy to know that the two gamemakers responsible for its success are now tying the knot. I plan on announcing our engagement as soon as it finishes. There is no better timing than this, sugarplum.”

How typical of Coriolanus Snow to use the Games to further publicise this farce of an engagement and shift the limelight to himself. All that aside, however, you have only one focus which he hadn’t yet touched.

“And what of my uncle? Has he been released?” you insistently probe.

“That depends entirely on your cooperation today, sugarplum,” he says as he draws circles absently on your hand which he still clasps. “If you follow my instructions, if you stick to our story, word per word, I might be inclined to let him go home by tonight, just like nothing happened. If not…”

His grin grows colder and wider – an ominous sign that this isn’t going to end well for you and your uncle if he doesn’t get his way.

“Your uncle will stay detained, and by tomorrow I will give the order to have him exiled somewhere in the Districts. I’m feeling generous today, so I’ll let you take your pick, save District 3, of course.”

His other hand reaches out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear before asking, “So, will you be good today, and do exactly as I say?”

Numbly, you nod once. He just tuts and tugs your hand to bring you closer.

“Use your words, sugarplum,” he whispers.

So, you swallow that lump in your throat, your voice shaking as you say, “Yes, Coryo.”

As an approving smirk grows on his face and victory dances in his chilling blue eyes, you get an overwhelming feeling that you’re going to have to get used to saying that more often.

“Good girl,” he praises.

He gets to his feet at once with a quiet order for you to stay put as he exits the living room. Before you could even know what for, he returns after but a few moments clutching something with his hand you can’t see. You watch, confused and increasingly dumbstruck, when he bends on one knee. With your faces now level, he peers into your eyes as he reveals what he’s holding in his hands: 

A red-velvet jewellery box, the lid of which he flips to unveil a ring; at its head is the largest emerald-cut diamond you’ve ever laid eyes on, with its white-golden band accented with smaller round diamonds at its shoulder.

Clearly pleased at your reaction, he uses your momentary stupefaction to explain, “I could’ve done this more properly and in a better setting in the near future, but I suppose this will have to do.”

Coriolanus pries the ring off its case and very gently slips it on your left ring finger, where it stays there in its glimmering radiance, weighing down your hand and almost mocking you with its implied permanence. As if to seal your fate further, he captures your lips with his in a searing kiss that raises the hair on your arms and the back of your neck. His tongue pushes past your lips insistently to make you respond – instead, you turn your head away and break it off. You’re breathless, partly because of the kiss, but mostly because  this is now happening – you’re going to have to get used to kisses like these and you’re really now engaged to Coriolanus Snow – and any chance of getting away from him is smaller than it has ever been and will likely vanish entirely as soon as the Games is over.

He lets out a sigh of displeasure the moment you break the kiss.

“Sugarplum, when I said, ‘do everything I say,’ this is part of it,” he chastens, but he lets out another exhale and shifts to his previous carefree mood. “But like I said, I’m feeling a little more lenient at present, so I will let that slide.”

He then smooches your exposed cheek instead before adding, “Disobey me again today, however…” he trails off with a suppressed chuckle – a warning not to fuck up again in his eyes – and briefly stroking your cheek before settling down once more on the seat beside you.

From there, he begins giving you his instructions – how to act and react, how to respond to anticipated questions, and most importantly, how to defer to him when it comes to matters you haven’t brushed over. He gives you room for questions and objections, but to these, his explanations are clipped – and since he won’t allow opposition, you try to keep your dissent at bay no matter how much his orders appal you. He doesn’t stop pressing you until your performance is every bit as perfect in his eyes. You don’t finish until about half-past twelve, when he asks if you’d prefer going out to eat for lunch with him or have it ordered in; both of which you refuse at first, but you opt for the latter the moment you see his eyebrows start to furrow.  

Once the food arrives, he says something about getting ready to go out for an important Sunday errand before sauntering away. He leaves the apartment, but not without a kiss on your forehead. You let enough time to pass for him to have left the building entirely before you run to the door and shake the knob open, only to find that he’d locked it from the outside, and no matter what you do with the keypads on the inside, it would not budge.

No way out of this glorified cage, it seems.

You get the inkling that you’re going to have to get used to being locked in this apartment from the outside more often.

“Oh, my goodness, Nellie, my dear!”

You’re encased in a huge, warm embrace the moment a delighted Ma Plinth sees you cross the threshold of their Corso home. You return the hug gladly, almost melting into her arms.

“Ma, I’m so happy to see you,” you whisper in an almost pained voice. You needed that hug so badly, you realise.

Ma pulls away to cradle your face as if to get a better look at you. “Oh, it’s always a pleasure to have you,” she beams brightly before that smile turns into a small, worried frown. “How are you? Have you been eating and sleeping well, sweetheart? You’ve lost a little weight.”

“I have?” you mutter absently. Not that you really care what you look like right now; you’re just glad to be with a friendly presence for once in your Uncle Cas’s absence.

From behind you, however, Coriolanus places a cold hand on your shoulder, overwhelming the warmth Ma exudes.

“I’ve made it my personal mission to make sure she’s taking care of herself, Ma, but my sugarplum can be stubborn at times,” he says teasingly. 

Ma lets out a lilting laugh before him in for an embrace. Once the maid has taken your coats, you follow the two into the lounge, paying their animated conversation very little mind as you go over in your head silently the things you’re supposed to say and the topics you’re supposed to avoid and defer to him. The three of you are eventually seated at a small round table by a tall window overlooking the Corso circle, where you’re served hot tea and an assortment of teacakes and pastries, which both Ma and Coriolanus urge you to eat as much as you’d like. Mr Plinth arrives shortly, so you and Coriolanus pay your respects by getting to your feet and greeting him. Plinth senior returns the gesture by shaking Coriolanus’s hand firmly and pulling him in for a brief one-armed hug and a clap on his back.

“Strapping young man, as always,” he comments with pride. Turning to you, you extend a hand to him as well, but he says, “None of that, my dear girl, we’re practically family!” 

He gives you the same one-armed hug and smiles warmly at you, before motioning everyone to take their seat.

After he’s served some tea by the maid, thus begins the inquiry.

“So, Coriolanus, what is this news you bring? I can tell it’s something good,” Mr Plinth asks with a bright, expectant smile. Like he already knows what it is but he’s waiting for your companion to spill it. Ma wears the same look, sipping her tea but looking over her cup excitedly.

Coriolanus’s right laces with your left hand – the one bearing the token of imprisonment masquerading as an engagement ring – over the table where it’s clearly visible to the Plinth couple. You force yourself to smile at him like he had instructed, which he returns. He seems over the moon, a genuine display which you’re mildly surprised he’s still capable of, when he starts to explain.

“I suppose it could’ve waited until dinner, but I was too overjoyed at the news.” Pausing to lick his lips, his posture straightens as he continues, “Just the other night, Nellie made me the happiest man in the world by accepting my bid for her hand in marriage.”

Under duress, you inwardly add.

The gasp that Ma lets out is immediately drowned out by her husband’s loud ‘Ha!’ and if that doesn’t tell you he was expecting this bit of information, he says jovially, “I knew it, I kept telling everyone that you two children were bound to get there.”

Ma lets out a teary ‘oh’ while she clutches her chest, gushing over the way Coriolanus grips your hand and gently runs the pad of his thumb over your knuckles. She bursts into quiet sobs while Strabo pats her on the back and holds her hand.

“Oh, you kids!” she exclaims amidst tears of apparent joy. “I’m sorry, I’m just so happy you two have finally decided to settle down together. It’s just so obvious you’re meant for each other.”

Strabo pulls a handkerchief out of his coat pocket and hands it over to his wife, who proceeds to wipe her tears demurely, and says, “About time, too! Congratulations, both of you.”

“Thank you, sir,” Coriolanus replies.

“I’m just glad Nellie finally gave you a chance! I was starting to think your famous charm had finally found its match, my boy,” Strabo teases.

Coriolanus’s eyes twinkle when he catches yours and kisses the back of your hand to further drive this image of a couple head-over-heels in love with each other that he wants to portray. And just like he wanted, you give him a smile, which is getting increasingly harder to do while you battle with your inner self to keep you from breaking character.

For Uncle Cas, you remind yourself.

Your fiancé goes along with the jest. “I’m certainly lucky she did, sir. I would’ve otherwise resorted to other measures to make sure she ends up with me.”

This earns a laugh from the married couple across the table, making them miss the rather knowing glint that passes over Coriolanus’s eyes.

Jokes are half-meant, so they say.

When the joyous tone dies down a bit, Mr Plinth brings up a topic that Coriolanus had anticipated and trained you with.

“What of Acacius? Does he know? Your uncle should be here as well, should he not?”

Those blue eyes tell you what you don’t need to be reminded of: don’t fuck it up.

With your hands on your lap, you slowly say, “He’s aware, sir, but it’s...a little complicated.”

“How so?”

“My uncle didn’t approve, and we’re currently not on speaking terms,” you explain with rehearsed ease. Just like he told you to. 

Back at his apartment, he had ordered you to stay away from your uncle, which he claims is to corroborate with the story of him not approving the match. To you, however, it’s likely just to keep you and your uncle from planning ways of escaping his clutches.

As if on cue, Coriolanus holds both your hands on your lap and squeezes, making it look like he’s trying to comfort you.

“Oh, you poor dear,” Ma whispers empathetically. 

“Well, that is absurd,” Mr Plinth nods to himself with his brows stitched together. “Acacius should know better than to interfere with the decision of two consenting adults! Quite frankly, I’m disappointed in him, given his speech back...” he seems to catch himself, possibly to refrain from mentioning a certain meeting you weren’t privy to.

“But, never mind that,” he amends. “Perhaps I should have a word with him.”

It’s Coriolanus who speaks this time. “I appreciate the gesture sir, but Nellie and I have decided to give Mr Innis time and space to come around. If that’s what he needs to accept our decision, we’re happy to give it to him.” Then he adds with a soft smile directed at you, attempting to lighten the mood, “The last thing I want is to put pressure on my future in-law.”

Mr Plinth hums to himself and bobs his head in affirmation. “You have a wise head on you, my boy. I think that’s for the better.” Turning to you, he says, “I’m sure your uncle just needs time to think. After all, it’s understandable – to him, you’re his daughter, and he loves his little girl too much he can’t bear the thought of losing you, even if it’s to a man who clearly loves you.”

“Thank you, sir,” you say.

Ma mirrors her husband’s words and adds, “Nellie, once he sees how genuine the love is between you two, I’m positive he’ll give you his blessing.”

Coriolanus thanks both for their support and takes this time to veer into another matter he’s rehearsed you with.

“I’d like to also announce, Ma, sir, that I’ve taken it upon myself to let my Nellie stay in my apartment for the time being, given the circumstances; this is my way of giving you a heads-up.”

Another one of his mandates which just cements your initial idea that he wants to keep you under his watchful eye to prevent you from running away. It’s despicable, but like anything he does, it’s efficient and well-thought-of. The idea, however, is met by silence, followed by the couple exchanging unsure looks. You can only hope that their more traditional views would mean they’d be against Coriolanus’s rather bold move.

Ma, who seems hesitant, asks him carefully, “Why would there be a need for Nellie to move into your home, Coriolanus? This...this is a huge, uh, step, even for engaged couples.”

Once more, Coriolanus’s eyes find yours, and he gives you this look that you interpret pretty well: ‘Do it exactly as I said.’

So you swallow any reservations in you and explain the ‘mutual’ decision.

“After I told Uncle Cas the news that Coriolanus and I got engaged that night, we got into an argument. He said a few things that didn’t sit well with me, so, I decided to just pack my things. I ran away yesterday at dawn. I didn’t think I could live with my uncle anymore, not when he couldn’t see fit to respect my choice.”

Lies. All lies. And you’re getting to be quite the good liar, yourself. Then again, you’re learning from one of the best out of all of them.

“Oh my,” Ma says as she places her fingers over her lips in distress. “I’m sorry, my sweet girl…” She reaches over to you to clasp your hand momentarily before letting go.

This is Coriolanus’s turn to interject. “I caught up to her that morning trying to board a train to her aunt in District 3.”

Ma lets out a gasp of shock and Mr Plinth raises his eyebrows in alarm. To appease the couple, you add, “I admit it was a brash move, but I had nowhere else to go.”

“Nellie,” Ma says in a chastising tone. “The Districts? It’s not safe, even if you have family there. You could’ve gone to us instead.”

“I’m sorry, Ma – ”

“Nevertheless,” Coriolanus cuts off, as he once more reaches for your hand over the table. “We talked it out, and I made a choice to offer her my place. I am willing to take her in, as is my duty as her future husband. Besides, better that, than gambling her safety in the Districts. I’d be more at ease if I knew she’s safe and I can protect her should the need arise.”

The Plinth couple, visibly concerned with your predicament, exchange looks, as they contemplate their verdict.

Please say no. Please say no.

Finally, The Plinth senior lets out an audible exhale and gives Coriolanus a firm nod.

Rats.

“A wise decision, then,” Strabo says with a smile of approval. “You have my wife and I’s full support, Coriolanus. I’m proud of you for stepping up, young man.”

The young man in question sighs in relief – another point on his proverbial scoreboard – as your insides wilt inwardly. To you, this just means you’d never get to interact with your Uncle Cas anytime soon, given that he’s now been painted as the villain in this fictional love story.

“Well, then, let’s not let this joyous day be eclipsed by mere unfortunate events,” Strabo declares. “We should be celebrating. You two youngsters, most especially!”

Ma continues to sip her tea and says cheerfully as her hand finds her husband’s, “Indeed, this is a wonderful occasion. Can you believe it, dear? It seems only like yesterday since Coriolanus announced over dinner that he’d set his eyes on Nellie, and now here we are!”

As you sip your tea in silence, your fiancé chuckles heartily over a bite of a chocolate macaron. “I know, Ma. Time does fly by. But so you don’t feel left out, sugarplum, I told them about a year ago that I planned on marrying you.”

You smile at him like a trained pet, but knowing he planned this a year ago, probably even more, is nothing but jarring. 

“And have you talked about when the wedding will be?” Strabo inquires.

His honorary son and his wife seem to pass each other knowing smiles, before Coriolanus responds, “Yes, sir. I originally intended for us to marry by January, but we’re now leaning towards the end of the year, perhaps by December, if all goes well.”

By the end of the year. You’re not even close to graduating college yet.

A lighthearted conversation ensues until five thirty, with everyone entirely oblivious to your inner turmoil. When Ma excuses herself from the table so she can supervise making dinner herself, you volunteer to help – Ma looks extremely pleased at this – just so you can get away from the stifling presence and keen scrutiny of your so-called groom-to-be.

“Come, Nellie dear, it’s time we had a chat, just the two of us girls,” she says with her eyes crinkling as she links both your arms. Gratefully, you allow yourself to be steered away into the kitchen where those piercing blue eyes can’t reach you and it’s only Ma’s reassuring presence that’s keeping you company.

There are maids already awaiting their orders when you enter, but Ma instructs them to retire early for the night so she can have the entire kitchen to herself. Once they exit, Ma instructs you to chop some onions.

“We’re having copadia* tonight,” Ma whispers excitedly as she begins toasting some peeled almonds on a skillet.

Curious about the dish, you ask, “Won’t that take three or more hours to finish, Ma?”

But she just winks at you and whispers mischievously, “I have my ways.”

You do as you’re told, quite looking forward to watching Ma perform her magic on the food she makes. You’re halfway through the onions, seeing to it that they’re sliced evenly, and while Ma begins crushing the toasted almonds in a marble mortar and pestle, she peers into your eyes with an anxious look.

“Nellie, tell me something: how are you in all of this?”

Maybe it’s the way she asked so gently, kind of like how you imagine your own mother would if she was alive, or maybe it’s because of the pressure building up inside you that you can no longer contain, and without your Uncle Cas, you’ve no one else to confide to – whatever it is forces a rush of bottled up emotions in the form of sobs you can barely control, making you pause your task completely. Familiar warmth envelops you, and you find yourself in Ma’s arms as she whispers into your ears.

“There, there, dear child, it’s quite alright,” she coos, rubbing your back to soothe you. “Your uncle will come around, you’ll see. It’s okay to feel overwhelmed, too; I felt quite the same before my wedding, but Strabo’s a good man; as is Coriolanus. I know he’ll do anything and everything to make you happy. And I’m sure you’ll make the perfect wife for him, and a loving mother to your future children.”

The warmth you’re basking in vanishes completely with her last sentence, making you let go first. Ma cups your face to wipe your tears with her thumbs, her kind eyes glimmering with unshed tears at what she perceives as your dilemma.

No, you can’t possibly tell her the truth about the kind of man she just let into her home and her family – the knowledge alone would break her.

So, instead, you whisper your thanks, and she returns to her side on the kitchen island to continue pounding the almonds. Likewise, you pick up the knife and resume slicing the last onion. 

“I’m sorry if this feels rather intrusive, Nellie dear, but I have to ask: are you pregnant?”

The knife in your hand misses your forefinger by about three millimetres.

“Oh, dear, careful, that was close – but my question stands, Nellie,” she says gently, pausing her task entirely. “You can tell me anything, sweetie, I hope you know that.”

Vehemently, you shake your head. “No, Ma, we haven’t…b-but, why do you ask?”

She looks over her shoulder, before leaning closer and saying with a softer voice, “I’m not supposed to tell you this, but we may have been planning your reception since several months ago – don’t worry, we can make changes to anything you don’t like – but I brought it up because I distinctly remember Coriolanus being fine with the wedding dating a year after, at most. So, I was merely curious about the rush; that’s all.”

If they had been planning this accursed wedding behind your back, what other plans are they making and setting in motion? The kitchen suddenly doesn’t seem so welcoming anymore, and even Ma’s presence is beginning to feel foreign, if not hostile, altogether.

“Nellie, you’re sure you and Coriolanus haven’t…? I mean, I understand young couples these days no longer wait until their wedding night, and as I gather, he and you have been spending so much time together alone, so it’s okay if you’ve...slept together and protection slipped both your minds.”

Your skin prickles at just the thought. “Oh, Ma, please don’t worry,” you say; you even try your best to put on a reassuring smile, which you hope doesn’t come out as looking constipated. “I swear we haven’t.”

I would know.

“Alright, then,” she relents, nodding to herself. “Coriolanus is every bit the gentleman he appears to be, it seems. Oh silly me! I must look like such a busybody to you, barging in on your privacy like this; I’m sorry, dear.”

“It’s okay, Ma, I know you’re only looking out for me.”

Thankfully, she makes no more mention of anything related to the concept of procreation, and the conversation moves on to her methods of improving the ancient recipe.

From there on, the rest of the evening with the Plinths becomes predictable. There’s good food, as usual, which you attempt to enjoy; then there’s the inevitable shift to discussions of your work in the upcoming Games; finally, more talk of wedding preparations, which, although completely foreign to you, you feign interest in. This cycle goes on until tea after dinner and you still engage, now mildly desensitised to it all, watching Mr and Mrs Plinth interact with their found family. Somewhere along the conversation, someone has turned on the television, which is tuned in on this wildlife documentary of a lovely bird’s nest, with the mother and the father bird tending to their hatchling. Almost transfixed while the chatter goes on around you, you watch the lovely bird family as the camera pans to this white snake which had burrowed underneath the nest. It had just donned on likeness of the little hatchling after swallowing it whole, and it seemed to bide its time with the intent of devouring the mother and father bird as well. You can’t fault them for their nurturing nature – no one can – but there isn’t much one can do to help fix the now-infested nest, either.

As the night grinds to a halt, you say your farewells to the Plinth couple and obediently allow yourself to be carted off back to the car which will take you to your new living space – it’s hardly deserving to be called a ‘home’ – and Coriolanus lets out a drawn-out, self-satisfied sigh. Cupping your face from the side, he plants lingering kisses on your temple and on your cheek before whispering his praise: “You did exceptionally well today, sugarplum.”

You simply purse your lips the entire car ride.

He accompanies you from the car all the way to his penthouse door. Punching his keycard in, he ushers you inside and leads you to the bedroom beside his.

“This is your room now,” he says. “I’ve taken the liberty of moving some of your things from your old apartment. If they missed packing some of your clothes, I can always buy you new ones.”

Then he adds that he’ll be with you shortly after running an errand. What errand, he doesn’t elaborate, and you barely get enough time to look around the bedroom when you hear the apartment door close. He’s locked you in again, and this time, you don’t need even to confirm for yourself.

Snow lands on top.

The phrase he’s come to accept as the truth rings over and over Coriolanus Snow’s head before his day has even begun.

It started this morning at seven when everything began to fall into place for him. When things became right again, when all his years of planning, fantasising, and scheming, had finally bore fruit.

Prunella Innis had at last become his.

Well, you were already his, to begin with, but it’s nice to have you essentially admit it out loud. Overall, Coriolanus is relieved to find his winning streak still ongoing – the Games, the Plinths, your uncle’s work, and now, you, but even he admits this isn’t over. There is so much more work to be done, so many things to prepare for – all of it to so he can lock in your future with him, secure the Snow bloodline and move on to further his political ambitions.

The image in his head is clear it almost looks like a memory: you, standing beside him, timelessly beautiful as you always are, your arm clinging to his, your other resting on the shoulder of a blond-haired child, his son; his perfect, beautiful family wholeheartedly supporting him right before a herd of Capitol residents as they celebrate his inauguration as the President of Panem…

Every day is a day closer to this goal, and there is no one else left who might get in his way.

“Mr. Innis.”

Almost no one else.

Coriolanus made a promise to you this morning – that if you went along with the story he wants to portray to the Plinths, he’d have your uncle released – a promise he almost regrets making, seeing Acacius Innis in his cell, leaning back on his chair with his feet on the table looking perfectly nonplussed, even bored, like he’s merely waiting for his turn at the doctor’s office.

The thing is, you had exceeded his expectations by a mile, so what kind of husband would he be if he isn’t true to his word?

Coriolanus closes the door behind him. No one else, save his future in-law, has to be privy to the words he has to say.

“Snow,” Acacius greets with a curl of his lips. The chains binding his hands rattle as he rights his posture. “How’s the digging through my stuff going?”

Coriolanus almost raises an eyebrow at this nonchalant display, but he knows better. He simply takes the vacant seat facing the presumed former rebel.

“I did not come here to interrogate you, Mr Innis,” he says. “I came here out of respect for the man who singlehandedly raised and cared for my future wife. I’d like to thank you for protecting her all these years.”

Acacius crosses his arms and just shrugs half-heartedly. “I was doing a pretty good job with it, too. At least, until very recently.”

Now this, Coriolanus is genuinely perplexed with. Acacius Innis has always been adamant about securing your future, and in that, they share a common goal. Why the older man can’t see his way is beyond him.

“You’re shielding her from what, exactly?” he asks, an incredulous tone bleeding in his voice. “Achieving her true potential? From living a good life?”

“From nasty little cunts like you, that’s what,” the Innis patriarch sneers. “You see, Snow, I’ve been trying to keep her away from your grubby fingers since I saw you set your eyes on her on the night of her twentieth birthday.”

Coriolanus can’t help but twist his lips in the same contemptuous smile. “You’ve done your part. You don’t have to worry. I’ll take over her protection from here on out. This time, only I get to turn away the other ‘nasty little cunts’, as you put it so eloquently.”

A mirthless chuckle erupts from Innis senior. “Oh, yeah, you’ll do a great fucking job, I’m deeply reassured. I guess I should be more worried now about the people you’ll poison along the way.”

So, he knows. Even in duress, he can’t help the sarcasm. Coriolanus wonders if you’ll argue with him like this in the course of your marriage. That aside, he shouldn’t be surprised; the Innis prick, after all, has managed well in meddling with his affairs as of late.

“You know. How?”

“Which one? Highbottom, or Braun? Last time I checked, I’m what you call a math teacher, so, it was just like putting two and two together.” Acacius leans forward as if to drive his point. “I saw right through you, Snow, and although Nellie was late to it, she figured you out. She was smart enough to see who you really are underneath that fancy garb.”

That’s true, Coriolanus admits. It’s a trait he deeply admires in you.

“She got that from you,” he concludes.

“Oh, she got more than that from me,” Acacius says proudly.

“Clearly. She’s got your sharp tongue and your penchant for rebellion.”

“Good.” Acacius Innis laces his fingers as if he’s addressing a mere student. “And I’m assuming you’ll purge it all out of her. Anything that makes her who she is – save her brains, of course, because she’s the only one around here who can do what I can – but everything else, you’ll stamp out of her, so you can fit her into your perfect little world and put her in your high shelf like your perfect little doll. I suppose, compared to what you did to that Plinth boy, it’s a hell of an upgrade, isn’t it?”

Ah, so he’s deduced that, as well. Perhaps even before you did, given his free access to all the Citadel laboratories. 

“You led her to the Citadel that day. You knew she’d make that connection herself.”

“Like you said: Nellie has my intuition.”

“Why did you do it?”

Acacius raises a derisive eyebrow. “You see, Snow, you’re not as clever as you make yourself out to be, because if you were, you’d have figured that out yourself. I raised that child like my own, but I’d rather her be dead than see her in the arms of an evil psychopath such as you.”

This time, it’s Coriolanus’s turn to get under the Innis prick’s skin, and he knows just where to strike a blow. Leaning forward to rub it in his face, he says, “Well, if I’m not as clever, Mr. Innis, she wouldn’t be living in my house right now, dutifully waiting for me to come home.”

An image of you lying in his bed in his choice of lingerie invades his mind, but he shuts that part of himself down. Plenty of time to indulge in that later.

If your uncle is fazed, however, he doesn’t show any outward signs.

“That must feel nice, right?” the Innis senior asks. “Having someone who loves you await your return? That must be how Sejanus felt as well. That kid was always writing to her. I risked a lot to make sure their letters don’t get intercepted, well except for one, which I think you have.”

“Ah, the letters. Is that how they avoided detection? Your little band of rebels doing all the leg work? I hope it was worth sacrificing your immunity for.”

“You did your research, I’m impressed. Have you cracked their code, yet?”

Unfortunately, no matter how hard Coriolanus tried, the code has since evaded him. A little roadblock, sure, but an inconsequential one in his eyes.

“The meaning of those letters doesn’t matter now,” he says dismissively. “Nellie is mine, and I think it’s in your best interests to accept that. After all, I’d like our children to have their grandfather around.”

The Innis senior just nods thoughtfully at his jab. What might make this old man crack, Coriolanus has yet to discover.

“But I also think it’s in your best interests to know that every letter they exchanged ended in the same gist: that they’ll be with each other soon to make a difference in this world. Nellie loved that boy you betrayed and, in consequence, executed.” 

And then the meddling, cunning Innis prick smiles – the kind of smile Coriolanus loathes to his core – one that his old self has been given a lot to remind him just how powerless he was then. “You may have her, marry her, have children with her, but you’ll never have her heart. Which begs the question: do you truly own something if you don’t own it in every sense of the word?”

If Coriolanus Snow could just wrap his hands around the fucking prick’s throat, he would. At this point, he has to remind himself to keep his composure; he’d rather drink an entire bottle of rat poison than admit the Innis prick has hit a rather sensitive nerve.

He made you a promise.

So, he simply returns the venomous smile as best as he could and says, “Our plan is to be wed in six months’ time.”

“You mean ‘your’ plan,” Acacius says under his breath.

Coriolanus decides to ignore that. “We have decided that, due to your disapproval of our relationship, Nellie will stay with me and have no contact with you until you publicly announce your blessing. We would appreciate it if you’d attend both the engagement, which we should be announcing soon, and the marriage to show support and solidarity between our families. We’ll let you know when they’ll be.”

“I hope you get good cake. You already know her favourite,” Acacius says casually.

Seeing no further need to acknowledge him, Coriolanus finally gets to his feet.

“This isn’t over, Snow.”

Nor does he see the need to respond to that either. He wordlessly exits the cell and motions the peacekeeper standing on guard to remove Innis senior’s handcuffs. He’s fulfilled his promise to you, but perhaps he can think of other ways he can get Acacius Innis as far away as possible from ruining what he’s worked so hard to build (save killing him because that would just break you).

All Coriolanus needs now is for him to make a single misstep.

You groan audibly as you wrench the doors to your closet open.

Having come out of the shower from the guestroom’s private bathroom, you proceeded to raid the adjacent walk-in closet for your pyjamas, but you didn’t find a single pair of them anywhere. Everything else the movers didn’t seem to miss.

So, when you hear Coriolanus arrive, you step out of the room clad in only a bathrobe barely reaching your knees, hoping he knows where they put your pyjamas.

“Those looked old, so I bought you new sleep clothes instead,” he replies as he enters the guestroom closet. He pulls back the last cabinet door, which you’ve already checked.

“There’s nothing there but – ”

You stop midsentence as he pulls out a silk, crimson nightgown trimmed with black lace at the hem.

“I can’t sleep in that,” you protest.

Shrugging, he just throws the nightgown on the bed with a playful smirk and says, “Either that or keep the bathrobe on.”

At least he exits your room completely and closes the door behind him to give you privacy. Grumbling to yourself, you put on the nightgown to find that it’s a few inches shorter than the bathrobe. How bad can it be, you wonder? You’re just going to bed, anyway.

Even with the nightgown and the bed covers proving to be comfortable, sleep evades you for the next few hours. All you can think of as you toss and turn in your bed is Uncle Cas. Has Coriolanus upheld his end of the bargain? Has he ordered your uncle’s release? Is your uncle back at home and resting?

You place an ear to your door to listen for signs that Coriolanus is still awake. It’s awfully quiet outside, so you risk stepping out of the bedroom and noiselessly amble around the apartment for a single platinum-blond hair of him, but he isn’t in any of the open rooms you peek into.

“This suits you much better than the bathrobe, sugarplum.”

You gasp as you turn around, finding yourself inches away from bumping into Coriolanus Snow himself. He has to bend a little to peer into your face given his massive height, so you almost cower at the way he leans into your space. He’s gotten so close you catch a whiff of his usual rose perfume along with notes of something else you’ve never smelled on him before.

“Coryo, have you been drinking?” you ask.

He flashes you a smirk as he replies, “A little. I had a tough conversation a while ago.”

You can’t help but tilt your head curiously at him. Who and what could’ve ruffled the feathers of the great Coriolanus Snow?

“What happened to my uncle? Where is he?”

“Why would you want to know that? What purpose would it serve you?”

You almost groan in annoyance at him needlessly beating around the bush. You just had the roughest day in your life, being engaged to him, and you’re not sure you can handle a tipsy version of him. “Coryo, just...stop jerking me around and tell me. Please.”

He just hums, walks into the living room and plops down on the loveseat he seems to favour. He pats the empty space beside him and says, “Come and sit with me.”

So, you do, while keeping as much of a distance between you as much as the sofa can give.

“What would you give me in return, sugarplum?”

“What?”

“Quid pro quo,” he says with an increasingly wider smirk. “I can keep the knowledge to myself, but if you’re willing to make this interesting…”

Coriolanus inches towards you as he draws closer. Those blue hazy eyes are fixed on your lips, and you shudder inwardly as his meaning dawns on you.

“Kiss me,” he gruffly whispers. “Or I could just go to bed…it’s an office day tomorrow, after all…”

But you have to know what has become of Uncle Cas, right? So, you swallow that lump in your throat, close your eyes and place your lips over his.

Surprisingly, he remains stationary and even allows you to break the quick kiss.

“Your first kiss was him,” he then blurts out. It comes out almost accusatory.

Oh no.

“How was it?”

“W-what – ?”

“How was it?” He grabs your arms, seemingly determined to get an answer. “Show me.”

“This has nothing to do with – ”

“I said show me.”

The way he growls that command of his and the manner in which he almost shakes your form shows you he isn’t taking ‘no’ for an answer. Whatever point he’s trying to make, he isn’t letting go of it anytime soon, so once more, you kiss him, letting your lips linger a little more on his before letting go.

Exactly the way Sejanus did.

Coriolanus Snow just managed to tarnish a cherished memory of yours without even lifting a finger.

And yet, he just scoffs like it’s nothing. You try to wrench your arm away, but this time, he initiates the kiss – a longer, deeper kiss, pushy, almost, with his tongue demanding entrance to your mouth. When you keep your lips shut, he pulls away.

“Remember that fight we had?” he whispers into your lips. “You said I took everything from Sejanus. Not everything, then. Not yet. You were Sejanus’s love. His girl.” Then, as if to further make a mockery of your dead first love, he lets out a deep, throaty laugh, continuing, “I wish he was alive today if only to see his first and only love in my arms, kissing me as he did on the day he last saw you.”

Humouring him by sitting on the same couch was a mistake. You struggle against his hold, but he just pulls you closer.

“Let me go – ”

You lean further away from his face, but you don’t get too far away, not when his grip on your arms is still vicelike. 

“Now, I get to do so much more than he ever did with you...”

In a single swoop, Coriolanus manages to pin you underneath his frame on the loveseat with your legs awkwardly hanging on the side, earning a yelp from you. Your heartbeat is pounding so loud in your ears as his warm breaths fan the side of your face – he’s taken your arms and pinned them above your head while he leans over your shaking form. Your attempts to budge are met with a displeased growl over your ear.

“Coryo, stop – ” you manage to breathe out, but you’re instantly cut off.

He’s just encased your lips with his, and his tongue roams your mouth hungrily – with every move of his lips, yours is forced to move as well. When he’s had enough, that mouth and its heated kisses travel to your jaw, finally allowing you to breathe.

But instead of an exhale, a choked sob escapes you.

Coriolanus pulls away reluctantly, adjusting his grip on your arms as he peers into your tear-filled eyes.

Finally, he states matter-of-factly, “You’re a virgin.”

Despite your distress at the vulnerable position you’re in, you retort, “That’s none of your business.”

“But it is. You’ll be my wife soon. I suppose I can tell you about my past to make it easier for you. There’s that one in the back alley, that was my first; you already know that. Then, a few after that...whores...”

His head dips into your neck, and he goes on to whisper over your exposed skin, “I want you to know that while I fucked them, all I could think of was you.”

Ignoring your frantic plea, Coriolanus angles your head and proceeds to lick, suckle, and bite all over the column of your neck to your collarbones. His bites become increasingly harsher, and from above you, you feel him grasp both your wrists in one hand, while his other travels downwards, roaming the side of your body and reaching the hem of your nightgown. That hand slowly caresses your thigh, lifting the gown in the process. As if that isn’t enough, he bucks his hips into yours, trapping you further underneath him and almost suffocating you in his warmth.

“Please, Coryo, stop…please…”

Your pained sobbing and begging seem to get to him. Coriolanus pulls away at last, getting one more look at you before he admits, “You’re right. We’ll have plenty of time after the wedding.” He pauses before adding as an afterthought, “Oh, your uncle has been released and all his confiscated belongings have been returned to him. I’ll see to it that your bag is returned to me, as well.”

You don’t get to see his face with your eyes full of unshed tears, so you only vaguely see him draw close and feel the chaste kiss he plants on your trembling lips before he gets off you and releases you completely.

As soon as he does, you scamper back into your room and push the lock on the doorknob. Still gasping for air in between crying, your eyes automatically land on a shelf in the room. You don’t why, but somehow you know it’d be there:

Your little bunny plush.

Somehow, the sobbing dies down as you make a grab for it, thanking whoever packed your stuff for somehow picking it up and adding it to the pile. You drag yourself and the bunny plush to the bed and burrow under the sheets. You hug Bunny as close as you can, squeezing it harder than you’ve ever held it.

Your uncle had been released from his cell in the Citadel, so that’s one problem crossed out, at the very least.

Just when you’re about to close your eyes, however, your fingers manage to grope at something solid – almost the side of your palm, thin and square – inside your bunny plush.

Enter Level 13

Author notes:

Please reblog and comment, it's always appreciated!

*copadia - ancient Roman beef stew

Alrigt, more Snowball assholery xD there are so many things in this fic I'd like to make commentary on, but please comment whatchutink will happen next lol

#dark!coriolanus snow #dark!coriolanus snow x reader #Young!coriolanus snow #young!coriolanus snow x reader #named!reader #or #x OC2ndPOV #18+ only #dark!coriolanus snow fic #dark!coriolanus #dark!coriolanus fic #dark!fic

[dotieeee]

The Gamemaker's Apprentice

Level 11

Pairing: Dark!Young!Coriolanus Snow x You, named!Reader

Overall Warnings:

NON-CON, DUB-CON, Dark!Young!Coriolanus Snow, Snow himself should be a warning, lots of blackmailing, gaslighting, manipulation, obsession, possesiveness, eventual forced marriage, eventual loss of virginity, breeding kink, canon-compliant major character death, reader is named but has no physical descriptions in the fic so one might also consider her an OC but in 2nd POV, will have canon inconsistencies, drugging, somnophilia, and other stuff that may be added

Masterlist

Level 11 Warnings:

The blackest of mails, like vanta-blackmail lolol

Replay Level 10

Ready? Level 11 Start:

Acacius Innis runs his fingers through his hair as soon as you finish telling your story.

You had just told him everything that transpired that day, save your mentor’s…gestures of affection. You ensured that he heard only what he needed to know: about his program being seized by the Citadel, you being promoted – perhaps so you could be kept under further surveillance – and about how you had said a few scornful words to Coriolanus Snow that you’re aware may bite you back in the ass.

Your uncle never spoke a word the entire time and chose to lend his ear instead.

He sighs, slaps his knees lightly and gets up from the couch, muttering to himself, ‘I’m getting a little too old for this.’

He saunters to the kitchen, emerging a few minutes later with two steaming mugs in either hand. He places one on the coffee table, and the other he makes you cup with both hands. He then encases your hands in his as he kneels before you.

Mmm. Hot chocolate. Almost as comforting as your uncle’s presence.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you from all this,” he says in the most contrite expression you’ve seen on him. “I want you to know that I tried, I really did.”

But he has nothing to apologise for; he never has. “You led me to the Citadel that day, didn’t you?”

He lifts a corner of his mouth wanly. “I wanted you to see for yourself what kind of man you were dealing with. Looking back now, I wish I could’ve done more. I could’ve done so much more, Nellie.”

“No, uncle, you did everything you could. You always do. I couldn’t have asked for anything else,” you assure him. Your uncle has never failed you, but you have failed him time and again, and this is one of those instances. “I know you tried helping me without making it look like you were mollycoddling me.”

He tilts his head in agreement as he chuckles a little. “Yeah, well, you were always yapping about how you were ‘adult enough’ to handle things on your own,” he says fondly. “You were always independent, even when you were a little girl.”

Your tears have already abated back at the dumpster, but this time, they come back with an even more brutal force.

“I know…The truth is, uncle, I don’t think I can this time…I can’t do this anymore…” you choke on your own tears as your grip on the mug shakes.

“Hey, hey,” he says, putting down your mug on the coffee table. He cups your cheeks to wipe the tears away. “The fuck you can’t. You’re the bravest girl I know, Nellie. Now, I made a promise to your dad that I will look after you. And I will, until the day I die, plumcake.”

His expression turns sombre as he stands, running his fingers through his greying hair.

“That’s why I’m sending you to District 3.”

You whip your head up sharply at him.

“What?” Why does it sound like he’s sending you alone?  “You’re coming with, right? Uncle, you have to.”

“I can’t. I have to stay here.”

“Why?”

He sighs deeply as he takes his seat back on the sofa. “It’s much more complicated for me, plumcake. I’ll tell you some other time,” he adds, seeing the look of protest on your face. “Right now, it’s important that we get you there without anyone finding out. I can send the message to your aunt tonight. Listen to me carefully:

“You need to pack lightly, and we need to get to the earliest train leaving straight for District 3. That’s at five in the morning. Your aunt will pick you up when you get there, and she’ll set you up somewhere they can’t trace you.”

Uncle Cas leans forward and threads his fingers together in contemplation. Once again, the lines on his face and the bags under his eyes become more apparent. You worry that if you go, he’ll be left to deal with the aftermath of your actions.

“What if they, or he, think you helped me escape? Why can’t you come with me instead?”

“Then we make it look like you simply ran away,” Uncle Cas says casually. “You can even leave a note and shit. And don’t worry about me. Your uncle is a lot tougher than he looks.”

He flashes you a reassuring smile, before adding, “I will follow when I can, plumcake. Okay?”

But he says it in this tone that he uses on you when he’s hiding something, and he just wants you to let go of the matter. However, you are also well aware that if you don’t leave tomorrow for District 3, there is a chance you may never leave the Capitol again.

So you nod and begin stuffing your bag with essentials. You had to ensure it was an easy thing to grab if you ever needed to be quick on your feet. You pause when you get to the bookshelf. Your eyes immediately land on the far end of the arithmetic textbooks you’ve collected over the years:

Sejanus’s book of condensed romantic novels.

If you’re going to spend an indefinite amount of time to yourself hiding like an outlaw, you might as well take something of Sejanus with you. You grab the book and hide it among the clothes you packed.

You barely get any sleep in the next hours counting to four thirty, and when your uncle knocks on your bedroom door, you’re ready to go in ten seconds.

Your uncle manages to drive you himself to the train station without drawing attention, but as a precaution, he drops you off a few blocks away from the station building. Before you exit the car, he gives you his final instructions.

“I can’t be seen with you inside the station, and that building has cameras inside and out, so you’ll have to walk all the way there, I’m afraid. Just in case, I will park outside and wait; that way, if they ask, I’ll tell them you ran away and I’m looking for you. Got it?”

You nod once and gulp. This can’t be the last time you’ll see him in a long while, right? Nonetheless, you give him the tightest hug you can muster.

“Uncle, please be careful, okay? Video-call me write to me, or whatever, please?” you implore. You try to hold in the tears threatening to burst, but it’s getting close to impossible.

“I’ll be fine, plumcake, and yes, I’ll call every day if I can. Don’t cry now, you’ll be fine,” he whispers, patting your back and then pulling away, ruffling your hair as he urges, “Now, go. I’ll feel a lot better when you’re with your aunt.”

As you step out of the car, you glance behind you one more time just as your uncle drives off to a corner and out of sight. You wipe away any tears in your eyes and on your cheeks, adjust your bag, and walk as briskly as you can to the train station.

You keep a straight face as you go through the iris scanning at the peacekeeper station. The peacekeeper waves you forward once it’s finished and even gives you a polite salute, and your shoulders sag in relief once you’re several feet away. The ticketing booths are almost empty save for a few lone would-be passengers. The waiting area looks even more sparse. Only the freight section, located on the other side of the building, seems to be seeing any action, with the porters busy fork lifting large wooden crates to and from the freight carriages.

By the time you walk up to a booth, there is no one else on the line, so you ask the ticket agent for an express to District 3. You hand her the money in exchange for the ticket and casually proceed to the waiting area. You sigh as you sit and put down your bag. Filled with unease, which you guess will only abate when you’re inside a carriage, with the train moving as fast as it can all the way to District 3 where your aunt would be waiting, you check your watch every five minutes.

Ten-minute mark. Only ten minutes more and you’ll never see Coriolanus Snow ever again.

You almost jump as you feel a tap on the shoulder from behind. You turn to find the same peacekeeper who saluted you at the station, peering at you sheepishly.

“I’m sorry to bother, Miss Innis – I received the word late, you see – but my commander would like to have a word with you in his office. Please follow me,” he says.

If you had no reason to worry a while back, you have now.

Without causing a fuss, you follow the peacekeeper, who leads you to a closed office door on the station building’s second floor. He knocks twice and opens the door for you when he hears a voice call ‘come in.’ 

The door reveals a spacious office littered with desks that are currently empty, save the one at the far end occupied by another peacekeeper in his fifties scribbling something on paper and, right before the desk, sitting with his arms crossed and his face unreadable, someone else who  isn’t  supposed to be there.

“Uncle Cas?...”

He shakes his head once and gives you a look he hasn’t used on you in a long time:

Don’t ask.

You will your heart to stop pounding. This must just be protocol, right? They must’ve gotten a little more strict with district travel these days.

The peacekeeper at the desk, a commander judging by his uniform, smiles at you exasperatedly.

“Ah, there she is, your little runaway. You gave your uncle quite the scare, young lady,” he says, clicking his tongue after. “I found your uncle lurking in his car, saying he’s looking for you.”

“Commander Moss. You’ve met my niece before, I’m glad you found her,” he pretends to send you a disapproving look. You wipe the confused expression off your face. Showing any more could mean trouble.

“Yes, certainly we did. I don’t know who revoked her inter-district travel pass, but whoever did it, did it just in time.”

Oh no.

Commander Moss gets to his feet and announces, “Very well! Now that I’ve got the two of you here, I can now proceed with the real reason you were brought here.”

“Oh?” your uncle merely puts on an air of curiosity, but your instincts are telling you there’s something amiss.

The commander exhales as he paces behind his desk “Acacuis, there is no easy way of putting this, but the truth is, we were told a few hours ago to be on the lookout for  both of you.”

Your heart drops to your stomach.

Coriolanus got to them first.

Uncle Cas, however, maintains a curious facade. “Huh. Would you happen to know why?”

Commander Moss grimaces. “I’m afraid not, I’m sorry. And that’s not all,” he pauses as he scratches his temple with a finger, clearly uncomfortable with the information. “Aside from being told of your niece’s inter-district travel privileges being rescinded, I was also ordered to escort the two of you to the Citadel.”

Your Uncle Cas, ever the calm one, shrugs and says, “Alright. I wonder what it could be. In any case, Hubertus, we are at your disposal.” He takes to his feet, and you follow.

“I appreciate your cooperation. Part of our instructions was to keep this...matter as discreet as possible; this makes it a lot easier for all of us. I’ll drive you there myself; please follow me.”

The ride is quiet, and your attempts at getting your uncle’s attention are all but ignored, with him refusing to meet your eyes the entire drive to the Citadel.

As soon as you’re inside the building, you and your uncle are flanked by three peacekeepers each – one of them even confiscates your bag – and escorted to the elevator, dropping you off on a floor you’ve never been in. Before he’s pulled away by his escorts, your uncle tells you with a collected smile, “Everything is going to be okay, Nellie.”

Again with that tone.

They bring you to what seems to be an interrogation cell, dimly lit and empty except for what you suspect is a two-way mirror covered by blinds, and a table at the centre fitted with handcuffs. You don’t struggle when they place the cuffs around your wrists, but you keep asking them questions – where they took your uncle, why they’re keeping you here – all of which go unanswered. With nothing else to do except wait, you stare at the clock above the two-way mirror.

Five fifteen. The train would’ve already left, and along with it, your chance at leaving all this behind.

You were so close.

You rest your forehead on your arm and close your eyes, if only to hinder the incoming headache.

You’re jerked awake at the sound of the door closing and the footsteps that reverberate in the tiny space. As if this day can’t get any worse this early, a voice you had hoped you’d never hear again invades the space.

“Nellie. I came as soon as I could,” Coriolanus Snow flashes you a grin from across the table, with a hand inside his usual crisp, clean pantsuit pocket, the other clutching the leather briefcase he always brings to work.

He looks almost normal, smiling at you warmly like last night didn’t happen. That smile of his just raises the hairs on the back of your neck.

“I’m sorry we have to meet under these circumstances, especially after our little rift last night,” he says with a tilt of his head, his eyes unblinking and never leaving yours. “I want you to know that I will do everything I can to help you with this...matter at hand.”

You spare a glance at the clock. Just six twenty-five.

“I’ve been here for almost two hours. What ‘matter’ are we talking about here? What is going on? Where’s my uncle?”

Coriolanus just tuts. “That, and more, is what I came here to discuss. All in good time, sugarplum.”

He takes the seat facing you, takes a folder out of his briefcase and places it on the desk. He pushes it towards you, and motions to it, saying, “Open it and read.”

Narrowing your eyes at him, you comply much as your cuffs allow you to and gape openly at the contents of the folder.

A photo of a young Acacius Innis in his early twenties, wearing tattered, dirty overalls and in the middle of lighting a cigarette, is paper clipped at the corner of the first page, and under the usual label ‘Classified,’ his name, family history, and background – some of which you already know, some of which redacted and crossed out completely in black ink.

You blink twice at the section named 'Criminal Background Synopsis.'

Criminal Category:  Rebel, Class A

Code Name:  The Confectioner

Criminal status:  AT LARGE

Known criminal organisations:  The Unresistance

 

The list goes on with names of your uncle’s presumed ‘criminal associates’ for two more pages, most of which are redacted and none that you recognise. The next page is a chart containing the organisation’s member hierarchy, and you check at the bottom for your uncle’s name, only to find it isn’t there. Scanning carefully once more, your eyes land at the very top.

There it is:  Acacius E. Innis, President/Leader.

To say you’re shocked is beyond an understatement.

Coriolanus doesn’t bother hiding the mirth in his eyes at your reaction. He begins lightly, “You see, I’ve been acquainting myself with your family history, and I uncovered a lot of interesting facts.”

This can’t be right.  Your uncle openly discusses his disdain of the government around you, but a rebel? And a leader of a rebellious front, to boot?

The third page is a scanned photo of the group’s sigil: a raven perched on an olive branch, with the Latin phrase ‘In Tenebris’ in all caps at the bottom.

“It means ‘In the Shadows,’” he explains. “The Unresistance was an elite resistance group made up of smart, highly competent people from all over Panem. As their motto suggests, this group takes the battle behind the scenes instead of the frontlines. They held respectable positions in society: company shareholders, factory owners, teachers, doctors, and many other specialists; some of them still do, to this day. They infiltrated government institutions using their intellect and ability to blend seamlessly within their workplace. They were a network of formidable spies who gathered and traded intelligence for and with other rebellious groups. Intelligence reports say they were smart to disband as soon as the war broke out. They simply vanished, using their positions and money to bury evidence against them.”

Uncle Cas is a spy? He most definitely has the aptitude for it. But if this holds any truth, why hasn’t he been prosecuted, especially with all this evidence?

Coriolanus answers this as if he just read your mind. “In your uncle’s case, he was pardoned by President Ravenstill in exchange for his loyalty and his services to the Capitol. Your uncle was given immunity with the condition that he never engages with anything considered to be subversive to Capitol authority.”

He leans forward with his fingers laced on the desk. 

“Your uncle accepted the deal right after your parents died. Do you know what that means, Nellie?” He asks softly.

“He moved to the Capitol for me.”

Acacius Innis gave up on his ideals to raise his dead brother’s daughter all by himself. What if you caused his divorce, too? Are you about to be responsible for his hanging, as well?

“As touching as that may be,” Coriolanus interrupts your train of thought. “The fact remains: your letters to Sejanus were never monitored and were never sent through the official communications channels. This is evidence that your uncle was, or still is, in contact with them, therefore violating the conditions of his pardon.

“Now, imagine if someone gets ahold of this intel. If someone sends word to the president.” He finishes his speech with a smug expression, knowing he has the upper hand.

This makes you wonder: when has he  not  had the upper hand?

“By ‘someone,’ you mean you,” you scoff. “Did you revoke my inter-district pass, too?”

“It’s the protocol for a person of interest.”

“What is there for you to gain from all of this? You got your stupid program; it’s now official Citadel property. And if this is about the things I said last night, forget it: I’m not taking them back, and I’m not apologising.”

Coriolanus just lets out this sardonic hum, his smirk growing ever wider. “Did your uncle ever tell you about what happened during our meeting at Strabo’s home?”

You narrow your eyes at him as you recall that night. Your uncle had been so mad about it but had refused to disclose anything.

“That business proposal was supposed to bring the Snows, the Innises, and the Plinths great benefit. An arrangement to join our families together by way of marriage...”

He drums his fingers on the table while you digest, with much difficulty, what he just unveiled. 

“You and I, Nellie.”

No.  No, it can’t be.

“Who’s idea was that?” You ask in a hushed tone. It’s Strabo or Ma. It has to be.

“It was mine.”

Fuck.

“I pitched it to Strabo, and he agreed with it,” he goes on. “Enthusiastically, in fact. He was eager to pitch it to Acacius Innis, but no surprises here: your uncle blatantly refused. He said he’s giving you free rein on your life, and that if you were to get married, he wanted it to be of your own volition. Sweet, but from that day on, I knew he’d get in my way.”

“So this – all of this – it’s not about the program anymore...”

“Finally,” he praises. “It took you a while longer than I thought. Sure, it was my task to secure for the Citadel this vital piece of intellectual property, but...”

What is the end goal of the game?  Uncle Cas’s voice echoes in your head.

“My end goal was you.”

Coriolanus bares his teeth in a wicked grin, taking obvious pleasure at the way your breathing evidently shallows. You fight the bile rising to your throat and dig your fingernails into your palms since there’s absolutely nothing else you can do.

“It still is, in fact. So you hurt me a little when you insinuated last night that my feelings weren’t true, but that doesn’t matter. You were angry and I can see why. You wanted to protect your uncle’s work, and you simply lashed out when you couldn’t.”

He reaches from across the table to unfurl your fingers and hold your hands. Not exactly the most romantic thing, what with you in handcuffs and unable to swat his hand away.

“That’s why I came here,” he says. He draws circles on the back of your hand with his thumb as he continues, “I understand your actions and I’m willing to help you. I can fix all of this.”

“Don’t you mean to say you’re going to blackmail me again?”

Coriolanus’s grip on you tightens by a fraction. His initial warmth vanishes as he lets go of your hands and abruptly gets to his feet, his jaw tensing and his shoulders drawn back. With him gripping the edge of the table, he leans into your space.

“Let’s not argue semantics here, sugarplum. You are wearing out my patience,” he hisses. “I tried earning your trust so I could do this the right way: court you, bide my time, and then propose... Remember that you forced my hand in this.”

He flips the folder to its final page and pins it with his forefinger. “This is a report I drafted to formally inform Ravenstill of your uncle’s backslide.”

The leer on his face turns diabolical as he lays down his ultimatum:

“I am willing to destroy this report if you agree to marry me.”

You stare vacantly at the paper, not even bothering to read its contents. “This is your move? To force me to marry you?”

“Again, semantics. This is a big decision you’re about to make, so I will give you twenty-four hours to accept.”

���And if I don’t?”

And yet, as the question spills from your lips, the answer comes flooding in the form of flashes inside your head: your uncle climbing the steep steps of the gallows, a peacekeeper placing a black piece of cloth over his head as he readies the rope –

You’re taken away from the mental image by the sound of blinds lifting. He’s just adjusted the covers to reveal the occupant on the other side of the two-way mirror: 

Your Uncle Cas, sitting behind a table identical to yours, handcuffed like you, and looking extremely bored out of his wits.

Coriolanus just sneers at the sight.

“Then, I simply send my report to the president. Now, I doubt Ravenstill would be willing to spend time and fortune investigating the matter just to exonerate a former rebel, so I imagine your uncle will charged at once for conspiracy and treason.” The blinds close, and he circles the table slowly with his hands behind his back while he counts the ways you’ll surely be fucked once that stupid paper gets to the president.

“His assets, and in turn, the entire Innis Tech company, will be seized by the government of Panem, leaving you with next to nothing. The Innis name, forever besmirched and labelled traitors. You will be expelled from the University. No company will hire you, no matter your qualifications.”

He eventually reaches you and bends down to whisper over your ear:

“Everything your parents died for, everything your uncle worked for, will be stripped from you, all because you made the wrong choice.”

He pulls away from you with that self-satisfied smirk you’d give an arm to wipe off his face.

“Don’t look at me like that, sugarplum,” he tuts. “I am simply trying to make you see the consequences should you decline my proposal.”

You stare at him with all the loathing you can muster, but you doubt its efficacy; there isn’t much threat a handcuffed woman almost backed into a corner can do, after all.

“Why are you doing this?” So many things you want to say, and your brain settles for this train of thought. “You can have anyone you want in the Capitol. So why? Why go through these lengths when any other girl would willingly throw themselves at your feet?”

The expression on Coriolanus’s face shifts to something unreadable for a fraction of a second, but his mouth tilts once more into what seems like a pained grin, his eyes turning glossed over and – dare you say – gentle.

“You wouldn’t believe it if I told you,” he says softly. “But this I can tell you: nobody else compares, or even comes close.”

He paces the length of the room once more, just across the desk from you.

“I liked our camaraderie. Compared with other people, I felt like I could speak my mind with you to some degree. It’s refreshing, really, and for a time you were open to me in a similar way. I find that fascinating about you. You’re not afraid to speak your mind, and you do it so eloquently. You’re one of the smartest, most intuitive people I have ever met. Who wouldn’t want that for themselves?

“But then, you had to pull away.”

Every ounce of softness he just showed you vanishes, replaced by displeasure, staring you down with a curled lip at what he perceives to be a slight against him.

Is he referring to the kiss at the greenhouse, perhaps?

“That night at the party,” he continues, confirming your thoughts. “You knew and you played along. You had a plan, except it backfired in the end, didn’t it?”

He lets out a short, taunting laugh.

“I hope you learn something from this, at least: snow lands on top. Frankly, if you had the connections and the resources I had, you’d be a worthy adversary.”

Coriolanus strokes your cheek with a finger. You turn your head away just so you can keep from looking into those intense blue eyes, now genuinely fearful of being swallowed whole. Your action does not deter him. He sits on the table inches away from where you’re handcuffed.

“Watching you hold your ground against me...it was  exhilarating. I’m almost sorry it has come to an end; I was enjoying myself.”

Then those hands firmly encase the back of your neck and the sides of your face, his face drawing closer until his lips brush over your ear.

“You play the chase so beautifully,” he whispers breathlessly. “You’re beautiful, Prunella Innis. You’re almost perfect, now.”

When he pulls away, he observes your face for a moment, his hands still clasping both sides of your face. You don’t know whether to cry or lash out, so your face freezes with a glare and your body stays rigid, hoping you can convey just how much you despise him without saying anything.

He clicks his tongue but seems mildly amused. “Don’t be like that, sugarplum. You should be thanking me. Remember our little lovers’ tiff a few hours ago? I stand by what I said: I made you who you are. You’re perfect now because of me. Do you think you’d be able to find out just what you’re capable of without me pushing you to your limit? I made you. I own you,” he says as his thumb strokes your lower lip. “My  perfect little sugarplum.”

“If you’re that addicted to control,” you muster spitefully, “What good will it do you if you marry me, knowing I could cause you this much trouble?”

He gets off the table, now with a slight spring in his step as he flashes a conceited grin.

“Oh, but you won’t, Nellie. Not anymore, at least. I have the only thing – person, really – you hold of value. That should be enough for me to teach you to toe the line.”

You blink and face the floor to forcefully rid yourself of invasive imagery involving him harming your uncle just so he can get his way. But the grip on your chin makes you gaze into his crazed orbs: nothing but a bottomless blue abyss where he intends for you to fall freely. Once more, you’re subjected to his covetous scrutiny, making you shiver inwardly and wish you had heeded your instincts warning about him from the very beginning.

“Imagine,” he breathes, “One of the most accomplished, most brilliant women in all of Panem, submitting wholly to me? I suppose you’re right: I am addicted to control, and controlling you, forcing you on your knees before me, and  only me, is my morphling.”

And then, Coriolanus releases you. He picks up the folder and secures it inside his briefcase. A prized piece of family history, now reduced to mere blackmail material.

“Twenty-four hours. That will be – ” he glances at the clock above him – “Seven AM. Give me a call then, and we’ll talk.”

You really should’ve trusted your guts about him from the get-go.

From his pocket, he takes out a key and uses it to free you from your shackles on the table.

“They shouldn’t have handcuffed you like this,” he says as he pulls your wrist back to inspect it. “I’ll have a word with them. Come, let’s get you home. Judging by your eyes, you had not slept the entire night, either.”

He uses the same wrist he’s gripping to lead you away, but you don’t budge. You can’t leave when your Uncle Cas is still in the other cell.

Coriolanus guesses your concern correctly and assures you, “Your uncle will not be harmed while in custody; you have my word.”

“When can he go home, then? Why should he still stay here?”

“Leverage, sugarplum,” he smirks. “And he can go home once we’ve…settled this matter between us. For now, consider your decision of my proposal at home when you’re well rested.”

“And my bag? They took my bag,” you say. Sejanus’s book is inside that bag.

“They will withhold it until it’s properly searched. They will turn it over to me once it’s cleared. In the meantime, you will stay at home and sleep. You have a decision to make.”

His tone doesn’t leave anything for argument, so with a glance at the blinds, you allow yourself to be dragged from the cell, out of the building and into his car, which leaves once he gives the word to the driver.

You try not to cry the entire ride home as you think of Uncle Cas. Will they feed him? Will they interrogate him? Are they going to give him a bed to sleep on, at least? Sure, you could ask Coriolanus to make sure he gets whatever he needs, but any favours you ask him at this point would come at a hefty price you might not be able to afford.

Once the car pulls up to Corso III, you all but launch yourself out of the car – anything to get away from him as soon as possible – but a firm hand grabs ahold of your arm when the car door opens.

“I will take you there myself. I need to have a word with the peacekeepers,” he says.

Peacekeepers?

Apparently, he had ordered two of them to guard the door to your apartment home, and you wait until he’s done giving them orders before you can get inside. Even in your own home, you no longer have autonomy.

He follows you inside your home as you sink into the sofa, take your shoes off and release a sigh, burrowing your face in your palms. Maybe this isn’t real. Maybe you’re still dreaming, and when you wake up, your uncle will still be here, in the kitchen, making breakfast for the two of you. Maybe when you open your eyes, he won’t be there anymore.

“Have you had breakfast, sugarplum?”

Damn. No such luck. 

You feel him touch your shoulder to get your attention, and you flinch away from his touch automatically. He purses his lips in apparent displeasure.

“Please don’t pretend to care," you say. "You already let go of that façade, remember?”

“if you still think this is a farce, wait until that clock strikes seven tomorrow morning. You’ll see then just how real this is for me.”

Wordlessly, you brush past him as you enter the kitchen and yank the fridge door open. As you scan the contents, you can feel his stare boring holes in the back of your head.

“Twenty-four hours, Nellie. I’ll wait for your call.”

With that final air of pompousness, he takes his leave, closing the door behind him with a click.

Feeling utterly depleted, you forgo getting food and go back to the sofa, launching yourself on it with a soft ‘oof.’ Your stomach growls, but how can you eat when you’re unsure whether your uncle would? You’re bone-tired, but you’re not even sure he’d get any rest in that barely furnished cell, either.

On the other hand, if Uncle Cas was here, he’d be berating you right now to take better care of yourself.

Perhaps you could spend the entire morning crying like about it like a child, but what good will that do? Begrudgingly, you grab whatever food you lay your eyes on in the fridge – in this case, a half-eaten bar of chocolate from The Headless Confectioner’s that your uncle resealed, probably to save for later. Once you’re done chewing on it with much effort, you drag your feet to your bed and bury yourself under pillows and blankets. Apparently, a cocktail of mental exhaustion and a restless night make a dreamless sleeping draught almost as strong as Dr Gaul’s concoction, and within minutes, you’re out cold, dead to the world for the next few hours.

You’re cruelly wrenched from blissful unconsciousness by the constant ringing of the doorbell. In an instant, you’re up, glancing at your alarm and scrambling to the door to check who it is. It’s five to three in the afternoon, so maybe it’s your Uncle Cas, and they confiscated his keys so he can’t get in! Perhaps they even let go of him due to lack of evidence and he’s just about ready to get some well-deserved rest.

Thanks to this wishful thinking, you’re extremely disappointed to find more peacekeepers milling on the intercom, insisting on coming in.

“Ms Innis, we have a warrant to search your home in light of recent events,” one of them says.

Is there no end to this day, you wonder?

The moment you unlock the door, the peacekeepers stroll inside and await orders, while one of them, a major no more than in his late twenties, salutes you, and shows you the search warrant.

“My name is Major Truman, Ms Innis,” he says. “My unit and I are assigned to search your home for evidence of subversive activities. We will, as much as we can, try not to disturb the peace inside your home and are instructed to only search areas where Acacius Innis might conduct his business. We are to also seize anything we deem as evidence. Would you kindly point us to the said area?”

Numbly, you nod and lead them to his office, and they privates waste no time sorting through the obvious place to start: the papers stuffed in boxes stacked haphazardly in the corner, where your uncle sometimes stuffs graded essays and test papers, and then forgets about them until he needs them.

There’s no point watching them tear the place apart, so proceed to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee.

“It must really be difficult, watching all this,” a voice says.

Your head snaps to see Major Truman, standing in the kitchen doorway stiffly with his arms behind his back.

“Your coffee has been ready for nearly fifteen minutes, in case you’re wondering,” he adds.

Shit. You let out a sigh of frustration as you realise you’ve been staring blankly into space for the said amount of time; probably more.

You press ‘reheat’ and wait. As an afterthought, you offer the major some coffee, which he gratefully accepts. He takes the seat just beside your uncle’s usual place.

“Have you found anything?” you ask, unable to control yourself.

“I’m sorry, I’m not at liberty to discuss matters regarding evidence,” he says contritely. After a sip from his cup, he says, “Thank you for being cooperative, by the way. I think it’s unfair, what they’re doing.”

You nod and focus on your cup, unsure how to respond. He’s a peacekeeper, after all – how much can you trust his type?

“You might not believe this,” he goes on, this time, with a much softer tone. “But I used to be his student at the University. I nearly flunked one of his classes because, well…I wasn’t into the field, to be quite honest.”

Major Truman flashes you a kind smile. “I don’t why I told him, but I did. I confessed I was only pressured by my parents to take the course.” He pauses to let out a dry chuckle. “He then asked me right then and there to write an essay about how I would hypothetically convince my parents to let me take a different path. It was weird, but I did. When I finished, he read that rambling thing I wrote, and I was dismissed.

“The next thing I know, the grades were coming in, and he gave me a passing grade.”

Curious now, you flick your gaze at him as he laughs heartily. “He did that?”

“I graduated a few years ago, but that, I’ve never forgotten to this day.”

Major Truman pats your shoulder awkwardly before he steps away, pausing at the doorway to say, “He’s a good man, Ms Innis. I’m sure this will all blow over soon.”

“Do you know If he’s okay? If he’s had anything to eat, or…” your worried voice trails off, as it dawns on you that he might not even be stationed at the Citadel for him to have access to this bit of information.

He nods, saying, “I gave him food a while ago. He recognised me, too. Don’t worry. I have friends there who owe me favours, and I can make sure he’s treated well. It’s the least I could do. Thank you for the coffee.”

With a final salute, he exits the kitchen, presumably to return to your uncle’s office to continue his supervision.

You inwardly thank your luck and the goodness of your uncle’s heart to have someone like Major Truman looking after him in that hellish place. Rebel or not, you agree: your uncle has a good heart.

Far greater than yours or anyone else’s.

That’s why it takes you a moment to compose yourself once you see the chaos that’s now his beloved home office.

His computer, all but taken apart now, had been packed into a box labelled ‘evidence.’ His bookshelf, its shelves sagging with the weight of the books it contained, now empty; documents and notes scattered all over the floor as the men haul his stuff outside. They’re taking items that you won’t otherwise even spare a second glance at.

At least until your eyes land on one of the boxes they’re still halfway through filling.

It’s your little rabbit plush – the one that had inadvertently saved your life when you went back to pick it up.

You hadn’t seen the rabbit plush in years, and you had actively avoided it as a child after it was returned to you just days after the attack. Your uncle seems to have tried his best to restore the plush. Dusty, but otherwise free of the dirt it had been coated with on the day of the explosion, you pick it up at once from the box.

A peacekeeper apparently has qualms about it.

“Miss, put that thing back in the box – otherwise, I’d have to report you for obstruction of justice abd tampering of evidence,” he barks.

Major Truman, however, approaches him with a stern expression. “Stand down, private. It’s just a toy. Unless the Capitol has issued orders saying rabbit plushies are now deemed subversive?”

The private gives him a salute before returning to sorting the papers on the table.

Flashing Major Truman a grateful smile, you exit the office and settle for the couch in the living room in case they finish soon, and they’d have final things to say.

Maybe even decide to storm your room once they’re done with the home office.

At exactly eight in the evening, Major Truman and his unit bid you goodnight, leaving you alone again in the entire apartment. You survey whatever’s left of your uncle’s office: computer parts they deemed unimportant to seize, several stacks of school-related documents, and a few other knick-knacks, all arranged neatly on what was once a table that had very little surface visible. At least they had the decency to clean up. Perhaps an order from the major himself.

Your Uncle Cas’s office, now stripped bare of his soul – it’s a sight enough to send you into a sobbing fit. No longer able to bear seeing the space, you sink into the living room sofa once more. As you mourn the injustice, and the treatment of a good, wise man, you hold the stuffed rabbit close to your heart, hoping it’ll save you again this time around.

You run. Fast.

You run even as branches of the foliage get caught in your dress – the dress Coriolanus Snow made you wear on the night of that party – inwardly glad that it’s finally getting the treatment it deserves: getting torn little by little, hopefully until it’s forever erased from your memory.

You’re barefoot, you notice, but the ground is grassy anyway. You don’t need shoes when there are more pressing matters at hand.

Like that deadly…creature chasing you down as its designated prey.

You sprint as quickly as your muscles allow you to, through the ever-shifting landscape – a few seconds ago, it was a foggy, grassy terrain; now, it seems to have morphed into a series of tall bushes manicured neatly to form a seemingly endless maze. No end in sight, just grey nothingness outside the hedges.

Within the space, a voice you’re too unfortunate to recognise plays as if coming through the intercom. One of Volumnia Gaul’s little on-the-spot poems:

“Oh, me, there goes little Nellie, so pretty and frail; her big bad Snow is hot on her tail!”

The mad cackling that ensues is superseded by a faint voice in the distance.

“Nellie? Nellie! Come back here!”

Coriolanus Snow’s feral shouts float in the vast grey space, but you don’t look back. It isn’t Snow – it can’t be; the footfalls chasing you and seemingly inches away from you don’t sound human. There’s snarling behind you, and the sound of a snapping jaw is heard as your ankle narrowly misses its rabid bite.

The scream for your name this time is much more hysterical.

“Prunella Innis!”

Your frantic dash is interrupted by a succession of tiny pinpricks on your skin. Something live and crawling wraps around your leg, making you fall, with large sharp teeth digging inches deep into your flesh. You let out a pained cry as you fall to the ground, the stinging bringing involuntary tears into your eyes. An overwhelming scent envelops you as your fall is broken by a jagged, uneven surface. Vision clearing by the second, you realise what the forest floor had morphed into.

“I just want to talk to you!”

Another enraged scream from the creature hounding you.

Can it smell blood, you wonder? Because from the punctures on your skin, the red liquid now oozes freely, making you gag at the pungent, metallic smell. You don’t look at it. It’s always somehow easier to bear when you look away.

It had turned into a bed of roses and thorns in mere seconds. The red and white blooms attached to them seem to mock you in your despair. The thorny vine around your ankle grows, extending further into your leg, piercing it with razor-sharp spikes. The sound of soft whooshing from above makes you look up. 

It’s a drone older than the ones you’ve tested in the lab. The type that can only carry a single item at a time. It drops a water bottle a few feet away from you, and the bottle breaks when it lands.

The snarling creature seems to have caught up to you.

“I sent that to you.”

The imposing figure of Coriolanus Snow enters your line of vision. He smiles just as disarmingly as usual, his clothes just as you remember: brand-new, finely tailored and flawless in every angle. A stark comparison to your figure crumpled on the floor, unmoving and bleeding profusely.

“I thought you’d be grateful. I wanted to help you,” he says. He tilts his head to get a better look at your foot tangled in the brambles. It had already reached your thigh, tearing through your dress even further.

Yet his face is without an ounce of pity. Nothing but cold in those eyes – biting, ruthless, unyielding.

He bends on one knee to draw closer to your frame. “Don’t worry, sugarplum, you won’t need these anymore,” he says, his tone cloyingly sweet, as he strokes your injured leg. “You have nowhere to run. And you don’t have to run. Not when I have you.”

Movement from above distracts you from his leer. The sky folds back, much like a grey cloth, revealing a stadium full of Capitol residents, clapping and cheering and screaming, all to celebrate your downfall and venerate the cause of it.

Amidst the tumultuous applause, Coriolanus Snow’s victorious, haughty voice reaches you without delay or difficulty, as he looks down on you with those hungry, piercing, rabid eyes.

Like he’s burrowed inside your head and his words are echoing from within you.

“I won you, Nellie. The game is over. Aren’t you going to congratulate me?”

You open your eyes with a sharp intake of breath. 

It’s five in the morning and no word yet from your Uncle Cas. No calls, no knocks on the door or rings of the doorbell.

You’re just as alone as the moment you fell asleep. The rabbit plushie lies within your arms, its faded, beady eyes looking at you as if to ask, ‘what now?'

Coffee, that’s what. Coffee will make it better.

As the coffee maker gurgles in the background, you wonder vacantly whether your Aunt Marcelline had gone through this exact situation when she and your uncle had still been married. With him being a rebel, did she also have to deal with hours upon hours of no word from him, waiting almost desperately for any news of the fate that had befallen him? You’re lucky, considering you know where he is – probably the same interrogation cell they’d placed him in yesterday – but your aunt…how many of these days did she have to endure?

Was this the reason why she left him in the end?

The coffee doesn’t help. No surprises there.

Thirty minutes to six.

There’s still time for this trick to end. Hey, maybe you’re still dreaming all of this, or maybe this is some sort of cruel prank your Uncle Cas had designed.

Maybe you entered a parallel universe, and anytime soon, things will right themselves. Your uncle will be in the kitchen, making you both the sugar-heavy breakfast he’s partial to.

One could hope, right?

But as six rolls into the fray, reality finally rears its ugly head.

This is real.  Everything is real: your dear old Uncle Cas is still at the Citadel, and it’s only a matter of minutes before he’ll be sent to heaven-knows-where just for protecting you and the letters you had exchanged with Sejanus.

Unless you give in to the demands of Coriolanus Snow.

You allow yourself to spend the hour before your deadline in resigned sobbing – you’re sealing your life away with an obsessive sociopath, it’s the least you deserve – and by six fifty-eight, you pick up the phone receiver and dial his number.

Better you suffer than your uncle dead.

Six fifty-nine.

The other line rings thrice before you hear the click, indicating the receiver has just been picked up.

“Good morning, sugarplum,” that sickeningly sweet voice of Coriolanus Snow greets from the other line. “I was just about to dial the Presidential Palace.”

Curse you and your bloodline, Coriolanus Snow.

“Please let my uncle go; I accept your proposal.”

Author notes:

Enter Level 12

Please reblog and comment, it's always appreciated!

Level 12 won't be out until next week, weekend, I think, because I will be going on a much needed vacay trip for a few days 😊 I'll be active still tho, so thank you guys for sticking around Ily all!! 😘

#dark!coriolanus snow #dark!coriolanus snow x reader #Young!coriolanus snow #young!coriolanus snow x reader #named!reader #or #x OC2ndPOV #18+ only #dark!coriolanus snow fic #dark!coriolanus #dark!coriolanus fic #dark!fic

[dotieeee]

The Gamemaker's Apprentice

Level 8

Pairing: Dark!Young!Coriolanus Snow x You, named!Reader

Overall Warnings:

NON-CON, DUB-CON, Dark!Young!Coriolanus Snow, Snow himself should be a warning, lots of blackmailing, gaslighting, manipulation, obsession, possesiveness, eventual forced marriage, eventual loss of virginity, breeding kink, canon-compliant major character death, reader is named but has no physical descriptions in the fic so one might also consider her an OC but in 2nd POV, will have canon inconsistencies, and other stuff that may be added

Masterlist

Level 8 Warnings:

Noncon elements, drugging, somnophilia, Snow being creepy af, experiments conducted on children (because it isn't Hunger Games without it lol), jealous Snow if you squint, violence

Replay Level 7

Ready? Level 8 Start:

You’re startled back to your senses when your communicuff beeps in your pocket. Not even halfway through the week and you’re already feeling the effects of not getting enough sleep since you began working for Coriolanus Snow. Even during the weekend before, when you were supposed to be resting, or going out for coffee or shopping, or whatever the hell it is that young adults such as yourself do during their spare time, you were hiding in your room, paralysed with worry for the direction your uncle’s project has gone to.

His name and yours, now part of the mindless slaughter of district children whose only crime was to be born poor in the wrong place.

You get nightmares almost every day now since you began working at the Citadel. Not that you can remember any of them; they slip from your grasp like smoke the moment your Uncle Cas wakes you. Every time he gently shakes you back to reality and tells you that you’ve been crying out for your parents again, all you see is his face, worn beyond his years of working, toiling, taking care of you, worrying about you, making sure you were happy. Knowing what you already know about where his life’s work is heading, kills you inside just thinking of telling him.

You play the voice message, thankful it isn’t from your tyrannical new boss who always seems to find new ways to hog your time all to himself. It’s embarrassing enough you got woken up by him to find his coat draped on you, with F3 arriving for his shift just in time to see him plant a kiss on your head. This morning, you had hardly placed your bag down on your desk when F1 made teasing remarks about you being in denial.

What’s the old saying? About denial not only being a river in Egypt? Did it also say anything about being willing to drown oneself in it to be put out of misery?

The message you play is from F2. She says there’s a shipment waiting at the gates for Acacius Innis, which they suspect are the drives your uncle supposedly ordered for his station, and you need to sign off on it as his replacement. Maybe he ordered them before discovering he was going to be promoted.

You take your barely coherent self to the entrance where a man in courier uniform flipping through receipts on a clipboard is waiting for you, a few medium-sized boxes stacked by his feet with the Innis Tech logo and a District 3 seal. He looks up from his clipboard and greets you with a smile as soon as you get near him. You know that greying hair and the lines at the corner of his eyes.

The bartender at Strabo’s party.

“Sign here, please,” he says as he hands you his clipboard and a pen.

He doesn’t seem to recognise you, but even in your sleep-deprived state, those features are unmistakable. He acknowledges your signature with a tip of his hat, a small ‘thank you,’ and walks away.

Maybe he works two jobs, you surmise. You think nothing of it any further as you head back to your work, while a couple of peacekeepers lug the boxes along. They take them to your office where you pore through their contents – as expected, they’re just empty drives, plus a single floppy disk with a blank label. You stow the disk in your drawer, thinking it must’ve been just a freebie or some playful inside joke between your uncle and his ex-wife.

It's almost nine by the time your final batch of unit testing is finished, and when Coriolanus Snow arrives in your office to check your progress, you give him the news he’d been waiting for:

“We’re ready for integration testing.”

The perversely delighted expression that grows on his face is something you’d never like to see in many other circumstances.

This night’s sleep proves elusive, just hours of tossing and turning, drifting in and out, only for you to fall asleep then wake up again with your uncle’s worry-plastered face, your lack of proper rest affecting the both of you. In the end, you don’t get any more shut-eye aside from the three or four hours you already had. 

As you take your third cup of coffee at a quarter past eight in the morning on a Wednesday, that’s when you know you’re eventually going to crash. You just hope to anyone who bothers to listen that it doesn’t happen during your presentation to Volumnia Gaul.

Fifteen minutes later, you’re making your way to the designated testing room a few doors away from your office. The night shift crew from last night scrambled to finish the set-up according to the end-of-day report from F3, and since you’re early anyway, checking for last-minute adjustments can’t hurt.

You flick the lights on inside the room, gasping at the sight that greets you.

The space is humongous, with its high ceilings and carpeted floors. The room slopes towards a flat centre which has already been fitted with several computer sets, just like you instructed, arranged in the form of a pyramid, with the three in the middle set-up with multiple screens. The entire set faces a total of twenty-nine monitors built into the wall: twelve on either side, with four more below the largest one at the centre. To your left are three windows made of glass, covered from the inside with curtains you can’t see through. You find it peculiar that three more sets of computers are installed just before the windows, but you decide to ignore it, thinking it might just be something they couldn’t remove before this day. The thing is massive, after all.

You look around, your eyes landing on the glass observation deck where you assume Dr Gaul would stay. From that cushy little box, she would observe the entire experiment with her piercing, mismatched eyes, revelling in the future horrors your work will bring about.

The door to the testing room echoes as it opens, making you almost jump in place. You can’t tell whether it’s the nerves, or the caffeine, or the lack of sleep that’s making you more agitated than usual, but also maybe it’s because of the person who had just arrived, taking calculated steps towards you with his footsteps echoing despite the carpeted floors.

“Good morning, Nellie,” Coriolanus Snow greets you with a tilt of his head and a smile, and as warm as that greeting might look, it’s often hard to tell what lies behind that mask of his. Whatever it is isn’t good.

Still, you greet him back just as warmly as if the fact that he’d be evaluating your performance today isn’t bothering you at all. “Good morning, Coryo.”

Your mentor comes close inches before you, invading your space as always. He peers into your face with those striking blue eyes before worry etches into his. “Sugarplum, you have not been sleeping well,” he deduces correctly. “Are you okay?”

You wave off his concern with a shake of your head. “I’ll sleep better when the tests are over.”

“Tell me about it,” he says with a chuckle. He pauses for a while, his gaze never straying from your lips. You quell the need to move away from him. As an afterthought, he assures you, “You’ll do perfectly today; I know that much.”

You wish you had the same confidence he has in you as you have for yourself.

The twins arrive for a final inspection thirty minutes before your presentation to Dr. Gaul. You spend the rest of the remaining time inspecting the equipment with them, ensuring everything is in place. Every monitor mounted on the wall is turned on, and the computers begin powering up, prompting the screens to flash the Hunger Games screensaver. They check the computer facing the glass windows last, which as far as you remember, isn’t on the list of equipment you had asked them to prepare. You ask them why it needs a look over, but their response is vague.

“It’s the first agenda for after lunch’s presentation. Mr Innis supervised the testing for this before, so we’ll take care of the demo,” F2 says.

Volumnia Gaul arrives exactly at nine, escorted by two stoic peacekeepers in their grey-blue uniforms. Today, she wears her usual lab coat, pristine white morphing into scarlet, her gloves made of leather of the bloody shade. You join in when everyone in the room welcomes her.

“Mr Snow.” Her drawling voice greets your mentor. “You have been hard at work, you and your little apprentice,” she glances at you, drumming her gloved fingers together her smile widening in anticipation. “Now I gather you’ve a little show for me, Mr Snow. Let the theatre commence!”

At her cue, Coriolanus officially welcomes her to the integration test, while you initiate Begin Game on the main command console.

You step aside so you can show Dr Gaul the main command console’s user interface: everything from camera control, drone management software, motion tracking and the tribute odds system, the vital signs tracking software, and overall game environment controls software, each displayed on a single monitor hooked on main – everything you and your uncle spent blood, tears and sweat on, contained in a single computer station.

“...In other words,” you conclude, “The main command console is the brains of the entire operation. It oversees everything, even the consoles used by the gamemakers, the mentors, and the operators. This is what we use to begin the Game, and it’s programmed to automatically save game data when only one tribute remains, which it detects because of the vitals tracking device. Override requests go to this console, as well.”

Dr Gaul’s eyes are glowing, but you know that it isn’t because of the lights on the monitors. A despicable grin dances on her features as she chuckles lowly to herself.

“My, oh my, what a promising start, Ms Innis,” she says softly with delight, her eyes shifting only from screen to screen. “This is just magnificent.”

You move on to the console beside the main, the one you’ve programmed as the gamemaker console which F1 will demonstrate. She navigates the interface while you expound the functions: the ability to shift camera angles, alerts for donations made to a tribute on the tribute status screen, tribute status and odds percentages onscreen...

“...and most importantly, the game environment control. Basic commands such as the activating of traps and releasing of any mutts...availability, of course, depends on the environment.”

F1 chimes in, “If I may direct your attention to the test arena being flashed on the monitors, please.” He waves a hand to the camera angle showing the Citadel basement: nothing but grey walls and decommissioned equipment archived or otherwise abandoned.

“Putting that useless old space to use, I see,” Dr Gaul smirks.

“The team has installed several mini explosives in the space, which we can activate with a single click,” says F2.

“That, and an artificial weather control system – bring on the heat, or the cold, or the rain,” F1 adds proudly. F2 runs a command on the console, letting artificial rain down on a small section of the makeshift arena, which darkens the grey walls and initiates a spark in one of the abandoned equipment.

“Some of those might still be plugged into an electrical source, which could prove hazardous,” you comment, but F1 brushes off your concerned look.

“Oh yeah, we hooked it up to a separate source,” he just replies vaguely.

“Add acid rain.”

Everyone’s heads turn to Dr Gaul at her suggestion. Her smile just widens, revealing her white teeth, her eyes brimming with barely contained excitement. She drums her fingers together and elaborates, “Acid rain, acid rain; melt their skins, o what great pain!”

You turn away to feign browsing through the console’s tabs, while Coriolanus clears his throat and casually suggests adding burn medicine and burn relief ointments to the mentor inventory.

F1 and F2 merely nod, and you three move on to the mentor console.

“We decommissioned the bulkier communicuffs from the previous games to make way for this,” you gesture to the computer F2 navigates. A wave of nausea hits you, but you attempt to mask it by leaning into the back of a computer chair for support. “The mentors will be assigned one of each console, which they will use to send items and gifts and track their tribute’s odds.”

You go on further by establishing the best modification yet to the way the mentors send their items: mentors can now send multiple items at once, with a maximum weight of five kilograms.

“That way, we minimise drone damage and repair costs. Also, before the mentor hits send, they will get a preview of how their tribute’s odds will approximately change when they receive and use the items, thus helping drive mentors’ decision-making in looking out for their tributes and ensuring their win.”

Your boss’s boss tilts her head in curiosity. “I just love it when they get competitive – that drive, you could almost smell in the air, it just makes it all the more fun to watch.”

You nod once at F2, who clicks on a bottle of water and a slice of bread on the inventory and hits send, and all of you watch with bated breath as the drone circles the area and drops it gently on a flat surface, directly on top of an ancient analogue computer.

“We don’t have a tribute registered as an official player yet, but once we do, it will deliver the goods just like before, but with better accuracy rates owing to enhancements in the facial recognition software,” F2 explains.

Dr Gaul hums. “And what of the sponsor system?”

F1 takes care of the operator console demo, and your mentor chooses this moment to draw closer to your side, his face radiant with pride. I guess that means he likes your performance. His eyes then hone on your hand still clinging to the chair’s backrest, but before he can say something, you approach F1 and look over his shoulder as he explains how the last console works.

Pretty simple, actually: the operator receives a call for a sponsorship; they enter the sponsor’s bank account details, the amount or the item on the system and their designated benefactor, the system alerts the mentor who received the gift and gets an alert on their console, and an alert goes to the gamemakers’ and the main as well.

F2 adds helpfully that the operator console should be run by a representative from the Citadel’s finance department, to which Gaul agrees.

You surmise it’s the same entity running the betting system where the Games rakes the most money.

To finish the demo, you mention the existence of backup computers on standby in the event of a hardware malfunction. While it’s unlikely as all the equipment is brand-new, it’s something your uncle would do: to be one step ahead of everything.

Something you wish you would’ve done before ever engaging with Coriolanus Snow.

The first part of the integration tests finishes with you and your team opening the panel for questions, which you all answer with practised ease. When she seems satisfied with everything, she announces lunch on her, and within minutes, you’re being driven by a large van to The White Knight, where you’re all waited on graciously by the restaurant staff. Everyone takes their seat at a rounded table, with you beside Coriolanus, who has taken you here for dinner a few times since last week.

And all of those times, you made sure to order the angel food cake.

Today, however, you can’t bring yourself to eat that much, so you skip the cake, thinking it doesn’t deserve a half-assed digging-in, and opt for an affogato instead. That counts as dessert, right? Still, the ever-observant Coriolanus squeezes your thigh gently under the table, making you peer into his face, subtly questioning you. You just flash him a smile and concentrate on your dessert. You could slap that hand off too, but then he takes it off slowly, dragging your skirt up a little in the process.

You lose whatever remaining appetite you have, but you push through. Only half a day left, and you can maybe just hand in your resignation tomorrow and forget about this whole thing. And then maybe live in the woods, after.

Everyone is taken back to the Citadel at twelve-thirty, and Dr Gaul gives the go-ahead for the second part of the integration test at one.

Nursing an incoming headache courtesy of the espresso from lunch, you miserably accompany F1 and F2 to prepare for their demo on the computers right before the glass windows. Dr Gaul makes her entrance on time, so you stand back and watch with Coriolanus as the siblings take the reigns on the stations they set up before the windows.

F1 runs a command on his computer, which turns the lights on behind the curtains before they’re drawn to the side, and what you thought were initially windows reveal a shocking sight – something else you hadn’t been expecting to see.

Behind each glass pane, separated by thick walls, are three captives, one male and two females, all of them looking not much older than in their late teens. They seem to have been awakened by the sudden blaring of lights inside their enclosure and are stirring awake from their cots. They look a little thin and pale, but there is not an ounce of confusion in their expressions, as if they had been there for a while and are used to being woken up like so. The brown-haired male mouths something that you read on his lips as ‘hello.’

You could feel your own eyes widen at the sight of them, your mouth opening on its own accord to let out a protest, but your throat dries up as a cold, firm hand closes on yours. Coriolanus Snow’s cold cerulean orbs, pinning you to place, spell a single, well-understood warning:

‘Don’t.’

F2’s voice floats in the space as she introduces the second stage of the integration test.

“What you’re currently seeing is one of our many additions to the game interface: we’ve inserted a microchip into the test subjects you see in the windows which transmits real-time data to our system: heart rate, pulse, blood pressure, and other vital signs, plus levels of cortisol, serotonin...”

F2 drones on with her explanation of how the microchip works, just as you watch while the three teens are served food through a small slot at the far end of their cells. 

“We will spend the next three hours observing how the chip works and how it transmits data that could influence audience betting, sponsorship, and decision-making. Mr Innis designed a learning algorithm that makes use of motion-tracking software to study the tributes’ every move in real-time, which contributes largely to the accuracy of the odds on our screen. We hope to gather their responses to a number of stimuli we’ll be exposing them to within the said time to demonstrate the software’s capabilities.”

When they begin eating, F1 begins explaining to Dr Gaul, who approaches the computer screens to look at the data, how the system measures hormones related to food intake, among others.

You could feel your head start to throb and can’t help wincing at the pain. Coriolanus’s hand is still on yours, he feigns looking over at the computers then meets your eyes, shooting you a questioning look.

Are you okay?

You blink once, indicating you’re fine and break the eye contact just as he releases his grip on you. He doesn’t really care, you know that much; his only concern is the success of this presentation, and you’re not about to fuck it up for him. Instead, you peer curiously at the food they served the three teens, noting how little they’re given: a slice of stale, brown bread, a small bowl of soup, and a single bottle of water.

The male, however, finishes his meal rather quickly and raps on the glass impatiently, mouthing something you can’t quite make out.

“Their enclosure is soundproof, even their walls so they can’t hear each other; they can’t see through the glass, either. In each cell, however, we placed a screen on a corner of each wall, where they could see and hear us individually when we address them through the intercom,” F1 says. That’s when you notice that each computer station is equipped with a small, built-in camera on top of the monitor.

F2 nods and elaborates, “We figured they’d be more likely to cooperate if they see a face guiding them through the experiments.”

You take the remaining computer station beside F2, activate the teenage male’s intercom and place him on speakers.

“...Hey, hey, I can see you!” He shouts at the screen, waving frantically. “Can you hear me? Been talkin’ for a while now, did anybody get that?”

“No, I’m sorry...” you say through the microphone. You scan through his uploaded background information on the computer. “Callahan, you’ll have to say that again, please.”

“Whoa,” Callahan stares in wonder at the intercom screen in his room. “Uh, I was just askin’ when ya’ll’re gon’ let me out, but...it’s nice to hear from anyone, really. Been cooped up here a long time.”

You inhale sharply as you turn off your mic. This is going to be a long three hours. “Honestly, I don’t know,” you confess to him on the mic. According to all the files on the test subjects, they're promised a sum of money and a year’s worth of grains once they’re sent home. In seventeen-year-old Callahan Brody’s case, home is District 3.

Where the Innises began building their empire.

“Our timetable is based on the success of the experiments you’re recruited for,” you add.

He bats his eyelashes at the monitor, his eyes innocently bulging in awe. It’s odd to see him ogle at the piece of tech, knowing he’s seen much more impressive stuff in his line of work if his file is to be believed. “Hey, as long as...I’m not talkin’ to meself all the damn time.”

Coriolanus approaches your side, placing his hand on the back of your chair.

“Whoa, you’re really pretty.” Callahan chuckles bashfully at the screen. “I wouldn’t mind gettin’ stuck here for days if it means I get to see you.”

He was staring at you and not the tech, you belatedly realise. Your glance automatically goes up to your mentor, whose hardened eyes betray his displeasure at the interaction, no matter how blank he keeps his expression.

“Flattery won’t get you out of this sooner,” you say.

F1 casually mentions an increase in oxytocin and testosterone levels detected by the software on Callahan’s profile tab.

You could feel Coriolanus’s ire radiating off him in waves.

“Hey, what’s your name?” Callahan asks through the intercom.

You give him a false name for the experiment’s sake. This a scientific pursuit, you remind yourself. You and the siblings take turns getting him to talk about himself, so the software can continue logging his vitals in the process.

He tells you that his favourite food is roasted chicken and gravy, but that he only gets to eat it on special occasions. During his spare time, he likes taking apart the family radio and the old television that he inherited from his grandfather, and he had two siblings who’d help him put them back before their father got home. He says he used to work for one of your family’s factories before he came here, confirming the data logged on his file. He talks about the assembly line he was a part of before A.I.-powered machinery replaced him, rendering his job, and him, obsolete. He says he was just one of the hundreds laid off and replaced by robots.

Does your uncle know about this?

“I used to be a computer technician,” he continues. Really? That isn’t on his file, you note. “But then I lost my drive.”

You had to put your hand over your mouth to stifle your laugh brought about by that unexpected joke.

“Nerd.” F2 pokes your arm teasingly as she laughs along.

F1 verbalises a spike in endorphins in between soft bouts of laughter. “Sorry,” he tells Dr. Gaul, whose eyebrow is raised in mild amusement. “We’re a sucker for puns.”

“Of all the people they could get from the districts, they settle for another nerd,” F2 says under her breath.

Callahan seems to be delighted to entertain. “Hey, I got ‘nuther one: why do programmers hate going outside?”

F1 quips excitedly. “Ooh, I know that!”

“Because outside’s full of bugs.”

F1 and F2 both crack up, with F2 suggesting ‘we should keep him.’

You decide to play along with Callahan if only to get a rise out of your mentor, the only one who isn’t finding anything amusing out of the exchange.

“What’s a computer’s favourite snack?” you ask him on the intercom.

“What?” He and your computer engineers ask in unison.

With suppressed smile you say, “Chips.”

The laugh you get out of your subject from District 3 records the spike, while Coriolanus rolls his eyes in exasperation. He suggests moving on to the other test subjects, and the three of you oblige, repeating the same experiment.

The girl beside Callahan’s cell is significantly more reserved, and it takes a while for the three of you to elicit a response from her. Tansey Page, barely fourteen with her curly red hair and wide, almost scared eyes, is from District 11. Based on her file, she’s been living with an aunt, her only living relative, since her parents perished in the war. Her aunt had been unable to work due to a bad fall from a nectarine tree from which she never recuperated, and Tansey had to earn a living for both of them at the age of nine. As your software does its job logging spikes to her vitals, you can’t help but think about how dire her situation was that she had to enlist for this test and leave behind an aunt who barely seems to have the capacity to take care of herself.

Once Tansey opens up, you discover she’s a soft-spoken, sweet girl who loves jellied blackberries. She says she loves to read, but since they couldn’t afford books, she would often copy stories by hand on paper from borrowed books. Hearing her recount this pains you, but you follow the siblings’ example and not let it affect you. Besides, there isn’t anything you can do for her at this point but succeed in the tests so they can all go back home to their families in the districts with the payment they’re promised.

The third and last subject, Audrey Mills, blond and pale with shifting reddish eyes, is the most difficult to work with out of the three. She barely looks at the screen in her cell, just huddled on her bed with her knees to her chest, only tensing slightly when she hears anyone of you three ask her a question through her intercom. The uploaded file tells more about her than she does: she’s from District 7, aged sixteen, abandoned by rebel parents who are presumed dead, and raised by her grandmother who recently passed away. She was targeted by a trafficker nicknamed ‘The Wolf,’ probably due to her unique features, but she fought him off and murdered him by bashing him on the head repeatedly with a blunt axe. It took four peacekeepers to haul her away from the body, and unlike the other two teens, she didn’t willingly sign up for the tests and was sent here with only the promise of being pardoned for her crime.

In the end, F1 gives up with an annoyed sigh, and having only an hour left for the tests, he decides to move on to another pursuit.

“This last portion of the test will showcase the software’s ability to record vital signs in the event of negative stimuli. The subjects will be injected with a slow-acting compound laced with a hallucinogenic that targets the amygdala, or the fear centre of the brain, and mimics anything the test subjects may define as hostile. We hope to gauge the effectivity of our software by recording any physiological and hormonal changes on each subject as they would in a natural, stressful environment.”

F1 fishes out a walkie-talkie from his lab coat and through it, he says, “Begin with Test Subject 3.”

Even before you can open your mouth to object to the experiment, two peacekeepers enter Audrey’s cell from a concealed door behind her bed, followed by a female nurse carrying a large syringe. Audrey puts up a fight and tries to evade what to her would be an unknown chemical being forced upon her, but her weakened state proves no match to the peacekeepers who pin her arms and legs to the floor, while the nurse injects her with the compound. She just lies on her belly, presumably screaming, and they eventually leave her alone in her cell, having done their job. She gets to her feet and back to cowering on her bed, visibly shaken by the way she was manhandled.

These are the kind of tests Uncle Cas had to endure conducting under his supervision.

F1 commands through his walkie-talkie for Test Subject 2 to be injected with the same compound.

You and F2 exchange looks. She explains, trying to keep her voice straight, “We’re dosing them at the same time because it takes about fifteen to thirty minutes for the drug to take effect,” she glances sideways at her brother and asks, “Aren’t we going to give the dose to Test Subject 1?”

F1 considers the question, but replies, “No, we leave him as control. Besides, he’s the only one that didn’t piss me off today.”

You watch numbly as the peacekeepers and the nurse from a while ago enter Tansey’s cell. Compared to Audrey, Tansey keeps perfectly still, her eyes fearful and wary and darting from between the peacekeepers’ guns to the syringe needle. She exposes her arm mutely to the nurse, who promptly sticks the syringe into her before stepping out of the enclosure and taking the peacekeepers with her. The wait begins – a long, depraved contest of who gets affected first between Test Subjects 2 and 3. 

Tansey’s breathing rate begins to increase at the fifteen-minute mark. She slowly rises from her perch on the cot while she stares with wide eyes at something in the air. Her heart rate increases, according to the system, along with rising levels of adrenocorticotropin.

“Cortisol levels are also rising,” F2 observes aloud. “Test Subject 2 exhibiting signs of stress.”

“What are you seeing, Tansey?” you ask the teen.

But all you get from her is panicked screaming, so you put her to mute at once, helplessly watching as she flails her arms and runs around in her cell in an effort to swat away whatever she’s seeing, which seems to be attacking her from the air in all directions.

“I think she’s seeing tracker jackers...” you whisper to no one in particular. “Which makes sense, given her work environment...”

You’re about to ask if they also developed an antidote for this compound, but a dull thud on the glass startles you – Audrey just banged on the glass with her palms, her vitals are a disarray, and her blonde hair is matted with sweat. She keeps glancing behind her and screaming and hitting the window with her balled fists, almost like she’s begging to be let out.

F2 urgently asks through the intercom, “Audrey, I need you to describe what you’re seeing.”

For the first time today, Audrey opens her mouth to speak, her voice hoarse and filled with despair. “The Wolf.”

“She’s hallucinating her attacker,” F2 says as she turns her mic off.

“That means the drug is working, and the software seems to have an accurate read on all physiological and hormonal spikes. Control subject is fine and his vitals are stable,” F1 notes in a matter-of-fact tone. “Everything in their cells, by the way, is being captured by our motion tracker and being fed to the algorithm in real time.”

But, what for, when you’ve already covered that portion in the first part of the integration tests?

You spend the last fifteen minutes of the tests completely dumbstruck, petrified and wishing everything to be over so you can put this horrible job behind you and move on with your life. You keep stealing glances at Coriolanus, but his face is as stony as ever, and Dr Gaul just seems to be having the time of her life watching the test subjects run about in their cells letting out screams only they can hear, tormented by horrors only they can perceive.

By the time F1 declares the tests a success, you’re barely paying attention to his words – you just stare at the computer monitor, waiting for the save progress to reach a hundred percent before you can shut it down. Coriolanus places a hand on your shoulder, which you take as your cue to stand while your department head gives her verdict.

The Head Gamemaker dons a pleased smile as she delivers her final feedback. She seems absolutely thrilled with the tests so far and commends everyone hard at work on seeing the program to completion.

Dr Gaul clasps her hands together as she asks, “Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, I heard your team mention a trial Hunger Games using the test subjects?”

It can’t be, it just might be your physically and emotionally exhausted state mishearing her. You just blink, careful to pay more attention.

F2 gives an affirmative nod as she adjusts her glasses. “It’s called grey-box testing. The idea is to pool in end-users, ideally those who have partial knowledge of the internal structure, to help us test the software. We have F3, whom we’ve already asked prior to this, and Mr Snow has also volunteered himself and his apprentice, Ms Innis, to participate as test mentors.”

Dr Gaul nods her head in approval. “Indeed. I am glad that your team understands the exigency of this project, Mr Snow. The Twelfth Hunger Games is upon us, and I’d like to see this thing of beauty put to great use.”

Your world is in a tailspin. Your grip on the back of your computer chair is the only thing that keeps you from falling. Your hands are shaking even as you pretend you only had to grab the bottle of water on the station behind you to dissuade your mentor’s worried looks.

So, this is what they were recording them for, you conclude. To top it off, your boss has enlisted you as a test mentor, which means you will be responsible for the death of one or more of the teenagers you had just observed minutes ago being needlessly tortured so more could take their place this July.

Unable to control your lightheadedness any longer, you fall sideways with nothing to break your descent but the chair you had been sitting on.

A pair of strong arms is on you at once, gathering you and carrying you bridal style, ignoring your weakened protests. Everything is a blur, and you get dizzier in its hold, but you fight to stay conscious no matter how fleeting. The world only steadies when you’re set down on what feels like soft leather.

You wince at the bright light that floods your eyes. There’s a muffled voice you can make out that seems to be calling your name. When your vision and hearing clear, you finally make out the source of that blinding light: a penlight held by Dr Gaul herself, which she turns off; that voice belonging to none other than Coriolanus Snow whose hands are clasping one of yours. 

“There she is, your little pet. Poor thing is fatigued, by the looks of her,” Dr Gaul chuckles lightly and raises an eyebrow at him. “You ought to keep your hands away from her every so often.”

Coriolanus merely exhales in relief, but his jaw remains tense. “She is merely preoccupied with the program, Dr. Gaul. She hasn’t been sleeping very well for the past weeks.”

The woman simply clicks her tongue in impatience. The sound of peeling latex gloves breaks the quiet in the room momentarily, followed by the opening of a sliding door shelf, the clinking of glass bottles and the closing of said shelf. Out of the corner of your eye, you see the doctor hand your mentor something you can’t see.

Gingerly, you sit up on the infirmary bed, and Coriolanus helps steady you by placing his hands on your shoulders.

Dr Gaul’s voice echoes in the room. “I’d like you to be in tip-top shape, Ms Innis, so I will give you the day off tomorrow. I will delay the trial, but only for a day more. Take her home, Mr Snow. Get some rest, both of you. Come this Friday, we’ll continue.”

She turns on her heels and walks away. Coriolanus’s sharp eyes follow his mentor’s retreating form until she disappears from the room. He then turns to you, his concerned blue orbs raking your form.

He cups your cheeks as he whispers, “You gave me quite the scare, my sugarplum.” He kisses you on the forehead, then asks, “Tell me what you’re feeling. Are you hurt anywhere?”

“Other than my head pounding? I’m fine, I guess. I just need some sleep,” your hushed tone says. And other than your tights sustaining a rip on the right thigh from your fall on the computer chair, everything else on you seems to be intact, so you try to stand. The floor seems to move the moment you get to your feet, and Coriolanus catches you before another stumble.

“You’re coming with me to my place,” he says firmly.

You begin protesting, “Coryo, I can just go home –”

You’re interrupted by your own yelp of surprise – to your mortification, he carries you in his arms just as he did when he brought you to the infirmary.

He raises a chastising eyebrow at you. “I’m having none of your complaints. You’re in no state to walk, or to go to your home – it’s too far. My apartment is closer.”

You can’t find the words to argue this logic, so you burrow your face further into his coat in embarrassment. He carries you to his car and instructs his driver to head to his home. You count a few blocks before you arrive at the entrance to this new luxury apartment building. You remember this building from a flyer; despite its ridiculous markup, it targeted uni students, promising luxury features that somewhat rival that of The Corso’s.

It takes a while for you to assure him that you can walk fine on your own, but he relents in the end with a purse of his lips. You could tell he’s displeased by your refusal to be carried like a damsel in distress, but he settles for putting his arm around your shoulders as he walks you across the building’s fine lobby and to the elevator. It’s his private elevator, he says – a perk of owning the largest penthouse spanning the entire top floor. That and exclusive access to the rooftop, he adds.

All this extravagance bought and paid for by the family of a man he presumably betrayed, you bitterly think.

This begs the question: how much longer you can overlook the possibility that he had Sejanus executed?

You silence that snide voice in your head, only because it just served to amplify your pain.

He’s greeted by a maid right in his foyer, who takes both your coats, before he instructs her curtly to make some tea. With his hand on your lower back, he leads you to his spacious living room with windows overlooking the Capitol bathed in the orange gleam of the setting sun, and you can’t help but look around you in amazement at the sheer elegance of his unit. You could see why it would appeal to students; it certainly favoured contemporary interior decor compared to that of The Corso’s art deco leanings. He ushers you into the velvet crimson loveseat in a corner near a window adorned with silky throw pillows.

“Take your shoes off and lie down if you want,” he suggests. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

You lean against the backrest with a sigh of relief. Finally, a friendlier surface than the computer chair you’d been lounging around in all day. You’re almost tempted to do as he instructed and make yourself comfortable, if it isn’t for the fact that you’re technically in enemy territory, and you’re a war prisoner being lured with the promise of freedom in exchange for betraying your side.

Instead, you make do with hugging one of the pillows, cursing yourself for landing in this situation – after all, it’s partly your fault that you’re here instead of home where you’re sure you're safe, and most importantly, away from Coriolanus Snow’s clutches.

Coriolanus is back within minutes, taking a seat beside you. He’s taken off his waistcoat and unbuttoned his white shirt halfway through, you observe. He rolls up his sleeves as the maid enters with a steaming teapot, cream, and sugar bowls on a tray along with two sets of teacups. She sets them all down on the coffee table in the middle. He instructs her to bring out the cake from the fridge as she exits.

He pours you a cup of tea, the inviting aroma of a rooibos and valerian root blend drifting in the living room air before he adds just the right amount of milk and sugar as you would make it yourself.

“Drink this, sugarplum. It’ll help, trust me,” he says as he pushes the teacup towards you. He pours some himself, only adding two cubes of sugar and a lemon wedge squeeze, as is his occasional preference. You watch him take a sip before you do.

And of course, your cup tastes perfect. It’s almost scary how he knows the littlest of details, including how you take your tea, of all things.

The maid arrives with what looks like a matcha-flavoured angel food cake from The White Knight before he instructs her to go home early for the night.

You try not to be nervous at being left alone with him in his apartment and focus on the tea.

Coriolanus takes the liberty of slicing you a piece of the cake and placing it on the empty plate the maid had brought in. He urges you to eat.

“I noticed you didn’t order that angel food cake you seem to be partial to when we had lunch. I thought you might like to have a bite after such a successful day.”

The smile he gives you is full of pride, while you feel nothing but shame at the abomination you had just willingly participated in. Still, you take a few bites of the cake to placate him. You’re in his turf where his rule is absolute, and heaven forbid any missteps on your part that would warrant any sanctions.

He watches you quietly for a short while over sips of tea while you contemplate the best exit strategy. Even with your slice of cake gone and your cup of tea empty, you come up with nil excuses. Surprisingly, the food helped a bit with the nausea, and you could feel your limbs starting to relax further into the couch. You can’t even fight your yawn, only stifling it with your hands, as you sink into the pile of throw pillows.

Okay, maybe just a little nap…surely, he wouldn’t mind.

The last thing you see as you drift off to blackness is Coriolanus and his lopsided grin, his slender fingers brushing off the hair framing your face.

According to Coriolanus’s watch, it took about thirty minutes for the sleeping draught he put in the milk bowl to take effect, but he allows ten more minutes to make sure you’re deep in your sleep and won’t be waking in at least a few hours. He still had some of the draught in his medicine cabinet as he’d used in the past, making sure not to touch the other bottle he’s supposed to give you courtesy of Dr Gaul. 

He spends the rest of the ten minutes just admiring your face, finally deep in your own little world, blissfully unaware of your reality. For the first time in a long while, he’s completely alone with you, so allows himself this little treat of brushing your cheeks and stroking your hair. He wonders what you dream of. He wishes it was filled with the things you love. He wishes he was in it somewhere.

He eventually decides that this loveseat is no place for his sweet, little sugarplum to spend the night in.

He carefully removes your shoes and places them neatly by the foot of the couch. He carries you with ease like a prince claiming his princess bride before walking off to the sunset. He is gentle when he sets you down on his bed. He doesn't need to close his door; it’s just you and him on the entire floor, after all. He straddles your hips as he climbs on top of your sleeping figure. His eyes greedily take you in: your hair spread out on his pillow, your lips slightly parted, the curve of your neck beating your pulse...it’s what he’s dreamed of for so long; you sprawled underneath him ready for his taking...

He finally just lets his intrusive thoughts take over and licks that enticing pulse point of yours.

The moment his tongue latches on your skin, Coriolanus knows he wants more. He hurriedly unbuttons your blouse and gently peels it off your torso, exposing the swell of your breasts, modestly covered in a cream-coloured bra. Watching your exposed bosom rising and falling in steady breathing has his blood rushing from his head to his groin.

And then you had to let out a tiny, adorable whine from the back of your throat.

Coriolanus groans in frustration as he wipes a bead of sweat off his temple. The rational part of him tells him to stop, put your shirt back on and keep away from your sleeping figure because he’s aware your first time with him shouldn’t be while you’re asleep and unable to respond to his touches. He knows you’re a virgin and he’d prefer that you remember your first experience with him, and that taking you on the night of your wedding means you’d have no reason to refuse him as your husband.

But there’s this other side of him – primal, impatient, irrational, and ravenous,  that part of him he normally conceals from you, most especially – that’s threatening to surface. The part of him that knows he’s been so good to you, and he’s waited long enough for even just a taste of how right at home you’d make him feel when his rock-hard cock is burrowed deep inside you...

As his gaze dips further down the skirt you’re wearing, now slightly hiked up and revealing your stocking-wrapped thighs, a thought successfully marries his rational and irrational side: he doesn’t have to fuck you tonight – he can still save you for your wedding night and still get to taste you and satisfy that painfully growing erection of his.

He seals your lips with a searing kiss, which eventually dips to the valley between your breasts, which he then squeezes through your bra. He fights the entire time not to suck on your skin and leave bruises, figuring you’d easily see if he did. He kisses and licks and massages every part of your body he can reach, while his hand travels underneath your skirt. He gathers the material to your waist, revealing your lower half and peels off that pesky pantyhose, careful not to aggravate that little tear.

And once again, Coriolanus pulls away to admire the sight of you, on his bed, in your underwear, his breathing turning shallow in anticipation.

Just a taste, he assures himself, as he removes your panties, leaving your cunt bare to him and sending more blood to his already-engorged cock. He hastens in taking your legs apart and hooking them under his arms, and from there, he begins his worship.

The kiss he plants on your inner thigh slowly travels downwards, and he allows himself to suckle on your soft skin while still avoiding any visible welts. He does the same with your other thigh, but this time, he suckles and bites down on a tender spot near that hole in your stocking, and he only stops when an angry little red blotch begins to bloom on the flesh. He kisses it one more time for good measure, just before he dives in to feast on his main course.

Coriolanus moans indecently when his tongue begins to part your folds. He chuckles to himself when he feels you jerk a little in his hold – his sweet, delicious sugarplum, so sensitive to his touch...

What was that thing they used to say as children? I licked it, so it’s mine.

He runs this tongue over his lips before continuing his quest of lapping at your cunt, making sure he takes everything you offer him. He sucks on your clit as he listens to your breathy little whines, your body tensing in your sleep as he drinks and licks your juices – you taste just like honey on his tongue – he’s parched like he’s been that way since he can remember, and your cunt is the only thing that could quench that life-long thirst, and he doesn’t stop drinking you in until your entire body is tensing up and your thighs are quivering in his arms. He pulls away in time to watch your pretty face, frozen in pure bliss, your mouth parted as you let out those airy little moans and whines.

Did he just give his little sugarplum her first-ever orgasm in her sleep?

Your limbs relax eventually as he releases your thighs. Still drunk on the taste of you in his mouth, he quickly takes his shirt off and wastes no time unzipping his pants. He can only ignore his raging erection for so long, after all.

Like he’s done countless times, he takes his cock in his fist and begins pumping himself as he watches you – as per usual, he indulges himself in fantasies about you, moaning and screaming his name, writhing underneath him in pleasure and making a mess of his bedsheets, except your face in his mind is clearer than ever before, now that he’s seen the expressions and the sounds you’d make as he makes you come around his cock again and again. He imagines himself taking you over and over even as you stay limp underneath him, too fucked out to moan anything coherently.

It doesn’t take Coriolanus long to reach his peak. With a loud, guttural groan, he finishes on your stomach, making sure he doesn’t spill anywhere else even amidst the waves of pleasure engulfing him. He brings his forehead close to yours as he steadies his breathing and lets his high fade. Once he’s regained his composure, he pulls away from you, zips his pants back up and gets off you completely, opting to sit beside you as he leans against the headboard to collect his thoughts.

He knows he couldn’t leave you in your half-dressed state for long lest you catch a cold, so he begins to erase any evidence of the little bit of fun he had with you. Shame, really, when you look so inviting covered in his spend.

He starts by gently wiping his cum off your stomach with a damp towel, ensuring that he leaves no trace of himself on you. He finds wiping you clean easy and satisfying, vaguely wondering what it would be like to have the two of you soaking in a bathtub together and doing the same for him. The next task, getting you back in your stockings, isn’t as easy as the previous, given that he has to arrange the run on the cloth back where he remembers it to be. Miraculously, he too, gets that task out of the way, and putting your shirt back on proves way less challenging. By the time he’s done, the only sign he’d been on you is the little love bite he left, now purplish-black, conveniently camouflaged by that little tear on your stocking you’d be quick to dismiss it as a byproduct of your fall.

For now, that little beast in him has been sated and has retreated to the far corners of his psyche. He kisses your crown as he tucks you in the covers, but notices how troubled your expression looks.

Are you having a bad dream, he wonders?

You stir in your sleep as you turn away from his side of the bed, muttering a word he couldn’t catch. He climbs back in beside you, leaning against the pillows, his eyes landing on the vial of smelling salts on his nightstand. If this worsens, maybe he could use that to tear you away from the dream that’s bothering you.

Then he hears sniffling.

You curl up in a ball beneath the sheets as the sniffling grows more audible. He peers further into your face, finding fresh trails of tears on your temples.

Coriolanus almost internally panics.

Did he do this to you? Had he somehow given you a dream you’re now struggling with because of what he did? He rubs his face as he thinks of the possibilities.

Maybe you’re dreaming of Sejanus. Perhaps in this dream, he’s breaking your heart, or he’s hurting you, maybe even cheated on you and you had caught him in the middle of messing around with another girl.

Things Coriolanus would never, ever do to you.

He finds comfort in the thought somehow, and he can at least hope this dream version of himself would come in and punch the daylights out of dream-Sejanus for making you cry.

“Mommy…”

It’s faint, but he hears it.

“Mommy, wake up, please…We have to find daddy..."

Ah, you’re dreaming of that day.

Coriolanus recalls the day Sejanus approached him with good intentions (like always, he couldn’t help his nature) and began talking to him about you. It was one of his many deluded attempts at igniting friendship with him. He didn’t really care back then whatever he had to say, much less about you, but then he had to reveal how your parents died.

Such needless deaths brought about the vindictiveness of rebels who were bitter about your parents choosing the correct side.

And Coriolanus knew, better than anyone, and certainly better than Sejanus, what it was like to lose a parent the way you did.

For a moment there, he sees his younger self in you, calling out for his dead mother in the middle of the night and waking up realising she’ll never come back.

His heart wrenches at your pain, so he gathers you in his lap as you sob in your slumber. He’d never thought he’d see you this vulnerable around him, so it gives him an odd sense of ease knowing he’d seen a side of you you’d normally hide from him, and making you feel safe in his arms like this is something a dutiful husband would definitely do.

He almost ignores the phone ringing in his living room in favour of keeping you in his embrace.

Except the call drops and the phone rings insistently three more times, making him gently peel you off his lap and wanting to yank it off the plug.

Instead, he picks it up. What compelled him to do so, he doesn’t know, and he can’t pinpoint whether it was a good or a bad decision.

“Coriolanus. This is Acacius Innis.”

Fuck. Just when he’s finally got you to himself.

Acacius Innis inquires more persistently on the other line.   “Is my niece with you?”

“Yes, Mr Innis. She –”

“Why?”

Coriolanus does not appreciate Innis senior’s tone, nor the way he just cut him off. “She almost passed out at work this afternoon, sir,” he says. “My place was the closest I could bring her to.”

A pause on the other line. “I’m coming over,” says Mr Innis.

“I can bring her over instead, sir –”

“No, I’m picking her up,” Innis says, as sounds of scuffling are heard in his background. “I know where you live. And, young man, if you so much as try anything funny with my niece, if you dare lay a finger –”

“I have no such intentions, Mr Innis,” Coriolanus replies with just as much conviction.

My tongue did all the work. He licks his lips, extremely pleased he could still taste you on them. “Nellie is safe with me; you have my word.”

“Good to know. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Coriolanus hears the click of the receiver, followed by the dial tone.

The meddling prick.

A sharp sensation in your nose stirs you awake, followed by fingers softly stroking your hair to help you come out of it.

“Sugarplum, I’m sorry to have woken you up, but you were crying in your sleep.”

The compassionate voice of none other than Coriolanus Snow makes you rise at once and assess where exactly you have ended up.

You remember falling asleep on his couch, and yet, here you are, on a bed with his shirtless self, and a just few seconds ago draped all over his lap, apparently crying in your sleep again.

"What was I saying?” you ask as you wipe your tears with your palms.

“You were calling for your parents,” he explains. “I assume you were dreaming about the day they died.”

Damn this day. You just had to fall asleep in his presence. It’s a stupid move, you berate yourself. You extricate yourself at once from what obviously looks like his bed. Coriolanus's eyes follows you with a doleful look. “I had no idea you still had nightmares about them.”

He too, gets to his feet, picking his shirt up from the sheets and putting it back on. What the fuck even was it doing off? He approaches you with eyes cold enough to freeze your blood. “And we know gave us this pain, Nellie. We’ll make them pay for it. Every single one of them.”

You’re relieved when he finally leads you away from his bedroom and back to the living room where your shoes are. You sit on the loveseat so you can put them on, but he’s on his knees at once, assisting you with your shoestraps.

“Your uncle knows you’re here,” he says as he ties your laces. “I told him you had a long day and you were resting. He’s on his way to pick you up. He also mentioned a subtle, tasteful threat of bodily harm if I ‘tried anything funny.’”

He looks up at you, smiling as he brushes his knuckles on your cheek.

“Like I’d ever harm my little sugarplum.”

The two of you retrieve your coat in the foyer, and you quietly thank him for letting you stay at his home. Instead of responding, he just fixes your hair and wipes your cheeks with his thumb, which later brushes over your lips.

Please, don’t let him kiss me…

“Coryo? Please…” you whisper shakily.

But then he releases you, donning a satisfied look. “There, all better.” When you look at him with questioning eyes, he adds, “I don’t think your uncle will ever forgive me if he thinks I made you cry.”

“Th-thanks.”

“You can thank me by getting better,” he says lightly. He leads you to the elevator with his hand on your back. “You have the entire day off tomorrow, so get all the rest you need. In fact, I have something that may help you get better sleep.”

He fishes this small, crimson vial from his pants pocket and places it in your hands. The cork stopper on the bottle is still sealed with wax.

“That should help. Take a teaspoon before you go to bed. It’s a non-addictive formula they developed at the Citadel. Tell me if it works for you so I can get you more.”

You nod and mutter your thanks. “Coryo, can I ask you something?

“Of course, sugarplum.”

“When do you think I can start working for my uncle again? Now that I’ve already finished fixing the code?”

His eyes darken at your question, but he blinks and it’s gone, replaced by simple curiosity.

“Why, sugarplum? Are you that eager to wriggle free from me?” he jests. 

“No,” you deny, no matter how much his observation rings true. “It’s just that he’s been looking unwell lately, and he won’t tell me anything. He’ll never tell me if he’s sick or what, and I worry about him.”

What you said is partly true, but you also just want to be done with everything that has to do with him. If you don’t work for him anymore, you won’t ever have to interact with him ever again and be part of whatever he’s building. He’s not your friend, no matter how much he tries to make it look like so. He’s dangerous, you know that, and the faster you can keep him at arm’s length, the better.

“I’m sorry to hear that, sugarplum. I know the past week has been stressful for you. For both of you. But you don’t want to leave the program now, do you? Not when we’re so close to accomplishing what your uncle had started. And if you really want to help your uncle, finish his work, and help build his legacy.”

So, it seems you’re stuck with him, and you’ll still be participating in the trial Hunger Games this Friday.

The air is knocked out of your lungs as you’re pinned against the cold, steel walls of the elevator, and the gasp you let out is silenced by Coriolanus’s mouth latching onto yours.

Having caught you off-guard, you attempt to push him off, but he’s always been leagues above you in physical strength. As his tongue finds yours, you simply close your eyes and let him.

However, just as soon as it happens, he releases you, just in time for the elevator door to reveal the lobby with a ding.

“How about I recommend people I know who’d be perfect as his apprentice?” he suggests as if nothing happened. “After all, I have a track record for finding the perfect one. I’ll have it sent to his desk next week.”

You’re exhausted beyond words, not having the will to snap, so you just nod along. Through the glass doors, you spot your uncle leaning against his car with his hands inside his coat pocket, looking more cross than you’ve ever seen him in public. Still, you have never been more relieved to see him.

You open your mouth to greet him as you step outside, followed by Coriolanus, but Uncle Cas’s eyes land on the tear on your stocking. Acacius Innis’s eyes harden, and the next thing you know, he’s lunging at the younger man behind you. You hear a dull thud, indicating he landed a punch somewhere.

“Uncle Cas, no!” You squeal, wrapping your arms around his torso and attempting to wrench him away from Coriolanus.

“What the fuck did you do, you little – !”

“Uncle, I fell, and I tore my tights. He didn’t do anything!”

Uncle Cas simmers down upon hearing your words. “Is this true?” He asks Coriolanus.

Your friend holds a slightly bleeding lip with his thumb, but he smiles just as disarmingly as if he wasn’t at all fazed by your uncle’s outburst. “Yes, sir. It was merely an accident.”

Your uncle huffs to himself. For a moment, he seems like he's considering punching him again with the way he furls his fist, but then he dips his head in apology. “Then you’ll have to forgive me, young man. I truly am sorry for jumping to conclusions. Are you alright?”

Coriolanus merely chuckles, but it's bereft of any humour. “I was a peacekeeper once, sir. I have certainly taken much worse.”

This was a clear challenge, and you wish with all your might that your uncle wouldn’t take the bait. Fortunately, the older man just tenses his jaw and nods. “Once again, you have my apologies. I thought you had hurt my niece, and it was wrong of me to not reign in my temper.”

Snow straightens to his full height and graciously replies, “I completely understand, Mr Innis. I’d protect Nellie just as ferociously as you would.”

Your uncle all but drags you to the car’s passenger seat and follows you inside, taking his place in the driver's seat. Now, even with everything that happened that day, this is a bizarre sight, as Acacius Innis has not driven a car himself in a long while. You remain quiet as the engine roars to life, almost swearing to yourself that you hear him mutter “insolent fucking cunt” under his breath as he drives off at full speed.

Enter Level 9

Author notes:

Please reblog and comment, it's always appreciated!!

Sorry for any typos, I am not the best of health rn and I will be editing this when I wake up 😊 please stick around!! Snowball has more tricks up his sleeve 😈😈😈

#dark!coriolanus snow #dark!coriolanus snow x reader #young!coriolanus snow #young!coriolanus snow x reader #named!reader #x OC2ndPOV #or #18+ only #dark!coriolanus snow fic #dark!coriolanus #dark!coriolanus fic #dark!fic

[dotieeee]

The Gamemaker's Apprentice

Level 9

Pairing: Dark!Young!Coriolanus Snow x You, named!Reader

Overall Warnings:

NON-CON, DUB-CON, Dark!Young!Coriolanus Snow, Snow himself should be a warning, lots of blackmailing, gaslighting, manipulation, obsession, possesiveness, eventual forced marriage, eventual loss of virginity, breeding kink, canon-compliant major character death, reader is named but has no physical descriptions in the fic so one might also consider her an OC but in 2nd POV, will have canon inconsistencies, drugging, somnophilia, and other stuff that may be added

Masterlist

Level 9 Warnings:

Graphic violence, torture and experiments conducted on children (because it isn't Hunger Games without it lol), jealous Snow if you squint

Replay Level 8

Ready? Level 9 Start:

The tyres screech when your Uncle Cas hits the brakes. You’re still several blocks away from your apartment building and you’ve just reached a red light, although, with your uncle’s questionable driving skills, you’re not quite sure you’d both make it home intact.

“Uncle Cas? I’m pretty sure we hit someone back there and they’re still twitching.”

Thankfully, your attempt at lightening the mood isn’t in vain. Your uncle chortles behind the wheel.

“Really? I thought I did a decent job running them over.”

A pause ensues in the car before your uncle glances sideways at you. “Nellie, are you okay?”

You could only nod, bracing yourself as the red light turns green and your uncle steps on the gas pedal like a madman.

“What’s on your mind?” He presses.

“Nothing much,” you reply in a mock-nonchalant tone. “Just crossing my fingers we don’t actually hit anything.”

“Ha ha, very funny,” he deadpans. “Enough wisecracks about my driving. What’s going on? I mean, I know it’s always about that bastard you call your ‘mentor,’ but is there anything you’d like to tell your dear old uncle?”

You release a drawn-out sigh. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin, Uncle Cas.”

He nods in understanding. “Okay. You can tell me once we get home.”

You pull up to the Corso III in a matter of minutes, and you step out of the car hoping you’d never have to endure being in a ride with Acacius Innis driving. Your uncle playfully throws the keys to his dumbfounded driver, who’s waiting by the building entrance.

“I didn’t know you could drive, sir,” he says with a confused expression when he catches the keys.

“I’m just as surprised as you are, Gustav!” Your uncle says brightly, much to Gustav’s bewilderment.

Once you get inside the apartment, your uncle makes tea, which you politely decline, and sits you down on the kitchen counter. He only says one word after a single sip on his mug:

“Talk.”

“I want to quit,” is the first thing you blurt out.

“I didn’t know that was an option,” your uncle says.

You shake your head miserably. “No, it isn’t. But I can’t let them have that program. It’s yours. They shouldn’t be allowed to do whatever the fuck they want with it.”

You let out a deep exhale but a few tears of frustration come along with it.

Your uncle offers no words and just continues sipping his tea in contemplation. Maybe, just like you, he’s also run out of ideas. Maybe there really is no escape from any of this, and you’re better off just letting Snow have his way with your uncle’s work.

Perhaps your uncle punching him was the only way any of you could ever get back at him.

“Did any shipments come in when I left the office?”

You frown at his question. “Yes, a few boxes of drives arrived.”

Why is he asking this out of the blue, you wonder?

Uncle Cas hums as he takes another sip. “Huh. That’s... peculiar . Peculiar, indeed.”

“It is?” you ask, now getting mildly annoyed. You’re about to surrender his most important work to the most dangerous child-killing woman in Panem and her younger, potentially more tyrannical male version and he’s worried about packages arriving that he didn’t order? “You mean, you didn’t send for them?”

Seemingly oblivious to your dilemma, he maintains this abnormally carefree attitude. “I guess it doesn’t matter now who did. Have you done a malware scan on them?”

You sigh and decide to humour him. Who knows, maybe this is his copium. “What for? They’re blanks. And shouldn’t your staff be doing that?”

Uncle Cas lets out a derisive laugh. “Not my department anymore, plumcake.”

“But within your scope!” Growing more and more confused, you argue, even though you don’t know what for anymore.

He just snorts. “Yeah, because we have all the time in the world to check blank hard drives and not at all busy running the entire government’s military cyber defence system and keeping it safe from rebel cyberattacks. What do I know?”

He makes himself another cup of tea, and, joining you back on the kitchen counter, he asks, “What else did the drives come with?”

You shrug. “A single floppy disk?”

And once again, he just lets out another contemplative hum. You narrow your eyes at him, your confusion slowly being replaced by suspicion. He knows something you don’t.

He always does.

“Check the drives. I’d start with the floppy disk if it were me,” he says airily. “You know, your aunt Marcelline and I separated just shortly before I became your guardian. Even after I moved to the Capitol, I used to really want to get under her skin.”

Knowing your uncle by now, this is his way of trying to make a point, so you go along with him.

“True, I was mad at her at first for leaving me, but after a while, it just became banter. Nothing more than a practical joke,” he chuckles. “I started creating viruses and sending them to her. The first one I sent was in this drive I claimed to be defective, and she checked it out herself. Big mistake. It wiped half the source code all our factories ran on.”

“What?” you ask incredulously. But your uncle is laughing heartily, and imagining your aunt fuming mad at his prank makes you laugh with him. The Aunt Marcelline you know is rarely ever fazed.

“Oh, she was flying off the handle. Operations went on a standstill for half a day until they installed the backups. She then video-called me just to tell me I was a ‘fucking nutcase.’ Next thing I know, every single personal shipment I requested came with this harmless little worm that entered in my name spelt ‘Ac-ASS-cius’ for every fourteenth line of code I type,” he pauses as he wipes the tears of laughter from his eyes. “That shit went on for months, I tell you.”

Your Uncle Cas empties his mug with a single swig and asks you, “Are you getting a lesson somewhere here?”

In between bouts of light chortling, you admit, “No, not really...”

He gives you a look between exasperation and amusement. “Just check the floppy disk. I built a virtual machine environment on the station you’re using, so test it within that environment. You may never know what that contains. Who knows, maybe it’s a virus harmful enough to render most of your code completely unusable.”

Your laughter dies down at once as his point dawns on you.

Is this him giving you  permission  to kill his brainchild?  The head of Cybersecurity, hinting at infecting Citadel property?

Was Acacius Innis the one who sent you that disk?

Now, your curiosity is even more piqued.

“Why would any creator nuke their own work?” you ask carefully.

Your Uncle Cas just gives you an unconcerned look. “Maybe to them, it’s just that:  work . Just a simple set of codes they can easily write again. Sure, they were probably attached to it at first, as all creators are, but maybe down the line, they realised how their work could impact others negatively and decided it wasn’t worth the effort. It happens all the time.”

He gets up from his seat and sighs. “That’s it: enough riddle talk.”

He deposits his empty mug on the sink and leans against it with his arms crossed. He declares with mocking authority, “Check the floppy disk. This is an official mandate from the head of Cybersecurity. Noncompliance could result in the issuance of an interdepartmental memo.”

Ah yes. That little piece of paper – essentially an airing of a list of grievances from one department to another disguised pretentiously in the form of corporate claptrap. Just more red tape your mentor would gladly put on top of your growing pile of paperwork.

“Oh no, a memo, so scary,” you joke back with an eye roll.

“You bet it is. Now go to bed. This is now your uncle speaking, by the way.”

Now filled with renewed hope, you nod. Your uncle had once again carved a way out for you. If you can pull plant the virus in one of the supercomputers without drawing suspicion, you can destroy a huge chunk of the code, rendering the program useless, thereby making you appear inadequate for the job in the eyes of the Citadel, and most of all, your mentor. You can turn in your resignation and work for your uncle, just like before, while staying away forever from Coriolanus Snow.

Sounds like a plan.

You get up from your chair and hug your dear old Uncle Cas around his midriff.

“Uncle? Thank you. I’m sorry.” For destroying your work in the near future. “For everything.”

He ruffles your hair, grinning at you affectionately when you let go.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, plumcake.”

“You shouldn’t have punched him, you know,” you say as an afterthought.

“Really? It felt great. Nine out of ten will do it again. Now for the umpteenth time, plumcake, go to bed.”

You bid him goodnight and saunter to your room to shed your work clothes in favour of something more comfortable. You’re a bit miffed your stockings are now ruined owing to the gash on the right leg, so you peel them off to throw them away. Strangely enough, you also obtained this nasty purplish little bruise, even if you don’t really remember hitting something when you fell. Sighing to yourself, you resolve to be more careful around the folks at the Citadel and mostly, around him.

You take the little vial that he gave you out of your coat pocket, debating whether you’re going to try it or not.

You fell asleep without help a while ago, right?

You decide to stow it on your nightstand just in case. It turns out that after an hour or two of just tossing and turning in bed without the mercy of unconsciousness, placing it nearby was an excellent decision. You take a tiny sip directly from the bottle and let it do its work.

True to its promise, you wake up in the late morning hours of a free Thursday without ever being woken up by your uncle in the middle of a nightmare.

I guess there are things even he can’t lie about, you conclude.

Friday. The day you’re dreading has finally come to a close, and you begin it by getting to your office at ten past six in the morning when even the Peacekeepers on night shift have cups of coffee in their hands to try and power through the last hour of their shift. You make no detours and head straight to your office, remaining vigilant in case any of your team decide to come in early as well.

Under no circumstance must you ever, ever be caught with a potential malware powerful enough to destroy one of the Citadel’s best assets.

So, turning on the virtual machine environment, you insert the disk and let your uncle’s system do its magic.

You almost choke on your second cup of coffee as your computer alerts you of its findings.

In the disk are two harmless-looking folders that are designed to run in the background – one, a little virus that replicates tasks at lightning-fast speeds. Essentially harmless on its own, the most it can do is overload the chips, leading to overheating, and eventually alerting the antimalware which would shut down the system to prevent further hardware damage. But by the time of the shutdown and an unsuspecting user is drawn to trying to fix what looks like a hardware issue, the second more  devastating  virus in the disk would have already wormed its way around the cybersecurity measures and into the other computers, attacking any and all files it can latch onto. By the time the antimalware would have been alerted of its presence and taken the other computers offline, the virus would have dealt with significant corruption in the program’s source code and its backups. All it takes for a user to unknowingly activate both is a simple set of keyboard commands.

It’s an astonishing work of art in the form of malicious code crafted by none other than the genius that is Acacius Innis.

A beep at the door, followed by two others, indicates the arrival of the triplets, so you immediately eject the disk and shut down the virtual environment machine. You manage to hide the disk in your drawer just as they greet you ‘good morning’ in unison, which you return with just as much enthusiasm. They all seem to look forward to seeing what they have been labouring for come to fruition, with F1 and F3 more so, with their lighthearted chatter filling the room while a more reserved F2 prints out the list of test cases for the trial.

You follow the triplets to the testing room by eight for final preparations for the start of the official grey-box tests. Every minute that passes, your stomach sinks further in dread, thinking of the three district teens who are going to be subject to bouts of experimentation that could potentially kill them, plus the added bonus of being in possession of something only a Capitol rebel would have at hand.

The arrival of your mentor thirty minutes before the briefing just amplifies your anxiety.

Coriolanus Snow, with his dapper suit and his combed-back locks, greets you in his normal fashion like your uncle did not attempt to pummel his face right in front of his own apartment building the other night.

“How are you?” you ask him softly as you approach. You feel a bit guilty about what your Uncle Cas did – after all, he was only trying to help. “How’s your…lip?”

His smile just widens further while he observes your face. “Relax, it was nothing I couldn’t handle. You were worried about me,” he concludes.

You don’t miss the way his eyes twinkle when you nod. “I’m really sorry.”

He dips his head closer to your space and responds, “You have nothing to apologise for, my sugarplum. Your concern, however, warms my heart.”

You say nothing and merely flash him a quick smile, intending to walk off to continue your work, but his hold on your arm keeps you close.

“I could ask the same of you. The Games upset you, I can see that,” he says, as he takes your chin between his fingers to keep you from facing away. “But this is merely a test, so one is going to die. It’ll only last a day. And you’ve seen it yourself – these children are being paid for these tests. They know what they signed up for.”

You know Coriolanus’s words are meant to reassure you, but it’s hard not to feel pressure when you know your freedom from him depends on how successful you’ll be in planting the virus.

Just a few more hours of this.

The thought should be enough for you to power through the day, so you nod and say, “I’ll be fine, Coryo. Thank you.”

“Good.” Your mentor flashes you a look of approval as he releases your chin and your arm, his hand travelling down to clasp your hand. “I made reservations at The White Knight for dinner tonight at eight. Let’s hope we finish this by then because I have an important matter to discuss with you.”

Oh no. “What is it?” What could it be that it needs to wait until tonight? “W-we…we have time, now…” you trail off.

The last time you had a conversation with him about ‘important matters,’ you ended up getting blackmailed to work for him. So naturally, you aren’t too keen on giving him another chance to potentially corner you into a vulnerable position.

Coriolanus just crinkles his eyes and lets out a mix of a sigh and a chuckle, his grip on your hand shifting so he can lace your fingers between his. “As much as I find your enthusiasm endearing, sugarplum, you’re distracted at the present. I’d like to have your full attention when we broach this matter.”

You’re a few seconds shy of just pulling your hand away, but thankfully a clearing of someone’s throat behind you makes him release his hold first.

“Sorry to interrupt this little office romance, kids, but we got about fifteen minutes before the boss lady gets here,” F1 says, trying to hold back a smirk.

Laughing lightly, Coriolanus flicks his gaze to yours knowingly before sauntering over to the male computer engineers huddled over the main command console. You move away from the group for the sake of productivity to help F2 check the other consoles.

By the time the Head Gamemaker makes her entrance, you’re all awaiting her arrival in a semi-circle, and you exchange polite morning greetings before F1 and F2 take the reigns and signal the start of the grey-box tests.

“Using highly advanced technological randomisation, we shall begin with assigning you a test tribute,” F1 declares.

F2 takes out a small glass bowl containing three rolled-up pieces of paper, smirking slightly as she shakes it, much to everyone’s amusement. She hands it out, and together, you, F3 and Coriolanus unfurl the tiny roll.

Test Tribute 2

“I got Tansey,” you say.

F3 hums curiously as he gazes at his piece of paper before he puts it back in the bowl.

“Test Tribute 3. I get the feral girl,” he says simply.

Coriolanus puts his back, looking satisfied with getting Callahan. He, too, confirms his tribute and adds, lifting a corner of his mouth, “I’ve worked with worse odds than this before.”

F3 nods in agreement. “Yes, that kid’s never given us trouble.”

F1 leads the three of you outside the testing room and you follow him about two doors down into another room where the three test tributes await. The room is overwhelmingly grey and sparse of furniture, save the tables and chairs, all bolted to the floor, where the three of the teenagers are chained to by their hands and feet.

Callahan’s face instantly lights up when he sees you and even manages a small wave despite his shackles. You give him a tiny wave back.

“You’re given ten minutes to talk to them, give them instructions, and...whatever else you feel like,” says F1. Bringing out a pocket timer, he then hangs back at the corner while you each take your place at the empty seat before your test tributes. Coriolanus proceeds to the far left corner of the room where his tribute is, immediately motioning Callahan to come closer and whispering something you can’t hear over his ear. The boy blanches and mutters sorry as he stares at the table with a shaken expression. Audrey, to your far right, refuses point-blank to engage after F3’s multiple attempts to call her name as she fixates on her chains. F3 sighs in defeat, crossing his arms and leaning against his chair to observe her. You smile warmly at Tansey, which she returns shyly.

“Hello, Tansey,” you greet her.

“Hi,” she manages.

Wordlessly, you place three large pieces of strawberry-flavoured candy – the only sweets you’re able to bring with you, unfortunately – on the table and push it towards her. Her eyes widen as she looks at the candy and then at you, as if asking if it really is for her. You urge her to take it with a nod.

Tansey’s smile brightens significantly as she peels off the wrapper on one.

“Thank you,” she mumbles. “I...I don’t remember the last time I had one of these. They really smell like the strawberries we pick.”

“You’re welcome. If I knew we’d be meeting like this, I could’ve brought blackberry-flavoured ones.”

You try not to feel sorry for her because you’re aware that doesn’t help her, and the only thing that will is ensuring that she gets to live at the end of this trial. Coriolanus’s promise of keeping everyone alive is fanciful at best, knowing that the game environment itself could be lethal.

“Keep the rest for later,” you advise, placing the candy in her palms. “I don’t know what time I’ll be able to send you food. Have you been given breakfast?”

She nods, and you note how she seems a little more chipper. “They gave us two pieces of bread instead of one. Even smeared a bit of butter on them.”

You’re glad to hear they at least were given more food, but you wonder whether this is because the team thinks this might be their last.

“And some tea, too. No sugar, but it was good. My aunt likes it that way.” Then she adds, “I miss her. She gets sick sometimes.”

“Why did you enlist, Tansey?” you ask softly.

Tansey seems to hesitate before answering, “I had to.” She licks her lips, and continues, “Once I get the money, I’d buy her a better wheelchair and she can start taking care of chickens so we could sell them in the market.”

So much responsibility assumed so willingly at such a young age. Sejanus would’ve hated the thought of Tansey doing so much for so little. He would’ve helped her however he could.

Now more determined to make sure Tansey gets home safely back to her aunt and lives a better life, you begin instructing her on what she’s about to face.

Tansey listens aptly to every detail, but the further you go on, the more the fear behind her eyes grows. Guilt for what you’re about to make her face gnaws at you the entire time, seeing as you’re partly to blame for creating the system that could fatally injure her later in the day.

F1 calls out the last remaining minute.

“Tansey, please be careful down there, okay?” you say. You hold both her hands clasped with the shackles.

“Thank you. I wish everyone here was as nice as you,” she says in her usual faint tone. “If I make it, do you think I’ll be allowed to say goodbye to you at least before I go back home?”

“Ten minutes is up!”

With a sorrowful smile, you respond to her, “I don’t know. Good luck, Tansey.”

“Mentors, please follow me back to the testing room. The tributes will be escorted to the test arena during your final briefing,” F1 says as he gestures to the door where you came in.

You spare Tansey a final glance just as Coriolanus catches up to you and ushers you to the door by the shoulder. Once you're back in the testing room, you assume your mentor station which has a stapled file labelled ‘test cases’ sitting just under the keyboard. You also note Dr Gaul’s glaring absence from the room. Perhaps, she’s grown bored of waiting? It can’t be, the woman thrives on watching children suffer; she would not pass on this opportunity.

F2 clears her throat and begins the final briefing as the monitors fitted on the wall turn on, displaying the Hunger Games screensaver.

“The tributes should be escorted by now to the test arena and are awaiting the start of the Games, which will be signalled via a siren. As test mentors, you’re given the additional task of checking inconsistencies and errors not only with the gamemaker console and its software but also with the software installed on your stations. Your checklist of test cases should be on your stations, as well.”

You pore through the ten-page document with an inaudible sigh. F2 had been thorough with the test cases and made sure not to miss a single, important detail.

“Each tribute has been allocated sponsorship money to use for testing, which you can choose to send out at any time,” she continues. “Dr Gaul, who will be observing the entire test –” she waves lightly behind you where the Head Gamemaker is, inside the glass observation deck, grinning down at everyone with her arms crossed – “Will grant additional sponsorship money to any tribute whenever she pleases to test the sponsor console, which I will run. In the event of a test winner, a siren will go off, indicating the end of the Games. The Peacekeepers will unlock the basement and escort the mock tributes out for medical attention.”

F1 adds, “While they do so, we initiate the final steps of the game, and that is saving the footage and the data we gathered and uploading it on the database for the other gamemakers to analyse. Saving and uploading can take a bit of time, by the way, because of the massive amount of data the program will gather,” he pauses, adding lightheartedly, “In short, we’ll be here a while, ladies and gents.”

Turning to you, F2 asks, “Will you do the honours, Nellie?” she gestures at the main command console with a flair.

You saunter over to the console while you will your hands to stop shaking. On the keyboard, you initiate the Begin Game command, and the program wizard starts.

Here we go.

The program finishes detecting cameras and microphones installed in the arena, along with the programmed environmental elements. You simply enter Continue. It goes on detecting vitals trackers and flashes:

3 Out of 24 players detected. 

Press Enter to Continue.

Press ⬅️to cancel.

Once you hit Enter, your screen begins another progress bar as the big screen on the wall flashes the list of tributes for the very first time. The smaller screens simultaneously begin to display the different camera angles across the test arena. In no less than a fraction of a second, the current tribute odds appear according to the motion-tracking algorithm:

Audrey at 46%, Callahan at 38%, and Tansey the lowest at 16%.

You peer at the gamemaker console, which shows the three tributes’ vitals on one screen and the odds on another, and on your station, where only Tansey’s appears. Elevated heart rate and a slightly higher-than-normal blood pressure brought about the increase in cortisol levels – Tansey is understandably nervous.

You watch as they’re escorted by three peacekeepers to an open clearing in the middle of the old equipment, where three small bags are placed containing what you think are weapons. Their hands are still bound together by chains, so they all stand awkwardly a few feet away from each other as if they’re unsure what to do.

It’s a painful wait for the system to give the go signal, as it’s timed to start at the next exact hour. Once the clock strikes ten, the siren sounds in the makeshift arena, and the trial Hunger Games begins.

Everyone in the room seems to hold their breath as they all stare at the big screen, watching as the shackles that bind their hands simply fall off and land on the tiled floor beneath them with a clang. It takes a few moments for it to sink in, but Audrey gets there first – she runs straight to the centre and grabs a bag before scampering off to hide among a row of control panels located at the farthest eastern part of the basement. Tansey and Callahan share a look and they wordlessly divvy up the remaining bags between themselves before striking up a conversation.

Or in this case, it’s Callahan talking Tansey’s ear off as they explore the grounds together.

“This is a great time to check camera software,” you say as you peer through the gamemaker console F2 is navigating. You check your list of test cases for the camera while F1 and F2 shift between several cameras on the big screen.

“My stats are increasing, the algorithm is picking up movement from Test Tribute 3,” F3 observes after a while and then points at one of the smaller screens. “Check camera nineteen.” 

At his prompt, the view on camera nineteen is flashed on the big screen – it shows Audrey holding up a dagger and swishing it in the air. She may not look entirely adept at it, but her temperament alone makes her dangerous in the test arena.

F2 moves on to the rest, finally landing on the view of the last one where Callahan and Tansey are visible. Located opposite Audrey’s chosen hideout, Callahan is hunched over a decades-old computer set with a knife in hand, presumably intending to take it apart, while Tansey just looks on curiously as she sits on the floor where the contents of their bags are spread. They seem to be in the middle of a friendly exchange judging by the way their mouths are moving on occasion, but the microphones aren’t quite picking the conversation up. You take to the vacant gamemaker console and put on the headphones to hear the sound better. There seems to be a hint of audio, so you amp the volume just in time to catch what Callahan is saying.

“ – what he said to me when he first came up? He said,‘You look her in the eyes again, and I’ll gouge yours out with my bare hands.’”

Callahan sighs in resignation, adding under his breath, “Jerk.”

Is he talking about Coriolanus Snow?

Tansey scrunches her brows. “Really? He’s her boyfriend?” She asks. “But she’s nice. She gave me candy and everything.”

“Yeah, she’s nice; he ain’t. Dunno how she can stand him, honest.”

We’re not together, dammit.

A touch on your forearm nearly startles you. It’s F2, saying she found low volume on a few of the microphones as well. Overall, you and the others spend about two hours troubleshooting the audio settings and testing changes on the camera angles, finding no other minor problems.

The lunch hour rolls without event, which in this case is an immense relief for you and the test tributes. No bloodshed (yet?). You ask F1 if you could go first with testing the drone software as an excuse to send Tansey some food.

“Nah, they can wait,” he shrugs.

Apparently, catered food courtesy of The White Knight was brought in while you were busy with the tests. A tad too extravagant even for six people, the long table that was brought in was filled with pasta dishes, meatball platters and pastries, and they also supplied fresh juice and coffee for drinks. It’s almost laughable how they choose this exact moment to host this fare when you have three underfed teens locked in the basement and nothing but bread and water to feed them.

You make no move to get food, going back to your place behind the mentor console, but a cup of coffee and a croissant sandwich is placed on your peripheral. Coriolanus has taken it upon himself to ensure you partake. You whisper your thanks with a small smile and eat mechanically. Thankfully, the food seems to lighten everyone else’s mood, and F1 gives you permission to test the drones at five minutes past one.

On your console, you add a bottle of water and two slices of bread to a drone. Tansey’s odds are predicted to increase by about three per cent on the preview.

“Odds preview working just as intended,” you say as you cross it out of the checklist.

F3 peeks into your screen as he bites into a cream puff. “That’s it? Three per cent? If this was the actual Games, this kid would be done for.”

You could’ve defended her, but you decide against it – Tansey might have little chance of making it out of this alive if she’s ever reaped. You hit enter on the keyboard and let the system send the drone her package.

Everyone’s eyes are glued to the big screen as the drone flies over the rows of gigantic electronic waste, carrying a grey drawstring pouch, and hardly emitting any noise now with its recent enhancements. It reaches Tansey at a surprising speed and drops the pouch off gently on the ground about three feet shy of where she’s sitting before flying off back to its base. Tansey just looks at the bag with a flabbergasted expression and Callahan has to throw a couple of keyboard caps at her to nudge her into taking it.

“Before that other girl steals it,” he adds.

Tansey’s eyes turn to saucers at the mere mention of Audrey. She then sprints and snatches the bag so quickly before taking it with her back to her previous spot. This move of hers adds four per cent to her odds. Her face lights up at what she sees inside, takes a slice of bread out and holds it out to Callahan. The boy seems reluctant to accept the offer.

“Shouldn’t you be savin’ that for later?” He asks.

She shakes her head and replies, “There’s one more in the bag.”

Smiling warmly, Callahan scoots over to her side on the floor and accepts the piece of bread. He whispers his thanks and they eat together in companionable silence. 

You and Coriolanus point out that the vital signs chip software is working perfectly. 

The teens continue finishing the humble meal, then take little sips of the water from her bottle. Having nothing else to do, they gather their loot and decide to explore more of the basement together. They reach the area where the artificial rain drenched from the previous test, where large puddles of water still littered about. A couple of hours into their uneventful exploration, Audrey gets to her feet from her corner at the far end of the basement and begins a trek among the labyrinthine pathways littered with massive junk.

F3 hums as he stares intently into his screen, observing, “She’s on the move. I think she’s looking for food. According to her hormones, she’s hungry.”

Audrey eventually gets close to where Callhan and Tansey are, but she ducks behind a rusty file cabinet the moment she hears their voices.

Out of the corner of your eyes, you notice your mentor typing something on his station, on the big screen everyone sees a drone making its way to his tribute. The bag is dropped on top of a dusty table just within meters from the file cabinet where Audrey is hiding. Callahan falls behind Tansey and tells her he’ll catch up to her in a bit to retrieve the package. His hands are but a few inches from the pouch, but Audrey springs from behind the cabinet and tackles Callahan to the floor with her entire weight, pushing him out of the way and knocking the wind out of him.

F3, grimacing, lets out a tiny ‘oof.’ Coriolanus’s face is as impassive as ever, but you can sense the mirth behind his eyes watching the entire scene unfold. 

Cursing under his breath, Callahan looks around, more confused than hurt, and it takes a few seconds for him to spot Audrey running on her heels with the bag in tow.

“Hey, what in the livin’ fuck?!” He shouts after her.

Tansey had heard the commotion and had rushed back to where her friend was. She helps him get to his feet as Callahan mutters what sounds like ‘crazy-ass bitch’ to himself. He calls out to the direction where Audrey ran off to, “Whatever happened to askin’ nicely?”

In the testing room, F3 breaks the silence with a lighthearted comment. “Sorry about that. I wouldn’t mind if your tribute steals this, so we’d be even.” 

Coriolanus just smirks as he watches F3’s drone reach Audrey.

Of course, he’s enjoying this.

“You knew Audrey was hungry, yet you chose that moment to send Callahan something,” you blurt out.

Coriolanus’s smirk doesn’t fade when he turns to you, leaning back coolly against his chair. “I was merely curious.”

But to a man like him, curiosity often blends with cruelty. Still, you purse your lips and let the matter go. There is so much work to be done, and if you do it right, this could potentially be the last interaction you’d ever have with him.

At F1’s prompt, since everyone has finished sending food to the test tributes, you take turns trying out and crossing out cases on your list related to the drones, sending bottles of water to check for any abnormal drone behaviour. When every test yields satisfactory, you conclude the drone software to be fully functional.

Which is a bummer because that means you’re now moving on to testing the game environment controls.

F1 rubs his palms and whispers, “Here we go.” He types a command you’ve never seen used before, so you peek into his screen behind his back.

He just activated the Muttations Release function.

From the basement’s tall ceiling, a chasm opens wide from which a glass case descends. It’s difficult to make out what’s inside the tank given the limited lighting in the basement, but whatever species is inside is brown, palm-sized, and  writhing .

“What in the world are those?” F2 whispers, her eyes bulging at the display.

“That, my lovely little miracle workers, are my Genetic team’s brand-new itty-bitty side project.”

Everyone in the room turns their heads to the glass observation deck, where Dr Gaul just spoke through the intercom. She waves her gloved fingers at all of you, baring her teeth in a diabolical smile.

“Fire-ant muttations, modified to be two-hundred times their original size and weight – voracious, aggressive little buggers. The catch? A single bite not only causes severe burning sensations courtesy of the solenopsin venom, but also induces convulsions, delirium, and, the best out of all of them? Either intense displays of aggression or a deep state of comatose, brought about by a slow-acting compound genetically added to their venom glands.

“In short, not your typical ant bite,” she says, followed by a deep, throaty chuckle that makes your hair stand on end. “Feast your eyes.”

You’re on your feet at once, madly searching the screen for Tansey, whom you find twice as terrified as you are and clinging onto Callahan’s sleeve. Callahan, however, takes a single look at the tank with eyes bulged, grabs Tansey’s arm and makes a run for it.

Just seconds before the glass cage splits at the bottom and releases the creatures.

Your eyes are trained on the pair as droves and droves of the crawling freaks of nature chase after them. Callahan and Tansey are both thankfully light on their feet, jumping over obstacles without much issue, except this advantage doesn’t last. Mere inches away from being overtaken by the ant mutts, Callahan all but hauls his companion to the top of the nearest control panel before climbing to safety, while an ant that manages to crawl on top of another ant for leverage narrowly misses his ankles with its pincers.

Audrey had also managed to make it on top of a short cabinet physically intact not far away from where the tank had dropped from the ceiling.

“Goddammit, goddammit,” you can hear Callahan mutter under his breath. He’s rummaging through their bags frantically for something he can use to fend the accursed insects off, as they have begun to climb the control panel they’re perched onto. He finally fishes out a machete with a loud ‘ha!’ before throwing it to Tansey, and launches himself to the row of shelves on the left.

Is he leaving her?

Tansey seems to have the same question in mind.

“Wait, Callahan - !” – she impales an ant with the machete – “Come back!” she screams after her friend, but it’s too late – the boy is already several rows of cabinets and shelves away, rummaging through the junk he can reach in search of something. Eventually, he hops back on the floor, disappearing from her view entirely.

“Callahan, don’t leave me, please!” Tansey’s panicked scream echoes in your ears.

“Their vitals are going haywire...” F1 says as he checks his console.

More ants begin reaching the top of the control panel which Tansey defends with all her might, and she stomps on and slices as many of them as she can. Audrey, too, seems to manage well on her own with the knife she was rehearsing earlier despite her perch being closer to the floor. 

Tansey’s control panel, however, starts getting flanked on three sides by the climbing ant mutts, and you know it would only be a matter of seconds before she herself, gets overtaken –

“TANSEY, GET OUT OF THE FUCKIN’ WAY!”

Tansey heeds the scream of warning just in time for most of her to avoid getting licked by huge bursts of flame that attack the ant mutts and keep them at bay.

It’s Callahan, who looks like he managed to successfully build the flamethrower out of parts he scavenged from the electronic trash he was rummaging through just a short while ago.

Relief, however short-lived, washes over you as you note Tansey’s appearance – she takes in the scene before her with a mixture of fascination and relief, her curls partly singed from the flames earlier, but otherwise, safe and unbitten.

“There’s too many of ‘em – fuck!”  Callahan’s frustration becomes more evident in his yell as waves of ant mutts keep coming at them from all sides. Tansey still holds her ground from behind him with her machete, hacking at every moving, crawling thing coming at her.

The boy shifts his position as he observes the horizon. His eyes land on something to his south before a look of realisation hits him.

“Hey, Tansey, remember that area with them puddles? We gotta get there, I got a plan,” he tells her over his back. “Follow me, and whatever you do, don’t fuckin’ fall, got it?”

Tansey shouts in the affirmative. Callahan begins hurdling on top of the sea of shelves, computers and cabinets, with her tailing from behind. The ant mutts pursue them relentlessly, which puzzles you. Fire ants, after all, only attack a target which they've marked with their pheromones.

“How did they manage to get fire-ant pheromones on them?” you wonder out loud.

“My, my, aren’t you just astute, Ms Innis,” Dr Gaul’s drawling, delighted voice comes through the intercom. “Their shackles were smeared generously with them – a rather brilliant idea you can thank your mentor for.”

You flick your gaze sharply at Coriolanus, who simply beams at you. You open your mouth to react, but a scream from Tansey makes you whip your head to the big screen.

An ant mutt had managed to crawl on her back, but a hand swats it away.

It’s Audrey, falling into step beside her. Tansey mouths her thanks, which the other doesn’t acknowledge. Together, they spring towards the massive computer that Callahan had just landed on, with Audrey landing square at the centre. Tansey, however, barely makes it, her torso draped over the edge as she attempts desperately to pull herself up to higher ground with one hand while clutching the flamethrower with the other. Below her are several ant mutts, emitting clicking noises, as if calling for the rest of their colony.

To everyone’s surprise, Audrey rises to her rescue yet again: she takes the flamethrower and pulls her up to safety, only this time, Tansey doesn’t bother with niceties and just smiles at her. Audrey just blinks once, indicating she understands.

The tributes finally make it to their target area, so Callahan looks around, and as he does, his eyes land on their new companion.

“How nice of you to join us,” he says with a sarcastically formal flair. “Make yourself useful and fend ‘em off. Tansey!”

“They’re coming!”

“I know that – listen to me – I’mma need you to draw these little shits to the largest, deepest puddle,” he urgently instructs her. Turning to Audrey, he says, “Protect each other, and the both of you: when I tell you to get off the floor, get off the damn floor, understand?”

The girls nod in accord and at their leader’s prompt, they steel themselves and hop down the floor, where the mutts are but a few rows away. Callahan takes this time to hastily head to his left.

Where the main electrical source is.

F1 whoops in approval in the testing room. “And once again, the nerd saves the day.”

Everyone in the room is collectively holding their breath and ignoring their systems, now aware of Callahan’s grand plan.

He turns off the main power source, which automatically activates the secondary source. With brute force, he yanks the massive wires and drags them with him over the mountains of metallic trash. It’s obviously not an easy feat, having to lug wires heavier than his entire body weight.

From several rows away, Tansey and Audrey kill as many of the bugs as they can, the former with the flamethrower and the latter with her dagger, while they keep them in the puddle as Callahan instructed.

Callahan arrives heaving the wires and taking them apart. Then, he drops the wires to the floor where the copper ends touch the puddle, before taking off and back to the switch.

“You two: get off the floor NOW!” he hollers.

The two scramble through the hoard of mutts upon hearing Callahan’s cue. They make sure to trample some of the mutts along the way for good measure before ferrying themselves on top of the control panel, just as Callahan flips the switch to main.

For a fraction of a second, all the screens in the testing room turn black. Tiny high-pitched clicking noises are heard, which you assume are the mutts’ final cry before being fried to their death, along with sparks flying and electricity crackling, and the surges of electricity continue until you hear the switch being turned off.

The lights, however, don’t turn back on and are replaced by the tiny, flickering yellow emergency lights mounted on the basement walls. Callahan must’ve inadvertently fried the secondary electrical source as well.

“Switch to night vision view, please,” you say, to which F2 complies.

Panicking internally, your eyes scan for Tansey’s whereabouts, and you release the breath you’d been holding once you see her, crouched down and on top of the control panel, slowly rising to her feet as she looks around at the mess of an aftermath. Audrey follows suit, whipping her head around for any imminent danger.

“Is everyone alright? I didn’t zap ya’ll, did I?” shouts Callahan from right before the electrical switches. He sprints among the debris right to where they are.

“No, we’re okay,” Tansey responds. “You?”

Callahan just lets out a heavy sigh, followed by an eruption of relieved laughter from him. “Aside from wantin’ to puke at this stinkin’ pile of shit we just fried, I think I’m good.”

“Uh, guys? I think camera fifteen is conked out,” F3 notices.

F1 attempts a reboot of the camera, but the feed doesn’t return. He concludes eventually after multiple attempts, “The surge must’ve fried the chip.”

F2 logs this down on her checklist.

“Whoa, that was some great footage,” F1 whistles. “The other gamemakers are going to have a blast reviewing these files.”

The rest of the team nods in agreement.

They made it. Despite the glaring odds stacked against them, the three teens made it. Barely.

“You said nobody was going to die. That was a close call, Coriolanus.”

You had not meant to say that out loud but you do. You face him with your brows stitched together, ignoring the way he narrows his eyes at the name you used on him. You had not called him that in a long time.

“Nellie, we could not have gathered that much valuable data if we skipped that part of the test,” he replies gently. His console, however, lights up and emits the notification sound. “Sponsorship worked seamlessly, F2,” he calls out to her.

“Yep!” F2 nods enthusiastically. “Lucky Callahan.”

Pursing your lips, you head back to your station while your mentor sends more food to his tribute, perhaps as a reward for keeping everyone alive and, in consequence, extending the tests further. Instead, you quietly stew in your irritation and try to find comfort in the way the three of them finally descend to the floor and share the slices of bread among themselves. As an added treat, Tansey brings out the two remaining candies that you gave her that morning. She tries to give it to the two of them selflessly, but Callahan isn’t having it. In the end, they agree to share one between themselves and save the last for later.

Your joy at seeing them partake in a heartwarming moment is dampened by the fact that in your world, you can never imagine sharing a single piece of candy with two other people.

A few more uneventful hours pass as you and the rest of your team assess electrical damage that might’ve been dealt with by the electrical surge. You discover along the way that several cameras have a few microsecond delays in transmitting the footage, but nothing the team can’t repair or replace.

The three have already taken to foraging weaponry amidst the debris. Just in case, Callahan had said. Audrey had gone off by herself to do the same and had found electrical parts that Callahan had instructed her to find.

And then she just crumples on the floor into a screaming heap.

It’s visceral, haunting, and she sounds like she’s in extreme agony. Callahan rushes instantly to her side, but it’s Tansey who pries the source of the apparent pain: a lone ant mutt that had been left alive had latched its pincers on her left ankle.

“We got no meds for this,” Callahan says as he and Tansey carry her back to their makeshift camp where they earlier had shared the food. All they could do is wrap her in a blanket they pulled out from one of their bags. The pitiful cries continue for a while. Tansey just sobs helplessly in the background as she takes Audrey’s head and places it on her lap, stroking her blond hair in a vain attempt to soothe her.

And you don’t know what’s harder to watch: Audrey’s screaming or her convulsing on the floor.

“Hey, hey!” Callahan spots a camera nearby and waves at it. “You gotta stop the Games, or whatever, she can’t go on like this…”

His appeals, of course, are ignored by Coriolanus and F3.

Not like you could do anything either: there isn’t any anti-venom for that specific mutt programmed in the source code.

And then the convulsions stop, followed by a deathly silence, indicating the venom had finally put her into a coma she may never wake from.

“He’s right; we have to stop this.” You walk over to your mentor's station. “Coryo, please. We can save whatever data we have and continue next week when she’s better.”

Coriolanus just regards you with a strange look, like he’s contemplating what you just said. Wordlessly he rises from his seat and walks over to F1, probably to inspect the data the console has on Audrey before glancing at the big screen.

“I think you’re right, Nellie. Time is of the essence.” Your mentor says finally. He turns to face you with the stoniest smile you’ve ever seen in him yet. “Let’s test the remaining environment controls, but we need to hurry. We have a few more of them left to run.”

You could feel the blood drain from your face to your feet.  He’s willing to let Audrey die just to see the test to completion. And because his word is the only authority next to Dr Gaul’s in this playing field, F1 simply shrugs and presses a command you can’t see on the gamemaker station.

“Wait - !”

The next thing you know is that thrumming pain in your ears, followed by that unbearable ringing that makes you close your eyes. A cloud of dust is all that greets you when you open them next.

You know this day; you’ve revisited it countless times in your life. Always vivid and exactly as you remember it to be, but that fact doesn’t make it any less painful.

When the dust finally clears, that’s when you see her.

“Mommy…no…”

You always sob like a baby at this part. You can’t even bear the thought of seeing her mangled body bathing in her own blood, but here you are, walking over to that heap of a woman who’s barely minutes away from dying. Just like you always do, you cradle her in your arms, letting yourself soak in her blood as you watch the life drain from her eyes.

Daddy's hand. You're supposed to find Daddy's severed hand now.

Cold hands cup your tear-stained cheeks, and a pair of lips touch the top of your head – something that has never happened to you before in any of these visions.

You lift your eyes, and instead of seeing a cloud of dust that you know should be clearing by now, it’s the all-too-familiar pair of the emptiest, most soulless blue eyes you’ve ever seen in your life, tearing you away from a nightmarish memory and shoving you into an even more nightmarish reality.

Enter Level 10

Author notes:

Please reblog and comment, it's always appreciated!!!

Sorry for the delay and forgive any typos. I shall edit when I wake up. Level 10 out tomorrow (crossing my fingers), I just had to cut what was supposedly Level 9 and divide it into two because it was getting too lengthy and the pacing might not make sense so... :P

Also, any guesses what 'important thing' that was that Snowball wanted to talk to her about?? Hmmm...

#dark!coriolanus snow #dark!coriolanus snow x reader #young!coriolanus snow #young!coriolanus snow x reader #named!reader #or #x OC2ndPOV #18+ only #dark!coriolanus snow fic #dark!coriolanus #dark!coriolanus fic #dark!fic

[dotieeee]

The Gamemaker's Apprentice

Level 14

Pairing: Dark!Young!Coriolanus Snow x You, named!Reader

Overall Warnings:

NON-CON, DUB-CON, Dark!Young!Coriolanus Snow, Snow himself should be a warning, lots of blackmailing, gaslighting, manipulation, obsession, possesiveness, eventual forced marriage, eventual loss of virginity, breeding kink, canon-compliant major character death, reader is named but has no physical descriptions in the fic so one might also consider her an OC but in 2nd POV, will have canon inconsistencies, drugging, somnophilia, and other stuff that may be added

Masterlist

Level 14 Warnings:

Graphic non-p&v non-con, graphic violence, alcohol consumption and intoxication

Replay Level 13

Ready? Level 14 Start:

“Nellie! Oh my gosh, it’s so good to see you, it’s been soooo long!”

“You look amazing, Nellie. I’m so glad to see you, girl!”

“Nellie, I’m so happy you could make it tonight, it means so much to us.”

Coriolanus Snow’s striking figure stands at his full height while you’re hounded by your old Academy classmates with sweet words, warm smiles, and quick pecks on your cheek – his sharp eyes, however, are unusually hungrier tonight, owing to that dress you’re wearing. To be fair, it was you who made this choice of dress, not him – a figure-hugging crimson-red velvet number with a heart-shaped neckline and puffy sleeves, the hem falling just a few inches above your knees – modest yet showing just enough skin and curve for his mind to go astray.

The way your hips sway in it, and the way he can see just how ample the curve of your ass is for his grabbing while he bends you over and ploughs into you from your ba –

A swift tackle from behind almost knocks the wind out of him, effectively distracting him from you, and when the tackler lets go, he gets pulled in an affectionate one-armed hug by none other than Festus Creed.

“My old friend! Glad you can make it tonight,” Festus greets with a large grin.

“Likewise, Festus. You said you had good news for us, I wouldn’t miss it.”

To Coriolanus, Festus had been a good friend since childhood, and over the years he had proven himself to be a valuable ally. That is why he makes an effort to humour his childhood friend with just about anything he puts his mind to – drinking during the weekends, the occasional sport and game night (he once asked him to join a boxing lesson), and on rare occasions, trips to those fancy strip clubs (where he got his previous escorts from).

Save him fucking unknown girls in a sketchy alleyway, Festus can still put him up to things that Coriolanus doesn’t necessarily have any taste for. This dinner, by far, is one of the more pleasant affairs his friend has come up with, and it’s solely because of Coriolanus’s Citadel-exclusive membership that they were able to reserve highly-coveted seats in one of the tables in the restaurant’s inner garden.

Coriolanus Snow’s eye almost twitches when he sees Festus pull you in for a bear hug and lift you off the floor for a few seconds. He has no reason to be jealous, he reminds himself – Festus is a friend who already has Persephone, who looks happier than ever clinging onto his arm. When he gets a closer look at her as she pulls him in for a quick hug, however, he notices that she has gained weight by a fraction around the midsection.

In an instant, he’s figured out what good news his friend is dying to share. Unless she managed to get her hands on more of her father's infamous wartime stew (Coriolanus shudders to himself), there is no way he could be wrong.

“So Nellie, what did Coriolanus have to do to make you come out of your fortified fortress?” Festus jokes.

You let out a little chuckle and respond in a similar tone, “If you have to know, Festus, he disabled the fortifications, invaded the said fortress, and established a semi-totalitarian regime.”

Even Coriolanus can’t suppress his laugh; you’re by far the wittiest girl he’s ever met – as if he needs another reminder of why he’s so crazy about you.

The White Knight is full on a Saturday night as is expected, the waiting area even more so, but the receptionist is quick to have Festus Creed’s party escorted to the table. Everyone is then plied with refreshments as soon as they’re seated, while a waiter reads out tonight’s specials. There is light chatter which Coriolanus is engaged with animatedly, and everyone else seems to be in chipper spirits, but he’s observing you out of the corner of his eye as he always does.

He’s still quite upset and offended that you had once again attempted to escape him, thank you very much. After all he’s done for you to make sure you’ll never want for anything in his care – the least he deserves was being so cruelly abandoned like you had just tried to do earlier in the day. The punishment he gave you after felt just, but even if he had drawn immense satisfaction from it, that wasn’t how he imagined you pleasuring him by the mouth. It couldn’t be helped, it seems – you needed a much-overdue reminder that you were his and that was the only method he could come up with.

But the way your eyes look so dull and tired presumably from all that crying, even as you tried your best to appear carefree in the presence of friends, stirs something in him. Underneath the table, he takes your hand resting on your lap and laces his fingers between yours in hopes of reassuring you.

Dinner is eventually served in courses, and as usual, everything is delicious. In between bites, Coriolanus manages to sneak glances at you to make sure you’re eating well. Finally, dessert is served, which he knows is your favourite part of every meal, yet you barely get two bites into your cheesecake before you push it towards him.

“You want it? I can’t finish it,” you tell him.

And of course, as the dutiful boyfriend he is, he finishes it off for his sugarplum, earning an eye roll from Festus.

“Look at you two, so disgustingly in love, finishing off each other’s plates and everything,” his friend teases.

Coriolanus's response is a smirk. “And look at you, eating Persephone’s share before she can even put her fork down. It’ll be a wonder she doesn’t starve when you two start living together.”

Careful she doesn't make soup out of you.

The rest of the table erupts into lighthearted giggling; he glances at you sideways and feels a little reassured to see that you’re joining in.

“Speaking of which…” Festus begins after he clears his throat, and, holding Persephone’s hand over the table for everyone to see, he announces what Coriolanus had been suspecting before dinner had even begun.

He and his long-time girlfriend are expecting and are getting married in three months. Despite sleeping around behind her back right after every fight, Persephone had managed to drill some commitment into his friend’s thick skull, which isn’t an easy feat. Coriolanus is genuinely glad at this development – relieved, even, because this means Festus will now have less time for the drinking sprees and mindless shenanigans he’d normally get dragged into.

The table erupts into a chorus of congratulatory messages to which the couple’s faces glow brightly, their grip on each other’s hands tightening as their heads draw marginally closer to each other.

Clemmie asks them something from across the table. “Pers, how far along are you?”

“I’m halfway through my first trimester,” Persephone says. “I’m going to start showing soon, so we’re rushing the preparations. We waited to tell everyone until now because we’d like you guys to play a part in the ceremony.”

“And you, my great, slippery partner in crime,” Festus turns to Coriolanus with a big grin, “Are my best man.”

“It’ll be an honour,” he replies. Best man. Can’t be that bad. How hard can it be to arrange a stag party? He motions to the waiter to fill up all the wine glasses. “My first act as the best man is to propose a toast to my friends Festus and Persephone, or soon-to-be Mr and Mrs Creed, and their baby on the way.”

The table shouts ‘hear, hear’ in unison and empties all of the raised glasses, to which Festus breaks into mock sobs.

“You guys are making me cry,” he fakes wiping his tears using Persephone’s dress-sleeve, which earns a laugh from her and a playful slap on his shoulder.

“I also hope that their future children inherit none of Festus’s rotten genes,” Coriolanus adds as a joke. The entire table laughs along with Persephone as Festus attempts to kick him under the table as he suppresses a toothy smile. Somehow, there is a bit of truth in that – even if his friend means well, he can be a bit dense. Thankfully, Persephone adequately fills that gap. One can just hope she isn't birthing children with cannibalistic tendencies.

The chatter then goes on about the wedding preparations and the following baby shower. Coriolanus fondly recalls you with his cousin and Ma Plinth going over the guest list and the gown designs, a time that you had then ruined with your little disappearing act. He fixes his stare on your face, failing to notice until after a few moments that his own hand has just reached for your left where the engagement ring sits.

Even in his subconscious, he craves any form of contact with you.

Coriolanus notices Persephone’s soft gaze on him, which travels to your clasped hands – perhaps she spots the ring on your hand, for her eyes widen by a fraction before turning back to him with a subtly interested look. He acknowledges the look with a single upturn of his lips.

“Guys, I think we’re not the only ones on this table with good news,” she declares, her excitement palpable. “Nellie, can I see your ring, please?”

It's so endearing how you stammer and smile sheepishly as you attempt to redirect everyone’s attention away from you. “Uh, I…I don’t – I mean, it’s just a ring, this is your night – !”

“Nonsense!” Persephone brushes you off with a genuine smile. “I know an engagement ring when I see one - I've seen them a dozen times. Let us see the ring, please?”

“Wait, what ring?” Clemmie leans forward curiously before she gasps, her eyes darting between him and you. “Oh my, you two as well?”

Lys says with an eager smile, “She’s been totally trying to hide it the entire night. I knew it!”

Coriolanus shrugs within himself and thinks now is a good time as any. “Nellie, it’s okay. You can show them.”

You do as he says demurely while he looks on, mildly amused at the way the others collectively draw closer to your outstretched hand.

Festus guffaws loudly, startling everyone including the waiter who almost drops the plates he’s collecting.

“He finally got the balls to do it, huh? Fuck yeah, congratulations, man!” His friend lets out a whoop as they exchange a warm and vigorous handshake. Festus turns to you, saying, “Nellie, I’m glad you gave him a chance because it was getting really obnoxious how he just talks about you, pining, whenever he gets tipsy.”

It's Coriolanus’s turn to send him a half-hearted kick under the table, unable to help his growing smirk. “You’re a horrible liar, Creed, I do not pine.”

The girls congratulate you both as a couple, and his friend offers a similar congratulatory toast while declaring himself Coriolanus’s best man.

“There is no one else I can think of who’ll fit the bill,” Coriolanus agrees. “Also, I’d appreciate it if this stays between us for now, as we plan to announce it after the 12th Games. The wedding is in six months, approximately.”

“Of course,” Lys nods. “You can trust us, Coriolanus. Festus is the only one in this table who can’t keep a secret.”

“Hey!”

“Can I tell Livia, though?”

Lys, Festus and Persephone gape at Clemmie and her question, but she just shrugs it off over a sip of her glass. “What? She’s going to find out anyway.”

You look understandably confused. “Oh yeah, I thought she’d be joining today.”

Inwardly, Coriolanus doesn’t care if his former prospect avoids him forever, but he hadn’t told you about him almost choosing her at first before he set his eyes on you. He’d very much like to see how you’d respond, although he masks this interest by feigning awkwardness.

Persephone licks her lips before explaining. “She said she had something else to attend to, but I think she’s just upset with Coriolanus.”

This conversation is turning out to be in his favour. “This was before you, Nellie. We were supposed to go on this date, but I decided against it. Honestly, it wasn’t that bad, we didn’t even talk.”

“’It wasn’t that bad?’ Are you kidding me?” Festus says in between sniggers. “You practically scarred her, leaving her out to dry like that.”

Clemmie nods thoughtfully. “Or in her words, you led her on and essentially ghosted her.”

“So imagine how mad she was when she started hearing rumours about the two of you,” Persephone recounts. “People always whispered about how close you two were, but all we got were mere speculations.”

Lys chimes in, “And then we see that article about Mr Plinth’s birthday party.”

“Yes, that! Nellie, you were so freaking pretty, gosh. I have to tell you, it was all I could hear from the girls I knew in class. You made red silk slip dresses a trend,” Clemmie gushes. “Anyway, Livia phoned me the night that article came out, we went out for drinks and she ended up getting wasted and so stressed out about it. It was so messy, I’m telling you.”

Coriolanus intently observes your reaction – you keep your face guarded, but he can tell by looking into your eyes that you’re surprised at the revelations. “Sorry, you had to find out this way. I meant to tell you all about it.”

To further paint the repentant boyfriend, he keeps a rueful expression and takes your hand in his. Your posture stiffens a little.

“It’s…it’s fine, honestly…”

“I wouldn’t worry about it, Nellie,” Persephone gently says.

Lys nods in agreement, and Clemmie begins teasing you. “Nellie, I didn’t know you had a jealous streak. Seriously, don’t be!”

You bristle at the ladies’ playful teasing, the tip of your ears reddening at the attention as you vehemently deny them. “No, I’m not...!”

If Coriolanus was a lesser man, he would’ve kissed you right there and then, damn everybody who’s watching.

But there it is – the reaction he’d been waiting to see from everyone since the talk of that Cardew girl began – to the circle, your approach on the subject is natural as his girlfriend and fiancée. Eventually, however, you successfully revert the topic to Persephone’s wedding preparations, which somehow leads to a collective decision to move to Club Heresy for a few drinks.

Club Heresy, located just a few blocks away, is an exclusive invite-only club, and in Clemmie’s words, the ‘hottest’ nightclub in the city where the richest, most popular kids in the Capitol are known to frequent. Coriolanus had been there too many times to count, but it'll be your first time. He’s aware he may have overwhelmed you with tonight’s dinner, so he has to be close by preferably at all times to look out for you.

As soon as you get inside the loud, crowded, dimly-lit box they call Club Heresy, you wrench away from the girls to go to the bathroom. You see something akin to suspicion in Coriolanus’s eyes when you tell him, but you don’t wait for permission from him – you extricate yourself from your company the moment you get his hand off your waist, and as soon as you lock the bathroom stall, you cover your mouth with both your palms and scream.

You let out several guttural screams, unable to care any less if anyone else can hear.

He had a choice.

He had a choice, a voice keeps repeating in your head. It could’ve been someone else’s life he’d ruined. It could’ve been Livia Cardew in your place, being dragged into Coriolanus Snow’s life – and if what your old classmates had said is to be believed, she sounded willing to participate, even heartbroken that she had lost the chance.

But for whatever rotten, miserable, fucked-up reason, he still chose to make your life a living hell by forcing you into a relationship you never asked for, and soon, into a marriage you’ll never want.

Your screams eventually morph into uncontrollable sobbing, which you still try to stifle with your hands.

A knock on your bathroom stall echoes in the space, followed by an impatient voice on the other side that asks, “Hey, excuse me? You’ve been in there so long, other people have to go to, you know.”

“Leave me the fuck alone!”

The retort you let out might’ve been too abrasive, but the scary part is, you can’t bring yourself to give a damn anymore. You’re turning into a person you no longer recognise the longer you’re with him, and it’s a person you’re starting to hate.

Coriolanus is dragged away to the bar by Festus as he watches your form scurry away and disappear through the crowd of intoxicated bodies thrashing to ear-splitting electronic music. The two males leave the ladies at the VIP booth so they can drink and talk in peace.

“Hey, she’s not going to try and escape man, what the hell?” Festus shouts through the noise.

You have no idea, Coriolanus thinks wryly.

They get to the bar where it’s significantly quieter, and where Festus challenges him to shots of vodka and watered-down posca to chase them with.

Festus grimaces after downing the first shot and asks, “Hey listen, congratulations on finally nailing her down, but six months? You knocked her up, didn’t you?”

“No.” Coriolanus empties the second the shot glass, eager to get this drinking spree over with. Though he can afford to pay for it now and even chooses to partake at times, he’s aware that constant inebriation isn’t ideal for someone like him who has an impeccable image to uphold. “I told you many times: I’m – we’re waiting for marriage.”

“Yeah, I remember feeling the same way – two years ago. I’ve always admired your self-control, Snow, but nobody’s perfect.” Festus snorts in laughter and spills some of the posca on the bar.

Even as aware as he is that his restraint concerning you continues to slip by the day, Coriolanus merely scoffs when he goes through the fifth shot and chaser, deliberately ignoring the heightening buzz. “What can I say, Creed? I’m learning from your mistakes.”

His friend, who’s clearly starting to lose inhibition due to the alcohol, erupts into fits of giggles, before pointing at something from across the bar. Obviously slurring now, he says, “Uh-oh, troublewithyourgirl, two, three, o’clock?”

Coriolanus whips his head fast enough to almost cause a dizzy spell. True enough, he sees you, his precious sugarplum, your eyes red-rimmed and your brows drawn together in a frown, trying to evade – and failing – a guy who’s clearly invading your personal space and making unwanted advances.

He tries not to see red, but with every step he takes closer to you, it becomes increasingly impossible. He stares daggers at the male as he gets in between you two.

“I’d step away now if I were you,” he says, his jaw tensing and his fists curling and uncurling. Don’t let the alcohol get to your head, he recites inwardly.

“Mind your own business, punk, I’m trying to score here,” the bastard says, pushing and brushing past him to get to your frame currently retreating further into your future husband’s back.

This fills him with pride and warmth, knowing that even if you’re not in the best of terms, you still turn to him for protection. It’s his duty, he’s well aware, but he also loves you - enough for him to admit he’d die first before he lets anyone harm a single strand of your hair.

That duty of his is the only thing on his mind the second the bastard grabs your arm – he lets the sweet, intoxicating, elixir do wonders in his brain and lets his fist fly right onto the scum’s nose.

Nobody gets to touch what belongs to Coriolanus Snow except Coriolanus Snow.

Screams from a few people on the dance floor overpower the thumping electronic music, the crowd drawing back to give space to the man currently on the floor, knocked out by a single, powerful punch from your fiancé. It takes a few seconds later than you would’ve liked – owning to the fact that the man’s nose is bleeding profusely and you try not to let the image of the thick, red liquid get into your head – but you wrap your arms around Coriolanus’s midriff to keep him from launching himself on the man with all intents to further rough him up. The burly club bouncers are immediately at the scene while the man tries to get back on his feet to no avail.

Coriolanus is quick to explain the situation, saying how the bastard ‘groped’ his girlfriend; the bouncers ask no more questions and haul the man away.

“This’s new. I normally start the fights,” Festus, who had just arrived at the scene smelling like an entire bar with his eyes drooping and red, merely grins proudly at his friend, but this has no effect on him whatsoever.

Coriolanus still looks like he’s about to murder someone on sight, so you attempt to placate him by placing a hand on his arm. His gaze instantly softens by a fraction when he looks at it, but then he makes a grab for it, and, after dragging you around to bid the entire group farewell, you find yourself back in the car, wedged in between the upholstered backseat and your boyfriend’s sinewy form, the air being sucked out of you by his mouth firmly latched onto yours.

As Coriolanus drags his lips against your lips, you wilt with dread; the kiss he’s forcing you to share is filled with the kind of urgency and hunger that you suspect won’t let up anytime soon, judging by how he smells and tastes of vodka and posca. He pauses briefly when he drags you across his lobby, but the kiss is back full force when the elevator closes, and the moment his apartment door closes behind you, he lifts your entire body over his shoulder and carries you to his bedroom, squealing and hitting whatever part of him you could reach with your flailing fists.

He ignores all of this and essentially throws you on his bed. Your attempts to crawl away are then hindered when he climbs on top of you and straddles you on the hips.

“No, get off me – !”

His body descends on yours and he kisses you once more in the mouth to silence you, but once his hand strokes your thigh and hikes up your dress, you push his chest with all your might and break the kiss.

“No, please – !”

But you’re cut off by your own scream – he’s just flipped you on your stomach with a growl over your ear, and once again, he pins you in place with his thighs on either side of your hips. You’re panicking by now; this new position only offers you a view of the headboard when you lift your head and prevents any more of your already limited movement, and since he wouldn’t budge an inch, there’s very little you can do now to get out of his grasp except one thing:

You break down in tears and beg.

“Please, Coryo, let me go…”

But all that earns you is him whispering hotly over your ear.

“Hush, my sugarplum. I did promise to wait until we’re married, but that doesn’t mean I can’t have any fun.”

That’s when you feel him rip the back of your dress, and the tearing sound mingles with your own terrified sobs. With the way you can feel the cold prickling your skin, you can tell he’s torn the dress until your lower back – if he had torn an inch further, he could’ve exposed the crack of your ass, covered modestly by your underwear.

With his lips grazing your ear, he hisses, “Nobody touches what’s mine except me.”

Within seconds of ripping your dress, you can feel him suckle and bite on whatever part of your back he can reach, his tongue leaving hot, wet trails on the exposed, stinging flesh – as if that isn’t enough, his hand further pushes your shoulder into the mattress, while his other snakes underneath the part of the dress he hasn’t pulled up and travels between your thighs. He begins stroking your clothed cunt with his fingers, and to your embarrassment, you can feel your own warmth soaking your panties as soon as he does. When you writhe helplessly underneath him, his tongue licks upwards, stopping at the base of your neck before he plants a kiss on your hair and whispers:

“Sshh, my little sugarplum; let me reward you for doing so well tonight.”

“Coryo, no, please, please…!”

Alternating between shushing you and kissing your temples, Coriolanus pushes your panties aside and rubs your wet entrance, right before you feel a finger of his pushing into your untouched hole.

The unwanted friction stings a little, earning a choked scream from you, and you learn quickly that squirming actually makes it worse. So, you lie perfectly still and squeeze the pillow before you while he fully plunges the finger inside you before pulling it out and pushing it back in.

He's gone to a place in you that you never even knew existed, every thrust of his finger makes you realise just how sensitive that place is. He settles for a steady pace in no time as you adjust to the feeling, and as shameful as it already is, your cries are reduced to whimpers, and eventually to moans, and your muscles begin to clench and unclench around his finger uncontrollably.

“So fucking tight, my sugarplum,” he whispers against his temple. “Is this how tightly you’ll squeeze my cock when I take you on our wedding night?”

His finger brushes over an area inside you that causes you to arch your back and curl your toes – you let out an embarrassingly loud moan, but you can’t bring yourself to care. For now, all you can think of is that finger hitting that same spot over and over, your insides clenching him erratically.

“You’re close, aren’t you? I can feel it. Let go, my sugarplum.”

Close to what, you find out soon enough – your first orgasm invades all your senses, wracking your body with tremors. Pleasure like you’ve never felt before, forced from you by your fiancé’s ministrations – but it fades as soon it comes, replaced by relief when that finger finally leaves your core and the body pinning you down draws back a little, then by pure shame and guilt for your body reacting as it did when you should have hated it.

“See what I give you when you obey me?”

You don’t spend more than a few moments to contemplate just how appalled you are at yourself – above you, you hear the rustling of a belt buckle being undone and a zipper being pulled down, and you panic again, pleading to him and wishing he’d just leave you alone.

“Please, Coryo, don’t…”

Coriolanus shushes you again, this time, gripping the left side of your waist to keep you in place while you hear him starting to breathe steadily heavier. You lie still, afraid of what he might do, but all you hear from him after a few tense seconds is his strained groaning and cursing under his breath.

“Fuck, you’re going to feel so good when I’m inside you…”

He’s pleasuring himself above you, and the realisation leaves you mortified, but you decide to ignore him and block out everything altogether.

“Can’t you feel me trying to make you feel good, Nellie?” He asks in between his panting and grunting. “Why can’t you see me trying to give you everything you want? To make you feel happy? Why can’t you just accept that I love you?”

You decide to ignore that, too.

What you can’t ignore, however, is the sound of him reaching his peak – it’s a vulgar sound, you note – followed by something hot and wet spilling on your lower back, indicating he’s spilt himself on you.

You feel him draw closer, breathing heavily into your ear and whispering, “You’re mine. You’ll learn to accept that in time.”

The bed shifts when he finally gets off you, but he kisses you once on the back of your neck and on your head, probably – hopefully – for the last time tonight, before saying, “Now would be a perfect time to start accepting your reality; otherwise, you’re just going to be miserable. And I don’t want that. I want to make you happy, and I will – you just have to let me.”

He later cleans you up with a wet towel and removes whatever is left of your dress, leaving you in only your underwear – you close your eyes the entire time and just let him. You scoot over to the edge of the bed when he comes back, shirtless and clad in only his boxer shorts, but he wraps his arm around you tightly and pulls you by the waist until your back touches his chest. The action is enough for the tears to come spilling for the umpteenth time this day, but you try to keep it down to mere sniffling. He coos from behind you and places his lips on the side of your neck in this gentle, lingering kiss.

“I’m placing you on paid suspension. Because of what you did, sugarplum, I’d have to send your uncle to exile in the Districts. Understand this: this isn’t meant to hurt you in any way. I only mean to teach you a lesson: do as I say, and you’ll never have to cry like this again.”

Coriolanus plants a series of butterfly kisses on the same spot, travelling to your shoulder and back. He then burrows his face at the groove of your neck, inhaling deeply and sighing with absolute contentment.

“I love you, Nellie,” he murmurs against your skin. “Now, sleep. Everything will be better in the morning.”

But with him, you can never really know, can you?

“So, Nellie dear, what do you think of this?”

Ma Plinth pores into the catalogue you have open in your lap and points on page fifteen.

She set up a Sunday morning appointment with Nicolau Daley, a renowned professional wedding planner whose energy you can barely keep up with as he showed you countless catalogues of wedding themes and decorations and needlessly described them in detail. You’re unable to focus on the said page, but you nod anyway.

“I think it’s pretty, Ma.”

“I think so too,” she nods to herself. “Coriolanus would like it as well, seeing as it’s full of the red roses he’s partial to…”

Ah yes. It’s all about what he wants, isn’t it?

Ma rummages through the hefty stack of other catalogues piled on the coffee table before you.

“Let me show you the one he and I initially agreed on so you can pick which one you like best...”

At the end of the scheduled appointment, you both walk out of Mr Daley’s office with samples of wedding décor carried by Ma’s maid, with Ma in light spirits and you…just about as chipper as one can be when one is forced into marrying a sadistic monster.

You both stroll along the busy 7th Street, the Capitol’s long mecca of luxury goods its residents go crazy for. It’s this day that you discover that Ma is like almost every woman you know when it comes to shopping: from every shop she visits with the intention of ‘just looking around,’ you come out with more bags than you entered, and the hapless maid tailing behind has to deal with carrying the packages.

“Let her do it, Nellie dear,” she dismisses your offer to her maid to help her. “I’ve never taken you out on a shopping day like this, and I want you to have fun!”

By the end of the impromptu shopping spree, you’ve combed all the shops along 7th street and have reached the corner between 7th and 9th, but as you exit, Ma decides to go back inside to get a pair of gloves and asks you to wait outside.

“You can look around and see if there’s anything you like from that store and I’ll meet you right back here in about fifteen minutes,” she instructs, pointing to the other side of the street before vanishing into the shop.

You wonder half-heartedly what will happen to her if you make a run for it now. You certainly have some time before she realises that you've gone. What would Coriolanus do? He will likely never dare hurt her, of course, lest he incurs Strabo Plinth’s wrath. But where will you go, when your inter-district travel pass has been revoked? You’ll most likely never get far, and anyone in the Capitol you ask help from, save your uncle, would turn you back into your fiancé’s custody in a heartbeat.

Your gloomy musings are interrupted when you notice you’ve just turned to the first shop on 9th Street. You face its window, with the words ‘Second Chances Pet Shelter’ in bright paint, and without thinking, you push the door open and enter.

The establishment is rather small, but stacked with steel cages on the walls filled with all sorts of animals. At the end of the space sits a woman behind a counter who introduces herself as Patty. She gets to her feet when she sees you, greets you with a smile and begins recounting the shelter’s history.

They’re a local animal rescue organisation, you discover, and they began with the noble effort of rehabilitating abandoned animals after the war. They have since thrived to this day, given the Capitol’s rather flimsy trends – once a type of pet has gone out of style, the poor things are either euthanised or abandoned to the elements and left to fend for themselves.

Patty’s retelling is interrupted when you feel something soft brush against your legs. You look down to see what it is.

“Oh dear, Oscar has escaped his cage again,” she exclaims with a fond yet exasperated sigh. “Oscar…”

Oscar, a long-haired cat with a black and white coat resembling that of a tuxedo, just proceeds to weave through your legs and ignore the shopkeeper.

“I’m sorry, he’s just so frighteningly smart,” she says. “He keeps breaking the cage’s locking mechanism. This is the sixth cage he's broken in a month.”

“It’s okay,” you chuckle. At least one of you has the ability to break away. “Can I pick him up?”

Having no experience with pets since your uncle is allergic, you’re not sure how to handle him.

“I’d be careful if I were you; he’s a bit of an old-timer. He only tolerates me and he doesn’t really take kindly with other people. Come to think of it, you’re the only person who’s ever walked in here that he’s interacted with…”

You kneel on the floor to get close to Oscar’s height. Patty instructs you to hold out a finger for him to sniff at.

“In cat-speak, it means ‘hello.’”

To your surprise, Oscar rubs his whiskered cheek on your outstretched finger.

“Oh my!” Patty exclaims excitedly. “It means he thinks you’re friends now, I think. You can pet him if you want.”

But you don’t even wait for her instruction – Oscar takes it to himself to rub his chin on your hand, while you use your other hand to pat his head, and this goes on for about a minute before he turns his tail on you and walks gracefully away.

A few raps on the glass window alert you to Ma, waving at you cheerily and motioning to someone standing behind her with an almost curious glint in his eyes.

Coriolanus Snow flashes you a grin and tilts his head purposefully. You’ve come to know what that means in Coryo-speak:

Time to go.

You try not to think about the fact that you’ll likely never see Oscar the cat again, but you take out your rarely-used chequebook and write the shelter a hefty amount – hoping your Uncle wouldn’t mind – to which the lady thanks you profusely for. She lets you say goodbye to Oscar, who’s currently atop one of the shop’s shelves, grooming his pretty long coat. He snubs you completely, which you think is for the better – it’s a lot less heartbreaking for you that way when you finally exit the shop.

Coriolanus immediately gives you a fleeting kiss on the lips in greeting. “How’s the shopping going, my sugarplum?”

“It's going well, thank you.” Until you showed up, anyway.

You notice his gaze flick momentarily back to the shop, then back to yours.

“Let’s get you home, then, shall we?”

Without waiting for your response, he grabs you by the waist and steers you into the car. When you arrive in his apartment, you learn what he just meant by getting you ‘home.’

Once he’s taken his coat off, he drags you to his bedroom, sits on the edge of the bed, and issues a simple command:

“Get on your knees, sugarplum.”

Enter Level 15

Next on Level 15 - Uncle Cas officially leaves to his exile immediately after the engagement party; you make a friend of sorts out of a former bully; Snowball tries to cheer you up by giving you a gift; you make a surprising choice for your maid of honour.

Author notes:

Please reblog and comment, it's always appreciated! Anyone wonder what this gift will be? 😊🤭🫣

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