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undertheorangetree · 8 months

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The Last of the Dragons

Chapter One- The Consummation

Summary- With the Targaryen dynasty at risk, the last of the family must make unsavory decisions in order to ensure their reign continues.

Warnings- MDNI 18+ NSFW. Female reader. Angst. Politicking. Consummation of marriage with witnesses. Mentions of death. Trauma. Uncomfortable smut.

Author's Note- This first chapter is not very sexy!! There is (consensual) smut but it is not hot nor is it meant to be. The sexy smut will happen later. With that said, the link to the full chapter is below :)

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When the dust settles around the Dance of the Dragons, she is the only member of her family still alive.

Her mother burned by dragonfire, her step father cut down on dragonback. Jace and Luke lay dead at the bottom of the ocean alongside Aegon and Viserys while Joffrey lay scattered across the streets of Flea Bottom. It is a reality she does not like to face and though she still has Baela, Rhaena, and their grandfather, she knows she is the last of her family line. The last of Rhaenyra's blood, the blood of the true heir.

It is that blood that damns her the moment Aegon is found poisoned, laying dead in his litter.

She had been spared alongside Baela and Rhaena, though she knew that was more so Corlys's idea than anyone else's. Aegon had demanded her head the moment he learned that it was she and Silverwing who had been responsible for Daeron's death but Corlys had managed to talk him down to simply keeping her as a hostage. He had argued that by having her bend the knee, it would show her mother's loyalists that he was the true king above all others, that her fealty had the power to stop Cregan Stark's march south and would calm tensions in the Riverlands and Eyrie. Aegon had agreed, though only after Alicent had prompted him to, and she had been spared from the executioner's block. Though as she sits at the small council table, staring at her last living uncle, she wishes Aegon had found the kindness in his black heart to swing the axe.

The Battle Above the God's Eye had left Aemond with another scar, this one having ripped through the flesh of his left shoulder and bicep. She wishes it crippled him further, that Daemon's final act managed to cut his arm from its socket, gouge out his last remaining eye and send him plunging into the depth of the God's Eye but other than a deep new scar, her step father managed little.

"Lord Corlys and I believe that it is important, especially now, to assure the smallfolk that this war is far behind us now. Aegon's death threatens the already fragile stability we have managed to find ourselves on," Alicent explains, though it is not directed at her. They had all been whisked away into the small council chambers less than a handful of hours after Aegon had been found dead and that grief is still present in Alicent. Her eyes are rimmed red- a common trait of hers now- and her voice is hoarse from crying, but she still manages to stay strong before the men gathered. She and Aemond had been ordered to sit in on the small council meeting but neither have been given leave to speak. They sit silently, waiting for the moment that deemed their appearance here necessary as Alicent turns to her grandfather. "Which is why we have come to a kind of agreement."

"We want the Iron Throne to remain in Targaryen hands just as fervently as all others here and with the death of our king so fresh, it is of the utmost importance that we find a suitable heir quickly. One that puts both the Blacks and the Greens at ease and prevents a continuation of the war," Corlys says, fingers pushing at the small ball that rests before him.

When the two of them had the time to discuss a potential heir, she has no idea, but perhaps it is a blessing that they had. With Aegon and all his children dead, there are few options left for the throne. She knows in her heart that she is the legitimate heir, being the only one left who has Rhaenyra's blood running through her veins, but she is a woman. After all that has happened, only a fool would attempt to crown her. The same could be said for Baela and Rhaena, though their claims are not as strong as her own. That left Aemond, a man, but widely hated for all he had done throughout the war.

They are damned regardless of who is chosen, the risk of further rebellion at every turn. She does not pity the remnants of this council for the choice they must make now. The realm rests on the shoulders of the six people left in this room and that is a burden she would not want to carry.

"And you have an idea as to who the most suitable heir would be, my lord?" Lord Larys asks. Though he sits at the table, he is not truly facing it, leaning on the cane in his hands. She turns her head to look at him, his eyes wide with his question, and feels her stomach turn at the mere sight of him, their master of whisperers.

Corlys looks toward Alicent, waiting until she gives the faintest nod of her head before speaking again. "My granddaughter, the princess, is Rhaenyra's last surviving child. Aemond is the last surviving child of King Viserys and acted as Aegon's regent for more than half his reign. The dowager and I propose that we unite house Targaryen once and for all and have the two wed to serve the realm as king and queen, like the Old King and Good Queen Alysanne. Equal in power, so as to bring all this unrest to an end."

Read the rest here :)

Taglist- @ammo23 @bellstwd @kckt88 @aemondsbabygirl @shygardengalaxy @duds31 @at-a-rax-ia @ladymarg0t @queenofshinigamis @drakar-i @cl-0-vr @castellomargot @moonlightfoxx @ladybug0095 @marihoneywk

#Aemond targaryen x reader #Aemond x reader #Aemond targaryen x you #Aemond x you #Aemond targaryen x fem!reader #aemond x fem!reader #aemond x niece!reader #aemond targaryen x niece!reader #aemond targaryen #aemond smut #Aemond targaryen smut #house of the dragon #house of the dragon fanfic #hotd #hotd fanfic #hotd x reader

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yandere-wishes · 17 days

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⋆⋅☆⋅⋆Doc-Ringo⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

✮ Yandere! Boothill x Reader

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ Plot: There's a slick black-clad little gal who's been messing with his bounties recently. Boothill's been dying to rustle her up and take a bite

⁀➷ Warnings: Yandere behavior, blood, and gore, war trauma, Genie trying to do a cowboy accent.

⁺₊𝄞₊⁺: Crimson and Clover by Joan Jett

And I don't hardly know her,

But I think I can love her,

Ah, now when she comes walking over,

I've been waiting to show her,

My mind's such a sweet thing

I want to do everything

What a beautiful feeling

It's not like the movies, they fed us on little white lies.

~💜

The first time he sees you there's a tempest of bullets rattling off his chest. Metal singing metal, as shells vie for an opening. It's all very lethal,

like the center of a rabid dust storm. Kissing death and sucking in her poison. Boothill can't tell where the bullets are coming from only that there's a dozen at a time ringing over his head. He shields his face with the metal of his forearms peaking through the gap to catch a glimpse of black.

Pure black.

That's the first thing he notices as your frenzy yields, You're clad in black from head to toe, even going so far as to dawn an eerie familiar mask. He's seen this scene play out somewhere before, he just can't remember where. "Morning mister", he likes that voice, jejune and teeming with confidence. It reminds him of himself, back when the sunset used to mean something and he could still feel wheat stocks under his soft palms.

"Howdy lil'lady I reckon you're in my way. Mind stepping aside before you get yourself hurt?" Your answer comes in the form of an aimed pistol, spine straight, midnight serape caught on the wind. He thinks you look a little too much like the folks back home -back when there was a home- blood boiling over eager for a fight. His bounty is standing just over yonder, blocked partly by your stubborn shadow. Boothill doesn't think twice before firing two rounds.

He's met with four...

He's in a cheap motel on Penacony, screwing in bolts that came loose. In the end, you laid claim to his bounty. Dragging him away to the hills. He's left growling at the thought, bested by a muddle-fudging fox. Lil gal probably ain't never even been in a proper shoot-out. The screwdriver cracks under his metal fingers. Boothill ain't about to start letting some pretty little thing get in the way of him and his targets.

The TV screen flickers to a melancholy monochrome. The films are old, distorted, crippled in parts. But he keeps them around, much like everything else about him, it's a bygone thing refusing to die.

He still likes to play them from time to time, trying to elicit the tastes of home. Hearing Nick and Graey setting plates out for dinner as his siblings rush downstairs. The movies are older than the new universe in more ways than one.

They come from a simpler time.

He'd always wondered why someone would bother painting such precious things in black and white. Spilling melancholia into picture frames, leaving everything tasting of vodka and vanilla.

It doesn't matter though, not really. All that matters is the sound of hooves on sand and bullets shooting. So long as the cowboys live their stories, everything else can be forgiven.

But this time something's off. The bandit's black mask shines through, gleaming something awful making him grind his sharp teeth. That damn mask, sitting pretty over a sly smirk. it reminds him of you, little cutie with your slick attitude. What bandit goes around doing hero's work anyway? What kinda twisted little lady are you?

He's getting mighty sick of this. Do you think you own the universe or something? "Been seeing way too much of you lately." There's sand in his Synesthesia Beacon his voice coming out horse, brittle. He kicks the head of an IPC lackey trying to drive home a point. "You getting on my nerves cutie". The ground looks nothing short of a graveyard, bodies scattered some piled. The blood paints the sands in a deep maroon, reflecting the glint of the distant stars. The last soldier is cowering behind you, his whimpers singing in Boothill's ears, one more bullet, that's all it'll take. "This one's mine" you mutter, and he wonders for a moment if the dry weather is getting to you too. "Not a chance pumpkin" his gun's drawn, firing bullets before you can even feel for your holster. The smirking bullet impales your abdomen, aimed point blank at the officer's head. But before the last body can be claimed you kick the man out of the way.

"Damn it" Boothill's anger is tangible, he knows you can feel it between your teeth. He's going to kill you, tear off that star-saken mask, and riddle you with bullets. You're getting too confident.

He doesn't notice your bullets at first. Protostars trying to act all rough and mighty. There's a temporary cluster of dust, a fraction of a second where his eyes aren't pinning you down. That's all it takes and then you're off. Sinking into the darkness and swimming away, taking his target with you.

It's only after the initial anger wears off that Boothill notices a tear on his thigh. A letter scrawled on the frayed leather of his pants. So you've started leaving your own marks, ay cutie?

He almost wishes he could feel the sting of your blade on his flesh. Feel your nails scrapping along his shoulders as he pins you to the ground.

Boothill fires at the moon.

Next time.

Next time for sure....

He's been chasing you for some time now. But catching up with you isn't as easy as he first thought. Seems like you go wherever the wind takes you and he's too busy with revenge to be following your capricious whims. The IPC ain't going to kill itself you know. And Boothill damn well wishes you'd start sitting still. He's heard from a reliable source that the IPC soldiers are throwing a little get to together down in one of the bars. Just a happy birthday for a colleague, nothing fancy. The thought alone makes his mouth water, place will be crawling with pests just waiting to be gunned down. Maybe tomorrow he'll try looking for you again, but tonight? Tonight's his night.

The neons have dulled now, they never were terribly bright to begin with. Penacony may be the land of dreams but not even dreams can stop reality from seeping through. The bar's loud, some new pop singer's music blasting from every speaker. Boothill downs his drink, liking how the ice cubes chime like a bad omen. He shoots the speakers first, needing some peace to focus on what comes next. The peace corp's lackeys are drunk, they stumble over themselves trying to reach him. He shoots each one like a kid playing carnival games. It's almost too easy...

The door is stampeded over by a heard of reinforcements. Somehow even in his drunken daze one of those yella-bellied lapdogs called for help. They're swarming the place like panicked rats, pushing past tables and chairs. Firearms aimed at his head. And for the first time, in a long, long time, Boothill feels a sliver of panic run down his bionic spine.

Motherfudger...

Boothill hears the familiar tumult of bodies hitting the ground before he sees what's actually going on. He feels you before he actually sees you. You're pushed up against his back, guns drawn locked, and loaded. "Heard you needed some help" Even though you offer your usual bravado, Boothill still picks up the nervous lilt in your voice, despite everything he thinks he likes it. It almost tastes sweet. "Best get away before you get yourself hurt little fox." "And let you have all the fun? Never."

"Certe murmur pugnando" Boothill laughs, he remembers those very words coming from a buddy of his before a duel. 'At least we'll die fighting' Somethings never change, even if you've carved out every principle from your body with a rusted kitchen knife. You'll always have those pesky morals stuck inside. He hears you chuckle, wonders if you find it odd that a rowdy galaxy ranger such as himself knows a dead language.

Well, he knows a lot about the dead.

The shoot-out lasts longer than he'd have expected.

But the real surprise lies in how neither of you are dead. Boothill's half laid across the bar, looking at you from under his hat. You're making him a drink following his instruction like a good little wife, not contradiction dressed in ebony. Gunpowder withers on his tongue, the bullet smoke permeates the air mixing with the gleeful tang of spilled blood. "Your drinks sure are complicated" you mutter pushing him his cup before picking up a bottle and reading its labels. "What's so hard about it pumpkin? Little bit of white gem and gin. All's you need." He sips your drink slowly, savoring your flavor. He imagines he's gulping you down, holding you for ransom behind his teeth, feeling your delicate little fists pounding against him. "I don't drink" you mumble as you sit across from him, you look so damn elegant, like a little princess from a fairy tale he use to read to a certain someone. You drink deeply from your glass of ice and water. Boothill focuses on the gentle motion of your throat. He licks his lips, trying to push down the thought of ringing such a fragile thing between his palms.

"So little lady, s'about time you start answering some questions...The hell you doing? Running off with my targets?" You set your cup down, eyes locking on his, there's the deficiency he's missed all night. The trigger hair that's just waiting for the right push. "They're not your targets...not really. They're just people. People whose planet got muffed up. I've been trying to gather them all in one place." For a second Boothill thinks you're talking about his planet, his home, his people. But it only takes one more look at you to understand.

"So, how'd yours die?" There's shrapnel in his throat when he asks, open wounds bleeding once more, filling his throat with bitter memories.

You stiffen, and he knows he's thumbing a broken bone, letting his finger dig between the cracks and snapping their frail linings. "Don't know, wasn't there. All I ever got to see were a few limbs, nothing enough to make a full person." you squeeze the glass until your knuckles turn white.

There's vindication rooted in your veins.

He knows the feeling all too well.

"We ain't so different you and I, reckon we make a pretty good team." His metal fingers lace between your soft skin, tracing the lifelines like an old map.

There's a goldmine hidden behind your lips, he imagines he'll have to kiss you to find the little nuggets. Your lips part, eyes filled with an odd-looking sympathy. What he wouldn't give to feel your plump lips bleed between his jagged teeth. "So..." you ask as his mechanic heart skips a beat. "What about yours?"

You've been laughing for five whole minutes. Boothill shouldn't find the noise as ethereal as he does. His anger lays heavily on his bones, he should be even angrier, lounging a bullet through your thick skull. But he finds the noise a little too perfect to disturb its source. Even if it's only created at his expense. Instead, he has half a mind to slap you, hard enough to shut you but and another to kiss you so hard you forget to breathe. "Damn hell so funny, cutie"

You look at him with those luminous eyes. Filled with pain and riddles. Boothill never did like solving puzzles. He only likes tearing things into bits. He needs you spartan, easy to read and use, and kiss. Not something he needs to piece together first.

"Dear stars you have no freaking idea how ironic you are." You say between bursts of spiteful-rooted giggles.

Why do those words sound so haunting like a ghost kiss? they should open phantom pains, but they sure as hell don't. Why do you always leave his head spinning? Boothill rolls his eyes, then leans over to pull down your mask. You jerk back, rewarding him with a dark grimace. You're out the window before he can ask your name.

"See you next time, cowboy"

"Next time I'm drawing blood"

The moment's over.

Fiddlesticks..

That night, Boothill dreams of you. He's lying in a stiff musty bed. It's too dark, even the moon is scared of showing her face.

Boothill dreams of the old saloons back home. Of their cracked wooden floorboards and the worn-out plush of chairs. In the dreams, you're wearing a black lace gown, like the saloon girls used to. He finds it all too funny that even in his dreams you still haunt him in black. Only now you're smiling, really smiling. Not that sly smirk, or mirthless grin you gave him back in the bar on Penacony. No, this here is a genuine smile and he's damn sure he's the one who put it there. You reach out for his hand, he feels warmth.

His

Yours

The dream is thick and dense like swimming through molasses. In another scene he's dragging you through the old doors, laughing as bullets and card chips hit the floor. There's a horse waiting outside. His horse. At least he thinks it used to be his. He pulls you up roughly in front of him. He's high off the feeling of his fingers wrapped around the rugged reins. High off the steed he holds in a vice grip between his thighs.

He's riding faster than he's ever ridden before, clambering for the sunset trying to engulf the sun. You hold on tight, pressing your cheek to his chest. His heart is beating something fierce between his ribs. He feels like an Aeon watching the universe collapse under his galloping feet.

He feels alive.

With the sun's rays behind you, Boothill could almost mistake you for the star-dwelling angels Nick used to tell him about. There's something poetic in all of this. The cowboy standing off against the black fox.

Dare he call it cinematic?

Boothill creeps closer. Tilting his hat and watching you flash a nervous smile through his lashes. "Volo sentire te inter dentes meos" so you know that dead tongue too. "You will soon darling, that's what I'm hoping for" his reply only dwindles your smile.

He's missed the old duels. Missed staring into the eyes of the one who could kill you. It's all a matter of skill and luck. Whose faster, who the aeon will trust?

Somewhere in the distance, the tumble weeds begin to rattle.

"Now"

His bullet glides through the air, piercing through the dust and sand. Your bullet reverberates from your gun a fraction too late and ricochets past his cheek. Leaving a juicy trail of blood.

But his bullet was aimed at your chest.

And Boothill never misses...

You want vengeance he won't deny you it.

So long as you stay by his side.

He'll tuck you away somewhere safe.

Somewhere you won't be leaving him again.

Boothill cradles your body to his chest. "I promised you blood little fox, and Boothill never goes back on his word." His cheeks hurt from smiling as he lays his hat atop your head. He's Picking you up and walking into the sunset. He knows a good ol'doc who'll patch you right up. And then it's a happy life together.

Well for him anyway.

The end

Taglist: @hihellomy @salhanskkdbfkekfb @gasoline-eater @sp1cym0chi

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cultpastorkevin · 6 months

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Cult Tips for AFTG writers

notes from the resident ex-cult pastor

If you’re in the cult, there is nothing bizarre abt what’s happening and in fact the normal stuff that happens outside of it is what’s bizarre to you. Target? Weird. McDonald’s? Even weirder. I can like guarantee Jean and Kevin never had McDonald’s until they left the Nest.

When you leave, you’re gonna be paranoid as fuck. All the time. Ngl at least for weeks but sometimes for years. Nightmares and insomnia 24/7. Hallucinations too lmao Riko is in every corner of empty rooms and you can hear his voice echo in the confines of the lockers.

I see a lot of Jean wanting to go back to the Nest, but not a lot of Kevin wanting to go back. He definitely struggled, 100%. In fact when he was in the pits of agony from his broken hand, was when he probably wanted to go back the most. Cult is home, cult is safe. Four walls you’ve always known and while it’s a cage at least it’s dependable. They hurt you but by god it always works out and the reward of pushing through this tragic incident is greater than the terror it caused in the first place. It’s a gift, actually. A gift from Riko. He saved Kevin. Cults save you. Cults make you wanna return to them like damn homing pigeons bruh. Give me more shattered hand Kevin screaming at Wymack to let him go back home and having a breakdown when he’s denied fics thanks

Piggybacking off the last one: cults are saviors; you’re nothing without them and they make sure you truly believe that; that everything that is done to you is for you and you’re blessed for it to be happening. You’re lucky even, to be allowed in it. Everything is as it’s supposed to be and order must never be challenged, because it works, and you’re the Edgar Allan Ravens, and this is the most honorable place you could be. All the pain you go through is you earning the right to be saved and to prove your worth every day on court. Only the worthy are honored.

You justify everything that happened and you will start fights and get angry with people who try to correct you and tell you it was wrong what went on.

On the other hand, you blame yourself for everything ever that happened there whether you were at fault or not. Hurting others, hurting yourself, gaslighting the fuck out of yourself over things maybe you could’ve prevented and over things you never could’ve stopped. The guilt is crippling and it eats you alive and haunts you.

There’s a lot of shame too. I see more guilt written than shame but shame is a huge portion of emotions that cult survivors have. Shits embarassing dude like “god how did I end up thinking this wack ass shit was normal” 😐 Shame comes later in the healing process usually, it’s after you have come to terms with shit that’s happened and you understand it. Looking back, you go “Jesus fucking Christ that was a red flag what the hell. Should’ve left then, or then, or then, or then” and then you’re just plain fuckin embarrassed.

Please look up how hive minds and brainwashing are created and work; also Stockholm Syndrome; understanding these would be incredibly helpful tbfh.

Diets are big; everyone eats the same thing; food is used as a reward and a punishment.

Hype hype hype. They whip up a frenzy of one singular emotion and use that to push you into a blind hysteria because you’re more suspectible to their influence when you’re out of your mind.

Drugs. Depends on the cult. But yeah these little bitches can be a huge factor for shit and can help with the brainwashing and hysteria and stockholm. Sometimes you don’t even know you’re being drugged or poisoned until you leave.

OH I ALMOST FORGOT. Dehumanization and then being treated like a person again can be traumatic as fuck yall!! Holy shit! Sometimes it feels worse than being dehumanized!

EDIT AGAIN: you don’t know what mental illness is !! Cults don’t fucking tell you these things lmao. if you show symptoms it’s your fault. Kevin being depressed his mom died was gonna get blamed on him and he was never going to be told grief is normal and it’s okay to be insanely sad. Jean also never got told his anger was correct or his trauma responses to being raped were realistic! They just got blamed for any reactions ever that weren’t neurotypical !! that is all; do with that what you will.

Idk if I think of anything else I’ll write another one but that’s all for now; I haven’t slept much lmao 🫡

#aftg #all for the game #edgar allan ravens #jean moreau #kevin day #riko moriyama #riko was a cult victim too yall #smh keep seeing people forget this #tetsuji moriyama #cult stuff #psycho analysis of aftg #kinda #it’s close enough #castle evermore #aftg fanfic #cultpastorkevin

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alavestineneas · 6 months

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Poisonous bites

pairing: young!coriolanussnow x fem!reader

summary: It's a shame, really, to kill her so soon. He was almost enjoying her—the way she trembled under his touch, the way she whispered his name in ecstasy. But that was the way of the world. There could be only one winner, and Coriolanus knew better than to believe his wife when she promised to always be loyal. If your dog bites you, someone else is feeding it. warnings: mentions of minor violence, mentions of cheating, not really canon-compliant, blood and shitty people in shitty relationships word count: 3,7k

Part 1 is here

author's note: part 2 of Losing Dogs is here! thank you for the love and support that you showed for the first chapter - hope you enjoy this one too! we all love some twisted people in fiction :)

She knows.

It's in his mind when they get into the black car, away from the president's party and obnoxiously loud music, with a few new cuts on his hands and faint blue marks on her neck.

She knows.

It's the only thought in his head when it hits the pillow at almost midnight, as her warm body lays beside him, breathing even so faintly. His brain almost explodes under the pressure of guessing her thoughts, hidden behind the soft smile and gentle touch. She, the ghost wrapped in opulent sheets, is a new figure on the chessboard. The crippling fear of being watched cuts his forehead in sharp, taunting pain.

YN, the blind lamb with sharp teeth, knows.

He did everything right. A whisper here, a bribe there, and no one noticed how a small, silly rumour grew into a threat almost overnight, pointing its sleek, twisted fingers at the President. Corrupt, illegal activities—that's what the press called them, but the truth was much less poetic. Some lines shouldn't be crossed, and some people shouldn't be trusted.

It was supposed to be a simple payback—let the bastard simmer in his own venom, betrayed by people he considered allies. But then it became something bigger: the sacred place is never empty, and the herd of sheep is always in need of guidance. That's when Coriolanus knew what he had to do for the better future of Panem. For the pride of his family. For the satisfaction of his hunger.

He is deep in his thoughts when YN appears in the doorframe; she is careful not to make too much noise as she waits for him to look up. Beautiful, like death herself— Coriolanus saw her enough times up close to recognize the dark glimmer in her eyes.

''Come here,'' he motions, clearing the space on the table for her to sit.

She does. YN's steps are light, even in the heels she always wears. There were a lot of things money couldn't buy, and class was one of them. Nobody came close to her upbringing; therefore, nobody could come close to him.

''Here,'' he hands her his speech, a careful combination of neat letters. Coriolanus watches with starved eyes as she reads, studying every expression and passing of emotion on her dolled-up face. ''What do you think?''

''It's good, really good.'' YN nods, a small smile covering her lips. ''You were always great at this type of thing, since the academy.''

Coriolanus feels a cold sting in his abdomen; she knows him. Before he became a man, before he got a chance to truly be the person he was destined to be, YN remembers a peckish, awkward boy who was pathetic enough to let an animal fool him.

''Thank you,'' he says, placing a hand on her thigh and slowly sliding it up. He likes the way her body reacts in response, leaning closer.

It doesn't matter who he was before. He won, and he is almost at the top—a few steps, and there won't be just her body underneath him—the whole country will be in his hands.

Her husband is messed up. The way he fucked her in the dining hall hours before the guest arrived, in the same dining hall where they stand, brings a smile to YN's face. Nobody suspects a thing, not even her closest confidants, who now sipped from the stylish tall glasses beside YN, conversing on everything and anything but the swollenness of her lips.

Coriolanus wants to play in politics now that he has had enough of game-making. Like a small, pouty child tired of his old toys. The thought of her husband in a one-piece strikes her as funny; her mind is drawing the picture vividly. He was, for sure, a mama's boy. He still is.

It's cute, the way he kisses her aged picture when he thinks YN can't see him, or the way he buys the rose female perfume nobody ever uses—its smell still lingers in the air every time the maids change the sheets. The only woman who can truly love is a mother, he told her one day. The only woman he thought was deserving of loving back.

YN watches as he approaches the group of men with confident steps. The people are right, the way is wrong—if it were that easy to fit in their circle, it wouldn't be as important. Just like she predicted, he is quickly cast aside to the benches of dialogue; the tall figure of her husband lingers silently, waiting for the right moment to strike.

It's entertaining to see him slowly boil, which goes unnoticed by everybody else in the hall. YN observed him for years to crack his facade as swiftly as she does now. A few moments, and he will decide to walk away, unable to swallow his pride back anymore, and there will be no chance of meeting the people he desperately needs.

''Excuse me for a moment,'' YN smiles at the women beside her, placing her glass on the gilded trail. They are good people—sure, some a little less bright and some a little less assertive as she is, but still, most of the information she finds useful comes from them—silent furniture, as they often joke. They are noticed no more than vases in the corners of their grand mansions; just like their houses, their husbands come in different shapes, and just like houses, the inside is always the same. Empty.

''Good evening, gentleman!'' she chirps, putting on one of her many expressions. She never felt bad about changing her face to fit the situation better; after all, they were all just different versions of her. ''I believe you already met my husband.'' YN delicately diverts her gaze from the black mass of suits to her husband's face, sending a loving smile his way.

The men are smitten, as usual. Who could've thought the young lad was the owner of this house? YN doesn't pay them much attention; they are never the driving force behind connections. Instead, she turns to the only woman in the bleak company.

''Missis Nej, what a lovely broch! You have to tell me where you got it; the details are incredible!''

It was true—YN sees no point in lying about liking something when the compliment is right there—a beautiful dove broch with sparkly gems instead of eyes, placed on a delicate lace.

The woman's face lights up at her words. ''I made the design myself, and then my seamstress pulled it together. I am glad you like it—isn't the stitching so fine?''

''It is! I wish I was as creative as you are; my imagination is only enough for the table centerpieces.''

''You know what? I have many other drafts at home; why don't you and your husband stop by for tea for a few hours? To see if my seamstress could come up with something for you?''

''Oh, that would be absolutely wonderful! What do you think, Coriolanus?''

What can he think? Her husband is happy things are going his way, of course, but there is something else in his gaze that makes YN's heart skip a beat. Suspicion. The only thing she should be scared of was her husband's mind—the deadliest of the weapons, his paranoia. It, like a vicious exotic, has to be put away from his reach; it sinks its teeth in everything Coriolanus feeds to it, and if he does not, turns onto him.

He smiles and nods, wrapping his hand around her bare shoulders. YN thinks she ought to be more careful; it was her job to keep him on a leash, like a beat she signed to care for. Whose fault would it be if the wild thing did what wild things do—bite?

He almost doesn't have any opponents left. Those who dared not to support the young candidate from the party were quickly silenced, and those who tried to get their hands on Snow's place were eliminated. What was better was that nothing could be traced back to the blonde male in a red suit. YN didn't worry about that.

She had to work overtime to make sure their paths didn't cross. Coriolanus never told her his plans so she could build hers. Oh, no. She had to scurry, like a rat, searching for his ideas to make sure they didn't clash with hers because, just like her mother told her, you can't put on everything best at once.

That's why YN sits in the dim, foul-smelling room on the outcast of the city during what was supposed to be a lunch hour. She almost laughs at the thought of her Coriolanus finding out where his wife spent this afternoon— in a brothel, in clothes that weren't even hers, without her usual jewellery and signature scent.

The door to the room opens quickly, but YN doesn't even bother looking in its direction. She knew what she was going to see there, so why bother?

''YN,'' the man in his forties breathes out, ''you came.''

Jerome. A tailored suit of dark brown, matching his hair. Wealthy, pretty enough, and damn stubborn. One of the few who refused to step down in elections, one of the few who still had a huge chance at winning them.

''Of course, I did—how could I not?'' She sheds a tear, breathing in his scent and hiding her face in his lean chest. ''I missed you, J; I missed you so much.''

They used to fuck before she married Coriolanus, ever since she turned eighteen. He even wanted to marry her for some time before she married Snow. YN was quite popular with the suitors; her husband was a fool for thinking other men didn't notice her. They did.

Jerome crushes her lips with his, leaving no time for talking. He was a serious man—a tough man, even—the type to endure the hardships of life without complaining. He is the type to get what he wants, no matter the obstacles. YN thinks he could've been on top instead of her dear husband if she only chose to marry him, but Jerome is too human for her. He is a man, a man who takes pleasure in her, and YN can't stand it. She likes her lovers without weaknesses, and Jerome isn't like that.

When an hour passes, YN thinks it is time to return home; she kisses Jerome goodbye one last time and waits for him to exit the room as quickly as he enters. That's the agreement: he pays for the room under his name; he deals with hosts and room service. YN just has to be, and he is happy with that.

She waits exactly fifteen minutes before she picks up her coat from the floor and puts it on—fifteen minutes is what was needed for a junkie she hired to stab Jerome in the ally seven times—for every year of their age gap when he first kissed her at her birthday party. Symbolic: She pays attention to the details, not only on her high-end dresses. YN imagines the headlines in the papers tomorrow morning: a respected politician found dead near the whorehouse. A death fit for a pig.

She leaves the building in a good mood—one more step to being the first lady of Panem—and she still has an hour before Coriolanus returns home. YN has everything in check, down to the smallest gist, except for the blonde man in the telephone booth across the street.

Coriolanus is mad. Another man, behind his back, even if for the sole purpose of eliminating him. He doesn't like that YN makes arrangements when it is he who is the man of the house, the driving force behind the successes. She forgot her place, and if he has to remind her, he will. Coriolanus always liked YN better with her mouth shut.

''How are things at work?'' YN asks, twirling in front of the mirror in their bedroom. It's like she doesn't notice his annoyed stare or his jealous eyes following her every move.

Coriolanus doesn't answer. He pulls her closer and takes off her robe in one swift motion. It falls on the floor, light blue fabric pooling around his feet. He searches for something—anything—to indicate another man's presence near her body or in it. Nothing—her skin glows under the faint light of lamps, free of any marks or scratches.

Coriolanus sighed with relief, his hands letting go of YN's hips. She looks at him, confused.

''Is there anything wrong? Why did you stop?''

He wants to slap her. To make her apologize, to make her beg for his forgiveness. But something in her deep eyes and painted lips makes his head cloud, stirring around a familiar mix of emotions. Anger. Lust. Fear. Maybe she was the death herself—he wouldn't know. The way YN laughed as he kissed her exposed skin, pressing a little too hard for it to be enjoyable, made blood rush to his body. ''Tell me,'' Coriolanus whispers in her ear. "Have you ever killed?"

YN grins, holding his reddened face in her hands. ''No, never.''

Coriolanus chuckles softly, diverting his gaze to her chest. A lie.

He turns her around, pushing her body on the bed before getting on his knees. That was the night he knew she had to die.

It wasn't hard to make her fall in love with him. Flowers on the doorstep of the mansion just in time for her to leave the house, along with a handwritten note declaring his undying affection. Make her less alert; make her more vulnerable. YN gave him the key to her demise easily—it was always him.

Coriolanus was good at ensuring everyone benefited him, and his wife did nothing better than play right into his hands. YN willingly planned her own funeral with her every move—she knew too much about his secrets and had become a liability. If only she knew better than to play with fire, she might have stood a chance.

It's a shame, really, to kill her so soon. He was almost enjoying her—the way she trembled under his touch, the way she whispered his name in ecstasy. But that was the way of the world. There could be only one winner, and Coriolanus knew better than to believe his wife when she promised to always be loyal. If your dog bites you, someone else is feeding it.

''New wine?'' YN motions to the tall bottle on the table as they eat dinner. ''Is this the one from the Darians?''

Coriolanus shakes his head. Darians. It was like fate was testing his patience, as if one headache wasn't enough. The only one of his possible opponents in the upcoming elections held a good amount of votes, mainly because of his recognizable name. The Darians were wine magnates, with at least forty vineyards under their name. Of course, they gifted wine bottles for holidays, and of course, it was nothing but a slap in the face—Coriolanus could very much afford to buy his own bottles.

''I bought this one yesterday. Would you like a glass?'' he pours before YN has time to agree; the dark red liquor fills their glasses, turning the transparent walls slightly pink. Coriolanus watches as his wife takes a big sip, surprise evident on her face.

''It's sweet,'' she announces but quickly corrects herself. ''But it is good. Unusual, but quite nice.''

''Really?'' He acts surprised and takes a small sip, not to raise any suspicion. ''It indeed is.''

They continue their dinner as usual, with occasional remarks here and there. Everything goes according to plan, with YN drinking from her glass more than twice more. Until it doesn't.

Fifty-five minutes.

This is how long he has before the poison kills him. Given that YN weighs less and consumes more, she should start to portray the first symptoms. She doesn't.

Twenty minutes pass, and Coriolanus feels a slight nausea. Twenty-five—his head starts lightly spinning. He watches his wife put down a fork and stare at the sky through the open window. If she faints now, he would still have time to drink the antidote, but she doesn't. Instead, she smiles at his wandering gaze and asks for dessert.

When thirty minutes pass, Coriolanus feels a stream of blood travels down his chin onto the freshly washed shirt. He can't keep himself on the chair, sliding down from it on the carpeted floor. The surrounding furniture stands as if in a haze, and the only thing he can make out is the nearing steps of the heeled feet.

YN says something, kneeling beside him and putting his head on her lap, although he can't understand the word she utters. It hits him like a brick wall—the smell of roses radiating from her, the same perfume his mother wore. Her hands, although adorned with more rings than his mother could've possibly owned, are just as gentle when they touch his forehead.

''I'm sorry,'' he tries to choke out, but all that comes out of his mouth is hot, thick blood.

When Coriolanus wakes up in the hospital, he is frantic. The only thing he was familiar with was the only thing he tried so hard to escape. Fear. It spreads through his body, paralyzing his limbs in the white room of a singular bed. It chocks him, tugging the strings in his throat to leave hot, burning holes each time he swallows. It burns, and bites, and twists in his stomach; if he survives, YN will get her revenge.

That's why she kept him alive—to taunt and mock. He lost, once and for all, and got himself into a corner with no escape. There is no point in begging, no point in lying—his wife knows everything he did, and she won't hesitate to let the whole country know. Outsmarted, outplayed. Alone.

His eyes wander across the room in a last resort—he will take his own life, and she will have no power in making him a laughing stock. But the hospital room is empty; the only thing besides a small coffee table and bed is a pile of newspapers. Coriolanus stands up and almost falls in an attempt to reach them, yet manages to grab one. Just like he predicted, on the front page of it is the perfectly painted face of his wife; the beauty of it is disturbed only by a single tear rolling down her cheek.

POISONING ATTEMPT ON A FAMOUS POLITICIAN

Three days ago, an attempted poisoning took place in the Snow's family's mansion. Our correspondent was lucky enough to ask a few questions to YN Snow, the wife of the victim.

''Tell me, Miss Snow, why do you think you and your husband were the targets of this crime?''

''I think it is rather obvious that motive was political; we all know that my husband posed a serious threat to Ethan Darius because he was estimated to win instead of him. That's why he decided to kill him in that dirty way, like a snake, with poison, instead of losing to him in a fair competition like any gentleman would!''

''And do you think there are any correlations between Mister Darius and a string of suspicious murders of civilians and people higher in power?''

''As far as my knowledge goes, the court is still deciding on the matter, but one thing I know for sure: if Ethan Darius went as far as to try to kill his opponent, what indicates he wouldn't have done the same with others? ''

''People of Panem were moved by the love you and your husband seem to hold for each other ever since your wedding, but the way you fight for justice made many wonder - will we see you as a first lady of Panem soon?''

''I just do what any person would—it is my duty as a wife and as a citizen to advocate for those who were wronged. As for your question, I do think this happening only solidified that our country and political scene need change. And change is what my husband stands for.''

''And lastly, is there anything you wish you could say to your husband right now?''

''I would want to remind him of a simple truth: the one who is more afraid always strikes first. Thank you.''

Coriolanus didn't need to read anymore. YN made sure she wasn't going anywhere if he did something like that in the future—the public loved her before, but now they will go crazy. But that didn't bother him too much; on the contrary, he was rather impressed. Coriolanus felt fear leave his body with every breath. His place took something else, something he couldn't quite name yet—the feeling of stillness in his stomach. He wondered if that's what fullness felt like. A sweet, honey-like sensation in his veins.

The hall of the president's house is filled with what seems to be hundreds of people. Tables are overflowing with the most exquisite dishes, and laughter fills the air.

''Corio, look! The kids are dressed as little snowflakes—for us! Oh, isn't it so cute?'' YN coes, motioning at the girls-ballerinas in white tutus. They twirl on the stage, their movements mimicking the ones of snow falling outside.

He doesn't care if they are dressed as giant cockroaches, but he still nods in agreement. Coriolanus watches as YN steals one white rose from the piles decorating the balcony and throws it on stage, laughing in delight when girls start to argue over it.

There are flashes of cameras capturing every interaction between them; he knows that, so he places his hand on the back of the chair YN sits on. She looks as beautiful as always, perfect from every angle. His wife might be poison, dangerous, and lethal, but he is the one who knows that, when handled with care, it brings much more benefits to its owner than any other weapon.

Coriolanus already envisions their photo as the headline tomorrow morning—beside them, the big, bold letters.

Panem today.

He feels YN place a kiss on his cheek, staining it a little with her red lipstick.

Panem tomorrow.

Coriolanus smiles and brings her closer, whispering a compliment in her ear.

Panem forever.

The hall erupts with applause and cheers, some even going as far as shouting words of admiration for the new president and his wife.

They are the guard dogs, and they are the house dogs guard. And, until the last brick of it is there, they will bite.

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