coriolanussnowswife

Lovesick Is The Best Kind Of Sick

Queen of I can fix him

15 posts

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𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐞 | 𝐶. 𝑆.

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ ❆ ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

𝟾.𝟽.𝟸𝟺

𝑊𝑜𝑟𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡: 𝟸𝟹𝟶𝟼

𝑊𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠: 𝐴𝑛𝑔𝑠𝑡, 𝑣𝑜𝑚𝑖𝑡, 𝐶𝑜𝑟𝑖𝑜𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑢𝑠 𝑆𝑛𝑜𝑤, 𝑠𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑜𝑓 𝑚𝑦 𝑏𝑎𝑒 𝐿𝑢𝑐𝑦 𝐺𝑟𝑎𝑦, 𝑔𝑜𝑟𝑒.

╔═══*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═══╗

“𝑌𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑠𝑜𝑢𝑙 𝑖𝑠 ℎ𝑎𝑢𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑚𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑑

𝑡𝑒𝑙𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑚𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑖𝑠 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑒

𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝐼 𝑤𝑖𝑠ℎ 𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑑𝑒𝑎𝑑 (𝑑𝑒𝑎𝑑 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒

𝑦𝑜𝑢)“

~ 𝐷𝑎𝑟𝑘 𝑃𝑎𝑟𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑠𝑒 | 𝐿𝑎𝑛𝑎 𝐷𝑒𝑙 𝑅𝑒𝑦

╚═══*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═══╝

Coriolanus Snow isn’t the feelings type of person. He didn’t express an ounce of love for you throughout your entire marriage, and didn’t expect any from you. Not even in the most intimate of moments, and never behind closed doors.

He wasn’t abusive which is better than most man in the capitol. Although if you ever got in his way there was no doubt that you would meet an untimely demise. He mostly just kept himself cooped up in his office all day, mulling over stacks of papers and papers.

You were more than an exceptional wife by his standards. Quiet and obedient, you were smart and graceful and were a wonderful cook when need be. You have given him a beautiful heir, with little to no complications during birth.

He admired your beauty, appreciated you in general, but love you? No. He denied himself of love after that horrible district girl had torn down the walls that he had so meticulously crafted his whole life. All because he had been stupid enough to fall for district scum.

So why was it that when you had succumbed to your sickness had he been drowned in such an overwhelming feeling of dread that he felt like recreating the end of Romeo and Juliet?

At this moment he lies curled in on himself on the queen-sized bed in your sleeping quarters. You two had never shared a room and his is down the hall but for some reason he does not get up when he knows he should.

Sheets engulf his body, smelling of the rose perfume he insisted you wore mixed with the smell of your shampoo. Dried tears stick to his face and his eyelashes droop from the weight of them.

He wasn’t like this immediately after the funeral, what drove him to this point is noticing all the things you had done for him that now leave a gaping hole in his life.

The way you used to draw designs on his coffee every morning, the way you would massage his back after a long day of work without him even having to ask, the way you would bring him snacks when you knew he hadn't eaten all day from being too engrossed in his work.

He would always shoo you away and chastise you for disturbing his work, (although would always bring an empty plate back into the kitchen).

For some reason, he was expecting you to come into his office to hand him a plate of food or ease the tension of his shoulders with your delicate hands. But then you didn't.

And he couldn't take it anymore.

Which is why he has barely moved from his position for days, only to go to the bathroom occasionally. He can’t remember the last time he ate or drank anything. Maybe at the funeral, maybe before.

He sees you in his dreams, what your relationship could've been if he wasn’t so cold to you

.So he rolls over and slips into unconsciousness yet again.

You walk with him in the gardens of the president’s mansion.

The gardens you so carefully tend to every day, even after Coriolanus tells you that you can hire people to do that. You say it’s for your joy, and although he still thinks it inefficacious he leaves you be.

“The gardens really do look beautiful at this time of year,” you state as you lean in to capture the musk of a rose bush besides you.

It really is an alluring sight, even a man like Coriolanus can admit. Although he has come to notice everything you touch has become beautiful in his eyes.

“Yes, it does,” he says, his eyes practically glued to the back of your head.

You reach your hand out to touch one of the flowers and prick your finger on a thorn.

You wince and Coriolanus peeks over your shoulder to see a red stain on your, otherwise perfect in his eyes skin.

“Are you okay?” he reaches out and places and hand onto your shoulder to try and give a soothing effect, nevertheless his hands had never had that effect on people, as they are nearly the same as a corpeses in temperature.

“It’s nothing to worry about,” you say.

A strong feeling of a mix deja vu and unease spread though his body, manefesting in a shiver that runs all though his frame.

It’s not fine.

The bleeding doesn’t stop.

Blood gushes out of the wound and the force of it tears the skin around it. Three long gashes spread their way up your arm as you let out a chilling scream.

The red liquid spills and pools around your feet as your face twists in horror. Your knees hit the floor with a sikening crack and they split the fresh blood mixing with the blood littered with debris from the floor.

“HELP ME!” You shriek as the gashes spread up your shoulders and to your neck the loose skin of your arms draping off of the red flesh underneath. Almost like a flower wilting.

You always were his rose.

Coriolanus’s wants to help, he really does, surprisingly. But something is preventing him from moving, his body is as stiff as a board. He tries to move, to override the benevolent power that overwhelms his whole body. But he can’t. He is out of control.

He hates being out of control.

He wakes up drenched in sweat. His heart is beating rapidly and his breathing is skewed. He turns to his side and vomit spews off the side of the bed and into a bowl that one of the avox put down after the third time cleaning up.

Grief is something that Coriolanus has had very minimal exposure to, so it materializes in such a violent way for him.

He stumbles out of bed and makes his way to the desk next to the entrance of the room. Sitting on it is the diary you kept, you would write in it every night, Coriolanus knows. You rarely wrote in his presence but during the few times you did you refused to go into much detail of the contents. He assumed it was because you were writing about minuscule things, and he was right. For the most part.

But as he sat days ago, after your funeral, he found himself turning to the back pages of the worn book to find detailed entries of the last days of your life.

Repeating things like, ‘I told Coriolanus it was just a cold so he wouldn’t worry.’ And things similar to that dotted across the pages.

Some of the later pages become incoherent as your state deteriorates and you become too tired to form the thoughts that ever so filled your brain before.

One of the specific reasons you downplayed your sickness was you didn’t want to distract him from his work.

His stupid, horrid work.

He never wants to set foot in his office again.

Much less touch quill to paper.

His therapist, (that you suggested to him), told him not to beat himself up about it, that it wasn’t his fault. But how could he think otherwise? It was his fault, it was, at least by his justification.

Maybe that’s what he was feeling, guilt. Guilt for prioritizing work over you, his wife, the person he should be completely enamored with. Guilt for not being there for you in your final moments. Guilt for never saying goodbye.

Maybe guilt is why he lays his head down on your desk, or maybe it’s the selfish need to not want to deal with his thoughts anymore. And sleep washes over him.

Coriolanus would’ve been perfectly fine, content even, with sitting at a table in the corner of the room. A glass of posca in hand, observing other people mingle and dance. And he would’ve stayed if Ms. Plinth hadn’t urged him to go dance.

It wasn’t as if he didn’t know how to do formal dances he just despised them. Ms. Plinth was right though, stating that it would be a perfect place to find the wife he talks about so very much.

He goes through a couple of dances with… interesting people before he spots you. You sit at a table with a girl, a beaming smile on your face as you laugh at something the girl had just said. He makes a beeline to you, as nonchalantly as he can. Which is admittedly not very.

Once he gets there your friend gets up and gives you a look and nods her head towards him subtly. He has no idea what that means but hopes for the best.

“May I… uh have this dance?” He asks as you filck your eyes up to him. You hold your hand out to him and he lowers his head and takes your hand in his before bringing it to his lips, giving your hand a slight peck

“Sure, umm-” you look to him for his name

“Snow, Coriolanus Snow.”

“Let’s see what you’ve got, Coriolanus Snow.”

A waltz starts playing and you take to the floor. With one hand still gripping yours and the other resting on your waist where the torso of your dress ends and the skirt stops, he guides you through the dance. And you get lost in the steps and twirls, completing each step from muscle memory.

Couples dance around you and you seem to take in everything but him. But he is solely looking at you.

When your eyes do land on him his breath falters for a second, just as the music slows but he plays off his very obvious staring.

Once the music comes to a stop you thank him and curtsy, “Do you want to go have some fun?” You ask in a whisper just as he is going to send you off. Not that he wants to get rid of you.

“I- what do you mean?” he asks, his mind wandering.

You gasp, feigning insult. “Do you think me a common whore Coriolanus?” you place a hand on your chest, “I meant to wander the halls, visit the garden. Something other than being here.”

He nods and you slip out of the room and walk through the halls.

“You know I really do hate those events. They are one of the most boring things I have ever experienced. I usually just come for the food to be honest.” you ramble as you stroll through the corridors.

“Right?” he says “Also the amount of dances you have to memorize is lethal.”

You laugh, a sound that is like heaven to his ears. Just as he lets his guard down you pull him into a room and quickly close the door behind you.

“I think I heard someone coming,” you breathe out.

“That or you just wanted to get into a room with me alone,” he jokes “though I wouldn’t be completely against the idea.”

Your eyes, god your eyes, shift up to him. “Hm?”

“I said what I said.”

You move to peek out of the crack of the door and see a guard walking by. Once his footsteps fade away you slip out of the room and hurry down the hallway in a fit of muffled laughter.

The crunch of your footsteps ricochet off the hedges of the garden as you nibble a croissant that Coriolanus had snuck into the hall to grab.

“You eat very slowly,” he says, observing the pastry still in your hand.

“You eat like a starved man,” you say as of now you are taking larger bites, conscious of his words.

You and him find a seat on a marble bench under a tree that has draping limbs resembling the strands of a wig once placed on a mannequin that is not quite the right size. By now you have finished your croissant.

The remnants, he notices, are still resting on the corner of your lips.

His hand grips your chin and turns your face toward him. Your brows furrow and your gaze lands on his.

“What?” You question although it comes out as more of a nervous laugh.

He brings his other hand up to your face and swipes the chocolate from your lips.

“You had something,” he breathes. His hand still is resting on your face and a couple of moments of silence pass. “You’re gorgeous, you know that?”

His words send a rush of warmth down your spine, “so I’ve been told,” you respond in a breathy whisper.

Almost agonizingly slow, he leans into his face getting closer to yours every second, every breath.

Under normal circumstances this would be something Coriolanus would never do. Spontaneous and him don’t mix. But something about you makes him want to rush, rush everything. Just so you can be his.

Coriolanus wakes with a jolt. Quite literally as someone is shaking him out of his slumber.

“Mr. Snow, your supper has been prepared.” One of his maids say. Glinda, that’s her name, old but efficient in her craft.

“Thank you,” he dismisses her with his words along with a wave of his hands and gets up from the chair. Pain shooting up his back from the not-so-comfortable sleeping position.

He makes his way down the hall for a lonely dinner, the first one in days. One that he specifically asked for your favorite foods to be littered across the spread of the meal.

He eats listlessly, and makes his way back to your room.

He doesn’t bother to change into pajamas and just lays down and rests his head on the pillow that he prays will never lose your scent.

He nods off and falls into the dream space of you that will continue to torture him every night.

Now until forever.