❝ It annoyed me that I could act like such a carefree child, and it made me want to lash out at the weeds, who knew nothing but to grow taller. I wanted to try to be a good girl.
coriolanus snow x fem!oc
academic rivals to lovers
"The belief in a supernatural source of evil is not necessary; men alone are quite capable of every wickedness."
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Reaping day had come quickly, the capitol sounding their anthem of 'Gem of Panem', or as Tempest often called it 'Blessed Be the Ordinary'.
July 4th signaled the near end of the school year—- soon she shall be on to University to appease her father's wishes. Her final project remained to be mentoring in the Hunger Games. Students of her class alike all wished to give an impressive performance as a mentor, only in the hopes of being awarded a substantial monetary prize. Some things have changed after the war, but the thirst for riches had not.
There would be twenty-four tributes, one boy and one girl from each of the twelve defeated districts, drawn by lottery to be thrown into an arena to fight to the death in the Hunger Games. It was all laid out in the Treaty of Treason that had ended the Dark Days of the districts' rebellion, one of the many punishments borne by the rebels.
As in the past, the tributes would be dumped into the Capitol Arena, a now-dilapidated amphitheater that had been used for sports and entertainment events before the war, along with some weapons to murder one another.
Viewing was encouraged in the Capitol, but a lot of people avoided it. People like Tempest Galdur.
As she walks past an entrance adorned with solemn black banners, down a magnificent vaulted passage, and into the expansive Heavensbee Hall, she hardly notices the professors and students who are gathered around. Her gaze is fixed on a live broadcast playing on the screen above their heads, showcasing District Seven just moments before two of their children are about to be thrown into a brutal blood bath.
The air thickened with fear, spreading like a contagious fog. In a dimly lit alley, a butcher and a blacksmith exchanged weary strategies to protect their beloved sons. Underneath the twisted clock tower, two sisters tightly clasped hands, seeking solace in each other's presence.
A group of boys linked their bodies together with chains, while a few girls sought refuge on the school roof. Meanwhile, a mischievous child wearing a mask leaped out from the bushes, startling his mother and receiving an immediate reprimand.
Even the homeless hag joined in, hopping in front of a meager fire and hoarsely chanting, "Burn the Capitol! Burn them all!" But no one listened as the peacekeepers swiftly intervened, silencing her cries.
Her fixation on the live feed was interrupted by a hand on her shoulder, "Tempest Galdur," the voice commanded attention.
She was all too familiar—- the confidence of the voice followed by the sure glimmer in his eye. Tempest had harbored a deep dislike for Coriolanus for as long as she could remember. He always carried himself with an unwarranted sense of superiority, as if he deserved everyone's undivided attention. But Tempest knew the truth. His father had gambled away their entire fortune in an ill-fated District 13 investment, leaving nothing but ruins in its wake. And all the wealth that Coriolanus believed should rightfully be his had fallen right into the hands of the Plinths.
"Coriolanus Snow," Tempest grits back, pulling her arm away from his grasp. "How was your walk here?"
Coriolanus may have feigned, as much as he desired, but Tempest was well aware. She knows that he is not the rightful heir he proclaims himself to be. She knows that the so-called 'luxury penthouse' he bragged about was merely a dilapidated inheritance from his late father. She knows that the rose adorning his chest might have been the most precious possession he had, beside his charisma of course.
His expression was filled with intense fury. Even though he couldn't flaunt any material goods to counter her insult, he possessed knowledge that would undoubtedly provoke her. The mention of the games.
"District Seven," he hums in acknowledgment to the screen, where she had been intently watching just moments before. "It's a pity to think that two of their own won't make it through the week."
"A pity indeed. If only someone more worthy had been chosen by fate," she sends him a pointed glare.
And though Tempest had just told him outright that she had wished him dead, Coriolanus cannot help but smile back at her seething expression.
Leaning close to her ear, to anyone else it may have looked to be pleasant conversation, but the two knew better. "Unfortunately the Capitol won't let you participate in the games. Believe me, I've attempted to persuade them," he said just beneath a huff of breath.
Tempest is left momentarily speechless. Coriolanus rarely leaves her stranded without some type of witty comeback, but the way his breath is fanning her neck is enough to make her drop her words all over the floor—- scrambling to pick them back up. "Cabbage," she simply says.
"What?"
"Your breath still smells like cabbage. Surely, it must have been accompanied by a hint of broth, undoubtedly to prevent your stomach from rumbling all day long," she bites back. "Perhaps another sip of posca will remedy it."
Red faced, Coriolanus takes a step back from her, and wears the look he always does when he knows she has won. In her hands she held the knowledge that could end his facade and future alike, and she does nothing but throw it in his face.
It all infuriated him.
She, the cunning manipulator, took pleasure in toying with the truth of his life, as if it were a mere plaything. It seemed as though she had no concern for the fact that this fabricated exhibition, this carefully constructed narrative, was his only possession. It held the essence of his being, the culmination of his experiences and struggles, and yet she treated it with such disdain.
Every word he uttered, every emotion he expressed, she opposed with a calculated precision. It was as if she reveled in the power she held over him, relishing in the control she exerted.
It was a sickening dance, a never-ending battle of wills.
And now, even now, she continued to antagonize him. She would vie for the prestigious Plinth Prize, not out of any genuine desire for the rewards it offered, but solely to further provoke him. It was a deliberate act of defiance, a way to assert her dominance and remind him of her superiority.
"Heard they were beginning to tax the homes on the Corso. Quite unfortunate isn't it? But don't worry, you'll do great joining the grimy ranks of everyday citizens. In fact, you're already halfway there!," Tempest sent him a smile.
Her smile, if not paired with the words she had spoken, would've seemed so sincere—- to any onlookers they might have even awed at the wistful expression. Coriolanus did not.
He opened his mouth to retort, maybe angry enough to utter something as tactless as 'get lost', but he was usurped by the ringing of a bell.
"I see it is time to be assigned our tributes," Tempest's smile was still masking her unpleasant tone. "May the odds be ever in your favor, Coriolanus."
Coriolanus remained speechless, unable to move as he watched her. He felt like a child once again, like a ghost excluded from the world, pressed against the windowpane. The tempestuous emotions she created within him made him feel so small, so insignificant. Yet, he couldn't bring himself to look away from her, no matter how much he wished he could.
