#Jackie’s Propaganda | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

floralcyanide · 8 months

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⊱ 𝑆𝑡𝑎𝑦 𝐺𝑜𝑙𝑑 ― 𝐶𝑜𝑟𝑖𝑜𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑢𝑠 𝑆𝑛𝑜𝑤 ⊰

[ ᴀ ʜᴜɴɢᴇʀ ɢᴀᴍᴇs ᴀʟᴛᴇʀɴᴀᴛɪᴠᴇ ᴜɴɪᴠᴇʀsᴇ ғᴀɴғɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ]

1960s ᴜs ᴘʀᴇsɪᴅᴇɴᴛᴀʟ ᴄᴀɴᴅɪᴅᴀᴛᴇ!ᴄᴏʀɪᴏʟᴀɴᴜs sɴᴏᴡ x ғᴇᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑡𝑤𝑜: 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑟𝑜𝑚𝑎𝑛 𝑔ℎ𝑜𝑠𝑡.

౨ৎ 18+ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀs ᴏɴʟʏ !

⊹ summary: your first full day with coriolanus snow doesn't go without a hitch somewhere along the way. ⊹ pairing: young!coriolanus snow / fem!reader ⊹ warnings: mentions of poverty, mentions of alcohol, descriptions of alcohol, rough kissing (brief) ⊹ word count: 3223 ⊹ author’s note: so sorry for not being able to post this last week!! was high key withering away in the hospital like a frail victorian child lmao. but here's chapter two, I hope ya'll enjoy ♡

౨ৎ divider credit: @cafekitsune

౨ৎ sᴇʀɪᴇs ᴛᴀɢʟɪsᴛ | sᴇʀɪᴇs sᴏᴜɴᴅᴛʀᴀᴄᴋ | sᴇʀɪᴇs ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

౨ৎ this fic has been cross posted to ao3.

ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴄᴏᴘʏ, ʀᴇᴘʀᴏᴅᴜᴄᴇ, ᴏʀ ᴄʟᴀɪᴍ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ᴀs ʏᴏᴜʀs ᴏɴ ᴛᴜᴍʙʟʀ, ᴀᴏ3, ᴡᴀᴛᴛᴘᴀᴅ, ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏ ᴡᴇʙsɪᴛᴇ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴘᴇʀᴍɪssɪᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ᴜsᴇ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋs ɪɴ ᴀɪ ɢᴇɴᴇʀᴀᴛᴏʀs ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴏ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀʀᴛɪғɪᴄɪᴀʟ ɪɴᴛᴇʟʟɪɢᴇɴᴄᴇ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴍᴀʏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴜsᴇ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋs ᴛᴏ sᴇʟʟ ғᴏʀ ᴀs ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴏᴡɴ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛɪᴏɴ

❝We must never forget that art is not a form of propaganda; it is a form of truth.❞ ― John F. Kennedy

“What shape do you want them?”

“Mickey Mouse!” “A heart!”

“Alrighty, then. One Mickey Mouse and a heart pancake are coming up, John John and Miss Caroline.”

John Jr. is perched atop the kitchen counter to your right, sitting patiently while Caroline sneakily dips a finger inside the pancake mix next to him. The three of you had worked to make the batter perfect, and you’re all fairly satisfied. You manage to make a decent Mickey Mouse shape in the pan, and a nearly flawless heart and the kids clap with delight. Coriolanus quietly watches you interact with Jack's children from behind the wall separating the kitchen and dining room. He’s initially shocked to see you so vulnerable and soft with other human beings, even if they’re small ones. Coriolanus didn’t expect you to be someone who interacts with children in general, given the snarky and stubborn personality you’ve shown him so far. But he shouldn’t be so quick to judge you yet- after all, there’s a lot to Coriolanus that isn’t as it seems, either.

Jackie, Jack, and the rest of the family present in the Compound had an obligation with their father later in the morning. So, you decided to get some food in John Jr. and Caroline beforehand. Hungry kids are cranky kids, after all. You were to stay behind with Coriolanus, as the two of you weren’t needed at the gathering. You don’t mind as you need to organize the notes you’ve taken so far, as well as finish reading Profiles in Courage. You had a lot of questions for Jack about it already, and it’d be better if you had every possible question ready as soon as possible to ask upfront. Not to mention, you need to work on your dissertation a little more briskly now, considering you’re going to assist Coriolanus in his presidential campaign.

John Jr. graciously accepts the Mickey Mouse pancake on his favorite Superman plate, and he scurries off toward the dining room. Caroline remains by you at the kitchen counter, dousing her heart with a disgusting amount of syrup. You almost say something about the sugar but decide against it quickly. Caroline seems to hold herself together better than her younger counterpart. Speaking of John Jr., he nearly runs into Coriolanus as he dashes down the hall to your dismay.

“Oh, good morning, Mister Coryo,” John Jr. beams up at the tall blonde man before continuing his path to the table.

“What did we agree on about walking, John?” you quirk an eyebrow after the boy, who is long out of earshot.

Coriolanus walks into the kitchen casually as if he wasn’t eavesdropping the entire time, opening the refrigerator and scouring the shelves for orange juice. When he doesn’t find it, he closes the door and walks over to you.

“If you’re looking for orange juice, John John drank the rest when he woke up. Chugged every drop,” you say without turning around from the sink where you’re doing dishes.

“Oh,” Coriolanus says, “Not surprised. The boy loves juice.”

You chuckle, “I learned that very quickly. He drank almost all of my peach juice the first night I was here.”

Caroline looks between you and Coriolanus, a knowing smile on her face as she chews her food. Without a word, she leaves the room.

Coriolanus cracks a smile but quickly brushes it off before you can see, “Need help with those?” he asks, motioning to the dishes.

You glance at him over your shoulder, “Oh, no, I’ve got it. Thanks, though.”

Coriolanus wordlessly picks up a dish and dries it off with a nearby dish towel, his neutral gaze on you. You sigh, looking at the man defeatedly as you begin rinsing your soaped-up dishes, “I said I didn’t need help.”

“I know,” Coriolanus shrugs, “But it’s the least I could do since you treat the children so well.”

You turn to him, hand on your hip, “I think every child should be treated with kindness. Besides, John John is a good boy despite his father, and Caroline is a gentle little thing anyway,” you say jokingly.

Coriolanus chuckles, “You’re absolutely right. Anyone tell you how rowdy Jack was at John Jr.’s age?”

“No,” you quirk an eyebrow, finishing up rinsing off the dishes, “Do tell.”

As you and Coriolanus dry off the pans and plates, he tells you stories of how Jack and his siblings would go buck wild around here at the Compound. You find yourselves openly cracking smiles with each other as Coriolanus describes the antics. When Joeseph Jr. is brought up, the room becomes solemn.

“Did you ever meet him?” you ask as you put away some of the dishes, Coriolanus doing the same.

“Only once. He was a man of few words,” he admits, folding the dish towel and neatly placing it back on the counter.

You hum, closing the cabinet, “Well, I’ll probably be working most of the day. If you need me, I won’t be far.”

Coriolanus nods, watching you carefully as you leave the kitchen. He decides you, too, are someone of few words. But you always know when to use them correctly. And he admires that a little.

You feel like a ghost roaming around the house throughout the day, reading your book as you aimlessly walk into rooms and halls. Occasionally, you stop to look at things in the various studies and unoccupied bedrooms. Despite the warm and welcoming hospitality of the Kennedy family, at times, you still feel sorely out of place. You didn’t grow up lavishly by any means- no one in your neighborhood did. The outskirts of Boston during the Great Depression weren’t much better than the city itself. Food, clean water, and bare necessities were hard to come by, even in the suburbs. You learned to pull yourself up by the bootstraps and be nifty with minuscule things. It’s one thing Coriolanus notices when you wander into the den, Profiles in Courage tucked under your left arm and your notes in your right hand. Every single available space on the paper you had current notes written on was taken up as if you’d run out of paper at some point. But you had an ample amount of pages left in your notebook- one that hadn’t already been filled like your others, at that. Coriolanus is sitting at the fireplace, puffing lightly at a pipe as he skims through a book he’s half-reading. He stops fully paying attention to it the moment you enter his presence, and he notices your notes.

“How much do you plan on writing about Jack?” he asks abruptly, breaking the dead silence in the room.

Coriolanus’ voice startles you from your trance, your lips letting go of the pencil you had between them, “A lot. I sort of have to. Why do you ask?”

The tall man’s eyes flicker between your face and your notebook folded in on itself in your hand, “You seem to be writing your notes like it’s going out of style.”

Your eyes fall to your endless scribbles of words, eyebrows scrunching up for a moment, “I don’t understand?”

Coriolanus carefully closes his book and sits his pipe down on the table, taking two long strides over to you. He cradles your notes in his large hands, tracing the delicate handwriting with his fingers. The scraping of every drop of the mixing bowl earlier, the tedious way you used dish soap and warm water, your early rising, and your short showers. The way you carry yourself and your words. Coriolanus knows and knows it well.

“I still have a few rationing stamps,” Coriolanus says, his looming figure dangerously close to completely blanketing yours, “They’re in an old tobacco box of my father’s. I can’t remember the day we stopped needing them.”

Your face falters as you peer up at him, his gaze glued to your notes in a focused and avoidant fashion. You gently take your journal from the blonde, closing it before placing Profiles in Courage on top of it and pulling away from the odd warmth from Coriolanus’ cold tallness.

“I think I’ve done enough writing today.”

You don’t like being seen, and as often as possible, you hide away. It’s something you dislike about yourself. And no matter how much you work on it, when your foundation is shaken, you tend to lose your grip. The Compound suddenly felt quite small, and you needed a moment to breathe. So you scurry away to your room to put away your books and grab a thick coat, as it had snowed overnight despite being warm yesterday. Said snow crunches under your feet loudly as you descend the steps toward the beach, wrapping your arms around yourself as the breeze nips your face. All that can be heard for a while is birds overhead and waves crashing to the sand banks. You breathe in the stale, salty air while you have flashbacks of hunger pains from childhood. It’s something you don’t let bother you anymore, but the memory is still very much there.

“Sorry if I overstepped,” Coriolanus suddenly says from behind you, his hands shoved into his coat pockets.

You physically jump, your hand flying over your heart in genuine surprise, “Jesus, Snow. And no, you didn’t overstep. I’m just too inside my head today, I guess.”

Blonde curls fly around Coriolanus’ face erratically as he stoically stares at you from behind, and you avoid him. He stands beside you now, looking down at you in a way that makes you feel odd.

“I think we both expected different things from each other, hmm?”

“How so?” you ask, your face slowly beginning to burn from the cold ocean air.

“Well,” Coriolanus says, staring out at the open sea, the grey spaciousness giving him a moment to ponder, “I didn’t think someone so outspoken could be so inside their head at times.”

You bite back a fiery retort but instead come back with a simple, “And I didn’t expect you to know humbleness, Mister Snow.”

Coriolanus doesn’t respond right away, so you follow with, “But it seems we both learn something new each day, correct?”

“Yes,” the blonde says, “And I think we’ve also both learned to always be honest with each other.”

“When have I not been honest?”

“I did overstep. I shouldn’t have assumed anything, but I did. And even though it’s only been a day of knowing you, I also know you’re the last person to spend too much time in their head. You have enough in the real world for you to care about.”

“Alright, fine. I’ll see through you, you’ll see through me.”

“Good.”

After quite some time bearing the unrelenting ocean air alongside Coriolanus, you decide to make use of yourself somewhere other than the Compound. Coriolanus retreats to his room, and you go into town. Maybe you’d find a little something for the kids or the family for Christmas while out. It isn’t absolutely freezing, so you opt for walking to the market not far from the main road leading out of Hyannis Port. It’s bustling with people despite the temperature. You pick up a basket and fill it with a few oranges for John Jr. and Coriolanus for juice in the morning. After paying for the fruit, you’re called over the aisle by a younger woman you don’t recognize.

“Are you by any chance the young lady researching Jack Kennedy?”

“Yes, I am,” you say.

“Oh, how wonderful! I’ve known the Kennedys since we were kids. I’m glad someone is going to make Jack’s work more known!”

“I am glad to be of help with that, then,” you smile at the woman, who couldn’t be too much older than you.

“Forgive me, I’m Candice. My father is the mayor of Barnstable,” she reaches a hand out for you to shake, which you take graciously.

“Lovely,” you say, glancing around at her various tables covered in small trinkets, “What are you out here bartering?”

“Just odds and ends I’ve found throughout my travels. I don’t have nearly enough room for it all, sadly. Take a look, you may find something!”

You skim the different buttons and brooches all varying in size and design, until you’re stopped by a particular gold brooch. It’s shimmering in the winter afternoon sun, the edges of the leaves and petals of the rose pendant sharp with precision. You gingerly pick it up, studying it closer.

“One of my favorites from Europe. Never could quite find anything worthy enough to pair it with,” Candice fawns, “It’s yours if you want it. No charge.”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly-“

“It’s a gift, love. Take it.”

You slip it into your coat pocket with graciousness before continuing your brigade around the market. Some solid fiction books for Caroline and comics for John Jr. join the pile of oranges in your basket. Shopping for Christmas gifts for Jackie, Jack, Bobby, and Ted would be for a more dedicated day. Upon returning to The Compound, the house is bustling with the children and Bobby and Ted working on dinner. You hurry to put away the things you’ve bought in your room before washing up and making your way to the kitchen. Jack is leaning against the counter as he watches Bobby delicately season steaks, and Ted works on vegetables, his arms crossed across his chest. He stands up straight upon your arrival.

“Good evening, how was your day with some peace and quiet?”

“Ah, it was alright,” you shrug, a small smile on your face as you watch Jackie give Caroline and John Jr. her warning look as they circle the dining room table, “Too much peace and quiet is a little harmful, don’t you think?”

Bobby scoffs, “Not when you have children. Peace and quiet are rare. Be glad the other junior isn’t here to torture ya.”

“He has a point,” Jack grins, pointing at Bobby in agreement, “Bobby Jr. is worse.”

“Oh, come on, now. You know the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree with John John.”

Ted snorts, and you decide to leave the brothers to their banter. Before you completely leave the room, though, Jack pulls you aside.

“Do you mind going down to the cellar? Pick out a bottle of something. We can all have some downtime after the kids go to sleep,” he says.

“Sounds good. Anything in particular?”

“Like I said, your pick.”

You wordlessly nod and find yourself at the cellar door moments later, the door already unlocked. You curiously open it and walk down the steps quietly, the lights dimly revealing a few shelves of wine varying in flavor and age. In between two shelves, you see Coriolanus pacing with a book in his hands.

“It seems we always find each other somewhere around,” you say, being the one to startle him this time.

He snaps his head from his book, which appears to be the play Coriolanus by Shakespeare. Closing where he was reading, he disheveled looks at you off guardedly as he brushes himself off. You approach where he stands, your eyes scanning the shelves for any eye-popping bottle. A part of you feels heightened at being the one to unnerve him, and you feed on it as you stand dangerously close to Coriolanus on your tip toes to look at a wine more closely. You wonder why he’d be so nervous to be down here. Or what he had been doing to make him so uneasy of your presence.

“Which do you prefer?” you ask, pulling a bottle of rich red wine from by his head, “red or white?”

“Red,” Coriolanus says simply, his eyes shining with nerves, “I like the taste better.”

Your stare bores into his for a moment before you let yourself read the label, “A Nineteen Ten. Sounds nice,” you tilt your head at the man before asking, “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” Coriolanus blinks, “I just didn’t expect anyone to find me here.”

“Well, it is the cellar. Not much to hide here,” you encircle the bottle in your grasp, studying the rest of its details.

“Right.”

“Coriolanus, huh? By Shakespeare?”

Coriolanus scoffs through his nose, unbuttoning his sleeves and rebuttoning them to his elbows, “You’re familiar?”

“Not as familiar as I’d like,” you shrug, a hint behind your tone, “But maybe someday I’ll read more into it.”

The truth is, Coriolanus had been down there pacing and thinking of how to go about working with someone like you so closely. It’s been a day, and he already feels drawn to you in a way, and part of him feels disdain for it. But another feels so curious yet unnerved. Coriolanus usually reads the play when he feels he’s looking for something, and every time he is, he finds it within the play. It’s something new every time. No matter how many times the physical book has been deeply ingrained in his psyche. Your familiar and sarcastic tone from the night prior drinking similar wine makes his heart surge with something. And before Coriolanus realizes, his hand is grasping at the back of your head, bringing your face close to his.

“Maybe you should.”

Your hands are all but gripping the bottle of Cabernet, and your knuckles are white enough that you could press your fingertips into the bottle and break it if it were plastic. Coriolanus’ icy eyes are holding yours threateningly, and you don’t dare break the contact. It isn’t until Jack creaks the door of the cellar open to announce dinner is almost ready that the two of you think of separating. But you don’t. You feel bold and hungry and not like the type of hungry you were as a child, but rather bold and hungry for knowledge. A knowledge you won’t and can’t get from researching a man of power or holding a position of political power. But rather an energetic power you can’t quite explain unless you feel it. And you felt it the second you looked up to see Coriolanus standing in front of you by the fire the previous night. Again, when you walked into Jack’s office to see him standing there, and every time since.

Your cheeks are tingling with fire, and your eyes weigh heavily on Coriolanus, unblinking and wild, “And if I don’t?” you whisper.

“I don’t think I’d allow it.”

“Hmm,” you narrow your eyes, letting your hand that’s not wrapped around the neck of the wine bottle grip the back of Coriolanus’ neck, “Try me.”

It’s almost like a dramatic scene from an old black and white your mother used to watch during the daytime, Coriolanus’ other hand flying to your cheek to hold your head firm as he gives you a bruising kiss. And your willingness to kiss back is almost as dramatized. But the tension from the start has been palpable, and it was only a matter of time before your clashing yet molding personalities came together somehow. Whether physical or mental- or both. You have to pull away to gasp for air, reluctant to remove yourself from the embrace. But you know you had to at some point, and you realize this is a dangerous game you’re already playing. What you don’t know yet is there are worse games to play.

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