Chapter Text
It started because you mentioned your father so much in your interview.
He wasn't paying attention enough to remember whether you were one of the dead-father ones or the absent-father ones or the loves-their-father ones. He just enjoyed the way you said the word "daddy" in that accent of yours.
In the Capitol, even very small children traded in the word "daddy" for the word "father" fairly early, but there you were: eighteen and referring to your "daddy" as naturally as if it were the only word you knew for it. Another instance of backwards District culture, but in this case, one that brought his eye to the screen and tuned his ear into what was otherwise background noise.
He had only been the president for a few years, and he hadn't had to work all that closely with the Gamemakers during that time. The things he'd set up in his time working among them and the things he'd set into motion from the comfort of his office had thus far sufficed.
But today, he returned to his old workplace to arrange a very specific treat for himself. He had them flood your section of the arena and discreetly scoop you out before you could drown.
...
The water overtook you completely.
There were three other tributes also caught in the deluge; you could see their bodies as distant shadows. You could see the shimmer of daylight far, far above your head, and you could feel the weight on the water above you with each feeble attempt to claw your way up.
You couldn't breathe.
You weren't going to make it.
You couldn't breathe and you weren't going to make it.
You could see the other tributes, their progress toward the surface. They weren't going to make it either. Adversaries in life, comrades in death.
Your remaining strength left you with just the burning ache in your lungs.
Everything faded away.
...
You were coughing. You were coughing up water, and your surroundings were bright silver.
...
You opened your eyes slowly.
Your body was hurting, and everything around you looked blurry and strange. Why were you surrounded by so many colors? Soft colors. Warm light. Something near the ceiling was spinning slowly, entrancing your eyes. You were in a bed. It was so soft. You would appreciate it more if you weren't hurting. You groaned pitifully.
"Shhh, you're alright," a silken voice spoke above you, and a face- blurry and out of focus -filled your view. "Daddy's here."
"Daddy?" you repeated deliriously, your voice coming out rough from disuse and weak from the various pains in your chest and throat.
You believed he smiled, and there was a satisfied sound. "That's right, pet. Daddy's right here."
Your eyes began to make sense of the face, and you flinched away from the hand that was now stroking your cheek, shrinking back into the bed with the distinct feeling of having been caught someplace you weren't allowed to be. "P-President Snow?"
The satisfied look on his face dropped just a tick. "You call me 'Daddy', now, pet. I decided to save you from the arena."
"Save me?"
"You would have died in that flood. But I had them take you out, so you can live here with me."
Live here?
The room was full of soft things. Soft toys like the mayor's youngest daughter held in her arms while the mayor's wife bounced her in hers. But bigger, softer, finer looking. A stuffed toy elephant with a trunk longer than your arm. A stuffed bear that could fit you in its lap. A mobile of doves spinning slowly, up above you.
"My family," you said meekly. "I'm supposed to...make it home to them."
"No, pet. You lost, remember? You lost the Games. That means there's no home for you in the Districts anymore. Whoever you were to them is dead now. Now, be a good baby and thank Daddy for getting you out of that scary flood."
This didn't make sense. This wasn't... "Thank you, Daddy," you whispered. This wasn't right.
He rewarded you with a caress to your hair. "That's a good baby. Are you hungry?"
Your stomach gurgled desperately, in answer.
An indulgent smile curled his lips. "I thought so. Here." He reached behind him and brought forward a tray. "Lamb stew for Daddy's little lamb."
You tried to sit up, but your muscles refused the assignment.
"You need Daddy to feed you?" Despite his smile, his eyes were as cold as coins.
He had shown no signs of hostility, but there was a fear growing inside you. His control over your fate was total, and it felt like every generosity, every mite of kindness he offered, was a shackle that would tighten at his word.
Still, you had to whisper back, "Yes, please."
"Then you must ask nicely, pet."
You racked your brain. Hadn't you said please already? "How do you want me to ask?"
His smile broadened, and he leaned a bit closer. "All of you in the Districts have such unrefined manners," he purred. The way the velvet of his voice pleasured in the belittling remark chilled you to the bone. "How about, 'May you please feed me, Daddy?'"
You wet your lips, feeling exposed and vulnerable even with most of your frame concealed beneath the luxurious bedcoverings. "May you please feed me, Daddy?"
He held the back of your head with one hand while the mother guided the literal silver spoon.
The lamb stew was as wonderful and filling as you could ever dream of. Even better than the food at the Training Center. Your eyes and mouth both dampened at just the first taste, and you would have wolfed it down in under a minute, were it in your power to.
But the president was controlling the pace, and he gave you each bite slowly. Smiling when you whimpered for more, and slowing down further when you tried to reach for it on your own.
"Poor thing," he murmured. "It's not fun to be hungry, is it? I know, I know..."
He set the plate aside before it was empty and put a glass of water to your lips. As hungry as you still were, you could feel your eyelids growing heavy again. A trickle of water ran from your mouth, and the president wiped it away with his thumb. "Sleepy baby, aren't you?"
He set the water down and guided your head back to the pillow. You couldn't lift it again if you wanted to.
"Get some sleep for Daddy. I'm going to go check in on the Games."
All thoughts of your eerie predicament were driven from your head by a merciful riptide of sleep.
You didn't know how long you slept before you were ever-so-slightly roused from sleep by the sensation of wetting the bed. The little alarm bell in your brain that pulled you to awareness didn't bring you all the way to the point of opening your eyes, nor could your body seem to do more than just perceive the steady, uninterrupted voiding of your bladder into the fabric of your undergarments. They absorbed it all, swelling from the unobtrusive thinness of panties to a soaked cushion between your thighs. You registered that they had become a diaper- or had been a diaper all along.
Then you went back to sleep.