the winner's curse

Cade's mouth first fell open in shock that Cress-- someone seemingly so poised, so proper, so recently promoted-- would say something so suggestive in polite company. It was quickly replaced, though, with thorough delight. "Slate never told me you were fun," he complained, reaching over to give her a light, playful punch to the arm. "I mean, I guess I should've known, Slate's mostly fun if you get him to lay off his manifesto. But I'd just thought you two just had crazy good sex or something."

Her brows rose, eyes falling to where Cade's fist made contact with her arm. "What a brave thing to say to me," she blinked, expressionless for a bleeding moment, the discomfort of it stretching, paired with her lifted gaze, which must have been unnerving.

Cade's eyes followed the same things on the screen as Cress, and he nodded, trying to appreciate... whatever it was she was appreciating. "Ah. Yes. Horrid. Divine," he echoed, nodding fervently. "What... exactly? Is divine?"

Her eyes drifted from the screen, torn away reluctantly and cast upon Cade in turn. "The feeling you get when Everett drops to his knees," Cress speculated, more gall than girl. Hubris had taken hold, confidence regained, and she could feel it coursing steadily through each vein. "The sensation of beholding a thing of beauty -- that which cannot go unseen."

Slate did as she'd wanted -- he let out a slight gasp at the press into the bruise, though he enjoyed it and she knew it -- aroused him, excited him. Pain was so similar to pleasure, and in a life like his, he'd had to learn to enjoy both equally.

Victory. It was all Cress had ever known, at least as far as the outside world was concerned. They didn't need the details of her failures or a depiction of her suffering, curated (as things tended to be in Panem). Slate could see them if he wanted -- her scars, her shortcomings -- but, well...wasn't this a place of pretend? Cress moaned with content, lips parting against his, tasting vodka and sweat. She'd lost their fight, but there was still cause for celebration -- and a need for matting across the floor.

just a girl and her dogs 🫶

He allowed Cress's touch, not flinching away as he'd have done were it anyone else -- and he knew she was signaling for him to calm down, but he had no intention of doing so. "But it has changed for the better, Cress is right -- there's already more available. Once again, Link, you're only looking at your own life." He seethed. "In Eleven, people are finally able to eat from their own orchards. In Ten, they're drinking the milk from their own cows. In Twelve, they're heating their own homes with portions of the coal. It's not perfect, but I'm sorry that you don't get your little middle-class fantasy anymore. Even now, you're still not fucking starving, you're a Victor. And you can't even look past your own experience." He glanced at Cress, the anger in his eyes evident, asking her to back him up on that point -- even if there were flaws. "There are kinks we have to work out, but it's a hell of a lot better than the fucking Tarren. Do you hear yourself?"

I'm sorry that you don't get your little middle-class fantasy anymore. Even now, you're still not fucking starving, you're a Victor. And you can't even look past your own experience.

It was entirely his now; she'd moved her hand away and he held his position, his body shaking with pleasure, biting back a moan -- until something happened, until she touched it again, pushed it in, and suddenly everything was alive.

Link looked between them, exasperated. "Only twice! And that wasn't killing people, that was killing a website. They got it back up, who cares?"

He hadn't been aware of that -- he and the rest of the team had all kept things pretty quiet, their sources mostly unknown even to each other in order to protect everyone. That had been proven to be the smart move, as Snow had, of course, tried to torture everything out of him.

Cress scoffed, lips parted incredulously at the blatant disregard for her statements, for any point she was trying to make. Both of them had breezed past it, so wrapped up in the details of deception, of allegiance. But it was a game she'd been playing far longer (and for better), so she let them carry on singing self-pitying tunes. Cress had been a pawn the longest. Her sister had died first. Every horrid landmark had been past prior, her own sorrow having had time to ripen, and wilt, and decay. Scabs and scars she'd learned to drape in finery. Slate and Link, though, were still slashed open.

It was true, they would call her vain, and he allowed her that with a nod, continuing to work into her muscles. "You've just written the ad copy, my love," he said, humming in pleasure as she spoke because her words were beautiful, and he liked what she said. "Carnal, violent. With a mat for sparring. Or more." He thought for a moment. "No weapons. Just fists. Fair fights. And alcohol, of course."

Cress basked in his praise, in the warmth of liquor and the stretch of muscles that were sore. "Or more?" It was a ploy, a cloying innuendo. Admittedly, there was little Cress found more arousing than a well-executed scheme. Slate knew that, playing into her machinations. She was grateful to be indulged. "Yes, precisely," Cress purred, imagining the pieces moving, bodies once again inhabiting these catacombs. "A use for the money that's lost its value--" Which would surely supplement their lost victor salaries. "And for the remaining ether--" Her fingers crawled up his leg, until she found a tender spot, one that would surely bruise. Cress pressed, wanting to draw out a whimper, a cry of pain. "To soothe." So what if she was trying to coax him into another tryst? Wasn't that what everyone was seeking -- escape? Release? Points were meant to be proven. Games were meant to be played. "To celebrate victory."

Juno's heart rate picked up, fast enough she could feel it in her throat. She knew the floor the training center was on, and she knew how many weapons were laid out like a rich banquet that they'd be alone with. Irrationally, her first thought was that Cress was going to kill her. Reason narrowly prevailed, reassuring her enough that a Gamemaker wouldn't do such a thing when their whole job was to kill in the Games. It gave a little comfort, but not much.

"Nothing physical," Cress assured, though perhaps that only complicated the matter, given their destination. She stepped out of the elevator and moved through the room, peering over her shoulder, "tell me more about your situation, about the ways you've been wronged."

Slate reached over to gently nudge Cress's fingers aside, to replace them with his own. He kneaded at her tight muscles there, so familiar with what her body felt like, where her muscles sat, when they were tighter than usual. "People will call us vain," he said, "if we repeat our birthday party. Perhaps something more..." His eyes swept across the room. Imagining it filled with bodies doing just what they'd done -- sparring, finding release in the fight. "Bloody."

"They'll call me vain, no matter the theme," Cress countered, though she did so while smiling. Slate's fingers worked against the muscles, kneading tender flesh, and Cress made a pained noise, short and brief. Pain was par for the course, though, so she stayed still, letting him do as he pleased.