Chapter Text
There is a feast laid out before him. Cato can identify some of the dishes on the table; they were luxuries his family could afford because his father was a victor and had good relations with the people of the Capitol. Unlike most of the other tributes that are also en route to the Capitol, Cato is neither hungry nor nervous. He had woken up early that morning, eager to get some training done before the reaping proper. Both his parents had given him full consent to volunteer that year; they knew Cato was more than determined to come home with yet another win for District 2.
His fellow tribute, a slight, dark-haired girl named Clove, is worth keeping an eye on, however.
Cato has a pretty good idea of what Clove is capable of. She began undergoing special training at around the same time as he did, and he’s aware of just how vicious she is whether she has a knife in her clutches or not. She’ll make an excellent ally for the most part, but he can’t help but feel that he needs to start keeping his distance from her after they weed out the weaklings. Cato knows he’s strong, but he is not an idiot.
He is about to reach for a glass of wine—his parents never let him have any—when the automatic door slides open. Their mentors, Brutus and Enobaria, and their escort from the Capitol, Viola, burst into the room, conversing in loud, if slightly agitated tones.
“What is it?” Clove asks impatiently. “Has something happened?”
“It’s nothing to be personally concerned with, darling,” Viola assures her. “It’s just that we’ve just received word that District 12 has had its very first volunteer in…oh, I don’t know, ages!”
This piques Cato’s interest. He’s never been to twelve, but based on what he’s seen on television or on what people say, it’s a pretty deplorable place where people starve to death in safety. Cato has never known how it feels to be deprived; District 2 is so loyal to the Capitol that suffering has become something just short of a myth to him.
“A volunteer?” he parrots, sneering. “I suppose he realized that dying in the arena would be quicker and more merciful than the slow, agonizing death that starvation brings.”
“Honestly, Cato,” Viola sighs. “I do wish you would choose your words more carefully, sometimes. But anyway, to correct your sexist assumptions, the volunteer is the female tribute. She stepped in to save her sister from being reaped—the poor thing’s name was called and she is only twelve—and the Capitol is eating it up like mad because they think it’s such a brave thing to do—”
“Which is why you have to show them how tough you are,” Brutus interrupts her. “This girl from twelve is already a threat at this point because she’s given the Capitol the idea that she’s interesting. She’s probably going to be a weakling—none of ‘em from twelve stay alive for long, anyway—but right now, the attention is on her. You’ve got to rake in some kills as soon as the bloodbath begins.”
He disappears into the next car, probably looking for something to vent his frustrations out on. Cato met Brutus a few times at the training academy; he’s strong and skilled with a bit of a temper problem. Enobaria, however, is the kind of person he would not wish to get into a tussle with. During her time in the arena, she had ripped out a tribute’s throat with her teeth, and she’d carried that with her after the Games when she had her teeth surgically altered to resemble gold-tipped fangs. So far, Cato has seen very little of her, and he’s rather determined to keep it that way.
“I’ll kill her myself,” Clove declares viciously. “She wouldn’t know what hit her! We’ve been training all our lives for this one glorious moment; I’ll bet this little girl from twelve has never even held a knife in her life!”
“Down, girl,” Cato chastises her. “We may be stronger than they are, but different people work in different ways. Remember District 12’s Haymitch Abernathy from the last Quarter Quell? He used the force field protecting the arena to defeat a Career Tribute from District 1. He’s their only victor, so he’ll be mentoring the tributes from twelve.”
Enobaria smirks at him. “Nice to hear you’ve been doing your research, Cato—it’ll be faster to rip out their spleens if you know what they’re capable of.”
“That sounds lovely,” Cato replies dryly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to watch the reapings. Do we already have a copy of the footage onboard?”
Viola rises from her seat, looking extremely proud. “But of course, dear! If there’s something the Capitol can do, it’s to have something at your disposal at the snap of a finger. Shall I have it hooked up to the television in your private compartment?”
Cato rises from his seat, wineglass still in hand. “Yeah, that would be great. Care to join me, Clove?”
“And waste my time watching them shuffle onto the stage with resigned, tearful expressions?” she asks him, sounding incredulous. “No thanks, Cato. But when you’ve decided to switch channels and watch footage from the Games from the previous years, by all means, invite me again—I’ll even bring popcorn.”
“Suit yourself,” Cato says with a shrug, nicking a plateful of scones on his way out.
Cato always felt more confident knowing what he was getting into; although he preferred to solve his problems with the swing of a sword, a little research on the competition never really hurt anybody. Plus, seeing the girl from twelve onscreen would help him identify her in the arena. Volunteering was next to non-existent in the poorer districts, and Cato always paid attention to those who did. Unlike Clove, he wanted to enter the arena in search of worthy opponents. There were those who deserved to be put down as soon as the clock began to tick, and there were those you would like to save for the very end just to finish the Games on a climactic high. At the back of his mind, he acknowledged the fact that Clove would be his final deterrent to becoming a victor, but she was only one out of twenty-three others, and twenty-three was a big number; regardless of whether they were Careers or not, there would always a handful of people worth remembering.
He lets the door shut behind him and turns his attention to the television screen where the reaping ceremonies from the various districts are already playing. Without a doubt, he knows that he and Clove must ally themselves with the other Career tributes; the pair from District 1 looks as if they’re going off to attend a big party in the Capitol instead of participating in a bloodbath, but he knows they are just as skilled as he and Clove. The male Career from four is a tiny twelve-year-old, which makes Cato wonder if he has any chances of surviving past the bloodbath. By the time the footage from District 7 rolls by, Cato is bored out of his skin. Truth be told, he’s only watching this because he’s curious about the girl from twelve—not that he would ever admit this to Clove out loud because she often mistakes curiosity for…other things.
“…Primrose Everdeen!”
The sound of District 12’s escort—she makes Viola seem almost sane—reading out the name of the female tribute interrupts his reverie. He sees the peacekeepers ushering a small, delicate-looking girl who is quietly tucking in the back of her blouse towards the stage as the rest of the children look on. Some look like they pity her; she can’t be older than thirteen and this must be the first time her name has been included in the pool. The others, of course, look relieved—they’ll be safe from the Capitol’s grand machination for another year. The little girl barely takes a few steps when another girl tears herself away from the crowd screaming, “I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!” in a hoarse voice.
And that’s when Cato sees her. She doesn’t look like much. She’s a skinny girl with long dark hair done up in some kind of stylized plait in an old blue dress—the very image of a girl living in the Seam. What catches Cato’s attention, however, is the defiant stance she takes as she announces her decision to take her sister’s place. It’s nothing like what they do in District 2; Cato remembers how he strode forward that morning with his chest puffed out and his head held high when he volunteered for his district. There is no pride or fearlessness in the manner this girl carries herself, but there is no resignation, either.
“And what is your name, sweetheart?” Effie Trinket, the escort, asks her.
The girl, who is standing onstage with her shoulders stiff and her fists clenched, replies, “Katniss Everdeen.”
Cato barely pays any attention to the male tribute when he is called forward; he only has eyes for Katniss Everdeen. It isn’t until the screen blacks out that he realizes his mind has wandered.
“Well, well, well,” he murmurs, smirking at his reflection on the blank television screen. “It seems as if you have a fighter in your ranks, District 12—and I am more than looking forward to making her acquaintance.”
Katniss Everdeen. Cato knows he will be keeping a close eye on her.
~*~*~*~*~
From the moment they arrive at the Capitol, Cato is tempted to just sleep through everything until they are required to head down to the training center. He understands that all the showbiz is a means for them to appeal for sponsors, but in all honesty, he can’t help but wish that they could be sent straight to the training center. He does not ask Clove about her opinion on the matter, but he can tell she is just as impatient as he is judging by the bored expression on her face. Any other girl would have been thrilled to have a team of stylists attending to her and making her feel beautiful, but Clove just didn’t care; Cato liked that about her.
“You must be the Capitol’s greatest nightmare right now,” he calls to her as his stylist adjusts the fit of his armored braces. “I’m sure they’ve been looking forward to dressing up chicks like that girl from one or transforming ugly ducklings from the more deplorable areas into beautiful swans.”
“Well, I fall into neither of those two categories,” Clove says in a haughty voice. “And they had better think twice before putting me into one of those frilly dresses for the interview.”
Much to Clove’s relief, their stylists had ultimately decided on matching Roman centurion costumes for them during the opening ceremony. Cato had spent the last half hour being giggled at by the ladies from his prep team because his buff, athletic build carried the costume well. Not surprisingly—that was Clove’s opinion, at least—the girl from District 1 often shot flirtatious glances his way whenever she caught sight of him. Cato made it a point to return those smiles because he was going to need her as an ally if he wanted to make things easier on himself. Surviving the Games meant hamming it up to the audience and your fellow tributes; it was never too early to make yourself worthy of people’s attention.
“Now, up you go!” Athena, his stylist, urges them. “We’re going to go by district, so you two will be ushered out right after one. Since we’re marketing you as the strong, unbeatable pair, you don’t need to smile and wave to the crowd. I want you to stand like soldiers, stare straight ahead and keep your chins up.”
“Easier done than said, Athena.” Cato climbs into the chariot after Clove. “This is exactly what Clove and I agreed on from the very beginning.”
As soon as the music booms out over the loudspeakers—cleverly concealed, of course; such is the prowess of Capitol technology—the chariots begin to pull out one by one in the form of a parade. Cato is impressed by the riderless horses; Athena told him that they are so well-trained that they have no need of someone to hold their reins. Cato would have liked to mount it, though. He felt that he would have looked far more impressive riding the horse than standing in the chariot it was pulling. Still, he has no reason to complain; the lights are glinting off their golden armor, making them appear untouchable and otherworldly. They are not pageant contestants like the tributes from District 1 nor are they children walking to the gallows like the rest of the participants; they are soldiers.
And at the end of it all, Cato will be the only one standing.
The citizens of the Capitol are cheering like mad; they’re enjoying this because they love feasting their eyes on things they have made beautiful. Suddenly, Cato wants to tear his armor off—it is Capitol-owned, just like everything he is going to be putting on or taking in hand for the next few days. He does not show his rage on his face, though; his father has trained him well.
Clove suddenly grips his arm, forcing him to turn to her. “Cato, look! Behind you!”
This is when Cato realizes that the deafening cheers are not for him. They are for District 12—for Katniss Everdeen and whoever the bloody fuck the male tribute is. They are standing side by side dressed in what look like black unitards with halos of flames trailing in their wake, their joined hands raised in victory. At that precise moment, Katniss Everdeen is the most stunning living being in the room.
Cato wants to burn with her.
“They lucked out with their prep teams this year, that’s for sure,” Clove bites out. “But it doesn’t matter. We still have the upper hand because we’ve been clutching knives in our hands since birth.”
Cato wants to laugh. It’s a brilliantly cooked-up scheme. “They’ll remember her, Clove. It’s hard to forget a girl on fire once she’s blazed past you. District 12 wins this round.”
“Did you just admit defeat?” Clove stares at him, aghast.
Cato shakes his head. He’s still grinning like a madman. “She’s one to watch out for, Clove—I can feel it.”
“Drive your sword into her chest as soon as you can, then.” Clove turns her attention back to Coriolanus Snow, the Capitol’s president.
“Happy Hunger Games,” Snow is saying. “And may the odds be ever in your favor.”
~*~*~*~*~
Cato is in his element at the training center. The weapons there are wonderful; they’re better than anything Cato has ever held in his hands back home. Although District 2 was rather well-off to begin with, the Capitol had its way of making sure you were impressed by everything and anything it has to offer. Cato’s current favorite was a lightweight sword that could slice through bone at the slightest touch. He could only hope that there would be one like it in the arena.
This was the only area in which he felt comfortable showing off. He had nothing to hide from the Gamemakers and the other tributes, so he went all out in excelling at whichever obstacle they made him run through and whichever weapon they wanted him to handle. He wasn’t too shabby with other blades, but only the sword bonded with him like an extension of his body.
Whenever he wasn’t busy holding court with the other Careers or doing some work of his own, he was busy observing Katniss Everdeen, who was sullen, quiet and intent on keeping to herself. In general, she wasn’t too shabby; she weighed significantly less than the already petite Clove, but she used it to her advantage as she was significantly skilled at hauling herself up to higher surfaces and was quick on her feet. She hardly touched any of the weapons, though, and was often at significantly boring stations such as knot tying or campfire building each time he checked on her.
“You’re looking at her again, Cato,” Marvel, the male tribute from District 1, remarks.
Clove snorts. “When is he not looking at her? Cato always acts like he wants to have the girl for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Still, you can’t deny that she’ll make it further than most of these kids who obviously have no idea what they’re doing. Wish I could say the same about Loverboy, though.”
“He’s a baker’s son,” Glimmer says flippantly. “Surely you’re not expecting more from him?”
“Johanna Mason,” Cato reminds them. “She played the role of a weakling at the beginning to avoid attention, and then won the Games by turning vicious on the remaining tributes towards the end. I know it’s easy to judge people based on how they look and the skills that they seem to have, but let’s not jump to conclusions. The kids here may not look like much, but they can be cleverer than you think.”
“You’re really playing to live, aren’t you, Cato?” Glimmer smiles at him as she snakes a hand around his arm. It’s a terrifying thing; Cato has this sudden theory that she could slit his throat in his sleep. Returning her smile, he curls his arm around her waist and shakes his head.
“Darling, I’m playing to win.”
He turns his attention back to Everdeen, who is glaring daggers at him from her spot by the monkey bars. He smirks at her and makes a come-hither gesture, which she purposely ignores. Cato is enjoying this; he likes how she is pretending that he isn’t getting under her skin.
It’s time to stir up the party a little.
He extricates his arm from Glimmer’s hold and walks towards Peeta Mellark, who is trying to make like bark at the camouflaging station. In Cato’s opinion, it’s a pretty good imitation of an actual tree bark, but he’s never been one to go the arts-and-crafts route when he has access to an arsenal of perfectly good weapons at his disposal.
“How’s the art project going, Loverboy?” he asks teasingly.
“Bug off, alright?” Mellark mutters. “I’d rather we stay out of each other’s way until the Games.”
“Ooh, touchy, aren’t we?” Cato backs off a bit, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “I just wanted to talk to you a little; we’re forming a little club, you see, and I thought you might be interested—”
Everdeen chooses that precise moment to cut it. It’s amazing how even her timing is perfect. “He’s not. And just in case you wanted to talk to me a little, neither am I.”
“I wasn’t going to invite you along for the ride, Everdeen,” Cato replies coolly. “I’d rather you and I start out as opponents from the very beginning—you know, to make things more…exciting?”
“…you really get off on murdering other people, don’t you?” Everdeen asks incredulously. “Is that what you wank off to in your sleep? Images of dead tributes?”
“Stop it, Katniss.” Mellark pulls her back. “He isn’t worth the trouble. Let’s just keep our distance.”
“You’d better watch your back, Mellark,” Cato warns him. “I might just have Clove hurl her knife right between your shoulder blades.”
He moves away from them, but makes sure he stays within earshot. Everdeen is whispering fiercely to Mellark, who is shaking his head at whatever it is she’s saying. Curious, Cato pretends to busy himself with the throwing spear in order to eavesdrop on their conversation.
“—you see that iron weight over there? I want you to throw it at that rack near the boy from two.”
Mellark shakes his head again. “Remember what Haymitch told us? We’re not supposed to show off what we can do until they take us one by one for the Gamemakers’ evaluation!”
“He’s looking at you like you’re a meal,” Everdeen insists. “If you’d rather he look at you like that and kill you as soon as the Games begin, then fine, don’t listen to me.”
Cato stops the pretense. He puts down the spear and crosses his arms over his chest. “Yeah, Loverboy—show us what you can do. Who knows, maybe I’ll allow you to live another day before I start hunting you down. I do appreciate people with some sort of talent, after all.”
Everdeen bristles. She’s opening her mouth for some sort of comeback when the sound of metal clashing against metal interrupts them. Apparently, Mellark thought better of it and did what Everdeen asked of him. He turns to glare at Caro, red-faced and sweaty, as if daring him to come up with anymore condescending remarks. Instead, Cato whistles approvingly as he appraises at the sight of throwing spears littering the floor.
“Looks like I’ll be crossing you off my day one list, then,” he concludes. “You’re strong, Loverboy; if you know what’s good for you, I suggest you remember that. And for the record, I don’t wank off to images of dead tributes, Everdeen. In fact, you’d be surprised at the current subject of my fantasies.”
He salutes the pair and saunters back to his allies, picking up a fallen spear from the ground and effortlessly hitting his target smack in the chest. The more riled up he got, the more dangerous he became.
It was funny how some people still didn’t know it by now.
~*~*~*~*~
Dinner is a funny affair. They had just come from their individual evaluations, and most of the tributes are in rather low spirits after their dismal performances. They seem determined to get as little acquainted with each other as possible in order to make the killing easier, so they have taken to eating their meals in solitude. Aside from Cato and his merry band of mercenaries, Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark are the only ones who have dared to eat in groups that number higher than one.
“I can’t wait for them to flash our scores on television after dinner!” Glimmer gushes. “I’m certain I did very well; they were all very appreciative of my talents. Seneca Crane even raised his glass to me!”
Cato nods, sending what he hopes is a convincing smile in her direction. He had performed spectacularly as well, but there was something about the look on Seneca Crane’s face that bothered him. The other Gamemakers had applauded him and cheered him on, but Seneca Crane was a different story. The expression on his face had been nothing short of approving; Cato felt pride bubbling in his chest because the Head Gamemaker was indeed, the man to impress. However, he could not help but feel that there was something beneath the surface when Crane’s gaze shifted from approving to almost calculating. He didn’t dare mention this to the other Careers, of course; Cato believed that some secrets were simply meant to be withheld. Plus, it would serve as a dent in his armor, and he didn’t need that right now.
“I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about,” Marvel declares. “We’re at the top of the pack, so one of us is definitely going to end up as the top scorer. I can already see the sponsors lining up to provide for us now; we won’t have anything to worry about once we’re out there.”
Cato wants to smack him. Sometimes, he forgets that Marvel has the tendency to behave like an idiot on a high horse. Numbers are important, but they do not justify the outcome. He’s watched Games where tributes that have scored as low as a four or a five during evaluations end up outlasting the Careers in the arena. In the training center, everything is laid out for you; all you have to do is choose. In the arena, you can’t take risks and make a beeline for your weapon of choice. There are tributes that die during the bloodbath because they have been stabbed or skewered while making desperate attempts to secure a machete or a poleaxe for their arsenal.
When you are in the arena, you do not get to choose.
He clears his plate quickly, eager for a hot shower so that he can change into more comfortable clothes for the televised announcement of their scores. He’s also eager to get away from these people who are flocking towards him because of their desire to stay on his good side. It’s not going to change anything; once all the showbiz is over and the Games really begin, Cato’s going to play to win.
As soon as he steps into the water, he touches one of the many knobs that line the control panel in the showers, smiling as he pictures how nice it’s going to look in his future home in Victor’s Village.
~*~*~*~*~
When he eventually leaves his quarters to join his mentors and his prep team in the viewing room, he notices that he’s the last one to arrive. Viola is busy pouring some strangely colorful concoctions into glasses for their consumption, and Brutus and Enobaria are talking among themselves about how they’re going to secure sponsors for Clove and himself. His district partner is seated calmly on the couch; her eyebrows arch in question as soon as she catches sight of him.
“So, you finally decided to grace us with your presence.”
“I fell asleep,” he says matter-of-factly. “Training all day has exhausted me and I want to be as well-rested as possible for the Games. Tomorrow’s our last day, after all.”
“And also the day of the interviews,” Clove scowls. “I hate interviews; Flickerman is such a nutter.”
“Now, now, sweetheart,” Viola chastises her, “you must be on your best behavior tomorrow. Remember, everyone in the Capitol will be tuning in, so you had better make sure you appear likeable!”
“That won’t be a problem, Viola,” Clove says sweetly. “I can be likeable when I want to be.”
Of course she can—everything is an act to appeal to the Capitol, after all.
“Well, you’re just in time, kid,” Enobaria tells him. “The program has just begun.”
Cato has to sit through a few minutes of Flickerman and Templesmith doing some fancy-schmancy introductory dialogue before they get on with the actual statistics. Marvel and Glimmer both score a nine each, while Clove and Cato score tens. Clove visibly relaxes at the news; Cato can tell she’s more than content because she’s at par with him and one point higher than both tributes from one. So far, no one else comes up with a double-digit score. He’s looking forward to hearing them announce Katniss Everdeen’s score, though; some tributes pull all the stops out during individual evaluation, and based on what he had overheard that afternoon, that was District 12’s intention all along.
“And finally, we have District 12!” Flickerman’s voice booms out over the television. “We have Peeta Mellark with a score of eight and Katniss Everdeen—you’re going to love this, ladies and gentlemen—tops the scale with a beautiful score of eleven!”
Viola, Enobaria and Brutus are all surprised. Clearly, they were not expecting this. Clove rises to her feet, suddenly indignant. “I can’t believe this! What did she do in there that we didn’t see during training? What is it that she’s hiding from us?”
Cato, on the other hand, is elated at the news of this eleven. A rush of heat travels down his spine, giving him a renewed sense of vigor. He can’t help but feel that he has finally met his match. Whatever she did in that room, the Gamemakers must have liked it. People rarely walked out of there with a score higher than eight or nine, and that applied to all tributes, Career or not. It doesn’t matter to him that more eyes will be on her; what matters to him is that there is somebody worthy going into the Games with him.
“A toast,” he murmurs amidst the chaos, raising his glass to the projected image of Katniss Everdeen on the television screen, “to Katniss Everdeen, the martyr from twelve, the girl on fire and my new muse.”
~*~*~*~*~
On the day of the interviews, Cato wakes up early. For some reason, he’s always restless in the morning and it takes a lap or two around the vicinity of Victor’s Village to put him at ease. He know he should be exhausted from all the effort he put into yesterday’s sessions, but his endurance has built up over the years due to the intensive training he goes through each day.
Going for a run in the Capitol is an entirely different experience, though. District 2 is the home of the masons and the peacekeepers, so Cato isn’t used to seeing bright bursts of color at each turn. In his black tracksuit and running shoes, he feels like the plainest creature on the street—heck, even the Capitol-owned pets are more eye-catching than he is! Sometimes, he stops to sign autographs or pose for photo ops with some people who recognize him from the parade and from last night’s live telecast. Cato does not enjoy hamming up to people, but Brutus often reminded him that for each smile that he spares, he may just receive a gift for the Games in exchange.
He’s a better actor than Clove is; he has the patience to entertain people and, in Viola’s opinion, looks for more approachable. He never paid much attention to his look, but Viola is adamant about people being unable to resist “a tall, blonde and handsome drink of water”. He supposes it’s a good thing that he looks the way he does; girls from his district blushed and giggled each time they stopped to talk to him, and Glimmer seems to have a bit of a thing for him, too. She’s pretty enough, but she lacks fire.
Cato chuckles. Lacks fire? There’s only one girl in the world who’s entitled to that element. He must be going mad if his memories of her have settled into his subconscious like some sort of virus.
He stops at a vending machine for an energy drink. There’s plenty more where that came from at their area of residence, but Cato can’t possibly run back there without hydrating himself.
“You’re doing a good job of marketing yourself to the public, Cato.”
Seneca Crane is seated on the bench beside the machine, a cup of steaming hot coffee in hand. Cato can almost swear that the man wasn’t there a minute ago.
“I’m well-aware of what I have to do, sir,” he replies carefully. “It’s not easy to get people to like you, but you can do it once you’ve managed to perfect that winning smile.”
Crane is giving him that look again. “You love that word, don’t you? Winning, victory, and all things synonymous to it—it’s the principle that you choose to live by. How admirable.”
“I like having my motives out in the open,” Cato explains. “I don’t see the use of hiding them when the Capitol can see our every move, anyway.”
“Do you think they’re watching us now?” Crane asks. “Do you think they can hear us talking?”
Cato shrugs. “With all the technology that you people have access to, I wouldn’t be surprised if live footage of this conversation is playing in President Snow’s office right now.”
Seneca Crane chuckles. “Indeed. But you’ve nothing to worry about for now, though; we let you mind your own business until the tracker for the Games is inserted into your arm.”
“Should we even be having this conversation?” Cato inquires. “You’re Head Gamemaker and I’m one of the tributes. From a third party’s point of view, this looks highly suspicious.”
“You don’t trust anyone, I see,” Crane remarks. “That could work in your favor, but it may also be a deterrent. Alliances can be of assistance for a brief period of time, you know.”
Cato snorts. “You’re consciously giving me advice, sir. I don’t think you should be doing this.”
“Yet you’re not walking away,” Seneca Crane points out. “Had you been completely unwilling to speak with me, you would have left as soon as you saw me. If I had one of the Avoxes relay a message to you or had I pulled you into an alley, people would be suspecting something. But just like you, I’ve nothing to hide. So, take a seat, Cato. Smile and wave to the passers-by; let them see you acting all chummy with the Head Gamemaker. The pair from one had a photo taken with me after dinner last night, so if ever the press decides to run with this, you can say you’re not the only one making good with Seneca Crane.”
“How did you know I would be here, though?” Cato asks once he’s made himself comfortable on the bench. “I didn’t tell anybody I would be going out for a run.”
“I enjoy taking leisurely strolls in the morning,” Crane replies. “It’s nice to see the Capitol just before sunrise. I find myself suffering from a bit of a headache as soon as the sun comes up because seeing the light bounce off these new mirrored dresses—I don’t know why they’ve become so popular, really—is quite painful to the eyes.”
Cato laughs. For someone who’s been given the post of Head Gamemaker—which consequently means he spends a lot of time with Snow—Seneca Crane’s not so bad. Unlike most of the Capitol citizens who seem to prefer clothes in garish shades of every existing color, Crane looks far more subdued in his black and red ensemble. The only thing that distinguishes him as a man from the Capitol is his stylized facial hair, which Cato finds oddly remarkable.
“It’s the beard, isn’t it?” Crane asks, sounding amused. “I’m only sporting it for the Games, actually. It’s my first year as Head Gamemaker, so I have a stylist and a prep team of my own just like the rest of you. My stylist thought I looked very un-Capitol-like, so he attempted to force this new wardrobe on me. We had a row about it, and the only thing I ended up agreeing to was the beard.”
“My district partner, Clove, is fighting a similar war,” Cato says with a grin. “She doesn’t fuss with her looks at all, so her stylist is having a bit of a problem with her. They’ve been sporting headaches all night thanks to her reactions to every single one of their designs.”
At the mention of Clove, Seneca Crane sobers instantly. “You will eventually have to take her life, Cato—that is, if she does not beat you to it. Are you prepared for this?”
Cato shrugs. “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be, I guess. I’ve never taken anybody’s life before, but I’ve been groomed to be a tribute, so I’m a bit more aware of that than the others. I don’t see it as a fun thing, you know, but I’ve got to do it to stay alive.”
Seneca Crane doesn’t say anything for a while; it’s as if he has suddenly retreated into his own world. Cato deems this as the end of the conversation and makes a move to leave.
“Cato.”
Cato stops. “…yeah?”
“There will be a feast laid out in front of you. Whatever you do, do not rush in to take the most succulent bit of the bounty. Instead, you stay put, and no matter what you see or no matter what you hear, you wait.”
Cato doesn’t understand a bit of it.
~*~*~*~*~
Cato’s outfit for the interview is a royal blue suit. Athena says it brings out his “icy baby blues” and perfectly complements his “burnished gold hair”—whatever that means. Clove’s team, on the other hand, manages to wrestle her into this ruffled peach gown that almost makes her look human. He’s not nervous at all; Viola held a brief practice session with him after lunch and deemed him perfect for the stage. He just wishes they could go right after their turn because he’s not in the mood to listen to the other tributes’ woes.
Still, that means missing out on his darling girl on fire. She’s so angry and tense that he can’t help but wonder how Haymitch Abernathy and Effie Trinket plan to market her to the Capitol.
“Are you nervous?” Glimmer asks, sashaying up to him. She looks lovely in her see-through, golden dress, but even that is not enough to get his blood pumping. He’s got to keep up the act, though; he has to make sure she doesn’t stray from the alliance until it is safe for him to hack her head off.
“Not at all, sweetheart,” he answers smugly. “But enough about me; let’s talk about you—or maybe I’m stating the obvious because the entire Capitol will be talking about you once they see you in that dress.”
His words work like magic. It’s rather absurd as to how easily Glimmer turns into putty in his hands. Clove was not happy with having to play nice with them, but eventually came to agree with him that they would need to feign an alliance with the other Careers to strike some fear into the rest of the tributes. While she was most unwilling to seduce Marvel—who really is quite stupid—she agreed to act all friendly with him so they could fully utilize his skills.
“Coming through, coming through!” he hears Effie Trinket trill. Honestly, it’s amazing how the woman doesn’t drive District 12 insane. “Katniss, dear, do walk like a lady and hike up your train! I don’t want to see you dragging it all over the floor like some it’s a burdensome thing…”
Cato turns his attention to the District 12 team for a better look. Katniss Everdeen looks every bit the girl on fire in her new dress, a tight-fitting red and yellow gown with a long, flowing train and gemstones everywhere. It’s not as provocative as Glimmer’s and she is everything but graceful as she struggles with the train and her high-heeled shoes, but Cato can feel his cock harden in his pants at the very sight of her.
“Places, everyone!” one of the escorts—Cato can’t keep track of their names anymore; they’re all beginning to sound the same thanks to the funny Capitol accent—announces. “They’re going to call you in by district, so Glimmer and Marvel, if you two would be so kind…”
Cato is about to take his place beside Clove when he feels a sharp gaze settle on him. Grinning, he turns to salute Everdeen, who is glaring at him, her hands perched rebelliously on her narrow hips—the cut of the dress gives her a fuller figure, he notices. She’s not an idiot; he can that she knows he’s been observing her. He makes a show of pointing at her and palming his crotch, which makes her turn her back on him in disgust. Obviously, the girl has been spending too much time with the nice baker boy.
“Cato!” Clove reprimands him sharply. “Stop it! You’re being disgusting.”
“Chill, Clove,” he puts a hand—not the one he used to rub his dick, of course—on her shoulder. “I’m just trying to be friendly, that’s all.”
“Well, your concept of friendship is retarded,” Clove bites back, crossing her arms over her chest. “Now stop being a dick and put on your best show smile; we’re about to start.”
Cato purposely chews on his lip to stop himself from groaning out loud as Caesar Flickerman’s campy talk show music booms out over the speakers. This is exactly why this is his least favorite part of the whole tribute business.
“Welcome, welcome, citizens of the Capitol!” Flickerman turns his chair to face the audience. “And to the rest of Panem who are watching us from the comfort of their own homes, a good evening to you as well. This is Caesar Flickerman from the Capitol, and once again, I have been given the privilege to get up close and personal with our brave young tributes. How about a round of applause for everyone before we start, eh? I’m sure you’re just as excited as I am!”
He raises his arms for effect, and the walls of his studio tremble thanks to the volume of his audience’s cheers. Cato can’t deny that Flickerman has charisma.
“And now that we’ve gotten introductions out of the way, let us proceed with the show! Please give a warm welcome to our female tribute from District 1, the beautiful Glimmer!”
“All she has to do is bend over at the waist and sponsors will come flocking,” Clove says in a voice so low that only Cato can hear. “Don’t expect me to go down that path, though.”
“We’ve got our own game plan, so don’t worry about a thing,” Cato assures her. Right now, he’s glad to have Clove on his side; they’re in this together until he decides it’s time to break the alliance.
Cato pays close attention to Glimmer’s and Marvel’s interviews. Flickerman never asks the same question twice; his interviews are conducted in such a way that they cater to each tribute individually. In fact, some of his questions are so personal that Cato can’t help but wonder if the Capitol has found a way to pry into people’s diaries—not that he owns one, of course. Before he knows it, Clove has just left the stage and it’s his turn to take a seat next to Caesar Flickerman.
“My goodness, these tributes are full of surprises, aren’t they? Sharp-tongued, clever and very, very dangerous, that’s District 2’s Clove for you, ladies and gents. Next up, we have this year’s god of war—he’s the highest scorer among the male tributes with a mark of ten—Cato from District 2!”
Cato’s marketing strategy has worked wonders for his image; the studio erupts into thunderous applause as he leaps up onstage and raises his arm up in victory before taking his seat.
“Would you look at that?” Flickerman laughs, sounding delighted. “The crowd loves you, Cato! Whatever have you done that pleases them so?”
“Nothing on purpose, Caesar,” Cato says conspiratorially, turning to the audience to give them a roguish wink. “They say secrets are appealing, but I’m more of the in-your-face type; whatever you’ve seen of me so far, that’s who I am. I don’t feel the need to hide anything and I’m not sorry about it.”
“Don’t you think this is going to work to your disadvantage, though?” Flickerman presses. “Now that people know exactly what you’re capable of, I’m sure they’ve already begun to device ways to cripple you.”
“But that’s where their misfortune lies,” Cato responds. “They know I’m strong. They know I’m handy with almost every single weapon available to man. They know how much I can endure. They know I’ve been preparing for this since childhood. Basically, they know I’m a threat, and that is my biggest weapon. There are twenty-three other tributes, and a good number of them are terrified of me. Very few people dare to confront their fears—this immediately gives me the upper hand.”
The people from the Capitol are beside themselves with excitement; they’re elated that they have someone like him in the Games. He indulges them with another well-practiced victor’s grin.
“And what do you hope to achieve with your victory?” Flickerman asks.
Cato pauses for a moment. “Honor for my district, of course,” he finally says. “District 2 enjoys being the champion; Victor’s Village in our district is nearly fully occupied, so we’re looking into expansion.”
“You’re a good citizen, Cato,” Flickerman beams at him. “Thank you for sharing your thoughts with us. Ladies and gentlemen of Panem, let’s hear it one more time for the brave and the bold Cato!”
Cato holds his head high as Flickerman lifts his arm into the air in a champion’s gesture. Another smile would have been generous, but he decides to put on his stoic face; nobody needs to know that he was almost unable to answer that final question. When your family raises you to become a tribute, what else can you hope to achieve aside from victory and honor? That’s what Cato’s life is going to be like after the Games—he’ll go back to two as a victor, become a mentor alongside Brutus and Enobaria, marry some girl out of political need, and train his own children to become tributes as well.
Fight, he thinks as he walks off the stage. That’s all I know how to do, anyway.
“That was brilliant, Cato!” Glimmer is all over him like a swarm of tracker jackers. “Did you see how much the audience adored you? You came off so strong and sexy!”
Clove rolls her eyes behind Glimmer’s back, but gives him a thumbs-up as a sign of approval. Right now, he’s sick of all the attention; he wants to sit down and listen to the other tributes—perhaps he’ll get some new ideas—so that he can go to bed and wake up to the Hunger Games tomorrow. Cato has never been the adaptable type; he would much rather immerse himself in surroundings that are familiar to him.
“Tomorrow,” Clove assures him, as if reading his mind.
“Tomorrow,” he agrees before shifting his attention back to Flickerman.
Most of the tributes are ridiculously boring. It isn’t until District 11 that he finds himself listening intently. Thresh and Rue are a curious pair; Thresh is a big, hulking dark-skinned boy with arms that look like they can crush Cato without difficulty. His answers to Flickerman’s questions are either ‘yes’ or ‘no’, and he’s glaring defiantly at the audience the whole time he is there. Impressed by his performance at the training center, Cato had invited him to set up camp with him, but he adamantly refused. This only increased his respect for Thresh, though; if he were not a Career, Cato’s ideal means of survival would be to stalk off on his own, too. Rue, the female tribute, is one of the youngest competitors in the game. She scored a seven for her individual evaluation and even managed to get away with stealing Cato’s knife during the group session. Aside from Clove and Katniss Everdeen, only those two would prove to be worthy opponents in the arena. Clove had also pointed out the quiet red-haired girl from five, but Cato couldn’t quite recall her face because she was eerily good at keeping herself out of the picture.
As soon as Katniss Everdeen clambers—there’s no other way for Cato to describe the awkward way she moves in that dress—onto the stage, she becomes the subject of his undivided attention once more. She’s gazing out into the audience as if she doesn’t quite know what she’s doing there, and Cato can’t help but commiserate with her plight because he didn’t feel quite at home up there, either.
“…what?” she asks stupidly in response to Flickerman’s question.
The audience erupts into giggles; apparently, they find feigning ignorance adorable. Marvel, Glimmer and Clove are laughing, too, but for different reasons, obviously.
“What an idiot,” he hears Glimmer say. “She let her stage fright take over her.”
Cato feels a flicker of annoyance at her words. He’s secretly disgusted at Glimmer for the way she sees the Hunger Games; he supposes he can’t blame her for that since people for District 1 view it more as a pageant of talent and murder than for what it really is, but it irks him all the same.
Different strokes for different folks, he thinks.
“Oh, let her be, folks,” Flickerman is saying, “she can’t help being nervous; it’s her first time here at the Capitol. And speaking of the Capitol, Katniss, what is it you like the most about being here?”
“…the food, I suppose,” Everdeen blurts out, “especially the lamb stew. We don’t get much to eat back home in twelve.”
“That’s my favourite, too.” Flickerman is nodding his head in agreement. “Why, I can eat it by the bucket! I hope it doesn’t show, though; I’ve been meaning to lose a bit of weight this year. But tell me about your dress, Katniss! It’s beautiful—by far the most beautiful one I’ve seen tonight!”
“Thank you,” Everdeen ducks her head, apparently playing the modest card. “My stylist, Cinna, made it for me—so far, everything’s been inspired by that ‘girl on fire’ nickname I’ve been given. Oh, and just like the costume I wore during the opening ceremonies, this dress has a bit of fire in it, too.”
Flickerman gasps. “Is it safe?”
“Perfectly,” Everdeen says with a smile as she rises from her seat. “Would you like to see?”
The audience is sending catcalls and loud cheers her way in response. Everdeen draws in a deep breath, hikes her train up the way Effie Trinket told her to, and makes a slow spin onstage. She looks breathtaking like this, with the red and yellow fabric swirling around her trim body like a kindling bonfire.
“Slow down, slow down!” Flickerman chuckles, rushing to her aid when she’s precariously close to falling off the stage. “That was a brilliant display of Cinna’s talents, though! Thank you for that, Katniss. I hate to interrupt the fun, but there’s one question I’d really like to ask you. That girl you volunteered to replace in the reapings—she is your sister, right?”
The noise in the studio dies so quickly that Cato thinks he can probably hear a pin drop somewhere. It’s clearly the moment all of Katniss Everdeen’s supporters have been waiting for. She pauses— it’s similar to Cato’s reaction to Flickerman’s final question for him—before uttering a quiet, “…yes.”
Flickerman reaches out to squeeze her hand. “Did she come to see you before you left for the Capitol? And if she did, is there anything she said to you?”
“She told me that I was smart,” Katniss Everdeen replies in a hoarse voice. “She told me that I should try to win. And I told her I would.”
“And try you will,” Flickerman says in a gentle voice. “Thank you for your time, Katniss.”
“Of course they’re going to play the volunteer card,” Marvel huffs. “That’s the only reason as to why she’s suddenly so special—in the eyes of these people, she’s a fucking saint.”
“She’d be boring if she’d been reaped just like the rest of them,” Glimmer adds. “Her love for her sweet little sister aside, she’s no one interesting.”
“And speaking of interesting, we’re in for a boring last couple of minutes,” Clove says condescendingly. “Loverboy Mellark is about to take his seat; I wonder what strategy he’s got under his belt.”
Cato secretly believes it’s unwise to underestimate Peeta Mellark. In general, the boy comes off as weak but extremely likable; he could very well pull a Johanna Mason two-parter and hack them all open with a smile on his face and a song in his heart. Unlike most of the tributes, he’s perfectly at ease sitting up there with Caesar Flickerman while gamely answering his questions.
“Is there any girl waiting for you back home, Peeta?” Flickerman asks.
Peeta Mellark shoots a shy smile at the audience and shakes his head. “Oh, no, Caesar—there’s no one.”
“I don’t believe you for a second!” Flickerman laughs. “You’re a handsome boy, Peeta; it’s hard to imagine someone with a face like that as a single man. Come on, tell us who she is!”
“Okay, okay,” Mellark says with a laugh, “you’ve caught me red-handed. Still, it wouldn’t do me much good to walk home a victor and ask for her hand in marriage.”
“And why’s that, hmmm?”
Peeta Mellark stares out into the audience longingly. “It’s because she came here with me.”
~*~*~*~*~
“It’s because she came here with me.”
It’s the most ridiculous thing Cato has ever heard, but he has to hand it to Peeta Mellark for having the guts to pull such a move. The Capitol is going to eat it up—they already are, in fact—and nobody is going to remember Glimmer’s beauty, Clove’s tenacity, Thresh’s quiet strength or even Cato’s superior abilities because they are going to be so busy fussing over the star-crossed lovers from District 12.
Cato kicks over an empty folding chair in rage. “I’m done with this shit!”
“You can’t just leave!” Glimmer protests. “We’re going to have a group photo op with Caesar for the front page of tomorrow’s paper. Your team is going to go crazy making excuses for your absence!”
She’s right; it would be bad manners to simply walk out when the proceedings aren’t over yet, but at this point, Cato just doesn’t care anymore. It’s infuriating how just one sentence from a less-skilled tribute has immediately cut down his chances of becoming the most memorable tribute.
“Watch me,” he scowls, ripping off his tie. “I don’t care if they’re going to publish a one-page spread on the boy from two and how he made a scene after the interviews! An extra bit of attention—despite being due to reasons far from ideal—is better than none at all.”
“You’re not the only who’s angry, though,” Clove says calmly. “The girl on fire just slammed her admirer into the wall because she didn’t like what he said about her—said it made her look weak.”
Cato laughs. It’s a harsh sound. “That makes two of us, then. I’ll see you tomorrow, Clove.”
Fortunately, he had half a mind left when he made his outburst. He had waited for the program to end before calmly retreating back to the holding room to hurl a folding chair against the wall. He was certain they had heard it from outside, but only the tributes and their prep teams had borne witness to his moment of rage. There had been a bit of buzz going around about people questioning his sanity—maybe it was time to live up to the notion that he was half mad.
He did not, however, expect to see Katniss Everdeen rush out of the holding room as well. Her hair was a wild mess, her skirts were crumpled and those ridiculous shoes she couldn’t walk in earlier were dangling by the straps in her free hand.
He leans against the wall. “Congratulations on your engagement. I’d ask for an invitation to your wedding, but I don’t think it’s going to happen because Loverboy is going to drop dead soon enough. I do hope he’s amenable to accepting a knife to his jugular as a wedding present.”
A horrible sound escapes her throat as she throws her shoes at him—it’s a narrow miss; Cato’s reflexes are excellent, but so is Katniss Everdeen’s sense of accuracy.
“Don’t you dare say that about him!” she practically screams. “If anyone deserves to drop dead first, it’s you! I’ll kill you both myself if I have to!”
“If only the Capitol could hear you now, girl on fire,” Cato sneers. “They’d wet themselves in excitement at the very idea of you defending him like that. Next thing you know, they’re going to be hoping for him to come to rescue because he made you sound like some damsel in distress.”
She advances on him and presses hard against his throat with the force of her forearm. Given his height and weight advantage, Cato can easily knock her to the floor, but he’s enjoying this immensely. She’s gorgeous when she’s livid; she looks so alive and this is how he wants to remember her when she’s gone.
He grabs her other hand and presses it to his crotch. He’s hard again, and he wants her to know that it’s all her fault. “Feel that, girl on fire? This is what you do to me.”
“Let me go, you disgusting brute!” she hisses, trying to pull her hand away. “This is sick!”
“Why, is this your first time touching someone’s cock?” Cato murmurs in her ear. “Never experimented with that guy friend who had back home? I heard you and he were pretty tight—”
“Leave Gale out of this! How did you hear about him, anyway? I never mentioned him, not once!”
“Well, word travels fast, darling,” Cato replies, dragging her hand over his crotch in a rubbing motion. “And who in their right mind would ignore the handsome, dark-haired knight in shining armor who swoops in to carry the little princess away from the evil witches and wizards of the Capitol? It was televised for all of Panem to see, Katniss.”
She struggles in his grasp, but he’s too strong for her. Wordlessly, he pushes himself away from the wall and summons the elevator, still clutching her wrist in a death grip.
“What are you doing?” she scowls at him. “Where are you taking me?”
Cato presses the number ‘2’ on the elevator control panel. “There’s your answer.”
It’s Katniss’ turn to sneer at him. She reaches for his shirt and forcefully pulls it open, sending buttons flying everywhere. “Are you going to take me to bed like it’s our wedding night and expect me to open my legs for you like a good little girl?”
The elevator doors open once more and Cato wastes no time in pulling Katniss into the receiving room. He pins her to one of the tall, high-backed chairs and slips her arm out of the single strap that keeps the dress on her body. He pushes it down, and his mouth waters at the sight of her bare breasts. She’s not as well-endowed as Glimmer, but Cato’s never been one for large breasts and shapely hips. On the rare occasions that he does think about marriage, he doesn’t think about love; he thinks about someone he sees himself spending the rest of his life with—someone strong, someone exciting.
For a brief moment in time, he allows himself to indulge in a fantasy.
He imagines himself coming home to Victor’s Village to see his wife preparing dinner in the kitchen. It’s lamb stew, of course; it’s her most favourite thing and Cato loves her too much to deny her the things she loves. He’ll tuck her braid behind her ear and press a kiss to those fine cheekbones, telling her about how his day in the academy went. He has a good batch of little soldiers this year, among them their own son who has just turned twelve and is showing excellent prowess. They’ll have dinner together, and Cato will let their son—his name will be Ares, after the god of war—prattle on and on about how he’s learning so much at the academy. As soon as the dishes are dried and put away, they’ll tuck Ares into bed and head out into the backyard to do some training of their own. Cato gets a lot of exercise working with the district children, but only his wife has ever been able to match him stroke for stroke. A different kind of hunger will soon take over them, and she’ll be pushing him to the ground because she wants him in her so badly. Once again, Cato won’t be able to deny her that pleasure; he owes her that much. They’ll come apart in each other’s arms, and Cato will curl himself around her just because he can.
“I wish I could have seen you before they brought you to the remake center,” he grunts, squeezing her breasts roughly. “I like scars, you know? I had some of my own, too; I wore them like badges because they told stories of my exploits. I had a fit when I was told that my prep team was going to get rid of them.”
He doesn’t know why he’s telling her this; it’s not like him to share little things about himself to people he’s going to end up killing. He supposes this is why she’s so good at driving him crazy. When they’re breathing the same air, he feels more yet less like himself at the same time.
Maybe this is what sex does to people. Maybe it drives them mad.
Katniss surprises him by unzipping his fly and reaching into his briefs for his cock, squeezing it in tandem with his assault on her breasts. Her strokes are clumsy and uncertain, but it’s endearing all the same. He likes knowing that he’s probably the first man who got to see her bent so out of shape. He lifts her up a little so he can suck on her breasts, rolling the stiff little peaks between his lips just to hear her moan. There is nothing sweet about the way she tastes; he finds that he likes the slightly salty flavour of her skin.
“Turn around,” he orders, tearing his lips away from her nipple. “I want you to grip the back rest as tight as you can.”
Her hair is dishevelled and her chest is heaving. Cato has never seen anyone more radiant in his life. “What makes you think I’m going to obey you, you prick?”
Cato smirks. He pulls up her skirts and yanks her underwear—it’s red lace; her stylist has good taste—down in one fluid motion. Immediately, his hand travels up to explore her nether regions; she’s been waxed clean at the remake center, and her folds are slick with moisture.
She’s wet for him, he realizes.
A guttural moan escapes her throat as he pushes two fingers into her sex. She’s as tight as a vice, but so, so wet, nonetheless. Cato has never touched a girl like this before. His fingers probe her with curiosity. It’s amazing how each stroke elicits a different reaction from her; when he crooks his finger into the deepest part of her that he can reach, she keens so loudly that he’s almost scared that someone will hear. The smell of her is so intoxicating, though. It’s suddenly so easy for him to get down on his knees to taste the honey that’s dripping down her thighs. She gasps with pleasure each time his tongue stabs inside her, and she arches her back when he takes her swollen clitoris between his lips and sucks.
“God, Cato!” She utters his name for the first time ever, and it sounds so banal and sacred and beautiful coming from her lips.
He smirks as he presses a kiss to the inside of her thigh. “That’s the idea, darling. Now, tell me what you want, Katniss. Tell me what you want me to do to you.”
She cranes her neck over her shoulder to look him straight in the eye. She’s angry, humiliated and eager at the same time—it’s a beautiful sight to behold. Cato is going to break her until she shatters.
“I want you to fuck me.”
She hikes her skirts up and spreads her slick folds open, baring herself to him. Cato is struck by how utterly shameless she is. It’s the night before the Games, and yet here she is, half-naked and ready for him, making him want her more than anything.
“You’re a mad little bitch,” he finally remarks, surprised at how needy he sounds. He unbuckles his belt, shucks off his trousers and underwear, and reaches for one of the tiny vials of scented oil from the end table. He pours a liberal amount onto his palm and slicks his cock with the substance.
“…it’s going to hurt,” he blurts out. “You could end up sore in the morning—the pain will become a deterrent to your performance in the Games.”
“Since when did you start caring so much?” she asks with a derisive snort. “I know what pain feels like, Cato; a little vaginal ache won’t be enough to stop me from killing you.”
Cato positions his cock at her entrance and rubs it along her slit, making her shiver. “Well, it is better to die knowing the feeling of having a cock up your cunt.”
“For fuck’s sake, Cato!” she growls. “Just do it!”
Cato drives into her without preamble, groaning at how snug she feels around him. He knows he’s not going to last long; he has never done this before and is just as inexperienced as the girl he’s fucking. It’s all he can do to reach around and thumb her clit as he pushes in and out of her, relishing in the mixed cries of pain and pleasure that escape her throat.
“Katniss,” he grunts, slamming his hips against her arse.
“Cato!” she responds with equal fervour. “Oh godfuckingdamnit, Cato!”
It’s too much. He empties himself into her with a grunt, and moans in satisfaction when he feels her own release coating his cock and his fingers. He can barely register the rustle of movement as she moves out from beneath him to pull her dress back into place.
“Good night, Cato,” she says coolly, as if nothing had happened.
He waits until she’s gone before pulling up his own clothes and moving to switch on the diffuser; Clove and his team don’t need to find out what the bloody hell happened here tonight.
Later, when he’s towelling himself off after a shower, he realizes that he unconsciously gave her an advantage over him. Each time he sees her, he won’t be able to resist going back to the memories of tonight.