hunger games fic: the teacher said this part was extra credit
the teacher said this part was extra credit. cato. johanna. finnick. r. au. Cato is crowned the Victor of the 74th annual Hunger Games.
Peeta’s footing slips and he goes tumbling down. One little mistake and suddenly the game has changed, again, again in his favor, the howls of Bread Boy louder than anything else, rushing through his ears.
Katniss is an easy enough mark after that and it isn’t until he has her neck in his hands, the pulse beating furiously underneath his calloused thumb, that she says, “Go on. Give them the show they want, Cato.”
The cameras zoom in.
Cato’s smile barely falters when he says, “Gladly.”
Caesar Flickerman’s hair is still blue and stiff. This time, Cato is dressed in gold.
The crowd cheers and Cato’s grin inches along his face, a hand thrown in the air to wave.
Caesar says, “And what about the girl? What about,” and a pause for dramatic effect, “Clove?”
Cato’s face drops slightly and the masses react with sighs of pity.
“We were friends,” he says calmly, his hands folded into his lap. "You can't put a price on an alliance, Caesar."
Caesar tutts and shakes his head before, “But all those lonely nights spent together. You two were the real tragedy of these Games, and I think the crowd would agree!”
Cato smiles and he laughs and he claps Caesar on the back.
Cato says, “There can only be one Victor right?”
Cato says there can only be one Victor right and remembers Clove, naked beneath him, as she said a shot to the heart and you know I wouldn’t miss.
There’s a party. There are many parties, but this one is different. This one is important.
Cato’s premiere into Capitol society consists of one thousand people he does not know. His suit fits too tight around the shoulders and his mouth hurts after smiling too much, but he doesn’t complain. This is something he’s always wanted.
The mentor from District 12 stumbles towards him, drink in one hand, and says, “Nice games, dick face.”
Cato bristles but then the guy bursts into a manic kind of laughter, high-pitched and uneven. Before he knows it, the guy slips his clammy palm into Cato’s hand and wheezes, “Haymitch Abernathy. Congratulations. I have people you need to meet,” and then Haymitch drags them both into a roped off room.
The seats are all a deep-red velvet, over stuffed, and the room is empty except for a bar and two people. Haymitch shuffles him towards the shadowy figures, surprisingly strong for the amount of paunch he’s put on, and Cato, strangely enough, doesn’t do anything.
“Mommy issues?” Johanna asks, lounging on a couch.
Cato startles and growls, “Fuck off.”
“Deep seeded self-hatred because of homosexuality, it is then,” she says cheerfully, tossing back the rest of her drink.
Finnick crosses his arms and sighs before snatching the glass out of her hand.
“Play nice, Johanna. He’s new.”
The three of them stare at each other for a moment. Johanna waves down an Avox and orders another round for the three of them.
“I never really drank,” Cato shrugs awkwardly, hand scrubbing at the base of his neck.
Johanna cackles and then stops when no else joins in.
“Holy shit, you’re serious?”
Finnick sits down next to Cato and rolls his eyes.
“Just as charming as you imagined, right?”
His fists clench and unclench and finally Cato just says, “Can’t fight hungover, can you?”
“Wanna bet?” Johanna asks, teeth dragging across her bottom lip, smile sharp, face kind of beautiful in a wicked, lean way.
Cato takes to drinking like he does to most things in life: exceptionally.
In Four, Finnick greets him off the train. Cato remembers Four as a boy with curly hair and a careless snap of his wrist. Cato remembers the blade behind the boy with curly hair even better.
“Welcome to District Four,” he enthuses, as a flash goes off too bright.
Cato reaches out a hand and cheats to the camera.
“Thanks for the warm welcome, Finn.”
The sun is bright and yellow in the sky. Cato shields his eyes from it and sees blue everywhere, the ocean a shimmering thing in the backdrop, the sky endless and clear.
Finnick whispers, “I don’t mean to brag…” and Cato elbows him in the spleen.
Annie presses neatly into Finn’s side, hair spilling dark down her back and fingers neatly threaded into his.
“Nice to meet you,” she says, timid and Cato leers.
“The pleasure is all mine, Annie.”
She smiles prettily and lays her head on Finnick’s shoulder, humming something softly.
“Get me a drink,” he says, and Finnick laughs.
“You sound like Jo,” he teases.
The ocean is blue and glistening and Cato has never seen it before. He turns towards Finnick and says, “There are worse people to sound like. Surely, you know that.”
Finn blanches underneath his skin and Cato smirks.
Still got it, he thinks, and draws blood where he can.
“Wait until they start whoring you out,” Johanna drawls.
Finnick’s voice is hard and sharp and he says, “Jo,” in a voice that is mean, meaner than the Finnick Cato has come to know.
Cato’s head snaps up.
“Wait, what?”
Cato’s first client is a small, young girl with freckles and dark hair. He is her birthday present. She’s turning fifteen.
The girl, Cato doesn’t remember the name and doesn’t really care, takes to whispering into the slick sweaty spaces of his hollowed collarbones.
“Be gentle,” she gasps, voice breathy.
Cato has never learned gentle. He learned cruel, he learned accurate. He learned selfish.
He says, “I’m not good with gentle,” and her eyes widen.
“You didn’t want me because I’m gentle,” he growls, snapping his hips into her fast.
The girl moans underneath him quietly, growing louder with every frantic thrust of his hips. He was right, that much he knows. She wanted to fuck him because he was strong and square-jawed and snapped a kid’s neck while she watched with her simpering friends.
Her hair is dark against the pillowcase, her fingers nimble, and the whole thing is less of a punishment that he will ever admit to Finnick or Johanna.
“So you’re in love with Finnick, right?”
The sheets pool around Johanna’s waist and she sighs, heavy, into the stale air. Cato stretches lazily and waits for her to say something. Jo’s bed is bigger than he expected. Her walls are painted, strangely enough, red and there are clothes strewn all over the floor.
“Stay out of it, champ,” she says, punching his arm, except the word sounds like an insult. Cato’s never taken insults well.
“I mean,” he sneers, the sun rising slowly in front of them, “it’s pretty obvious.”
Johanna’s laugh is light and she sits in front of him so he can get a better view of her breasts, always the strategist. She yawns slowly and cracks her neck in a brilliant cascade of sharp noises.
“The only thing that’s obvious,” she spits, sugar sweet smile painted onto her lips, “is that you loved that girl from your District who died, so spare me the bullshit lecture about feelings, kiddo.”
Cato reaches a hand out and she ducks. He hits the headboard instead. His knuckles bruise purple immediately but he hides his wince.
“Her name was Clover, right?” she says mockingly, peering up at him through long eyelashes, the corners of her mouth quirking up, “How sickeningly adorable.”
Her wrist twists to catch his; she’s faster than he gave her credit for. Another flash and she’s got her vice grip wrapped around his increasingly hard dick.
“Bring it up again,” she snarls, “and I’ll rip it off in your sleep.”
They fuck minutes later and the word has never seemed so apt. He fucks her from behind and pulls her hair, hard, before she grabs his wrist and yanks him underneath her.
Johanna is a top kinda girl, he knew it from the minute she laughed at him, but she bites at his shoulder and fucks him hard and it’s only when he jams a hand underneath her rapidly grinding hips, hitting her clit in the perfect way, that she lets out any sort of whimper.
Cato, Clove says teasingly, a blade twirling at the edge of her fingertips, you said it would be with a knife.
The knife turn faster and faster and with it, her head dents, more and more until there is only a misshapen lump of skull, pulpy flesh, and blood. The mouth stays perfect though, teeth white through all that blood, lips still pink and full as Clove says, you said it would be with a knife in a demented, repeated loop.
Hers is the only face he remembers clearly now, except for maybe the last moment with the girl from 12. Clove’s face is the only one that matters now, anyways, and he didn’t even get to kill her.
Cato wakes from these nightmares in a desperate sweat, limbs tangled into sheets, heaving to catch his breath. This is not something the Academy ever prepared him for. They didn’t have the time in between hand-to-hand combat, in between archery and swordplay and knife fights. His father told him stories of glory, of the heavy weight of the crown, but never of this.
The furniture in his room is all sleek silver and sharp edges. It takes hours before he can see anything except the glint of her blade.
Finnick says, tired and beautiful, “The only thing that helps is Annie.”
Johanna barks and offers instead, “Or a nice top-shelf scotch.”
The girl from 12, Katniss, he knows her name is Katniss, said, “Go on. Give them the show they want, Cato.”
He wishes Clove had won instead.
Peeta’s footing slips and he goes tumbling down. One little mistake and suddenly the game has changed, again, again in his favor, the howls of Bread Boy louder than anything else, rushing through his ears.
Katniss is an easy enough mark after that and it isn’t until he has her neck in his hands, the pulse beating furiously underneath his calloused thumb, that she says, “Go on. Give them the show they want, Cato.”
The cameras zoom in.
Cato’s smile barely falters when he says, “Gladly.”
Caesar Flickerman’s hair is still blue and stiff. This time, Cato is dressed in gold.
The crowd cheers and Cato’s grin inches along his face, a hand thrown in the air to wave.
Caesar says, “And what about the girl? What about,” and a pause for dramatic effect, “Clove?”
Cato’s face drops slightly and the masses react with sighs of pity.
“We were friends,” he says calmly, his hands folded into his lap. "You can't put a price on an alliance, Caesar."
Caesar tutts and shakes his head before, “But all those lonely nights spent together. You two were the real tragedy of these Games, and I think the crowd would agree!”
Cato smiles and he laughs and he claps Caesar on the back.
Cato says, “There can only be one Victor right?”
Cato says there can only be one Victor right and remembers Clove, naked beneath him, as she said a shot to the heart and you know I wouldn’t miss.
There’s a party. There are many parties, but this one is different. This one is important.
Cato’s premiere into Capitol society consists of one thousand people he does not know. His suit fits too tight around the shoulders and his mouth hurts after smiling too much, but he doesn’t complain. This is something he’s always wanted.
The mentor from District 12 stumbles towards him, drink in one hand, and says, “Nice games, dick face.”
Cato bristles but then the guy bursts into a manic kind of laughter, high-pitched and uneven. Before he knows it, the guy slips his clammy palm into Cato’s hand and wheezes, “Haymitch Abernathy. Congratulations. I have people you need to meet,” and then Haymitch drags them both into a roped off room.
The seats are all a deep-red velvet, over stuffed, and the room is empty except for a bar and two people. Haymitch shuffles him towards the shadowy figures, surprisingly strong for the amount of paunch he’s put on, and Cato, strangely enough, doesn’t do anything.
“Mommy issues?” Johanna asks, lounging on a couch.
Cato startles and growls, “Fuck off.”
“Deep seeded self-hatred because of homosexuality, it is then,” she says cheerfully, tossing back the rest of her drink.
Finnick crosses his arms and sighs before snatching the glass out of her hand.
“Play nice, Johanna. He’s new.”
The three of them stare at each other for a moment. Johanna waves down an Avox and orders another round for the three of them.
“I never really drank,” Cato shrugs awkwardly, hand scrubbing at the base of his neck.
Johanna cackles and then stops when no else joins in.
“Holy shit, you’re serious?”
Finnick sits down next to Cato and rolls his eyes.
“Just as charming as you imagined, right?”
His fists clench and unclench and finally Cato just says, “Can’t fight hungover, can you?”
“Wanna bet?” Johanna asks, teeth dragging across her bottom lip, smile sharp, face kind of beautiful in a wicked, lean way.
Cato takes to drinking like he does to most things in life: exceptionally.
In Four, Finnick greets him off the train. Cato remembers Four as a boy with curly hair and a careless snap of his wrist. Cato remembers the blade behind the boy with curly hair even better.
“Welcome to District Four,” he enthuses, as a flash goes off too bright.
Cato reaches out a hand and cheats to the camera.
“Thanks for the warm welcome, Finn.”
The sun is bright and yellow in the sky. Cato shields his eyes from it and sees blue everywhere, the ocean a shimmering thing in the backdrop, the sky endless and clear.
Finnick whispers, “I don’t mean to brag…” and Cato elbows him in the spleen.
Annie presses neatly into Finn’s side, hair spilling dark down her back and fingers neatly threaded into his.
“Nice to meet you,” she says, timid and Cato leers.
“The pleasure is all mine, Annie.”
She smiles prettily and lays her head on Finnick’s shoulder, humming something softly.
“Get me a drink,” he says, and Finnick laughs.
“You sound like Jo,” he teases.
The ocean is blue and glistening and Cato has never seen it before. He turns towards Finnick and says, “There are worse people to sound like. Surely, you know that.”
Finn blanches underneath his skin and Cato smirks.
Still got it, he thinks, and draws blood where he can.
“Wait until they start whoring you out,” Johanna drawls.
Finnick’s voice is hard and sharp and he says, “Jo,” in a voice that is mean, meaner than the Finnick Cato has come to know.
Cato’s head snaps up.
“Wait, what?”
Cato’s first client is a small, young girl with freckles and dark hair. He is her birthday present. She’s turning fifteen.
The girl, Cato doesn’t remember the name and doesn’t really care, takes to whispering into the slick sweaty spaces of his hollowed collarbones.
“Be gentle,” she gasps, voice breathy.
Cato has never learned gentle. He learned cruel, he learned accurate. He learned selfish.
He says, “I’m not good with gentle,” and her eyes widen.
“You didn’t want me because I’m gentle,” he growls, snapping his hips into her fast.
The girl moans underneath him quietly, growing louder with every frantic thrust of his hips. He was right, that much he knows. She wanted to fuck him because he was strong and square-jawed and snapped a kid’s neck while she watched with her simpering friends.
Her hair is dark against the pillowcase, her fingers nimble, and the whole thing is less of a punishment that he will ever admit to Finnick or Johanna.
“So you’re in love with Finnick, right?”
The sheets pool around Johanna’s waist and she sighs, heavy, into the stale air. Cato stretches lazily and waits for her to say something. Jo’s bed is bigger than he expected. Her walls are painted, strangely enough, red and there are clothes strewn all over the floor.
“Stay out of it, champ,” she says, punching his arm, except the word sounds like an insult. Cato’s never taken insults well.
“I mean,” he sneers, the sun rising slowly in front of them, “it’s pretty obvious.”
Johanna’s laugh is light and she sits in front of him so he can get a better view of her breasts, always the strategist. She yawns slowly and cracks her neck in a brilliant cascade of sharp noises.
“The only thing that’s obvious,” she spits, sugar sweet smile painted onto her lips, “is that you loved that girl from your District who died, so spare me the bullshit lecture about feelings, kiddo.”
Cato reaches a hand out and she ducks. He hits the headboard instead. His knuckles bruise purple immediately but he hides his wince.
“Her name was Clover, right?” she says mockingly, peering up at him through long eyelashes, the corners of her mouth quirking up, “How sickeningly adorable.”
Her wrist twists to catch his; she’s faster than he gave her credit for. Another flash and she’s got her vice grip wrapped around his increasingly hard dick.
“Bring it up again,” she snarls, “and I’ll rip it off in your sleep.”
They fuck minutes later and the word has never seemed so apt. He fucks her from behind and pulls her hair, hard, before she grabs his wrist and yanks him underneath her.
Johanna is a top kinda girl, he knew it from the minute she laughed at him, but she bites at his shoulder and fucks him hard and it’s only when he jams a hand underneath her rapidly grinding hips, hitting her clit in the perfect way, that she lets out any sort of whimper.
Cato, Clove says teasingly, a blade twirling at the edge of her fingertips, you said it would be with a knife.
The knife turn faster and faster and with it, her head dents, more and more until there is only a misshapen lump of skull, pulpy flesh, and blood. The mouth stays perfect though, teeth white through all that blood, lips still pink and full as Clove says, you said it would be with a knife in a demented, repeated loop.
Hers is the only face he remembers clearly now, except for maybe the last moment with the girl from 12. Clove’s face is the only one that matters now, anyways, and he didn’t even get to kill her.
Cato wakes from these nightmares in a desperate sweat, limbs tangled into sheets, heaving to catch his breath. This is not something the Academy ever prepared him for. They didn’t have the time in between hand-to-hand combat, in between archery and swordplay and knife fights. His father told him stories of glory, of the heavy weight of the crown, but never of this.
The furniture in his room is all sleek silver and sharp edges. It takes hours before he can see anything except the glint of her blade.
Finnick says, tired and beautiful, “The only thing that helps is Annie.”
Johanna barks and offers instead, “Or a nice top-shelf scotch.”
The girl from 12, Katniss, he knows her name is Katniss, said, “Go on. Give them the show they want, Cato.”
He wishes Clove had won instead.