Playing catch-up because I had a 2-day course that took up all my time and more than all of my energy. This one could have stopped at 104 words and been a nice little drabble but it didn't...and became a kind of horrible thing about Jo and a ~client~ at the end of the 67th Games (hi Claudius). The horrible is under the cut.
The crowd at the President’s mansion is sedate, for the Capitol, high-class formalwear and fancy food and drinks that taste like fruit and sugar, classical music from an orchestra on stage.
She shook the new Victor’s hand, earlier, and he gave her a practiced smile, just a little too sharp, even though his eyes were glassy from whatever they were keeping him full of to handle the parties.
His mentor was standing behind him, tall and stern with her arms crossed over her chest, and her eyes were cut-glass sharp, watching anyone who got too close.
Johanna’s mentor is back in Seven.
And her night won’t end here. No, she’s trying to toe the careful line between too sober to stand it and too drunk to walk, when her date for the evening takes her arm and ushers her out the door.
He fucks her in the car, under her skirt, tears her underwear and leaves the dress ruined. Laughs, when he finishes, has the driver stop somewhere quiet while he strips her out of it, pulls something new out from somewhere and dresses her like a doll. He’s young-looking, with blank grey eyes and a sharp goatee, and he kisses her hard, bites her lower lip, slides his tongue into her mouth—and there’s something hard and bitter on his tongue, and fuck’s sake he could’ve just given her the damn pill, it’s not like she wouldn’t have taken it. She growls against his mouth in irritation, but he takes it as something else and pushes harder.
Finally, she’s dressed to his satisfaction, covered just enough not to break obscenity laws that they probably don’t even have in the fucking Capitol, and whatever he gave her leaves her heart racing and laughter bubbling up dark and fractured from her stomach.
It’s a hell of a contrast, in here, dark except for the strobing flashes of color, music so loud she feels it in her sternum, vibrating all the way through her, bodies pressed against her—his, others, she sometimes loses track.
He pulls her into a back room, brings her back out to dance, his eyes wide, hungry, his teeth leaving marks on her neck, her collarbone.
When he takes her hand, guides her outside, it’s full daylight. Johanna blinks as the light drives metal into her head, tastes acid in the back of her throat. She’s shaky and confused, and her date has to guide her over to the car, pushes her in none too gently. He doesn’t follow, just shuts the door.
“Where to, ma’am,” the driver says, annoyed but trying not to show it.
“Home,” Johanna says, not thinking—and then gasps out something between a laugh and a sob. The car heads for the Training Centre anyway.