cress-meadowforge

[cress-meadowforge]

Breakfast at Tiffany's (1961) dir. Blake Edwards

[cress-meadowforge]

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.

And then she chuckled.

"Yes, well, the sex is revolutionary, as is his manifesto, which I actually find quite charming," Cress mused, taking a sip of her nightcap. "But I'm glad I could surprise you, Cade. Not all Careers are stiffs. Some of us contain multitudes."

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."

[cress-meadowforge]

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."

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?"

[cress-meadowforge]

Cress had been relieved from headquarters, the evening giving way to a new wave of Gamemakers who would take over through the night. But still, she stood before the screen in awe, fingers dancing across her lips, parted in admiration of her own terrible handiwork. The rich history of this arena, of these mutts, of all that was planned. It was different to see her own creations -- deadly and beautiful.

"Divine, isn't it?" the movement in her periphery signaling that she was no longer alone. "Horrid and divine."

[cress-meadowforge]

TASK 001: WAR

War presented opportunities for advancement. It was a callous truth, but a truth nonetheless. Cress operated best during times of ambiguity and unrest, when the tectonic plates of society were in slow, aching movement. And with Terra's test passed, Cress proved herself not only loyal to the Vox, but valuable too.

Stepping into the role of Gamemaker, Cress is now faced with a new paradox: what does it mean to be both predator and prey? Creator and created? Killer and final girl? As she grows more enmeshed within Terra's inner circle, Cress begins to better understand the woman's vision for Panem. Can she reconcile the past with the present? Can she help shape the future?

[cress-meadowforge]

TASK 004. PLAYLIST (CRESS + 137)

Karma's gonna come for all of us And I hope, well, I hope, I just hope She comes for you first

[cress-meadowforge]

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.

Fin.

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.

"Yes, or more," he said, coming close to her now, cupping her cheek in his hand, returning her push for pain with a push for pleasure. "Victory," he whispered, closing the distance between their lips, intent on showing her just what victory could entail.

[cress-meadowforge]

pictures titled “just a girl and her dogs” but they’re all pictures of men in a submissive stance to the woman

[cress-meadowforge]

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.

Slate looked to her for agreement, for reinforcement, but Cress' expression back was laced with hurt. How similar were those words to the ones aimed at her? The ones they'd exchanged before he'd gone to Twelve? You can't get special treatment, not like in the last world, the one that worked so well, that made so much sense to you.

"Frankly, my qualms were always with Snow's administration--" And the ways they bastardized the Games. The Games, which were sacred, even still. Cress wasn't sure either of them were listening to her, but, nonetheless, she offered the distinction. She had no real issue with the Games being brought back, but she certainly had concerns with letting Panem be overtaken by the Tarren. "Well, you'd at least get your deathwish, Link. If the Tarren take over, they'd kill all of us. They don't want prisoners. They want resources. They won't kill twenty-four in an arena. They'll slaughter everyone in Panem."

@linkcache

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?"

@cress-meadowforge

[cress-meadowforge]

Cress scoffed, pausing the tightening of the strap around her thigh. Hair flew into her face and over her shoulders, down her back, and she had to rake it away, out of her mouth, which was open with a laugh. “Then at least be still!” Back over she went to work the rest of the straps firmly around her thighs and hips.

When she returned to the bed, Cress crawled up by the pillows, kissing his temple in passing. She sank down onto her knees then, catching Slate by his flushed cheeks. His eyes were wide and full of need. “For the record, you’ve been very good,” she clarified, sincerely. It morphed, though, as Cress’ hands slid back, tangling into his hair, pulling taut. “Now open your mouth.”

He had never been good, was the thing -- he was unpracticed, trying out muscles he hadn't known he had, and ones that certainly were weak from disuse. And he wanted her badly, right now, though he also -- if equally -- wanted her to show him what was going to happen next, to continue to open up these new feelings, experiences. Never had he felt so submissive, so well-behaved; never had he felt so out of control, and happy to be so. He whined, "But I'm not good, Cress--" as waves of pleasure mixed with pain, delicious, spread through him from his base.

[cress-meadowforge]

TH3 T0MMY crew + this twitter meme

[cress-meadowforge]

ANYA TAYLOR-JOY hissing at a PUPPY Puppy Interview with Chris Hemsworth for Buzzfeed Celeb

[cress-meadowforge]

"I know," Cress cooed, saccharine sweet, bordering condescension. Could she be blamed when Slate sounded like that? Looked like that? What was she expected to do -- observe? Cress' desire was tactile. Corporeal. He reached for her, and she obliged, crawling closer until they merged, his collapse inevitable, though premature. They were far from finished, and Cress wasn't ready to permit his release. His mouth was frantic, fueled by the hunger she'd seen in District Zero. Nearly otherworldly, almost inhumane.

"Stay here," Cress instructed, dipping back, though it was difficult to separate. Her breath came labored against his lips, body trembling with her last ounce of restraint. "Be good and wait." Then she was gone, disappeared from beneath, rummaging needily through the trunk in their closet.

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.

It fucking vibrates?

His brain went haywire, any ounce of composure he might have still clung to destroyed, expelled in that moment of the toy beginning to purr. "Cress--" he gasped. "It-- fucking-- it's--" He wanted to speak his surprise, his awe at the sensation, at her, but instead he reached his arm backward, supporting himself with the other, and grasped at her shoulder, pulling her towards him, needing her mouth on his, needing her warmth, needing to be touched in every part of himself.

[cress-meadowforge]

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.

Cress touched the small of Slate's back, gaze measured. Easy. Breathe.

"If Panem can change, then so can we," she spoke, searching within herself for belief. "We've all committed affronts to ourselves and others as a means of survival. Perhaps there is more available to us on the other side of this war."

@linkcache

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?"

There were so many points being leveled at her from two different angles. Link didn't know what to address first. She opened her mouth to argue that death would've been a blessing then because at least she would've died thinking it was worth it, that she'd outlived the games. She closed it, stunned, when slate of all the fucking people said the games were necessary to control the greedy districts, that fear had to be used again.

Had she fallen into a parallel universe? what?

And then Cress's voice came, lobbing equally unfair criticism. That if she'd become a gamemaker, she would've saved more tributes. Faces flashed into her mind, names she still had in a box under her bed. If cress was right, which? but no, cress wasn't right. Cress was just...

...Talking about her family. and cress was right about that, about how there was nothing link would put before them. And it still hadn't been enough. "My family..." She looked cress in the eyes, and found she had nothing to say.

So she turned back to slate.

"and another thing. Cat didn't tell you I coded for the T0mmy too? When we were shutting it down, I recognized their code. I taught Cat. They wanted to trace the source. I distracted them, wrote a masking code once we were done, and gave it to Cat for the two of them to use. So they could keep working without being found out. I helped you."

@slate-skylar

[cress-meadowforge]

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."

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-meadowforge]

"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."

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.

"What... kind of demonstration?" she squeaked out, eyes fixed on the glowing light on the elevator wall indicating they were descending into the center.

[cress-meadowforge]

"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.

"But if you thirst for blood, then so it shall be. Panem is at war, and we can offer relief--" Her eyes closed, and she could picture it: the thrum of a crowd, the smell of sweat staining the air, mixing with the metallic copper of blood. And yet, she was not ready to forfeit the gilded machinations of before. Cress' shoulders sank, easing, granting release. "Be it a haven for the imagination -- the last remaining indulgence from the old world," she hummed, content with the web they were weaving, the scheme that was beginning to unfold, "or a violent delight. A melding of desires: carnal and cruel, brutally refreshing."

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."