Closer
Title: Closer
Pairing: Cato/Clove
Rating: R, to be safe
Spoilers: No spoilers, imagined scenes from THG
Summary: The Games will be her baptism, wedding, funeral.
When Cato grabs her, there is no gentleness. Urgency has always come first. It was so that first night on the train, and so shall it be on that last night in the Capitol.
Even before she could raise her arms, his hands have already peeled off the thin nightgown that separates skin from skin. He touches with fingertips, lips, tongue, and she tries to keep up with the cadence of his heartbeats.
Love does not cross their thoughts. It is as far away as memories of frilly dresses and real smiles. As Cato murmurs her name into her ear, Clove wishes she had a childhood she could recall. Something, anything to make her believe this is not the most real she has ever felt.
He shoves her to the bed. The pins in her hair give out and the strands fall haphazard on the covers. He grabs a handful, smells them, then stuffs them into her mouth.
She blinks and he enters. Behind her eyelids, she can see the first time she had asked him to fuck.
“Aren’t you saving yourself?” he had asked.
“There is nothing left to save.”
She pushes and he fills. This is the only way she’d let him complete her.
For Clove, there is nothing to look forward to. No other life event to anticipate. The Games will be her baptism, wedding, funeral.
Everything else will have to make way.
She becomes rougher, and he enjoys how she wants to match him pace by pace. Like everything else, this was a competition.
“You have to do better than that,” Cato groans, a smirk permanent on his lips as he watches her come undone. But he does not stop. Does not cease until the tremors in her body compound to earthquakes.
When he finally lets go, his huge arms envelop her shoulders. Clove marvels at how small she seems underneath him. She decides from then on to always be on top.
He falls into the perfect spot beside her. Their limbs move into the places they find the most comfort.
Almost asleep, he grabs her wrist with a force she has associated with desperation.
“Come here,” he mouths.
“I am here.”
“No. Closer.”
Clove rests her head just below his chin, where her lips meet his heart.
Tonight, she acquiesces. Tomorrow, she kills.
Pairing: Cato/Clove
Rating: R, to be safe
Spoilers: No spoilers, imagined scenes from THG
Summary: The Games will be her baptism, wedding, funeral.
When Cato grabs her, there is no gentleness. Urgency has always come first. It was so that first night on the train, and so shall it be on that last night in the Capitol.
Even before she could raise her arms, his hands have already peeled off the thin nightgown that separates skin from skin. He touches with fingertips, lips, tongue, and she tries to keep up with the cadence of his heartbeats.
Love does not cross their thoughts. It is as far away as memories of frilly dresses and real smiles. As Cato murmurs her name into her ear, Clove wishes she had a childhood she could recall. Something, anything to make her believe this is not the most real she has ever felt.
He shoves her to the bed. The pins in her hair give out and the strands fall haphazard on the covers. He grabs a handful, smells them, then stuffs them into her mouth.
She blinks and he enters. Behind her eyelids, she can see the first time she had asked him to fuck.
“Aren’t you saving yourself?” he had asked.
“There is nothing left to save.”
She pushes and he fills. This is the only way she’d let him complete her.
For Clove, there is nothing to look forward to. No other life event to anticipate. The Games will be her baptism, wedding, funeral.
Everything else will have to make way.
She becomes rougher, and he enjoys how she wants to match him pace by pace. Like everything else, this was a competition.
“You have to do better than that,” Cato groans, a smirk permanent on his lips as he watches her come undone. But he does not stop. Does not cease until the tremors in her body compound to earthquakes.
When he finally lets go, his huge arms envelop her shoulders. Clove marvels at how small she seems underneath him. She decides from then on to always be on top.
He falls into the perfect spot beside her. Their limbs move into the places they find the most comfort.
Almost asleep, he grabs her wrist with a force she has associated with desperation.
“Come here,” he mouths.
“I am here.”
“No. Closer.”
Clove rests her head just below his chin, where her lips meet his heart.
Tonight, she acquiesces. Tomorrow, she kills.