hunger games fic: the push and pull of it all
the push and pull of it all. the hunger games. cato/glimmer. r. The Star-Crossed lovers of District One and Two, or at least really good sex. Cato's always preferred blondes, anyway.
Cato is big enough, important enough, that no one questions him when he lunges towards the front of the stage. The applause gets louder as he walks up the platform, slowly, reveling in the accolades, and he stands tall.
Clove is there, eyes wicked, fingers twitching carefully, and her smile is vicious.
He nods at her, once, and imagines crushing her windpipe. It’s not that he’s disappointed, after all, a girl is just a girl and he’s seen her with a knife but she is just so small.
The crowd roars and Cato looks at Clove, her small waist, the point of her chin and she is beaming. His hands curl into fists and he smiles bigger.
On the train, she carves her name into the wall of his room and snickers.
He mutters, “Looking forward to killing you,” and means every bit of it.
By the time they reach the Capitol, Cato is mostly annoyed with Clove.
In the training center, Glimmer says, “Well, hel-lo District 2,” and Cato stands a little straighter.
He gazes at her too strongly, eyes lingering on every curve, and she’s blonde, she’s tall, she’s equal.
Cato reaches out a hand and says, his teeth digging into his bottom lip, “Pleasure.”
Glimmer’s mouth curls into a smile and she stares at his hand, unblinking, before picking up a dagger and throwing it into the nearest dummy.
Clove appears out of nowhere, twirling knives through her knuckles and elbows him.
Cato shrugs once before crossing his arms. Across the room, Glimmer selects a weapon and the corners of his mouth twitch up.
“She’d be a good addition,” he says, brusque and Clove rolls her eyes.
“Just because you want to fuck her doesn’t make her worthy,” she drawls, getting bored and switching out knives.
“Jealousy doesn’t suit you,” he scolds condescendingly, and then she leaves.
During the interview, Glimmer wears pink.
Cato, lurking in the background, watches her flounce by.
“Nice dress,” he leers, licking at his lips lasciviously. The blue fabric of his suit strains against his every movement, the raise of his shoulders, the flex of his arms.
“I know it is,” she says, equally arrogant, and lifts up the edge of her skirt so he can see the bright white lace of her thong, the quick slip of her fingers into the material and for the briefest of moments, her eyes close.
They are standing in a darkened corner and his pulse accelerates.
She blows him a kiss, and his pants tighten.
His room is painted in colors of dark blue and black, the bed looming large in the middle. Somewhere, behind a cabinet perhaps, the word Clove is etched into wood, he’s sure of it.
Glimmer looks almost out of place, her hair shining blonde bright against the black of his sheets, her skin flushed pink and pretty as he fingers her roughly, her mouth always open, always asking for more. Cato shudders whenever she says his name.
He smiles, vicious, and says, “That’s right, Glimmer, come for me,” because that’s a thrill he’ll never get over, that moment when the girl’s face goes slack, her eyes fluttering shut as she loses any sort of control. Glimmer’s fighting it, fighting against his hand, so he spreads her legs further and sucks gently on her clit, fingers still curling inside her, until finally, finally, she yells out as her body goes boneless, as she screams, holy fuck fuck me Cato, god.
She’s still wet on his fingers when he moves towards her head.
“You can go now,” he says, drying his hand on the span of her stomach.
Glimmer laughs, the sound high-pitched and girlish, that lovely fragile pink neck arching off the sheets.
“Not so fast, Cato,” she spits, pinning him down, breasts flush against his chest. Glimmer reaches in between the two of them and with two swift strokes he’s harder than he’s ever been, breathing already shallow.
Cato’s almost ashamed of how quickly it happens, only a matter of minutes of her mouth taking him in, the swirling wetness of her tongue. He gets it then, the push and pull, why she was fighting against him so hard. Cato grabs at the corners of the mattress and tries to think of anything except the feel of him against the back of her throat, the guttural hums she coordinates with the quick grasp. He doesn’t last very long.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she laughs, quickly wiping at her mouth, stealing his sheet and wrapping it around herself tightly, sauntering into the common area and out of his bed room.
The terms of the alliance are made clear: they will stick together until they won’t. The Cornucopia is a bloodbath, mostly by his hands, and he is wiping his hands on a cloth when he hears someone catcall.
“Looking good, Two,” she teases.
Cato looks up at sees Glimmer, blood streaked across her face and hair falling out of pigtails carelessly. The sun glints off her bow and arrows, and Cato wants nothing more than to fuck her senseless on the flat surface of the Cornucopia for all the Capitol to see.
“Can’t say the same for you,” he mutters, sword within arms reach.
“You’re a terrible liar,” she says lightly and he stalks away.
“You know,” she says, chewing on the edge of a root, “some people might think that you’re over compensating with all this ‘My sword has to be the biggest’ bullshit.”
Marvel laughs into his hand and Glimmer smiles at him lazily, the sun pouring down on them warm and constant.
Clove throws a knife too close to Marvel’s head, ever the loyal partner. Glimmer frowns slightly and shades her eyes to look towards Cato, who’s calmly sharpening his knife. A shiver runs through her, then.
Marvel yells, “Jesus, Clo, calm down,” and she shrugs nonchalantly, the sun flashing off another blade as she drawls, “My teachers always said I didn’t know how to play well with others.”
“Stop flirting, lovebirds,” Glimmer says before getting up and walking towards Cato.
His sword is a large, monstrous thing and he puts it down for a moment to palm the curve of her hip, fingers digging in above the hipbone. She bites at the inside of her cheek and the tastes comes back metallic.
Cato says, mouth pressed to her pulse, teeth brushing against her jugular, “You know that’s not true.”
Glimmer’s fingers settle on a knob of bone on his neck, one vertebrae of many, and she pulls his head back so he sees her smile.
“That’s assuming an awful lot, isn’t it?” she asks, laughing as his eyebrows knit in fury, as his handprints bruise onto her skin.
His kiss is hard and almost painful and Glimmer moans into his mouth.
Clove’s eyes draw back into slits and she sighs, hitting Marvel on the shoulder before nodding back to Glimmer and Cato.
“Who’s loverboy now?” she asks, and Peeta gets that stupid, pained expression on his face for a second.
The girl from 12 is hiding in the tree and it’s Marvel, obviously, who falls asleep first. Clove is curled into herself, a knife pressed flat to her navel, and before she falls asleep she glares at Cato and says, “Don’t get distracted, you fuck.”
He snarls at her in return and Glimmer unbuttons her jacket.
“What’re you looking at?” Cato yells, noticing Peeta’s open mouth. His jaw shuts quickly and he rolls away, farther from everyone, without further questioning.
“Never took you for the jealous type,” she says in between gasps, when Cato’s buried between her and pumping furiously.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” he mutters, teeth clenched tightly as she wraps her legs around him and he goes deeper. His arms give slightly and that’s when Glimmer makes her move, flipping them over so quickly Cato can’t stop it.
Her arms keep them pinned down and she sits on him slowly, teasing a groan out of his mouth as she rolls her hips, mouth slightly open, before getting up and doing it all over again.
Cato gasps, panting slightly, trying to buck into her, to throw her off her rhythm, to gain the upper hand again but she just clenches around him tighter, uses all his moves to her advantage.
He comes loudly, he comes yelling, and he comes yelling her name, the syllables rolling off his tongue easier than he wanted.
“Finally,” she laughs, shaking out her hair as she rolls off him and pulls her shirt back on. “I was starting to take it personally.”
Cato lies there for a minute, spent, before yanking his clothes on and avoiding her teasing stare.
“You can take the first watch,” she states, settling comfortably next to him, the bow and arrows strapped tight to her chest.
He doesn’t plan on agreeing but she is asleep before he can say anything, so he wearily keeps his gaze on the forest, on Katniss in the tree, on anything except the steady rise and fall of Glimmer’s impressive chest.
Cato wakes Marvel a few hours later by throwing a rock at his stomach and demands he takes watch.
They’re all sleeping peacefully until all hell breaks loose. Cato almost didn’t realize how carefully Glimmer was curled next to him, his arm rounded by her head, how their breathing matched.
The Trackerjackers swarm them all and Cato runs, as fast as he can, as far as he can, yelling for whoever will listen, and he had thought, just because she was small and not quite as fast, that Clove would probably be dead.
At a safe distance, he turns around and sees Clove, sees Marvel, even sees Peeta and when he asks, “Glimmer?” if there was an edge of surprise, an edge of desperation even, no one says anything.
“Dead, you idiot,” Clove spits out, her hand swollen, writhing around in agony.
In the throes of hallucination, he almost went back for her body.
Clove says, “Sorry,” with three knives in between her knuckles. Her mouth is smeared into a smile and she looks grotesque and too-young.
Cato says, “What for?” and sinks his knife into the air, imagines it as flesh instead.
Cato is big enough, important enough, that no one questions him when he lunges towards the front of the stage. The applause gets louder as he walks up the platform, slowly, reveling in the accolades, and he stands tall.
Clove is there, eyes wicked, fingers twitching carefully, and her smile is vicious.
He nods at her, once, and imagines crushing her windpipe. It’s not that he’s disappointed, after all, a girl is just a girl and he’s seen her with a knife but she is just so small.
The crowd roars and Cato looks at Clove, her small waist, the point of her chin and she is beaming. His hands curl into fists and he smiles bigger.
On the train, she carves her name into the wall of his room and snickers.
He mutters, “Looking forward to killing you,” and means every bit of it.
By the time they reach the Capitol, Cato is mostly annoyed with Clove.
In the training center, Glimmer says, “Well, hel-lo District 2,” and Cato stands a little straighter.
He gazes at her too strongly, eyes lingering on every curve, and she’s blonde, she’s tall, she’s equal.
Cato reaches out a hand and says, his teeth digging into his bottom lip, “Pleasure.”
Glimmer’s mouth curls into a smile and she stares at his hand, unblinking, before picking up a dagger and throwing it into the nearest dummy.
Clove appears out of nowhere, twirling knives through her knuckles and elbows him.
Cato shrugs once before crossing his arms. Across the room, Glimmer selects a weapon and the corners of his mouth twitch up.
“She’d be a good addition,” he says, brusque and Clove rolls her eyes.
“Just because you want to fuck her doesn’t make her worthy,” she drawls, getting bored and switching out knives.
“Jealousy doesn’t suit you,” he scolds condescendingly, and then she leaves.
During the interview, Glimmer wears pink.
Cato, lurking in the background, watches her flounce by.
“Nice dress,” he leers, licking at his lips lasciviously. The blue fabric of his suit strains against his every movement, the raise of his shoulders, the flex of his arms.
“I know it is,” she says, equally arrogant, and lifts up the edge of her skirt so he can see the bright white lace of her thong, the quick slip of her fingers into the material and for the briefest of moments, her eyes close.
They are standing in a darkened corner and his pulse accelerates.
She blows him a kiss, and his pants tighten.
His room is painted in colors of dark blue and black, the bed looming large in the middle. Somewhere, behind a cabinet perhaps, the word Clove is etched into wood, he’s sure of it.
Glimmer looks almost out of place, her hair shining blonde bright against the black of his sheets, her skin flushed pink and pretty as he fingers her roughly, her mouth always open, always asking for more. Cato shudders whenever she says his name.
He smiles, vicious, and says, “That’s right, Glimmer, come for me,” because that’s a thrill he’ll never get over, that moment when the girl’s face goes slack, her eyes fluttering shut as she loses any sort of control. Glimmer’s fighting it, fighting against his hand, so he spreads her legs further and sucks gently on her clit, fingers still curling inside her, until finally, finally, she yells out as her body goes boneless, as she screams, holy fuck fuck me Cato, god.
She’s still wet on his fingers when he moves towards her head.
“You can go now,” he says, drying his hand on the span of her stomach.
Glimmer laughs, the sound high-pitched and girlish, that lovely fragile pink neck arching off the sheets.
“Not so fast, Cato,” she spits, pinning him down, breasts flush against his chest. Glimmer reaches in between the two of them and with two swift strokes he’s harder than he’s ever been, breathing already shallow.
Cato’s almost ashamed of how quickly it happens, only a matter of minutes of her mouth taking him in, the swirling wetness of her tongue. He gets it then, the push and pull, why she was fighting against him so hard. Cato grabs at the corners of the mattress and tries to think of anything except the feel of him against the back of her throat, the guttural hums she coordinates with the quick grasp. He doesn’t last very long.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she laughs, quickly wiping at her mouth, stealing his sheet and wrapping it around herself tightly, sauntering into the common area and out of his bed room.
The terms of the alliance are made clear: they will stick together until they won’t. The Cornucopia is a bloodbath, mostly by his hands, and he is wiping his hands on a cloth when he hears someone catcall.
“Looking good, Two,” she teases.
Cato looks up at sees Glimmer, blood streaked across her face and hair falling out of pigtails carelessly. The sun glints off her bow and arrows, and Cato wants nothing more than to fuck her senseless on the flat surface of the Cornucopia for all the Capitol to see.
“Can’t say the same for you,” he mutters, sword within arms reach.
“You’re a terrible liar,” she says lightly and he stalks away.
“You know,” she says, chewing on the edge of a root, “some people might think that you’re over compensating with all this ‘My sword has to be the biggest’ bullshit.”
Marvel laughs into his hand and Glimmer smiles at him lazily, the sun pouring down on them warm and constant.
Clove throws a knife too close to Marvel’s head, ever the loyal partner. Glimmer frowns slightly and shades her eyes to look towards Cato, who’s calmly sharpening his knife. A shiver runs through her, then.
Marvel yells, “Jesus, Clo, calm down,” and she shrugs nonchalantly, the sun flashing off another blade as she drawls, “My teachers always said I didn’t know how to play well with others.”
“Stop flirting, lovebirds,” Glimmer says before getting up and walking towards Cato.
His sword is a large, monstrous thing and he puts it down for a moment to palm the curve of her hip, fingers digging in above the hipbone. She bites at the inside of her cheek and the tastes comes back metallic.
Cato says, mouth pressed to her pulse, teeth brushing against her jugular, “You know that’s not true.”
Glimmer’s fingers settle on a knob of bone on his neck, one vertebrae of many, and she pulls his head back so he sees her smile.
“That’s assuming an awful lot, isn’t it?” she asks, laughing as his eyebrows knit in fury, as his handprints bruise onto her skin.
His kiss is hard and almost painful and Glimmer moans into his mouth.
Clove’s eyes draw back into slits and she sighs, hitting Marvel on the shoulder before nodding back to Glimmer and Cato.
“Who’s loverboy now?” she asks, and Peeta gets that stupid, pained expression on his face for a second.
The girl from 12 is hiding in the tree and it’s Marvel, obviously, who falls asleep first. Clove is curled into herself, a knife pressed flat to her navel, and before she falls asleep she glares at Cato and says, “Don’t get distracted, you fuck.”
He snarls at her in return and Glimmer unbuttons her jacket.
“What’re you looking at?” Cato yells, noticing Peeta’s open mouth. His jaw shuts quickly and he rolls away, farther from everyone, without further questioning.
“Never took you for the jealous type,” she says in between gasps, when Cato’s buried between her and pumping furiously.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” he mutters, teeth clenched tightly as she wraps her legs around him and he goes deeper. His arms give slightly and that’s when Glimmer makes her move, flipping them over so quickly Cato can’t stop it.
Her arms keep them pinned down and she sits on him slowly, teasing a groan out of his mouth as she rolls her hips, mouth slightly open, before getting up and doing it all over again.
Cato gasps, panting slightly, trying to buck into her, to throw her off her rhythm, to gain the upper hand again but she just clenches around him tighter, uses all his moves to her advantage.
He comes loudly, he comes yelling, and he comes yelling her name, the syllables rolling off his tongue easier than he wanted.
“Finally,” she laughs, shaking out her hair as she rolls off him and pulls her shirt back on. “I was starting to take it personally.”
Cato lies there for a minute, spent, before yanking his clothes on and avoiding her teasing stare.
“You can take the first watch,” she states, settling comfortably next to him, the bow and arrows strapped tight to her chest.
He doesn’t plan on agreeing but she is asleep before he can say anything, so he wearily keeps his gaze on the forest, on Katniss in the tree, on anything except the steady rise and fall of Glimmer’s impressive chest.
Cato wakes Marvel a few hours later by throwing a rock at his stomach and demands he takes watch.
They’re all sleeping peacefully until all hell breaks loose. Cato almost didn’t realize how carefully Glimmer was curled next to him, his arm rounded by her head, how their breathing matched.
The Trackerjackers swarm them all and Cato runs, as fast as he can, as far as he can, yelling for whoever will listen, and he had thought, just because she was small and not quite as fast, that Clove would probably be dead.
At a safe distance, he turns around and sees Clove, sees Marvel, even sees Peeta and when he asks, “Glimmer?” if there was an edge of surprise, an edge of desperation even, no one says anything.
“Dead, you idiot,” Clove spits out, her hand swollen, writhing around in agony.
In the throes of hallucination, he almost went back for her body.
Clove says, “Sorry,” with three knives in between her knuckles. Her mouth is smeared into a smile and she looks grotesque and too-young.
Cato says, “What for?” and sinks his knife into the air, imagines it as flesh instead.