The Hunger Games fic: gonna crawl inside your heart
Title: gonna crawl inside your heart (gonna rend your ventricles apart)
Pairing: Clove/Cato
Rating: R
Length: 600 words
Warnings: Sex and violence. At the same time.
Status: Complete
Notes: Written for tilty's prompt at the Girl on Fire Ficathon. Mutilated title and cut text swiped from The Decemberists' "Red Right Ankle."
gonna crawl inside your heart (gonna rend your ventricles apart)
Legs spread to straddle him, her hipbones jut out like blades, straining beneath her skin, sharp enough to cut. Fitting, he thinks, for a girl who plays with knives.
He eyes her hungrily, arousal curling tight in his belly. His fingerprints are mottled black and green and yellow all across the skin of her hips, but he wants to touch her again, wants to see if this time those hips can make him bleed.
He's half hard at the thought, and Clove follows his gaze. She laughs, drags his hand to her body, presses his palm against that sharp edge of bone.
"You like that, don't you Cato?" Her teeth are bared like a naked blade as she smiles at him, lethally amused.
She knows the answer already, so he presses down on a thumb-shaped bruise, asks a question of his own. "You come by these honestly?"
"All natural," she says, and counters by pushing his hand harder into her hip. Her lips curve, wicked, when he twitches inside her, his breathing picking up until he's panting like he's been running a marathon, like he's in the middle of a fight. It's the only sound in the room, harsh and fast and heavy.
Her pupils dilate, blown wide like the sound is getting to her.
There is something predatory in her gaze, lust and violence glinting dangerously from her dark eyes. Dark eyes, dark hair, dark heart.
Clove is dangerous, all bone and blades and blood, and his body tightens as she stares down at him, just as likely to kill him as she is to fuck him. Her nails are filed into points, knives she's grown from her own body, and now she's tracing them across the curve of his ribs like she wants to carve out his heart.
God, he can see it, can see that wicked smile all stained with blood, can see the heart as nothing but a pulpy mess in her hands-
He's hard and Clove is laughing and they're in motion again, clawing at each other, kissing with lips and tongues and teeth, slamming together like animals, wild and vicious and uncontrollable. She pulls back just long enough to dig those knife-nails into his chest, drag them across his skin. He moans deep in his throat, snaps his hips up into hers when she bends to lap away the blood. She kisses him, licks into his mouth, and he can taste his blood on her tongue.
"I'm going to enjoy killing you," she breathes, like a threat, like a promise.
He loses it, hips snapping wildly into hers, hands tangled in her hair as he yanks her head back so he can get at her throat, scrape his teeth across her pulse-
The world dissolves in a haze of red, pleasure ripping through him, tearing through his veins like a knife, like the blade of Clove's hip. He's dimly aware of her keening scream as she rides out her own orgasm but then she's digging her fingers into the bruises he's left on her hips and he can't think at all, just move, just fuck her like they'll never get another chance, his hand replacing hers, her hip sawing into his palm like a knife.
When they're tangled together, bloody and bruised and utterly spent, he replays Clove's words, imagines her with his heart in her hands. The smile that spreads across his face is as sharp as one of her knives. If she kills like she fucks, he thinks, he'll enjoy it too.
Feedback is love!
Pairing: Clove/Cato
Rating: R
Length: 600 words
Warnings: Sex and violence. At the same time.
Status: Complete
Notes: Written for tilty's prompt at the Girl on Fire Ficathon. Mutilated title and cut text swiped from The Decemberists' "Red Right Ankle."
gonna crawl inside your heart (gonna rend your ventricles apart)
Legs spread to straddle him, her hipbones jut out like blades, straining beneath her skin, sharp enough to cut. Fitting, he thinks, for a girl who plays with knives.
He eyes her hungrily, arousal curling tight in his belly. His fingerprints are mottled black and green and yellow all across the skin of her hips, but he wants to touch her again, wants to see if this time those hips can make him bleed.
He's half hard at the thought, and Clove follows his gaze. She laughs, drags his hand to her body, presses his palm against that sharp edge of bone.
"You like that, don't you Cato?" Her teeth are bared like a naked blade as she smiles at him, lethally amused.
She knows the answer already, so he presses down on a thumb-shaped bruise, asks a question of his own. "You come by these honestly?"
"All natural," she says, and counters by pushing his hand harder into her hip. Her lips curve, wicked, when he twitches inside her, his breathing picking up until he's panting like he's been running a marathon, like he's in the middle of a fight. It's the only sound in the room, harsh and fast and heavy.
Her pupils dilate, blown wide like the sound is getting to her.
There is something predatory in her gaze, lust and violence glinting dangerously from her dark eyes. Dark eyes, dark hair, dark heart.
Clove is dangerous, all bone and blades and blood, and his body tightens as she stares down at him, just as likely to kill him as she is to fuck him. Her nails are filed into points, knives she's grown from her own body, and now she's tracing them across the curve of his ribs like she wants to carve out his heart.
God, he can see it, can see that wicked smile all stained with blood, can see the heart as nothing but a pulpy mess in her hands-
He's hard and Clove is laughing and they're in motion again, clawing at each other, kissing with lips and tongues and teeth, slamming together like animals, wild and vicious and uncontrollable. She pulls back just long enough to dig those knife-nails into his chest, drag them across his skin. He moans deep in his throat, snaps his hips up into hers when she bends to lap away the blood. She kisses him, licks into his mouth, and he can taste his blood on her tongue.
"I'm going to enjoy killing you," she breathes, like a threat, like a promise.
He loses it, hips snapping wildly into hers, hands tangled in her hair as he yanks her head back so he can get at her throat, scrape his teeth across her pulse-
The world dissolves in a haze of red, pleasure ripping through him, tearing through his veins like a knife, like the blade of Clove's hip. He's dimly aware of her keening scream as she rides out her own orgasm but then she's digging her fingers into the bruises he's left on her hips and he can't think at all, just move, just fuck her like they'll never get another chance, his hand replacing hers, her hip sawing into his palm like a knife.
When they're tangled together, bloody and bruised and utterly spent, he replays Clove's words, imagines her with his heart in her hands. The smile that spreads across his face is as sharp as one of her knives. If she kills like she fucks, he thinks, he'll enjoy it too.
Feedback is love!