A/N: I've never tried writing a drabble-esque fic before, but I got an idea tonight and decided to go with it, so this is the end result. I hope this fic reads well, review if you have any feedback.
"This will be my last confession
I love you never felt like any blessing
Whispering like it's a secret
Only to condemn the one who hears it."
-"Heavy in Your Arms" by Florence and the Machine
Our kisses were never sweet.
They were angry and rough, usually delivered in the heat of the moment or in the anger of a fight. And that's how we liked it. It didn't take any thinking, or precision, or sense of what the other person wanted. It was never about the other person.
Cato never cared about what I wanted. When he wanted to kiss me, he would. He would do it roughly, all while ripping my clothes off like they were rags. Nothing I could do would stop him.
But when I kissed him, it would hurt. It wouldn't hurt in the literal way we were both so accustomed to inflicting, though I probably could've—a bite to the lips, a scratch at the neck . . .
No, my kisses hurt the only way I knew could possibly hurt him.
Cato could stand the physical pain. He could stand blood and flesh wounds. But what he couldn't stand was my submission—my complete willingness to kiss him back, which I did so fully and wholeheartedly, and I knew it was enough to make him only kiss me harder.
Lips crashed against one another. Clothing would fall to the floor. Doors would slam, bedding would rip, and occasionally, bones would snap.
I wouldn't have our kisses any other way.
Our lovemaking was always sweet.
It usually followed after our kisses.
It followed after the heat of the moment, after our lips would crash against each other and once we both had a second to just stop. Our lips would break. We would look each other in the eyes, not a stitch of clothing on our bodies and wrapped in sheets in a classic District Two bedroom, where there were no windows and stone walls and a general cold air to it. We'd only break for a moment, but that's all it took. It only took a moment for the thinking and feeling we were used to shutting out to turn back on.
It would only last a moment. And then one set of lips—usually mine—would try to silence it by pressing against the others, but it wouldn't work. Because the anger was gone and so was the emptiness, and all that was left was a feeling both of us had no resistance to.
For two souls as ruthless as ours, the idea of us succumbing to love was impossible. We didn't love and we didn't care—all we had was hate. All of this—the kissing, the sex, the stares from across the room and the blood that we spilled—was boiling anger with some surface lust.
But surface lust was never enough to satisfy.
So for reasons beyond the two of us, our lovemaking was always sweet. It wasn't calculated and it wasn't forced, but it was driven by something neither of us could understand.
Our love was a curse.
It kept me awake at night and distracted me during the day. It made my thoughts wander to him when I didn't want them to. It gave every knife I threw more force and every kiss more hate and every last glance one that I would regret.
It made my ruthlessness an act, because how was I supposed to kill?
I knew how to end lives. I knew how to end them painfully, sadistically, and I knew how to enjoy it. I relished in the kills I made. The blood I spilled brought me one step closer to inhumanity—it brought me closer to the demon I wanted to be. Demons won the Hunger Games.
Our love could've been a sin. It could've been rough and forced and it could've brought me one step closer to hell, which was where I knew I needed to be. In some ways it was—we didn't care about the other person's needs. We gave each other our bodies to mold and torment as the other person pleased.
But we always cared.
When our lips our break, we would look each other in the eye, and we would both hold on to the very human hope that we hadn't pushed the other person over the edge. And the looks we gave each other would always be the same.
"I need this."
It was selfish love. It was love that existed for the sole purpose of satisfying me, and for him, the sole purpose of satisfying him. But it became more than a satisfaction. It became a drug. It became a drug neither of us could do without.
So at night, when he would hold me in his arms after, he wouldn't try to kiss me again. He wouldn't have it in him for the aggression of our kisses. Instead we would lie there, our bodies still pressed against one another, and he would say to me,
"You don't know the things you do to me."
And I would look him in the eyes, and I'd see the fire in them, the one that only appeared at moments like these, and I would tell him,
"It's because you love me."
And he wouldn't deny it.
A/N: Thanks for reading! Be sure to review, and here are the names of my other Hunger Games fics if you want to check them out—
Words Not Spoken (fluffy Peetniss)
The Other Games (Sexually charged Cato/Glimmer)
Little Girl, Gentle Giant (Sad Rue/Thresh)
Dangerous Waters (One-sided Finnick/Johanna)
A Drug for Angels (multi-chap, human Clato)