Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games.
Surprise keeps Cato's lips frozen for only the shortest of moments. In no longer than a few seconds, he's sprung out of shell shock and begun to move against Clove's writhing form, to respond to her every furious touch in full force.
It's not a conscious decision that closes her eyes, that shuts them away from the world, but the fog that's been following her all night. She feels as though its mist has finally succeeded in enveloping her mind, in taking over her muscles, in stealing away her senses.
And the worst part is that Clove can't bring herself to care. Not about the heat of Cato's mouth against hers, nor the desperate battle waged between them. It takes her a while to realize that they're kissing at all, violent as their embrace quickly becomes. They attack each other in every way that their bare hands can think of - the crescents clawed by her nails into the skin between his shoulder blades, the long chunks of dark hair tugged in every which painful way by his wrenching fingers. His hands move down lower, curling around her curves until they reach the hem of her tank top. She should stop him from pulling his palms beneath its formfitting fabric, but, then again, if she was in a right enough mind to do that, she'd likely halt this entire encounter. So she doesn't. So she digs deeper into his back as he does his best to press a path of bruises on her hips like footsteps on a forest trail. Proof, she'll realize later as she scrubs uselessly against them in the shower, of his presence there.
Were Clove more herself at the moment, she might have smirked at the groan that travels from his throat into hers. High as she's grown off of the foreign array of emotions that have invaded her system tonight, though, she ends up wrestling her tongue more harshly against his instead. Escalating their fight for dominance.
Possibly for the same purpose, Cato's thighs tangle with hers. Clove registers a moment later that his legs have maneuvered themselves into a position of power, that he's about to flip her over. Mouth still frantic against his, ignoring any need for oxygen, she thrashes about in resistance. She won't let him steal control from her. She can't. Still, she can feel him about to slam her beneath him into the floor.
Clove's eyes snap open. Some nonexistent window ushers in a gust of a wind that diffuses the thick, mind-numbing fog from its concentration around her.
Mistaking the removal of her mouth from his for a much-needed break for breath, Cato moves his attention down to her neck, biting into her collarbone, scorching its flesh, and altogether missing the unadulterated horror that's contorted Clove's mouth, eyes, and forehead.
What is she doing?
As off guard as Cato was caught by the abruptness of her ardor, the suddenness of her struggle manages to catch him equally unprepared.
Voice low, gruff, and a bit strained, he asks her the same question that she can't stop demanding of herself.
What are you doing?
She doesn't answer either inquisitor. Mute, Clove opts for the alternative of tearing her arms loose from their tight clasp around him, then herself from his firm hold. Or she attempts to, anyhow. Quickly adjusting to the unexpectedness of her attempted escape, Cato grabs at her wrist and strengthens his grip. He cocks an eyebrow at her.
"Where do you think you're going?" She shuts her ears to the husky quality of his tone.
Without response or warning, Clove kicks out at his chest with all of the vigor that her foot can muster. She knows better than to waste a moment when he doubles back at the impact with a pained grunt. Extending her leg for one more kick, this one directed at his face, she takes the opportunity to jerk her arm free, reclaim her discarded knife, and run. She runs without any concrete idea of where she's headed, without any planned objective other than that of fleeing this house and the hell raging within its walls.
Fortunately, however, hell, with its clamor and crowds and chaos, provides a myriad of camouflage. Once she reenters the hoards of people gathered in Andromeda's living room, a mass that has only increased since she last saw it, Clove knows that her flight won't be too difficult. That knowledge doesn't stop her from increasing her pace once the outdoor air welcomes her back to fluent thought and sanity. Neither does her uncertainty over whether or not Cato is chasing her at all. With as many girls he has sick with lust over him, she highly doubts that he'll take the time to pursue her.
Small mercies.
Although the breeze hasn't warmed any since it last brushed against her skin, Clove's blood refuses to cool.
There's blood shining on his lower lip, a purple mark forming near his left eye, a storm of curse words thundering from his tongue, and a grin splitting his face when Cato reenters the bustle of the party. Busy pounding across the room, he doesn't permit anyone's stare to confine him for more than a few brief seconds. Nevertheless, it doesn't require any great span of time for him to render a good portion of his peers tense with alarm at the predatory curve of his lips. To prove that it's the most unsettling of his features.
Cato's cerulean blue eyes, burning bright with embers of rage and lust, scan the crowd with a hunter's attention. Gone. If he knows Clove, she won't have wasted a moment to linger about here. No, he'd bet money that the skid marks she might as well have left etched into the floor of the front doorway have already begun cooling. Fists clenched, his feet scream for the chance to chase her. In her stead, he locates Achates - a more genial, if not as satisfying, find.
Snatching his drink from him, Cato ignores his friend's wry protest and takes a long swig of its contents. The liquor doesn't do a thing, he quickly discovers, to dispel Clove's taste from his senses.
Achates turns away from the pale female figure nestled into his side and examines Cato's disgruntled appearance. Amused skepticism narrows his eyes. "I didn't know Andie had it in her."
Easily as plenty of people might attribute his newly acquired blemishes to a minor brawl, he should have guessed that Achates would figure otherwise. Cato has to admit that he appreciates the unusual opportunity to inform him that his powers of observation come up a bit short at the moment.
"She doesn't." With a jerk of his chin, he signals to the plump red couch on which Andromeda is sitting with Gregoric. Even if the girl had somehow managed to discover a trick to existing in two places at once, though, anyone acquainted with her would have difficulty attributing such wreckage to her soft hands. Buoyant giggles somehow rise above the boisterous noise that's taken over her house.
Against his better judgment, he proceeds to look around the room for his missing psychopath of a training partner one more time. She won't be anywhere nearby. He knows that. Still, Cato's eyes shift around the space's periphery.
Achates's eyebrows shoot up in stretch towards his cropped bangs. "You don't mean that you were with-" Apparently, garnering all the answer that he needs from the look on Cato's face, an odd combination of smugness and insanity, he tapers off. "I just-Clove? Really?" Cato doesn't know that he's ever witnessed Achates dare to question his beloved logic. His shaggy bronze hair waves as he shakes his head in disbelief. "Sorry, man, I just didn't think - I mean, she's never exactly seemed like the affectionate type." His brow furrows. "Especially in regard to you."
Cato has a difficult time believing that 'affection' had anything to do with Clove's unexpected attack. "Just let me know if you see her."
"That I can do," he says with a swift nod before returning his focus to his fair skinned companion.
Abandoning the spent cup, Cato skirts his consideration over to Andie's reclined figure. The idea of returning to her plays briefly across his mind, but he shakes it away without much thought. He's not in the mood to come up with an explanation for his brief absence with Clove, nor for his battered state - and definitely not to put up with Aldrin. Just a glimpse of his conceited face is enough to leave a snarl pressing at Cato's facial muscles.
His ears realize before his eyes that he's being watched as well.
Sighted, he hears the call of his name interrupt Andie's steady emission of giggles. With a small groan, he meets her eyes, watches the way that they brighten upon noticing his return. The way that the boy at her side visibly stiffens. Peaks of Cato's fetus snarl poke through the holes in his harsh grin. Then again, he's always enjoyed stealing things from Aldrin.
Making his way over to the couch, he can tell that it won't be any insurmountable challenge to do so. There was never any doubt, of course, but it's still gratifying to watch as Andie unconsciously shifts her knee away from his substitute's touch. Not even a word from him yet, and already she's begun to veer her body towards his.
Cato claims the space between them on the cushions. Words a wealth of insincerity, he flashes an apology at Aldrin for bumping him slightly aside in the process.
"We were just wondering where you got off to," Andie says, her breath warm against his face.
"Had to settle something with Clove," he explains shortly, leaving no room for any request for elaboration; not from her and not from himself. Already, his training partner has managed to establish an irritating presence in his mind. From at least a mile away at this point, her fake smile still seems to mock him.
Andie traces the bruise that's taken up residency above his nose. Concern leaks from her every pore, but she otherwise obeys his tone and remains silent.
Gregoric pipes in from her other side, bound by no such scruples. "I wouldn't worry about it, Andie. They can barely say hello to each other without adding in an attempt at bodily harm for the fun of it."
Choosing to ignore the quip, Cato leans in closer to Andromeda. He presses his mouth against hers, not paying much mind to the soft sensation of her plump pink lips. Over her shoulder, he has a clear view of Gregoric's face. Its progressive reddening proves to provide a much higher entertainment value.
It takes work to swallow his smirk when Andromeda elicits a high pitched moan into his mouth. Gregoric darkens a shade, cheeks mutating from peaches to apples. Cato strokes a fond hand through the golden waves that have flooded around his face in a smooth curtain. Always so cooperative.
"And where's your lovely training partner now?" Aldrin's harsh voice jars Andie away from him and into a warm blush at the reminder of their audience.
Cato shrugs his shoulders jerkily, face growing hard again. He should have guessed that Gregoric would take his reluctance to provide further information as an invitation to demand it. "She had to leave."
"That's too bad," the long legged girl clinging to his side says, sounding genuinely disappointment. "I didn't even get the chance to speak two words to her.
Cato chokes back a chuckle at the idea of her trying to hold even a fraction of a conversation with Clove.
"What, it got to be past her bedtime?" Gregoric asks, challenging him with a raised eyebrow of feigned bemusement.
"Clove's not real big on parties." His hand rolls around the hem of Andie's short skirt.
Pink faces glow on his each side, one heated by hostility and the other by shyness.
"Funny. That's not what she said when I asked her to come."
Red seems to bleed into Cato's sight. "Well, apparently, you disappointed her." Fingers continuing to work at Andromeda's thigh, he otherwise ignores her. Luckily, she doesn't seem to notice her use as a pawn.
"Well, we can't all be as popular as you, can we, Ludwig?" The way that Gregoric relaxes a bit more comfortably into the couch cushion before continuing readies Cato for the blow that he's no doubt about to suffer. No one, not even an idiot like Aldrin, could look that smug for no good reason. "Tell me, how does your brother do with the ladies? Can't imagine that he'd- "
His vision goes bloody. Shooting over Andromeda's thin figure, his hand snaps out to strangle Gregoric's neck, to force the words, the allusion to his joke of a brother, back down his throat.
A pitchy squeak jolts the rage from his eyes. Loosening his grip, he turns back to see the fingertips of his other hand clenched deeply into Andie's leg. Apparently, somewhat painfully.
He releases her limb and begins to consider the pros and cons of leaving to work his frustration out on the willing girl he can find. The idea dies a quick death when Gregoric earns a rare glare from Andie. His mood suddenly lightens.
"Thanks for coming, Greg," she says with as many daggers in her voice as her candy sweet disposition will grant her consent to use. "But I think you should probably leave now. You wouldn't want to say anything you'll regret tomorrow after you sober up." Knotting her fingers through Cato's she stands with nods towards the stairway. From the clenching of Aldrin's jaw, he'd guess that he's not the only one well aware of its proximity to her bedroom.
Looking back over his shoulder briefly before ascending to the second floor with Andie, he throws a quick grin in his rival's direction.
Cato's triumph doesn't live long. This victory should, he's learned through years of fucking with Aldrin, yield more satisfaction. An almost equally long history of flat out fucking Andie tells him that, if nothing else, the experience of lowering her nude body down onto her pink comforter should bring him some pleasure.
All he reaps is boredom.
The rocky terrain might have given her feet trouble in the darkness were her soles not so familiar with its every peak and crevice. Inarguably, her hill lacks the luxury rampant in her prior escape destination. Not a piece of patio furniture or well-groomed greenery awaits her when she reaches its crest. Still, as Clove nestles herself down into the grass's chilled blades, her muscles loosen. Her lips curve.
No noise, save crickets. No companions, save the small animals and insects that scuttle in the distance. No giggling at all.
Now that she's snapped out of her ridiculous bout of insecurity, she wants to hit herself for not coming here in the first place. Her mouth cinches into a tight frown. Humiliating may describe the lapse more aptly. Clenching her eyelids shut, Clove bars backs thoughts of the insanity provoked by her father's belittling.
Every time. Every time he visits, he leaves her feeling as though she's nothing more than one of those squirrel or rabbits currently hiding close by. Every time he leaves, she vows that it will never happen again. She cannot, however, claim that forcing herself on an arrogant blonde asshole has ever been a part of that ritual.
Curling over onto her side and digging her cheek into the cool earth, she fights back a shiver. The fault of the cold, of course. She ignores the defensiveness disfiguring her thoughts; ignores the phantoms of her heated exchange with Cato, the way that the ghosts of his hands and mouth insist on breathing against her. If he hadn't left a scrapbook of bruises to color her figure, she'd ignore the experience completely.
Not for the first time, Clove curses her training partner's existence.
She's beginning to remember now why she'd ventured to Andromeda's party in the first place. Solitude may suit her, but it does nothing to block out unpleasant musings, reminisces better ignored. The frenzied touches she can dismiss easily enough. Her lips clench painfully together, rather, at the thought that it took prompting from him to bring her back to her senses. As if she needs him to tell her that she's the best. As if she needs validation from anyone.
The blame for this horror of a night, she decides, lays mostly with Gregoric. If he hadn't found it necessary to let her know about that inane party, none of this would have happened. What would have occurred, Clove is not exactly sure, but she's fairly certain that it wouldn't have involved Cato Ludwig's tongue.
Rolling her head back against a hard mound of green-clothed dirt, she waits for the sun to rise and the first train of the morning to depart.
A rabbit scurries into visibility several paces away, its feet light against the ground.
Mouth relaxing enough to twitch, Clove reaches down for her knife.
Target practice never hurts her mood.
Fit and flexible. Aggressive but ultimately submissive. Andromeda shouldn't have bored him. She should have sated him, should have exiled all thoughts of his training partner from his head, should have given him a fraction of the coital fucking bliss he sees echoed onto her face as she smoothes out her tangled golden hair.
He can't even claim muted contentment.
Clove's house welcomes her with hollowness. By the time that she climbs the steps up to its porch, her body has grown tired, her eyelids heavy, her hair tussled, and her clothes creased by hours spent laying calm and conscious on her hill. She still takes care to check her father's room. Gone. With the door left ajar, it doesn't take much effort to notice the sterile interior past its threshold: bed made, personal effects nonexistent, human warmth absent.
She'd prefer to believe the reality presented by his chamber, that he hadn't come home for even a minute, let alone for an entire day and night's time.
It doesn't take long, upon entering the bathroom, for her to regret her readiness to peal off her dirt coated clothing. She may have turned on the water, but its steam hasn't yet thickened enough to muffle her reflection in the mirror. Dark spots, imprinted in the shape of hands, mar the pale flesh of her hips, her waist.
Clinging to the only solace she can conjure to mind, Clove wonders what souvenirs she left on his bronzed back.
Finally, the shower succeeds in pulling her away from the glass. A scowl still sours her lips. Her eyes, as though drawn by a magnetic force, persist in gravitating down to the belt of beaten blood vessels inked into her stomach. Clove raises the temperature of the water until its spray scalds her skin.
The bruises refuse to burn away.
Author's Note: First off, thank you so much to everyone who has been reading this so far, especially to those who reviewed the last chapter: HungerGamesHarryPotter7887, whathappenedtotruelove, Jesus the Gardener, RedSunsets, luvxas37, TheRulerandTheKiller, thatiismahogany, TheToothFairy92, Orange Pudding, Marina, Frances Odair, GottaLoveMEgan, Messy Ink, and, of course, to everyone who commented anonymously. You're all amazing! I really appreciate the time you took to let me know your thoughts about chapter eight.
Secondly, I'm really sorry that this chapter is shorter than most. Hopefully, the next one that I post will be a bit longer.
On a different note, I have basically no experience writing makeout scenes. If that's made very clear by my attempt at including one at the beginning of this chapter, then I apologize. I'll do my best to improve in the future :)
Thank you so much again for reading!