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La Petite Mort

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- You're not going to die - he whispers the words in her ear, loving the way she shivers under him. Her eyes are huge in the low light of the room, pupils blown huge by arousal.

- As long as you're with me nothing bad will happen to you - her eyelids flutter like dying butterflies in time with their rhythmic thrusts. She moans, low and throaty, and he can't help but drive into her faster, rougher, just the way they both like it.

- You're mine - he growls, desperate for release, gasping for air as she tightens around him, orgasm shaking both of them. He cries softly, emptying himself inside of her, as if to mark her, to make her really just his.

They lay exhausted on the bed, afterwards. She will leave in a few minutes and he will try to fall asleep, knowing all too well he won't be able to do so.

The room smells of sex, sweat and guilt. They should not do it. She's married. He's an alcoholic. They are wrong for one other. And yet, when they lay close like this they can forget the world for a few moments. No more Hunger Games, no more scars and pain, only skin and soft cries.

He huffs, willing himself to stop thinking and enjoying the last remnants of pleasure, but his brain won't let him be. He's starled when her smaller hand starts caressing his chest.

- You want another round? - he asks, disbelievingly. They never touch after, it's one of their unwritten rules.

- Can I - she begins, only to pause and restart again - I'm going tp sleep here.

He feels his eyebrow trying to climb his forehead.

- Won't he mind?

- I don't care - and with that, she puts her head into the crook of his neck and closes her eyes, whispering - Night.

Haymitch closes his eyes, too, willing his heart not to beat so fast. Sleep finds the two lovers embraced tightly, a small smiles on their lips.