hunger games fic: now i wanna die like movie stars you said
now i wanna die like movie stars you said. hunger games. cato/clove. pg13. Even monsters make their matches. Frankenstein was at least allowed a wife.
Once upon a time, there was a pretty, young girl. She had a match. He was young and handsome.
They were never heroes. She was never saved. You’ve never heard a story like this before.
Clove whispers into his ear, “We’re going to be famous, you know.”
Cato shifts. Clove presses closer to him. There are no stars in the sky of an Arena, just deep dark blue and grid lines. Cato’s hand covers the pale expanse of her hip, his tongue tracing shadows from the jut of her hipbone. Clove's back arches off the sleeping bag. She digs her nails into his shoulder until it draws blood.
He laughs, loud and clear. “We already are.”
The first time they met was the Reaping. Clove’s hair was braided in pigtails, the dark black ends cut bluntly into a straight edge.
Cato, over the roar of the crowd, saw the twitch of her mouth.
On stage, he towered over her. Her dress was high-collared and starched, the fabric hiding away her pale freckled skin. The buttons were done up to her neck, the pale blue color of it matching the sky.
“Cato,” he said. He held out his hand but Clove just raised an eyebrow.
“Clove,” she said. That’s all she allowed him. Her head tilted to the left and she looked him over, long and wanting.
“How old are you?” he laughed, arms crossed tightly over his chest. Their escort tittered behind them, wobbling on her heels. Cato could still hear the dull roar of the crowd.
“Please,” she sneered, the word dripping in contempt, but her lips tilted upward. Then she walked away.
This is not when he fell in love, but it’s close enough.
Cato never learned to value love. Love never got anyone as far as cruelty in the games, as far as viciousness, as far as brutality. He had no need for love when there was fucking, and there had always been a lot of fucking.
He fucked Clove on the train to the Capitol, her tiny body jerking from it, her mouth slack and cheeks flushed pink. The window fogged up with each of his desperate thrusts into her, the back of her skull slamming into the misty glass. He had never worked this hard at it before, the sneer in her voice as she said is that all you got? Cato never once got the satisfaction of her coming with his name on her lips.
“Would you fuck the Girl on Fire?”
The fire crackled; Cato snapped a few more tree branches and threw them in. It was almost dark out. Clove’s eyes flashed at him from across the blaze.
“Of course I would,” he leered. Clove didn’t flinch.
Somewhere out there, the Girl on Fire waited for him. He knew her name was Katniss.
“I would fuck the Girl on Fire until she was screaming my name, begging for it, until she was wet and sore and raw.”
Clove cut apart their dinner, some sort of rat, and licked the blood off the tip of the knife with her tongue.
"Maybe you should," she said, deadpan. Her tiny fingers tore the tendons off the bone and speared the animal onto sticks.
Cato stared at her but she didn't even look his direction. Through the smoke she doesn't even look real, not really, just a pretty little hallucination sent to fuck with him.
“Would you fuck Loverboy?” he asked.
She paused. Something howled in the forests but neither of them looked.
“I just don’t think it’d be any fun,” Clove whined, the traces of a smirk smeared across her young face.
Cato thinks Clove’s face is her biggest asset. It’s unnatural the way she shifts from innocent to treacherous, young to seductive. The work that goes into that face, the tiny bones, the muscles, the blood veins - Clove was made to be deceiving.
She eats three-fourths of the rat and slides the scraps over to him.
“Sorry,” Clove shrugs, “I was hungry.”
Clove died rather neatly.
There’s not so much mess around, and some small part of him is thankful for that.
His hands shook when he packed up her knives.
He didn't cry.
What Cato never knows, because although Clove dies, so does he, a mutt’s teeth sinking into his flesh and muscle and bone and blood with unforgiving teeth, is this:
Whenever Cato slept, Clove tucked neatly under his chin and her back curving into his chest, she wasn’t really sleeping. In that lethal, quiet way of hers, she would sneak out of his heavy grasp and sit there. Her knees criss-crossed and for the rest of the night she would sit, knife in her hand, and stare at him. The knife would twirl through her fingers with an incredible amount of grace and there is more than one time, more than two times, more than three times that she presses it to his throat gently and almost drags it across his neck.
No one ever taught Clove love, either, you see.
Once upon a time, there was a pretty, young girl. She had a match. He was young and handsome.
They were never heroes. She was never saved. You’ve never heard a story like this before.
Clove whispers into his ear, “We’re going to be famous, you know.”
Cato shifts. Clove presses closer to him. There are no stars in the sky of an Arena, just deep dark blue and grid lines. Cato’s hand covers the pale expanse of her hip, his tongue tracing shadows from the jut of her hipbone. Clove's back arches off the sleeping bag. She digs her nails into his shoulder until it draws blood.
He laughs, loud and clear. “We already are.”
The first time they met was the Reaping. Clove’s hair was braided in pigtails, the dark black ends cut bluntly into a straight edge.
Cato, over the roar of the crowd, saw the twitch of her mouth.
On stage, he towered over her. Her dress was high-collared and starched, the fabric hiding away her pale freckled skin. The buttons were done up to her neck, the pale blue color of it matching the sky.
“Cato,” he said. He held out his hand but Clove just raised an eyebrow.
“Clove,” she said. That’s all she allowed him. Her head tilted to the left and she looked him over, long and wanting.
“How old are you?” he laughed, arms crossed tightly over his chest. Their escort tittered behind them, wobbling on her heels. Cato could still hear the dull roar of the crowd.
“Please,” she sneered, the word dripping in contempt, but her lips tilted upward. Then she walked away.
This is not when he fell in love, but it’s close enough.
Cato never learned to value love. Love never got anyone as far as cruelty in the games, as far as viciousness, as far as brutality. He had no need for love when there was fucking, and there had always been a lot of fucking.
He fucked Clove on the train to the Capitol, her tiny body jerking from it, her mouth slack and cheeks flushed pink. The window fogged up with each of his desperate thrusts into her, the back of her skull slamming into the misty glass. He had never worked this hard at it before, the sneer in her voice as she said is that all you got? Cato never once got the satisfaction of her coming with his name on her lips.
“Would you fuck the Girl on Fire?”
The fire crackled; Cato snapped a few more tree branches and threw them in. It was almost dark out. Clove’s eyes flashed at him from across the blaze.
“Of course I would,” he leered. Clove didn’t flinch.
Somewhere out there, the Girl on Fire waited for him. He knew her name was Katniss.
“I would fuck the Girl on Fire until she was screaming my name, begging for it, until she was wet and sore and raw.”
Clove cut apart their dinner, some sort of rat, and licked the blood off the tip of the knife with her tongue.
"Maybe you should," she said, deadpan. Her tiny fingers tore the tendons off the bone and speared the animal onto sticks.
Cato stared at her but she didn't even look his direction. Through the smoke she doesn't even look real, not really, just a pretty little hallucination sent to fuck with him.
“Would you fuck Loverboy?” he asked.
She paused. Something howled in the forests but neither of them looked.
“I just don’t think it’d be any fun,” Clove whined, the traces of a smirk smeared across her young face.
Cato thinks Clove’s face is her biggest asset. It’s unnatural the way she shifts from innocent to treacherous, young to seductive. The work that goes into that face, the tiny bones, the muscles, the blood veins - Clove was made to be deceiving.
She eats three-fourths of the rat and slides the scraps over to him.
“Sorry,” Clove shrugs, “I was hungry.”
Clove died rather neatly.
There’s not so much mess around, and some small part of him is thankful for that.
His hands shook when he packed up her knives.
He didn't cry.
What Cato never knows, because although Clove dies, so does he, a mutt’s teeth sinking into his flesh and muscle and bone and blood with unforgiving teeth, is this:
Whenever Cato slept, Clove tucked neatly under his chin and her back curving into his chest, she wasn’t really sleeping. In that lethal, quiet way of hers, she would sneak out of his heavy grasp and sit there. Her knees criss-crossed and for the rest of the night she would sit, knife in her hand, and stare at him. The knife would twirl through her fingers with an incredible amount of grace and there is more than one time, more than two times, more than three times that she presses it to his throat gently and almost drags it across his neck.
No one ever taught Clove love, either, you see.