#cato oneshot

[heliads]

promise me - cato hadley

Cato promises you he won't volunteer for the Hunger Games, and then he does. When Plutarch Heavensbee offers you a chance to get back at the Capitol for taking your boyfriend away, of course you're going to say yes.

masterlist

Cato is dying. So they say. You haven’t been watching. 

It sounds bad. It is bad. But you had made your boyfriend promise that he would stay as far from the Games as he could, and you’d actually believed him when he said he would, that he’d live to old age with you. Cato has been wanting the Games as long as he’s been alive, but you’ve been wanting him to stay with you for about that long, anyway. It took forever to wear him down enough for him to say he’d give up his dream of being a Victor, and just when you felt sure of yourself, he’d gone and volunteered.

It was stunning how quickly everything fell apart. You’d heard the representative from the Capitol read out the name of the male tribute, and when you didn’t hear your boyfriend’s name, you thought you were safe, you were fine. Another year guaranteed. Before you could even take another breath, though, a familiar voice rang through the town square. In your nightmares, you’d seen Cato volunteer a hundred times over. It was fitting, somehow, that when he volunteered in real life, it was exactly like every other time you’d seen it.

He’d looked at you from the stage, tried to find you in the crowd. You weren’t smiling. And, when they’d asked for the last visitors to see the tributes before they were shipped off the Capitol to die in glorious combat, you’d never even had the chance to talk to him. You’d tried to go to him, but the small holding room was swamped with adoring fans. You know Cato saw you over the heads of all the people saying how proud they were, how they were so sure he’d win. He saw you, and he saw you shake your head at all the people cheering for his imminent demise, and he saw you go.

You regret it half the time he’s been gone, leaving so early. It wasn’t like you would have been able to talk to him anyway; by the time you were turning around, the Peacekeepers were already starting to usher people out, and Cato, breaking another promise, hadn’t kept a space clear for you to find him. But, at the end of the day, you didn’t just leave because it was impossible to get to him. You left because you couldn’t stand to hear everybody praising him for going to his death, and you couldn’t stand to hear one more word about how his betrayal would make him a better man.

At the end of the day, you almost saw it coming. Winning the Hunger Games is Cato’s big dream, and it has been since you were kids. Even when you were small, you remember him staying late to train. He was proficient in the sword before most kids got their first kiss. You had always hoped that he would love life enough to stay away from that arena of death, but the last of your hopes were gone when he volunteered.

You don’t watch a second of his Games, you can’t stomach it. You try to picture watching your boyfriend die live on camera, your own falling face broadcasted live to the Capitol. Would your neighbors approve of your reaction when the love of your life was run through or shot or poisoned? It makes you want to throw up, so you stay at home and try to stay away from the screens, but nothing works. Even clamping your hands tight over your ears doesn’t stop you from hearing the roars of the crowds outside when something happens. 

You have to assume Cato is doing well, but recently, people have been saying it looks bad. When Clove died, the mood shifted in the entire district, and that sense of jubilation over a seemingly guaranteed District Two victory has never returned. They say Cato is hurt, maybe. They say Katniss and Peeta are going to kill him.

Night falls when someone gets you, tells you that you have to head to the square, now. You get there just in time to see Cato on top of the cornucopia in the dark, trapping Peeta with the baying hounds below him. Katniss shoots. He falls. The cannon rings, and you’re dead along with him.

You’re numb for days. You don’t even remember the laments around you, strangers you’ve seen on the street telling you how sorry they are as if that does a damn thing when they pushed him to this. You get home, apparently. You get to bed. Somehow, you live when he doesn’t. You wouldn’t know how it happens. You don’t know a thing at all.

You stop leaving your room. You don’t want to see anyone, or have to witness the awkward guilt when they recognize who you are and why you look like the whole world has burned to ash around you, because to you, it has. Your parents try to bring you food, and you eat it, tasting nothing. You drink water and wonder why you bother when it just lets you cry again hours later.

When someone knocks on the door, you don’t bother answering, assuming it’s your family. The knock sounds again a few seconds later, smart and unavoidable. It doesn’t really sound like the tentative rap of your parents, so against your better judgment, you rise and answer.

There’s a man looking back at you, one you’ve never met before. He’s in his forties, maybe, his hair an early white. He looks Capitol, but you can’t fathom why he’d be here. He invites himself in, taking a seat at your desk and looking back at you once he’s settled himself.

“You should close that,” he says, gesturing to the door.

You’re not really energized enough to start arguing, so you do as told and sit down on your bed, hands clasping at nothing in your lap.

“Who are you?” You ask, voice scratchy from tears and lack of use.

The man glances once at the windows, once again at the door, and finally a quick scan of the room before he speaks quietly. “My name is Plutarch Heavensbee. I’m going to be the new Head Gamemaker.”

You eye him dolefully. “I didn’t realize the Head Gamemakers did personal apology tours for the dead tributes.”

He chuckles dryly. “We don’t. To speak plainly, I’m here because I need something.”

His honesty, however brutal, is a relief after all the saccharine half-meant apologies from the rest of Two. “What could I possibly give you?”

Plutarch steeples his fingers together, thoughtful. “Your unwavering loyalty.”

You laugh, now. It’s a far colder sound than his. “You and your Games killed Cato. Why would I ever follow you again?”

Plutarch’s eyes lock onto yours. “I may make the Games, Y/N, but I do not believe in them.” It’s a radical statement, and he lets it hang in the air for a few seconds before he continues. “We have a possibility of taking a stand against the Capitol. I’m looking for inside sources. You’re the perfect fit.”

You arch a brow. “I have no connection to the Games. How could I possibly help you?”

“Your lack of connection is the exact reason we need you,” Plutarch argues. “You’re not on the Capitol’s radar as anything more than a grieving ex-lover. Two is valuable to us.”

You lean back, considering this. “You want me to be a spy so I can get revenge on the Capitol for killing Cato. That’s it?”

“That’s it?” Plutarch scoffs. “You have no idea of the risk we all suffer just by meeting. Let me be clear, Y/N, what I am about to ask of you is dangerous to you and everyone you have ever known. The Capitol will butcher you and display your rotting body as a lesson. This is not something you pick up to pass the time. This will become your life, or you do not join. I want you here because you want to get back at the Capitol as much as the rest of us, but I will not permit you to be near us if I suspect you are not fully committed to the cause.”

His voice is steely, and it cuts through the haze of your grief like one of Cato’s knives. Briefly, the anguish gives way to fierce, bitter pain. You miss Cato with everything you have. There were a thousand things you were supposed to do, places you were meant to visit together, people you were supposed to become. You have been robbed of everything in the world. This is your chance to get the Capitol back, and you– you are going to take it.

“I’m in,” you say before you can stop yourself. “I want Snow gone.”

Plutarch’s thin lips curl into a smile. “I’m glad to hear it.”

He stands, but pauses before he gets to the door. “We’ll be in contact. Keep your eyes open, and stay safe. Spies don’t have a long life expectancy. We’d hate to lose you before you even start.”

You nod grimly. “You as well.”

He almost smiles, then sweeps from the room. You can hear the distant sounds of him thanking your parents for the visit, and expressing his sincere sympathy for the loss of Two’s tributes this year. Then he’s gone, and you’re left wondering what you’ve done to yourself.

Your parents are thrilled when you get a job offer from the Gamemakers later that week. You’re able to pass off Plutarch’s visit as a last interview/congratulations before your new position begins. You’ll work in Two, mostly, deep within the district government, but you’ll have weekly meetings in the Capitol to update the Gamemakers on your progress.

In reality, you’ll be gathering everything you can and checking in with Plutarch once a week. The first time you take the train to the Capitol to meet him, you can’t help but wonder if this is how Cato felt, too, watching home rush away from him, knowing that success or death would await him in the Capitol. Your throat burns by the time you get there, torn raw with unshed tears.

Plutarch is careful, always careful, but as the weeks wear on, he trusts you little by little. He confesses eventually that having a spy in Two was crucial to his future endeavors. He won’t mention what those future endeavors are, not completely, but you understand why. It’s too risky to spill everything to someone he’s only just met.

You don’t know that Plutarch is truly certain of your loyalty, though, for another three months. By now, you’ve had several close run-ins with curious Peacekeepers, and transmitted enough information to feed Plutarch’s flames for years. As a reward, he takes you down to a secret room in the hidden headquarters of the rebellion, and in those cool, dimly lit rooms, he says something that transforms your life completely.

“We have Cato.”

At first, you think they mean the coffin. He was buried in the Capitol, they all were. There’s a broadcasted ceremony every year for all the tributes. That one, you watched. They wouldn’t let you or his family come. No one was by his side when he entered the earth. You sobbed for hours.

Plutarch shakes his head, though. “He’s still alive.”

You have to lean against the wall to steady yourself. “Impossible.”

“Not impossible,” Plutarch says. “We grabbed his body before rigor mortis set in. He’s been in a medically induced coma for months while our medical staff stitches him back together. It’ll be a while before he’s even conscious, and longer before he can walk and talk, but he’ll be back.”

You feel dizzy, head rushing from loss of blood. “They would have noticed,” you fight to say. “He was dead, Katniss shot him. The Capitol would never let him go.”

“They don’t care about the dead,” Plutarch says. “Not yours, not mine. I collected him.”

You glance up sharply. “You wanted him as a bargaining chip, didn’t you? If I didn’t agree so easily, you would have told me that you had my boyfriend.”

Plutarch nods, paying no mind to the storm in your heart. “I would have done anything to secure a spy in Two. You know that. I would go to any lengths to do it. Even, yes, hold Cato over you. That was the whole point.”

Of course it was. Clever, plotting Plutarch, would always have a second option. If he had doubted your loyalty back in your house in Two, he would have ensured he had a safety net to stop you from going to the Peacekeepers the second he left. You hadn’t needed it, so he’d kept his ace up his sleeve until now.

“Why tell me, then?” You croak. “You don’t care what happens to Cato. What do you want from me now? I’ve given you everything.”

“Not everything,” Plutarch muses thoughtfully. “Not your life, not yet. The time may come. But you’re right, Y/N, I do want more. You’ve been with us a long time. Long enough to grow complacent. I want to ensure that you will remain just as sharp as ever. As we draw closer to the Quarter Quell, our plans will accelerate. I need to know that you will guarantee our success.”

“I would have done that without you threatening to kill Cato a second time,” you spit.

Plutarch just sighs. “I can’t guarantee that.”

You can’t stop staring around the room, trying to find a curl of blond hair, a wicked smile, any sign of the boy you’ve loved for so long. “Where is he? I want to see him.”

Plutarch nods, gesturing for you to follow him. “I wouldn’t expect you to just take my word for it.”

He leads you through a series of locked doors to a small care unit. There’s a body encased in a blue cell, the encircling glass walls just large enough to thread the limbs and chest with tubes pumping some sort of liquid throughout. Through the misty aqua glow, you can make out a face.

You stumble. You’d know Cato anywhere, even almost dead, even almost back to life. You stare at him, eyes wide, and a tear falls from your face and drips onto the glass. You didn’t even realize you were crying again. You didn’t think you could, anymore, but this hope– it brings you back to life along with him.

“When will he be awake?” You ask, breath harsh in your chest.

Plutarch straightens up from where he’s been glancing at a nearby readout. “A month or two, perhaps. He’ll be functional by the time of the next Games, which is good. If all goes well, we will need to run.”

You look up at him. “Tell me what you need me to do and I’ll do it. Anything.”

His lips curve up into a smile. In the ghostly blue light of Cato’s healing cell, he looks like a phantom. The ghost of Games gone by, perhaps. The ghost of the tributes to come. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

With that, you let the rebellion consume you. Not a day goes by that you aren’t traveling between districts, gathering information, and spreading contraband from rebel group to rebel group. Plutarch keeps you busy. Most nights, you don’t sleep for more than a few hours at a time, any rest caught in brief snatches between train rides. If you ever had a home, it’s no more than a memory now. You don’t stay in any place long enough to remember it. You’re certain Peacekeepers have been following you for days now, but maybe you just can’t tell the difference between the white-armored soldiers in every district.

You’re stopping by the rebel headquarters in the Capitol to bring news of the developments in Thirteen when Plutarch asks you to stay a while longer. You assume he wants you to take on another project, but instead he tells you that Cato has woken up. He couldn’t risk mentioning it through the usual comms, but he remembers his promise just as you’ve remembered yours.

You fly down the stairs to the med center, flying around the corners until you’re back in the care unit. The blue glass cell is gone, replaced by a hospital bed. A patient is sitting up and arguing with one of the doctors. You notice he’s been cuffed to the rail of the bed, and can’t help a small smile. That’s your Cato, isn’t it? Always a fighter.

He falls silent when you enter, eyes wide. For a moment, you wonder if the healing damaged his brain, if he might not remember you, if anything would ever be the same, and then a tentative hope enters his voice as he says, “Y/N?”

You’re across the room in a moment, and then you’re in his arms again, and maybe everything will be okay again. His free hand, the one that isn’t cuffed to the bed, is pressed against your back, drawing you ever closer to him.

“Y/N,” he says in a choked whisper, “Y/N, I died.”

“No,” you murmur, drawing back so you can see his face. It’s the same face, somehow. Still him. Still Cato. “They brought you back. You’re going to be okay.”

“How is that possible?” Cato asks, raising his free hand to touch your face lightly as if he can’t believe it’s you.

“Don’t ask me,” you chuckle weakly. “All I know is that you’re here. That’s all that matters.”

Cato glances warily at the doctors, then returns his gaze to you. He looks more carefully now, taking in the hollows under your eyes, the scars and scrapes on your arms. “What have you done, Y/N? What did they make you do?”

You choke on a laugh before you can stop yourself. “The star tribute is asking me what I did? I haven’t been in the Games, Cato. I’m not the one who signed themselves up to die.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” he says. “You’ve got– you look like us now.”

Dully, you realize what he means. There’s a sort of innocence in the faces of people who haven’t had to take a life. Even the hardiest of the careers still have it if they haven’t been in the Games. Cato sees it now in you. The last year has destroyed you.

You let out a slow breath, taking his hand in yours. “Losing you destroyed me, Cato. I had to do what I could.”

Cato looks around the room again, his hunter’s eyes taking in the details of the workers, the sparse decoration of the room. “We’re not with the Capitol anymore, are we?”

“No,” you admit, “we’re not.”

Something savage twists his face. “Good.”

You weren’t sure how he would take the news that you were working with the rebels, but surprisingly, Cato is in favor. He’s mad about what they did to secure Katniss’ victory. The whole point of the Games was that the strongest would win, he says, but they interfered. All that hard work to get to the Games, and then the Makers cheated him out of it.

What Cato doesn’t realize is how deeply entrenched you are in the workings of the Rebels. Cato isn’t allowed to go back to normal, obviously, Panem thinks he’s dead, but he hadn’t counted on you joining him in that fate. They find Cato a place in Thirteen where he can help train the soldiers; it’s good for him to stay busy, and he tries to work his body to the limits so exhaustion will fight off the nightmares of dying for him, but Cato wants you there with him.

Only, that isn’t the case. Plutarch didn’t give you Cato back so you could stop working with the rebellion. If anything, it makes you work even harder. Now that you have Cato, you finally have the brief, glimmering hope of a better life, but you won’t get it if the Capitol still exists.

By now, you’ve been clued in to Plutarch’s master plan for the Games. The rules for the Quarter Quell were announced a few days ago. The dominoes have started to fall. All that’s left to do is make sure the ruin runs where you want it.

Cato doesn’t see it that way. Every time you’re at Thirteen, you make time to see your boyfriend, but it’s never enough. It never will be, not until the Capitol is gone, not until the war is over. For Cato, though, he’s already died. He wants to stop running.

You’re with him now, tucked into his arms on his bunk with your back up against his chest, pretending that you won’t have to leave again in just a few hours. He’s tracing absentminded circles on your forearms, and when he speaks, his breath buzzes against the top of your head.

“Stay with me,” he says. “They’re going to kill you if you keep this up. Stay here.”

“You know I can’t,” you sigh. “Not until it’s done.”

Cato blows out sharply, annoyed. “Let them die, not you. You’re better than that.”

“All our deaths are the same,” you contradict. “Might as well be me.”

Cato’s grip around you tightens possessively. “I’d let all of them die before you.”

You shift slightly so you can look up at him. He’s frustrated again, jaw tight as he tries to control himself. “I have to do this. All of our work depends on the Games going in our favor. If we give up now, it was all for nothing. I can’t let that happen.”

Cato shakes his head tersely. “Promise me you won’t get hurt. Promise me you won’t die for them.”

The twisting guilt of deja vu curls around your stomach. You can’t help but remember a similar moment, a similar promise, almost a year ago exactly. You had said almost the same thing to Cato when he was talking about volunteering. At the time, it had seemed so easy. All Cato had to do was stay with you, and he would have been safe. But Cato had to go, it would have killed him not to go. And it’ll kill you to stay. Both of you know this. It doesn’t make it any easier.

You kiss him once, twice. For past and present. “I’ll see you soon.”

You won’t. You’ll be in the Capitol until after the Games at least, and although Plutarch has promised he’ll get you out with the rest, there’s always the small chance that it won’t work out.

Cato pulls you up in his arms so you’re eye to eye. “Soon,” he says.

“Soon,” you repeat. This close to him, you’re sure he can feel your pulse thundering in your veins, carrying with it the weight of this lie. He would know how to sense it, too. All that time in the arena, he’d know how to tell when someone was about to die.

Cato doesn’t want to let you go, but he has to, piece by piece, second by second, letting you go in the bed just to crawl off and hold you by the door, then walk you to the jet, then hold you again one last time before you’re taken away. You watch through the window as he shrinks away to nothingness, one arm still raised. You’ll see him again, or never at all.

Plutarch is waiting for you in the Capitol. “It’s time to play,” he says.

“It’s time to win,” you return. 

He smiles without meaning it and turns back to his screens. There’s a lot of data to get through. Some of the tributes you weren’t expecting, but you have who you need. Finnick knows, Johanna knows, but you can keep Katniss and Peeta in the dark for as long as possible.

Thus, the Games begin, and, electrifying as an arrow in the night, they end. You watch Katniss looking down her bow at Finnick, then turning her weapon towards the sky. Plutarch slips away from Snow long enough to get you, and the two of you hurry towards a transport that will take you back to Thirteen in the dead of night. Voices are hushed. The tributes get out, but not all of them. Peeta, you think, was left behind. Johanna too. Still, it’s a better collection than you’d hoped.

And, when the jet docks in Thirteen, there’s someone waiting for you in the hangar, your golden boy. Cato comes running over before the landing gear is even fully tucked away. He waits, impatient as a coiled spring, while the doors open, and then he’s rushing inside and pulling you into his arms.

“No more separation,” he says against your temple. “We fight together now.”

“Together,” you whisper back, and you mean it, too. 

Whatever happens after this, the cards are all on the table. Cato can come back to the public eye. You’ll fight in the war side by side. If you die before the rebellion wins, you’ll do it together. Some would call that tragic, but all of this is a tragedy. At least you’ll have him. Two is gone to you, so too is any dream of normalcy, but Cato– Cato, you will always have. That, at least, is your victory.

hunger games tag list: @w1shes43, @ilovexavierthrope

all tags list: @wordsarelife, @supervoldejaygent

[7s3ven]

LACY. cato hadley

( master list )

IN WHICH… Clove Kentwell can’t help but compare herself to Cato’s ex. They may have dated a year ago, but she sees the way he still looks at her.

“Lacy, oh, Lacy, it's like you're out to get me. You poison every little thing that I do”

—

“Cato, are you listening?” Clove placed a hand on her boyfriend’s muscular arm, her eyebrows knitted together. She wasn’t usually worried but with how distant Cato had been lately, she couldn’t help it.

“Huh?” Finally, Cato turned to her. “Yeah. I’m good. Sorry, I’m just tired.” But his eyes didn’t fail to trail back to her. Clove followed his line of sight, feeling a sudden burst of jealousy.

He had been paying more attention to her than Clove.

Y/N L/N, District Two’s prized possession. A delicate beauty none the less. And Cato Hadley’s ex-girlfriend. It had been a year since the two broke up but he was still gazing at her from time to time, which angered Clove.

She had tried to bring it up with him, but he brushed her off. “Cato.” She tugged on his shirt, gaining his attention. “Do you want to go somewhere else?” The pair were sitting in a small cafe that happened to be Y/N’s favorite. She was always sitting in the corner, laughing with friends.

“I thought you liked this place.” Cato tilted his head to the side.

“I do.” Clove glanced down at the cinnamon spice coffee that she adored, “But I… want a change of scenery.” All she wanted was one day where she didn’t have to witness Cato eying up Y/N.

“Uh. Yeah. We can leave.”

Clove did her best to hide her sigh of relief. They stood up, pushing their chairs back. Clove grabbed her drink and practically shoved Cato out the door.

“What about that dessert place you like?” Cato questioned. Only, Clove didn’t like desserts. She liked warm and hot things; like hot chai lattes and spicy soup. Y/N was the one who liked desserts.

“I’m not in the mood for cold things.” Clove smiled, cooly playing it off. She couldn’t help but loathe Y/N for influencing Cato this much and leaving such a huge mark. But it was partly her fault for falling in love with a guy who wasn’t over his ex.

“Do you just want to go home and watch a movie then?” Cato suggested. Finally, he remembered one right detail about her. Clove silently nodded, taking another sip from her cup.

Cato abruptly paused. “Hey, your friend is friends with Y/N, right?” Clove wasn’t even disappointed at this point.

She heaved a light sigh. “Yeah. I guess. They talk.”

“Great. I need to return some things to her but I don’t know her new address. So do you think you could ask your friend?”

“I’m not really comfortable with you being around Y/N.” Clove fiddled with her fingers, which was another trait she had gained from her relationship with Cato.

Cato quietly scoffed, but not in a rude way. He smiled. “It’s just a few things, Clo. I’ll be in and out like that.” He quickly snapped his fingers. Clove rocked back and forth on her heels before giving in.

“I’ll ask but I can’t make any promise.” She uttered, the light in her eyes dimming when she saw Cato grin wider.

Y/N was the type of girl nobody could compare to with her stunning E/C eyes and lingering perfume that hung heavily on her skin.

She was Heather Conan talked about. She was Lacy Olivia referred to. And in a way, she was Clove’s rival.

“Excuse me.”

Clove’s heart practically dropped after she heard that all too familiar voice. Cato seemed to spin around impossibly fast.

Y/N stood behind them, softly smiling. “I think you left this.” She held up a hardcover book that Clove had forgotten to grab despite it being her favorite.

“Oh…” Clove quickly reached for it, hugging it tightly to her chest. “Thank you.” She choked out. Y/N sent her another smile that made Clove feel sick. How could she be so perfect?

“Cato, I found some of your stuff in my closet.” Y/N turned to the blond-haired boy. “Would you be wanting it back?” Clove almost prayed for Cato to ignore her. To not reply. But Cato opened his mouth anyway.

“I have some of your things too. I was planning on asking Clove’s friend, Aria, for your address.”

“Oh, Aria! She’s so nice. She let me borrow her perfume once.”

It was like Clove wasn’t even there. She clenched her hands into fists as she watched the two converse like they were old friends. They somewhat were but their dating history made it weird for them to be speaking so casually.

Cato was hanging off every word Y/N said which left Clove alone. She almost shrivelled under all the pitying looks people passing by gave her, but she continued to stand tall.

“I’ll meet you there then?” Y/N asked, her perfectly tinted lips curving upwards. Her makeup was always perfect, unlike Clove who preferred to wear none at all. Suddenly, Clove grew self-conscious.

Did Cato like feminine girls? Clove looked Y/N up and down, noticing her neat outfit. The H/C-nette was wearing a skirt while Clove was dressed in loose fitting cargo pants. Her gaze flickered to Y/N’s hair. Every strand was placed perfectly while Clove’s hair was simply pulled back into a messy ponytail.

“Yeah. See you.” Cato bid Y/N farewell. He looked at Clove again, who was losing her confidence the more she compared herself to Y/N. “You ready to go?”

Clove hid her insecurity behind a smile. “Yeah.” She muttered, her voice quieter than she planned it to be.

The couple always watched movies at Cato’s house. His family had a spare room that they used as a small movie theatre. Clove leaned against Cato and despite him allowing her to do so, she knew he wished she was someone else.

“So, what were you and Y/N talking about?” Clove carefully questioned as the movie had begun playing. She felt Cato shrug.

“Not much. We were just arranging a place and time to give stuff back.”

“Why do you still have her stuff?”

“I must’ve forgotten about it.”

The pang in Clove’s heart told her that he was lying. She saw the way he hugged a pink hoodie to sleep. It wasn’t her’s, and it didn’t smell like her either. Clove’s perfume was heavy and mature while the hoodie smelled airy and floral… just like Y/N.

Clove did her best to focus on the movie. She would get lost in her thoughts from time to time but always came back to reality when Cato shifted around.

Clove yawned and slightly slouched, letting the cushions of the couch engulf her. She glanced at Cato who was too focused on the screen to notice.

She suddenly paused the movie, confusing Cato. “Are you leaving now?” He asked, watching as she stood up. She shook her head.

“Cato, we need to talk about…” Clove paused, choosing her next words carefully. “Some things that have been happening recently.”

Cato raised his eyebrows, indirectly telling her to continue.

“Lately we haven’t been the same. I mean, I’m training more and you… you seem distracted. Did I do something wrong?” Clove had never felt more vulnerable than right now.

“I mean… you did eat salt and vinegar chips with Oreos.” Cato quietly chuckled.

“That’s not what I mean!” Clove exclaimed, “And that was a dare just so you know!” She pointed a finger at Cato. “You keep looking at her. And don’t pretend like you don’t know who I’m referring to.”

“What? Y/N?” The way Cato immediately caught on unnerved Clove. “Clo, she’s just a friend. Not even that. I only talked to her today because I needed to.”

“I see the way you look at her. And…” Clove had to take a minute to compose herself, “I know that you wish I was her.” Cato said nothing, confirming her theory.

“Clove.” He uttered after a moment. That was the first time he had called her by her real name in a long time. “I’m dating you. Not her. I”- Clove unexpectedly cut him off.

“Then why does it feel like we aren’t dating?!” She shouted, her voice slightly shaking. She was glad no one else was home. “Why does it feel like… I’m a replacement?”

“You aren’t”-

Clove didn’t let Cato speak. She launched straight into another scolding. “Why are you always looking at her?! And ignoring me! I’m your girlfriend, Cato! Me! Not her! So why do you pay more attention to Y/N than me? You hardly even talk to me now!” If Clove was a normal girl, she would be sobbing. But her parents taught her to keep her emotions, especially her sadness, at bay.

Cato remained silent, staring at her with the same look of pity everybody else did. All Clove wanted was for him to look at her the same way he looked at Y/N.

“I’m sorry, Clo.” He uttered. Clove took a deep breath, trying to prepare herself for whatever was next to come. “I just can’t love you like I love her.”

“I see.” The brunette whispered. She quickly gathered her things, blinking away small tears.

“Clove. Come on.” Cato stood up as she walked away. “We can talk about this. Where are you going? Clove.” He was annoyingly insistent on following her.

Clove spun around, staring right into Cato’s eyes. “I can’t be her, Cato. So maybe it’s best if we split up.” She was prepared to leave but Cato grabbed her wrist.

“Y/N.” He uttered without thinking. His grip loosened on Clove’s wrist once he realized his mistake.

“See? That’s what I’m talking about.” Clove unlocked the front door, stepping out. “Just… leave my stuff on the doorstep and I’ll do the same.” She closed the door behind her and allowed herself a moment of weakness.

Cato stood on the other side, listening to Clove’s quiet sobs and sniffs. He slowly backed away. He knew that deep down, Clove was right. He did wish she was Y/N.

He glanced at the box Y/N’s stuff. It sat at the bottom of the stairs, almost collecting dust.

Maybe it’s for the best, he told himself. He had already hurt Clove enough. There was no reason for him to pretend that he loved her as much as he still loved Y/N.

[ruewrote]

𝑡𝑜𝑜 𝑐𝑙𝑜𝑠𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑡.

PAIRING: cato hadley x fem!reader WARNINGS: creepy guy, no use of y/n GENRE: angsty? SONG INSPIRATION: ...ready for it? by taylor swift WORD COUNT: 634 REQUESTED: yes

navigation | ask | the hunger games masterlist

the dull thud of metal meeting the target echoes through the training center as you throw another knife. the steady rhythm of your throws keeps you focused, even amidst the chaos around you. other tributes are busy practicing their own strengths, hand-to-hand combat, survival skills, and weapons training. but you've always been better with knives, finding a strange sense of peace in the precise movements of throwing them.

you pick up another blade, feeling its weight in your palm, when something disrupts your concentration. a certain presence that lingers too close behind you, an uncomfortable warmth pressing into your personal space. you try to ignore it, pulling your arm back to make the next throw, but it’s impossible to shake the sensation of someone watching you a little too intently.

before you can react, a hand grabs your arm, rough, forceful. you freeze.

"that's not how you throw a knife, sweetheart," a voice sneers from behind you, low and mocking. you turn slightly to see one of the other tributes standing uncomfortably close. his eyes are dark, leering as they trace over you. "maybe you should stick to something a little less dangerous."

you narrow your eyes, yanking your arm out of his grip, but he doesn’t back off. instead, he steps closer, the smirk on his face making your skin crawl.

before you can respond, a sudden rush of movement makes you flinch. out of the corner of your eye, you see a blur of motion as someone barrels into the guy, sending him stumbling backwards. you hear the sickening crunch of a fist meeting flesh, followed by a grunt of pain.

it’s cato.

his eyes are wild, filled with rage, as he lands a solid punch square into the guy’s jaw, sending him sprawling to the floor. the tribute scrambles to get up, but cato is already looming over him, fists clenched at his sides. 

"stay the hell away from her," cato growls, his voice dangerously low, every syllable dripping with barely contained anger. his chest heaves with the effort of keeping himself from completely losing control.

the other tribute, now more cautious, wipes the blood from his lip and glares up at cato, but he doesn’t say anything, staggering to his feet before walking away, muttering something under his breath.

the entire training center seems to pause for a moment as everyone turns to watch the scene. but you’re only focused on cato.

"are you okay?" he asks, his voice softer now as he steps closer to you, his eyes scanning your face for any sign of discomfort.

you nod, still trying to process how quickly everything happened. "i’m fine. you didn’t have to do that, though," you say, your voice a little shaky.

cato’s eyes narrow, clearly not agreeing with you. "of course i did. that guy was asking for it." his tone is protective, but there’s something else there, something possessive, too.

for a moment, you’re caught off guard by how much he seems to care. cato wasn’t someone who gave away affection or protection easily, and yet here he was, standing between you and any potential threat.

"thank you," you murmur, your heart pounding in your chest. cato’s eyes soften just a fraction at your words, and he steps closer again, his towering figure making you feel strangely safe.

"don’t thank me," he mutters. "no one messes with you while i’m around."

you smile slightly, despite the adrenaline still coursing through your veins. "noted."

cato nods once, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer before he turns back toward the rest of the training center. but even as he walks away, his presence lingers, and you can’t help but feel a little more secure knowing that, in this brutal place, someone like cato had your back.

comments and reblogs are appreciated ♡

© ruewrote 2024.

[enobariasdistrict2]

let me put on a show for you by catoscloves/enobarias (on ao3) thg | clato | 2.6k | canon, 74th hunger games

summary: cato promises to let clove have his kill, under certain conditions. (a missing scene between cato and clove, before the feast.)

excerpt: "cato, if you would just let me have this kill," clove insists as cato leans back against a tree, uncharacteristically relaxed. she's grown accustomed to the way her partner (and, though she'd truly rather lose the games than admit it, her friend) stampedes around the arena, and the fact that he's not stalking back and forth like a manic jungle cat as he usually does unnerves her. "i am more than capable-"

he cuts her off with an immediate protest.

"absolutely not." the definitive tone of his statement is punctuated by a practice thrust of his spear into the open air, seemingly more to have something to do with his inactive hands than actual preparation, and clove hugs herself tightly so she doesn't lose focus and fixate on the way his arm muscles contract with his movement. "the girl is the reason we could lose everything. she's mine."

clove won't ask what he means by lose everything, but she has a startling sense that he means far more than just the coveted victor spot in these games.

[lost-in-beacon-hills]

This next chapter may be the softest so far? I think?

[lunassentials]

Notice!

I'm back my lovelies.

1st year of Uni has been a rollercoaster, but over easter break I've found myself wanting to return to writing and have had a burst of new ideas after being devastated I lost my old works in progress.

I'm a little bit obsessed with the Hunger Games right now, so any requests or idea are welcomed, though I will be putting some stuff up soon. Once it's proofread.

Besides the original characters of the series, I've also created some of my own based on the universe, so please feel free to check them out and request for them if they tickle your fancy.

Please check out my main blog @celestialqueen13 for more information.

May the odds, be ever in your favour!

[neytirisheaven]

THE HUNGER GAMES MASTERLIST ் ༘

[ ↷ m. masterlist ]

[ ❏   legend   , ]

✿   fluff     !    ☁︎   angst    !    ★   smut     !

♥︎   personal favorite     !    ✓   complete     !

ᝰ   currently writing     !

❛ finnick odair ❜

𓄼 oneshots 𓄹

ᝰ  |  only love can hurt like this:

( only love can hurt like this,   paloma faith )

☁︎

IN WHICH seeing finnick with annie every second of every day hurts more than all of the pain you felt in the arena combined, and you wonder, maybe this is love

ᝰ  |  how could you be so reckless?:

( reckless,   madison beer )

☁︎

IN WHICH finnick only ever spoke to you to play with your heart, and even johanna's tired of his recklessness

𓄼 mini-fics 𓄹

tba

❛ cato hadley ❜

𓄼 oneshots 𓄹

ᝰ  |  maybe this time i'm better alone:

( pity ya,   denise julia )

☁︎

IN WHICH you know that cato and clove have feelings for each other, but you've made the mistake of getting your hopes up and convincing yourself into thinking that maybe you have a chance

ᝰ  |  can you make it last forever?:

( see you again,   tyler, the creator & kali uchis )

☁︎✿

IN WHICH you and cato volunteered for the 74th annual hunger games knowing one of you or both of you wouldn't make it

𓄼 mini-fics 𓄹

tba

[katnissmellarkkk]

Alright girls, I got a request a bit ago for some Katniss / Mrs. Everdeen content and as I’ve never written their relationship before I wasn’t sure if I liked it at first! But I’ve finally gotten around to actually editing it so I hope it’s good and it feels in character and y’all like it! I don’t know if I’ll write a oneshot focused on their relationship again but this was actually pretty fun! I hope y’all who read it have a blessed day and enjoy yourselves 🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵

-

summary : katniss and her mother bond a few days after she comes home from the games. set between the hunger games and catching fire 💕.

-

I’m never getting used to nightmares.

It’s been two days since the cameras left and I’ve found little relief in their absence. For some reason I assumed once they were gone, the terrors would follow behind them, chasing after the shiny lenses and bright lights, all the way back to the Capitol.

But as it turns out, that couldn’t be further from reality.

Instead the lack of limelight has led to an uptick in nightmare. Not all equal in vigor but all too severe to be properly described by the word dreams.

Sometimes it’s Thresh, chasing me in the woods. Other times Cato tosses me off the Cornucopia to be eaten by the mutts. Occasionally I see Glimmer actually make it up the tree without the branches breaking beneath her feet, grabbing me by the braid and yanking me to the ground where the entire Career pack closes in on me like a pack of wild dogs.

Today though, it’s Clove dangling her knife above my head, taunting me, drawing out the kill. I can’t make out her words, the pulsating in my ears far too loud to understand just about anything, but she says something and then cracks up laughing, as if she’s the funniest person in the whole entire world, ecstatic to be the one to kill the girl on fire.

The dream ends when she plunges the knife into my heart. I don’t actually feel anything but it shocks me awake all the same.

It shocks me awake with such a start that it takes a moment to gather my bearings. It takes a moment to realize I’m alive and safe, in my new house, in District Twelve.

In Victor’s Village, to be exact.

The new home that I was gifted over a week ago, already ready to go with furniture and all, as a reward for my efforts in the games.

If I’m being honest, I feel like it’s taking just as much effort to battle these nightmares as it took to survive the arena.

That may be a bit of an exaggeration but it feels true. For the last couple of weeks I’ve been fighting almost every second of the day to come to terms with what occurred in the games.

To come to terms with all the things I did. All the things I did, with the sole purpose of surviving. All the people I hurt — all the people I killed, directly or indirectly — in effort to stay alive and come home to my mother and sister.

Every choices I made to save my own life has been playing on repeat inside my head every waking second since I woke up in the hospital in the Capitol and I feel like it’s finally going to drive me insane. It’s finally going to push me over the edge, right here, right now, in my new luxurious bedroom with my mother and sister none the wiser.

Of course, the nightmares have been a nice break from thinking of the one choice I made to save someone else’s life.

The one choice that may have disastrous consequences. The one choice I likely will never be able to escape.

Thinking about Peeta and the berries and the arena in those final moments and Cato’s mutilated body as the mutts gnawed away at him — and the look of heartbreak etched across blue eyes — does absolutely nothing to help my current state of mind and everything to exacerbate it.

I don’t even realize I’m crying until my mother’s voice sounds on the other side of the door.

“Katniss?” She calls lightly and I make an immediate effort to wipe my face and keep my voice even.

“I’m fine!” I swallow, hard, choking down the tears still fighting to come out. “Sorry, I just had a bad dream. Go back to bed.”

But she’s already opening the door before I’m even finished speaking. And I suppose I look even worse than I feel. “I know,” she says softly, looking at me with a compassion I would have rejected a couple months ago. “I heard you from down the hall.”

On the ride back to Twelve, between breaking Peeta’s heart and worrying about what President Snow may do to me or my family, I made a serious promise to myself that I would try and make things right between me and my mother.

I know she didn’t choose to be locked away in some far away, dark world after my father’s death. And I know she wishes she could take it all back.

And I know that I could have died in the games. The idea of leaving this world with my relationship with my mother still fractured and tense almost makes me cry harder.

“I’m sorry,” I say now, forcing myself to smile in a way that I hope is reassuring but am aware enough to know it probably looks pitiful at best. My tears refuse to stop and until then, none of my placating will have an effect. “I’ll be fine. Why don’t you start breakfast and I’ll be down in a moment.”

My mother nods, letting me take all initiative in our relationship. Just as she’s done for the last four years.

She turns as if to leave, as if to give me the space I’m so clearly wanting. The space I have all but verbally asked for.

But instead, as if making a split second decision, she surprises me. She spins around and makes a sudden beeline in my direction.

Both her arms wrap around me, holding me protectively, as if she could even begin to keep me safe from the horrors playing inside my head. Still though, her embrace isn’t the most startling thing.

It’s the fact that I instinctively return it.

I hugged her on the train platform in front of the cameras when arriving back in Twelve and I hugged her again yesterday at some point but this is the first time since I was eleven — since I was a child — that I readily accept her embrace. That I go as far as returning it.

That I willingly dive into her arms, just like I would have years ago, letting her comfort me instead of getting angry and defensive and mean.

It takes a moment for her to get over her evident shock, obviously not anticipating that I would even allow her to hold me, let alone clinging onto her like a needy kitten. But when she does, she sits down on the edge of my bed and pulls me into her arms, stroking my hair and rubbing my back in soft circles.

“It’s okay,” she whispers when my cries grow louder. “It’s okay, baby. I’m here now.”

I’m not your baby, I’d shouted at her years ago. I was so angry with her. I was so angry and so righteous and for what? For something she couldn’t control and couldn’t take back? For something she clearly needed help to manage?

I thought I knew everything when I was twelve. I thought I was the strongest person on earth.

Not now apparently, I think to myself as I wail into my mother’s neck, almost surprised that I still fit in her arms after all this time.

I don’t know how long I stay against her, letting her smooth back my sweat soaked hair and breathing in the scent of lavender I didn’t even know I missed while in the Capitol. It’s got to be close to an hour before my sobs die down and even then they threaten to start back up again.

“You’re home and safe,” she promises gently, rubbing my back again. “You will never go back to the games for as long as you live. You’re never going to see another arena. You’re going to live a long life here in Twelve.” Her voice is light and soft, almost like a hum. The way she speaks to Prim after a nightmare. The way she used to speak to me before my father died.

“Where’s Prim?” I croak, becoming more and more aware of how disgusting I feel. The nightmare left me covered in perspiration and I would feel sorry for my mother having to be so close to me if it wasn’t for the fact that she deals with much worse on a daily basis as a healer.

“At school,” she says, pulling back a little to wipe my leftover tears with her thumb. “You slept in late today.”

Right. Prim is starting school again now. It’s almost autumn. Gale is working in the mines six days a week. My mother is beginning to treat people for colds and croup again.

And I have to now decide how to spend my days as a happy little victor.

I suppose today isn’t the day to make that decision though. My head hurts from all the crying and my body feels weak with exhaustion despite the fact that I just woke up.

Before really thinking about it, I lean my head against my mother’s shoulder again, already seeing Clove with her knives reappear as soon as I shut my eyes.

“Are you hungry?” My mother asks, leaning down kissing my hair as she folds me back into her arms. I can tell she’s almost overjoyed that I’m allowing her to console me.

Almost. Because there’s no way she would have ever wished for this to be the reason I let her back in.

“No.” I shake my head, my stomach turning at the mere thought of eating right now.

“Then why don’t we get you cleaned up? Hmm?” She waits for my nod before standing up and taking my hand.

I let her lead me into our new bathroom, where the sinks are white and porcelain and the toilet feels too expensive to use. And the giant tub in the middle of the room makes the bucket we used to use in the Seam feel like a foot bath.

I watch as she moves the knobs around, already having gotten the hang of the appliance, and adds soothing, sweet smelling oils into the water.

Once the tub is halfway full she helps me undress and tosses my damp pajamas into a laundry basket by the door.

I sink to the bottom of the bath, feeling the blazing hot water relax my sore, achy muscles and encase me like a wool blanket in wintertime.

My mother lets me soak for a moment before kneeling down to the right of the tub and getting to work. She washes me up with rose scented soaps and cleans my hair with something that foams when you rub it between your hands and reminds me distantly of Effie Trinket.

“You’d be a good hair washer if we lived in the Capitol,” I murmur as she scrubs my scalp lightly with her fingernails.

She snorts and tips my chin up to rinse my locks. “In another life, I suppose.”

After double conditioning she expertly rings my hair out and then pulls the drain. I sit in the tub until it’s completely empty, having never actually seen huge swirls of water rushing down a drain before. It’s so fascinating that for a moment I consider refilling the tub just to pull the drain all over again.

Afterwards I sit on my bed silently, feeling worn and depleted, wrapped in a towel while she combs out the tangles from my hair, before pulling it into a simple braid.

“Mama,” I whisper as she grabs a silk shirt from my dresser.

“Yeah?”

“I’m so tired.”

My words are plain but the meaning behind them is loaded and she intrinsically understands my true intent.

I’m so tired. It’s only been two days since it all officially ended and I feel exhausted. I feel like I haven’t slept in a hundred years. I feel like I’ll never sleep again. I feel so much older than sixteen and at the same time so much younger and I don’t understand and you can’t understand but I just want to sleep. I just want to go to bed and actually sleep through the night without the panic and the fear.

Wordlessly, she turns back to the dresser and pulls out a nightgown instead. “Then you should go back to sleep,” she says simply, pulling away the towel and tugging the nightgown over my head, rightening my braid and moving back the covers to my bed.

And I crawl between sheets without hesitation and let her tuck me in, let her care for me, let her mother me again, in a way I’ve rejected for so long now. I lay there and let her rub my back, comforting me the same way she does when I’m too sick to push her away.

I’m almost asleep when she leans down and kisses me goodnight. “I love you, Katniss Sienna,” she whispers, standing to pull the blankets up to my chin. “I love you. And I’m so happy that my baby’s home safe.”

“Goodnight,” I mumble into the covers as she starts closing the door behind her. “Thank you,” I add as sleep grabs ahold of me again, but I doubt she catches it. “Thank you, Mama.”

-

[swanimagines]

THE HUNGER GAMES AO3 SERIESES

EVERYTHING FOR THE HUNGER GAMES

Cato

Peeta Mellark

Finnick Odair (coming)

Marvel (coming)

(Any of the other characters don't have any requests written nor pending as for now, so I'm unable to have serieses for them as AO3 requires you to have at least one oneshot written to be able to add it to a series, and I can't promise serieses for characters who don't have requests pending/I have no ideas of my own for them)

For anyone who's concerned, THESE ARE NOT ONESHOT COLLECTIONS, they are made using AO3's "series" feature.

If you want to be informed about new fics for The Hunger Games or its individual characters, create an AO3 account and subscribe or bookmark any of those serieses listed above. There are buttons at the top right corner for those, or on top on mobile. I do not do Tumblr taglists anymore.

Also, if you're wondering, requests are ALWAYS open and you're welcome to leave one or multiple. Just remember to read my rules and pick a request type from this list.

[trampled-and-melting]

wrote another oneshot because i'm STILL waiting for a usable computer and the next chapter of LiaFh is long as hell. so here's a cato and clove character study ❤️

964 words

[transmogrified-in-the-void]

It's Only Up From Here

Here's an almost 3k oneshot I wrote for the TPU anniversary yesterday! I had to stop bc it almost made me cry!

Malcolm sits in the dining room with the lights mostly off. The counter light, which is the only light downstairs that hasn’t been replaced with LEDs, illuminates the half-full coffeemaker and an opened box of cereal left precariously on the edge.

Across from Malcolm and his bowl of cereal is Airael and his coffee. He blends into the shadows more than most mornings thanks to the black tank top, but the light catches the glazed ceramic of his bright purple mug with every sip he takes.

“You have a presentation today, don’t you?” He asks in his gravely just-woke-up alto voice, and Malcolm watches Airael’s dark eyes gleam in the yellow light as they move to look at him.

Malcolm shrugs and takes a bite of his cereal. “Yeah, I guess. Dunno if they’ll get to me today or not.”

Airael hums and takes another long sip of coffee. “Which class is it again?”

“English.”

“Ah.”

The silence returns to the kitchen, and the two continue their morning rituals in the comfort of each other. Airael drains his mug, and moves to get another cup as Absinthe shuffles into the space. Silently, Airael takes another mug from the cupboard and fills it alongside his.

He ruffles Malcolm’s hair as he makes his way out. “Have a good time today, kid.” And he walks out of the kitchen, and up the stairs where he and Gemini’s room is.

Malcolm watches Absinthe doctor her coffee, grab an apple from the fridge, and sit down in the chair next to his. “Did you get the slides turned in last night?” She asks, watching Malcolm carefully as he stares into the mostly empty cereal bowl.

“Yeah.”

“And you’re sure you don’t want me to help you practice it at all?”

“Nope.”

She shrugs and leans back in her chair, mug in hand. “If you say so. You better give us all the whole spiel after you’ve done it, though. I know Gem’s been dying to hear it.”

Malcolm laughs softly. “You all have, don’t single her out.”

“You’re not the one who has to hear the complaining all day.”

“You’re not the one they’re begging.”

She rolls her eyes and takes a long drink. There’s a moment as she looks at Malcolm, studying him like it would be the last time she’d ever see his face. It would make Malcolm more uncomfortable if it wasn’t a common occurrence, if he didn’t understand exactly why she did it. 

“We get the house to ourselves tonight.” Absinthe tilts her head, and her crazed neon green hair falls over her left eye.

“Wait, really?” The bleariness starts to leave Malcolm as he sits up in excitement. “Why? Isn’t it, like, impossible to do that?”

“Usually, yeah.” Absinthe shrugs like she didn’t just get four people to be out of the house at the same time for hours. “But Gemini and Airael are going out to a concert tonight, Cato’s meeting up with some friend, and I convinced Virtue to go out as well.”

He grins, and gets out of his chair and hugs her as tightly as he can. “You don’t know how much that means to me.”

She hugs him back. “No, I think I do.” They let go, and Malcolm takes a step back. Absinthe pushes her hair back, and gives him a small half-smile. “When you get home everyone’ll still be here, but it’s empty by 7 and will be until late.”

She glances at the clock on the wall. “Go get your shit now, otherwise we’ll be late.”

He starts to run out of the kitchen, but pauses for a moment and looks back at her. “You’re the best, by the way.”

“I have been your whole life.” She smiles, but it’s heavier than earlier. “And I will be until I die.”

-

“So what you’re saying,” Josie points her fork at Malcolm absentmindedly, “is that you’re excited to spend time with your wackadoodle sister that I’ve heard nothing but annoyances about.”

“Okay, yes, but-” Malcolm starts, but Finn cuts him off.

“We’re not worried, Mal, more confused.” They take a bite of whatever soup they brought for lunch and tuck some of their curls behind their ear. “Family is weird and shit, but we’ve heard like, nothing super positive about her, or anything super negative. So you being like this about it is just weird.”

Malcolm groans. “You guys wouldn’t get it.”

“Not if you don’t explain.” Finn quips.

“Oh yeah, just because we don’t live with one of the most popular local bands means we’ll never understand complicated relationships.” Josie rolls her eyes. “Trust us, dude. That’s it.”

Malcolm purses his lips as his friends watch him intently. “It’s just. She’s been there my entire life, through everything. When I was younger and living with our aunt, and she was out of state for weeks at a time, she’d try to call at least once a week. But she was gone a lot, and it wasn’t until recently that I’ve actually been able to like, talk with her and spend any amount of time with her.”

Finn and Josie nod slowly, and Josie spears a piece of chicken from the plastic tray. “Well, that kinda explains some of it. Kinda.”

“It’s not like we talked about her a lot in the first place.” Finn agrees. “Have you even been able to have, like, one on one time since moving in?”

Malcolm shakes his head, and the pair ‘ohhhhh’ in sudden understanding. “She’s… different around the band than she is around me.”

“Gonna play the devil's advocate, maybe that’s for a good reason.” Josie looks down at the white-grey chicken alfredo in front of her. “You’re 16 in a few days, she’s almost 25 and most of the band is around her age. Whatever the hell happened when you were a kid happened as she was at least your age now. Whenever she met the band was probably around the same time she was figuring out the impact of your childhood, it makes sense.”

Malcolm shrugs. “Yeah, except for Cato. She met Cato only two years ago.”

Finn gives Josie a look. “Cato’s the short one with brown hair, right?”

He nods. “Yeah, when you guys came by to pick me up last week he was on the front steps.”

“Ah.” They take another spoonful of soup. “Well, this isn’t something we’re going to be able to figure out during lunch, so maybe table it for now?” Everyone nods, and they grin. “Cool, so I bought another deck yesterday.”

-

“Malcolm, it’s your turn.” Mr. Acosta announces, and Malcolm watches as his slides are projected onto the whiteboard.

He takes the clicker, stands to the side, and takes a deep breath. Countless nights spent in his bedroom working on something that, in the end, shouldn’t mean as much as it does. It’s not like this speech is worth a large part of his grade, or that he’s figured out some secret previously unknown.

He looks at the class of faces that he vaguely recognizes but will never truly know. A sense of unfathomable connection fills him, knowing that he is going to give a room of strangers a vulnerable corner of his heart that he’s never shown anyone else.

“Music has often been called the universal language.” He starts, pushing through the stewing anxiety in his chest. “It is as diverse and vast as the people who make it, and it can connect to people in a way that simple conversation can’t.”

He clicks the next slide, and it shows an old picture of Bardic Inspiration in a dingy basement, back when Michael was still playing guitar. “I found this picture on an old camera that Airael owned.” He turns on the laser pointer and points it at Airael, who’s leaning back with his eyes closed as he plays his old red bass. “And he remembers setting up that camera to take a picture every five minutes, and playing in a cramped basement that had maybe 15 people in it.

“It was one of their first gigs, and he told me that the thing he remembers the best is how loud everyone in the crowd was, and how it became part of the music already being played.”

Click. A picture of Bardic Inspiration at their last big concert. Even after spending so long looking at the two pictures, it’s astounding how different the three continuous members are from the first photo to the second.

Airael’s no longer thin and lanky, instead his body filling out from both easier access to food and his daily runs, Gemini’s hair is long and intricately braided, and her arms and face are free from scabs. Absinthe’s hair is dyed green and in its long, shaggy mohawk style; no longer matted in its original rusty reddish-brown color.

But the biggest difference is that they don’t look angry in the second picture. They look so incredibly happy.

Malcolm clears his throat. “This photo was taken about seven years later. I asked Absinthe,” He lasers Absinthe’s face. “What it felt like on the stage. She said it was like leading a choir into a loud, righteous song of joy and personhood. So it’s really easy to tell who writes the lyrics, honestly.”

There’s a slight laugh from the class. Click. “John Cage’s composition 4’33” requires that the players don’t make a noise, not from them, not from their instruments. Instead, the composition is made by taking in the sounds of the world around you. And it is both the experiences of hearing a crowd, and this one composition that I made my thesis: the telling of humanity is to hear music in everyday life.”

-

“So,” Finn glances at Malcolm as he closes the passenger door. “Whaddya think you guys are gonna do tonight?”

Malcolm shrugs as they shift the car in reverse, and slowly move their way into the line of ever moving cars. “Who knows. Probably get food and watch a movie. Maybe play a game.”

“You sound less excited now.”

“It’s not that.” Malcolm leans his head against the window and watches as they inch forward. “I’m just realizing that this is the first time in years I’ve had the ability to talk to her alone. I dunno what’s gonna happen.”

They hum, and watch as a car up ahead almost runs into another in their hurry to get out of the parking lot. “Well, from the few times I’ve met your sister, I don’t think it’s going to be disastrous.” They glance over at Malcolm, whose eyes follow the group of students weaving between cars. “But you can call me if something happens. I don’t have anything important happening tonight.”

Malcolm hums, shrugs, and closes his eyes. “I dunno. I just don’t.”

Fyn turns onto the road and starts driving towards Malcolm’s. They exhale loudly through their nose.  “Neither do I. But it’ll be fine, I bet. You two don’t hate each other.”

He turns to look at them, and a small smile makes its way to his face. “Yeah, she kinda gives a shit.” He looks back out the window, shoulders relaxed. “Kinda bad at showing it sometimes, though.”

They grin. “Oh absolutely. I would give so much money to know why she thought to get you a moped when you don’t have a license, and don’t want to drive anything like that.”

That gets him to bark out a laugh. “Apparently she misinterpreted me wanting the moped LEGO as me wanting an actual moped. Apparently.”

“Well let me know when you’re actually able to drive it around, I need to be a passenger at least once before we graduate.”

“We’ll see if I ever get around to signing up for drivers ed, maybe I like being chauffeured around for cheap.”

Fyn smacks Malcolm’s arm. “Don’t you fucking dare, Mal. I’ll kill you, I know where you sleep.”

“You’d have to get past Airael. I swear to God that dude never sleeps.”

“Oh woe is me, I’ll have to grapple with the cool ass bassist that lives on a different floor than you.”

“Don’t underestimate how quickly he can get places. Once Cato yelled that tacos were ready, and Airael went from being on the second floor in the room farthest from the stairs to the kitchen in less than 10 seconds.”

“Damn.” They whistle. “I’d like to see that in action one day. See if I can replicate it for my own nefarious means.”

Malcolm laughs, and sits forwards in the seat. Fyn turns onto the street that eventually leads to his house. “I don’t think I could handle that, if you managed to appear out of nowhere so quickly. Who knows, maybe I’ll suddenly get a Power and it’s appearing in a way that’s unsettling only to you.”

He shudders. “Oh that would be the worst, please no.”

They only wink and smile, but it slowly fades as they creep closer to the house. They slow the car down more and more, before coming to a stop a good 200 feet away from the front door.

“What the fuck.” They whisper, eyes wide as they count one, two, three, eight cop cars stationed in front of Malcolm’s house, and two cars from the Heroes Association. Multiple cops, and two Heroes stand in front of the house, talking. They turn to grab Malcolm, but he’s already unbuckled and starting to open the door. “Wait, don’t-”

Fyn tries to catch up once he’s out, but he’s so much faster. “Malcolm!” They yell, but he can’t hear them, he’s pushing past cops and steering clear of the Heroes and running inside. He almost slips, Gemini must’ve spilled something, something that smells bad and wrong and horrible and-

“Get back over here, kid!”

Someone is yelling his name. It might be his name, he doesn’t know, he’s staring at the kitchen he had just been in earlier and there’s a wolf four times larger than him in the middle with an uncomfortably familiar blonde coat that’s soaked red and eyes that look just like Gemini’s, but that can’t be her eyes since she’s a person and a human who can’t do anything but play the drums and beat everyone during game night.

In front of the wolf is another person, it looks so like Airael except his eyes are bright red instead of their normal dark brown, and his teeth are too sharp and in the wrong places and there’s no torso connecting his arms and his legs, only the one laying by the fridge, so it can’t be, it can’t be-

There’s a shoe peeking out from behind the wolf. A shoe that might have been doodled on with a familiar hand, if it wasn’t absolutely soaked with. With red.

Something grabs his shoulder and he wrenches himself free as he stumbles around and the shoe is attached to a leg with cuffed jeans covered in sharpie and something red (no, no it’s not, it’s not), and the chest is absolutely shredded but he recognizes the hands. That’s the bracelet he made Absinthe why is it here? That should be with Absinthe and she’s not here with the wolf with Gemini’s eyes and the Airael look alike.

But that’s her face. That’s her face on her head with her hair looking into the distance. Malcolm follows her gaze, hoping to see anything, any sort of answer to what happened. There’s nothing, just the cabinet that holds plates. His knees hit the slick tile (oh God, it is) and he shakes her shoulder.

Nothing happens. Not even inside him. There’s nothing. But if this is Absinthe, then-

“Hey, twerp, you need to get out. We got questions for you.”

Malcolm glances back and sees the bright colors indicative of a Hero. A hero whose costume is covered in blood.

He tries to cover as much of Absinthe’s body and face as he can. “Hey, hey if this is a dream you can wake me up now.” He begs. “Please, please just wake me up, please.”

There’s a cacophony of noise playing in his head, everyone is talking, there’s a beat in his ears, Absinthe is talking to him but it was from this morning, he holds onto how her voice sounds, and how the words are hers every time.

Two hands grip onto his arms, and it hurts.

“Leave me alone!” He screams, and he tries to push out everything that’s running around in his head and his chest, and the hands go away and it’s quiet. “Please, I just want them to be okay.”

The symphony of pain and agony rings out again in his head, and quiets. His knees don’t feel wet and sticky anymore. Neither do his hands. He opens his eyes (when did he close them?) and sees them, all three of them as he remembered them. Gemini and Airael are holding hands side by side, and Absinthe is smiling. It looks like they could be asleep. Malcolm pulls Absinthe’s body close, and it’s so heavy, but when he hugs it close it almost feels like she’s right there, just a little too cold, and he cries.

[7s3ven]

hello! ur writing is so fun and rahhhh i heart it. idk if ur taking cato reqs but i love him bro its an issue. anyhow, childhood friend!tribute!reader and him coming to terms with the fact that both of them cant win. could be platonic or romantic whatever u like<3

I’m literally in love with Cato.

( master list )

DANCING WITH UR GHOST. cato hadley

IN WHICH… Cato Hadley and Y/N L/N accept there can only be one winner. The Capitol watches as one falls and the other leaves the arena with a furious heart, never quite moving on.

Warnings : not proof-read, a little bit of angst, some gore (it’s the hunger games)

—

THG TAG LIST : No one rn 💀

—

It was a hot and sunny day when the Capitol chose to announce the tributes. Small beads of sweat rolled down Y/N’s forehead as she clasped her hands behind her back. The sun was relentlessly beating down on the large group of teenagers crowded in front of the stage, organised by age and all eagerly waiting.

Y/N wasn’t like the rest of her District. She had seen how the effects of the Hunger Games weighed down on the tributes. Haymitch had turned to drinking after the slaughter of his family. Y/N couldn’t imagine returning home to see the people you held dear gruesomely bloodied on the floor.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Cato. He stood out from the boys, being one of the tallest and towering over them. He had his jaw clenched and he was impatiently tapping his foot, waiting until he could leap onto the stage.

His head turned and they locked eyes. Y/N was the first to break into an amused smile and he returned it, his pale lips curving upwards.

Y/N paid no attention to the video playing on the screen in front of her. They showed it every year and she had practically memorised the voice lines by now. Her mind flashed back to yesterday, the day where Cato had suggested the unthinkable.

“What if we run away?” He questioned, making Y/N pause. She grasped the handle of her ax tightly as she spun around to face her childhood friend.

“What?” She needed to make sure that she had heard him right. It’s not like Y/N hadn’t thought of it before but for Cato Hadley of all people to ask was outrageous. He was Two’s greatest candidate. They were all counting on him.

“You heard me. What if we ran away? Away from all this and away from the games? I wouldn’t have to worry about being a peacekeeper. We could do it, you and me.”

Y/N has full faith in her axe skills and Cato’s strength but the idea was almost too crazy to pull off. She shook her head, “They’d find us.” She whispered. Y/N was glad nobody else was in the gym because this could be considered treason.

Y/N subtly shook her head. If only leaving District Two was that easy. They would surely notice if their strongest candidate and his axe-throwing friend went missing.

Her attention was caught by the lady, Kikoro, walking towards the microphone in a hideously bright yellow skirt. Beside her, Y/N heard Clove laugh.

Clove was a good friend of Cato’s and by default she was a friend of Y/N’s too. She was shorter than both of them but that didn’t stop her from snapping at people left and right. Her skills with throwing knives were amazing and Y/N often felt a little jealous. Surely the knives were lighter compared to lugging around a wooden stick with a blade attached to it.

“Now, I must warn you, there’s a new little rule. No volunteering this year.” Kikoro uttered into the microphone, her lips covered in yellow lipstick curling into an unsettling smile. She ignored the disappointed jeers from the teenagers as she reached into the first bowl. “Ladies first. It’s only polite.”

Everybody watched with bated breath as Kikoro unfolded the piece of paper painfully slow. Clove was practically shaking with excitement.

Kiroko cleared her throat before she leaned forward, glancing at the crumbled paper. “Y/N L/N.” She said.

Y/N clicked her tongue, thinking it was all a sick joke. She wasn’t scared shitless like the tributes in the paper districts were but she was disappointed. Why her and not somebody who actually wanted to compete?

Y/N begrudgingly stepped onto stage after being dragged by a peacekeeper. “Let go of me.” She hissed, yanking her arm out of the man’s grip.

“What’s your name, dear?” Kiroko asked, gesturing Y/N to step forward to the microphone. The H/C-nette stared at the Capitol citizen in confusion.

“You just said my name… Y/N L/N.”

Kikoro paused before she burst into a fit of light laughter. “Ah, sorry dear. I’m so used to volunteers. Next up, the boys.”

Y/N hoped her District partner would be someone useful who she could discard later. Someone strong but not too strong as to overpower her.

As Y/N rocked back and forth on her heels, she glanced over at Kikoro who was now unfolding the second paper. She read text written in black ink before grasping the microphone.

Hearing her own name getting called didn’t frighten Y/N but as Kikoro declared the male tribute, her heart dropped so fast that she may as well collapsed. It was the one person she wished hadn’t been chosen.

“Cato Hadley.”

The train ride was silent. Enobaria had tried talking to the pair but they never replied. Eventually, she gave up and went to a different compartment.

“We should’ve run away.” Y/N quietly muttered, suddenly regretting not putting the absurd plan into action. Across from her, Cato chuckled.

“Yeah…” He paused, refusing to believe that this was really happening. That he’d have to kill his best friend if he wanted to survive. He was brought back to the harsh reality as the train bumped along the tracks.

“You should’ve played dead… or something.” Y/N stirred the spoon around in her cup of coffee, having no intentions of actually tasting the bitter drink. She licked her dry lips. “What happens if we’re the last ones left?”

Cato didn’t have the courage to answer. He pushed his food around with his fork for a few moments before finally lifting his head. “May the best win.” He uttered.

Y/N glanced out the window, staring at the tall buildings of the Capitol in the distance. She took a deep breath as the train quickly approached the large city and their impending doom.

The days in the Capitol were limited. And they passed by fast. One minute Y/N was standing in front of the dummy targets, skilfully throwing axes as their heads then the next she was in front of a crowd in a glittery gold gown.

“You’re a fan favourite, Y/N. How does that make you feel?” Caesar, with his crazy blue hair and matching suit, said as he widely grinned.

“I guess I’m just that charming.” Y/N smiled as she leaned back in her seat, gracefully crossing one leg over the other.

“Our time is almost up but may I ask the question that everyone has been wondering? What on earth is going on between you and Cato?”

The Capitol had caught wind of the small stolen glances and borderline flirtatious kisses on the knuckles. Y/N shifted in her seat as she recalled the event before this very interview.

“You look…” Cato entered the room, practically starstruck as Y/N stood on a small platform. “Wow.” She frowned as she adjusted the tight bodice of her dress.

“Really? Because right now, I can’t really breathe.” Y/N let out a small laugh but she felt her corset suffocate her lungs.

“Does this look like a face that would lie to you?” Cato grasped Y/N’s hands and helped her off the platform. “I mean it. You look stunning… almost makes me wish we were getting ready for a ball instead of this.” Cato’s face was so close. Y/N couldn’t help but let her eyes dart to his lips.

“You look handsome too.” She playfully grinned as she straightened Cato’s tie. “Blue suits you.”

“We’re just friends.” Y/N repeated that overused phrase while the Capitol citizens groaned in frustration. “I don’t know what you want me to admit… Cato is handsome but I can’t imagine dating someone I’ve known since childhood… his face is getting a little annoying.”

Y/N’s cheeky remark earned her a few laughs.

“If given the chance, I probably would’ve liked to kiss him once, you know?” Y/N’s confidence grew and she forgot all about how Cato could hear her words through the small screen in the waiting room. She folded her arms over her chest just as the timer buzzed.

“Y/N L/N, everybody!” Caesar declared.

She stepped off the stage and back into the shadows, away from the piercing lights. Glimmer and Marvel had already returned to their rooms and Y/N was about to do the same before Cato came into view.

She saw him wave enthusiastically at the crowd but his eyes were on her. She shrank back, suddenly aware of what she had said during the interview.

Y/N scurried off before Caesar could even ask Cato one question. She stormed into the room assigned to District Two. Enobaria was sitting on the couch, clicking the TV remote buttons.

“Need help getting out of that dress?” The sharp-toothed woman asked. Y/N silently nodded.

“Thank you.” Y/N said, finally able to breathe properly again. She would never take oxygen for granted again.

Y/N was only dressed in a black singlet and shorts when Cato burst through her personal room door. “What was that?” He demanded, slamming the door behind him. “If given the chance? I’m giving you the damn chance, Y/N!”

Y/N let out a squeak of surprise when he grabbed her face and pulled her forward, swiftly kissing her like he had been waiting to do so for years. With how his hands trailed down to tightly grip her waist, Y/N wouldn’t be surprised if Cato had been dreaming of this moment.

Cato pulled away, resting his forehead on Y/N’s. “How’s that for a given chance?”

The sun in the arena felt different. Its heat was blistering and Y/N felt her body burning up underneath her heavy jacket. She wanted to discard the warm piece of clothing but it would come in handy at night.

The Careers had already made their allies clear. Y/N glanced at Cato who was already staring at her as usual.

To Y/N’s left was Glimmer, who was impatiently tapping her foot as the countdown began. Y/N stared at the decreasing numbers until it reached five and she had no choice but to get ready to run.

This was no mere dream, it was a reality that Y/N wish she didn’t exist in, for Cato’s sake.

To no one’s surprise, Cato was the first to react as the countdown finished. He leaped off his podium, immediately making a run for a silver sword. Some tributes turned tail and ran but those who joined the mess in the middle were gruesomely stabbed by Cato.

Y/N grasped a pack of throwing knives, tossing the sharp objects at anything that moved. She managed to cut Katniss’ cheek and the ravenette was not pleased about that. The District Twelve girl shot an arrow Y/N’s way but she ducked and avoided it.

“Y/N, here!” Cato tossed a fancy looking axe her way. She easily caught it, swinging it at a foolish boy who thought he could beat her.

The bloodbath didn’t last long thanks to Cato. He either killed or drove off any of the remaining tributes. “I’m feeling pretty good about this.” He grinned down at Y/N as they waltzed around the Cornucopia. He twirled his heavy sword in his hand.

“You’re in a good mood.” Y/N muttered. The hunger for bloodshed had clouded Cato’s mind, causing him to forget that Y/N would have to die in order for him to emerge victorious. She said nothing about it, though, not wanting to spoil his cheerful mood.

“I’ll be in a better mood after this.” Cato chuckled to himself as he pecked Y/N’s lips. He held her close, burying his face in her neck.

Y/N stood still, awaiting the moment where they would be forced to turn on each other. Out of the pair, Y/N had always been the rational realist.

Glimmer was dead, filled with toxin after Katniss sabotaged the Careers’ camp.

Marvel was next. Katniss skewered him like a kebab with her arrow. He died on the forest floor, joining Glimmer in Katniss’ kill count.

And then there were two. Y/N had narrowly avoided being bashed in the head with a stone by Thresh. The side of her head was still bleeding, the crimson liquid staining the green grass below.

Y/N groaned as she collapsed beside Cato, leaning against the large tree trunk. “Who’s left?” She rasped. She had heard a canon go off but she had no idea who it was.

“The boy from Eleven, the pair from two, and us.” Cato replied, his shoulder brushing against Y/N’s. He pulled out a small tin bottle, handing it over to Y/N. She gratefully took a large gulp of cold water. “Don’t worry, we’ll get home.” He whispered, “You and me forever.” After Y/N’s near death experience, Cato realized that the Capitol had played him as a fool. But he was happy about the announcement that said two victors could win if they originated from the same District.

Y/N leaned her head on Cato’s shoulder and closed her eyes, deeply sighing. She didn’t know when she dozed off or how long she was asleep but she cracked open one eye to see Cato hurriedly shaking her.

Night time, the Careers’ prime time to hunt, had already past. When Y/N’s eyes finally adjusted to the light, she furrowed her eyebrows. She was in a cave yet she remembered falling asleep on the forest floor. And Cato was covered in bites and gruesome grazes and blood. So much blood.

“Cato…” Y/N breathed, quickly leaning forward, “What happened to you?”

“I killed Katniss and Peeta… and the mutts killed Thresh. It’s you and me left, Y/N.” His sounded sounded so weak and he sluggishly cupped her face, panting heavily. For once, he was covered in his own blood rather than the blood of his victims.

“You drugged me…” Y/N’s heart fell to her stomach as she realized what had happened. Cato had slipped sleeping pills into the water and while she was knocked out, he put her in a cave and went to hunt down the three other tributes. She furrowed her brows. “How could you? Cato… you could’ve died.”

He let out a quiet laugh. “Yeah… I know. That was kind of the point. While you were asleep, they revoked the two victors rule. There can only be one again.”

That was enough for tears to well up in Y/N’s eyes. “Don’t leave me… please.” She cried as she held Cato, her childhood friend and her first true crush. His blood stained her muddy clothes but she didn’t care. “Please…” She trailed off as Cato wheezed.

“The mutts did a good job on me.” He muttered, finding it harder to stay awake. Y/N’s eyes widened.

“No. Cato. Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me here!” She immediately noticed how his pulse slowed down. “Stay awake, Cato! I can fix this! Please.”

Y/N had already come to terms that there could only be one victor but she had yet to accept that fact that she had to lose Cato to walk out.

“You can’t give up now… we came this far. We can sort something out.” Y/N uttered as she shook Cato in a fruitless attempt to convince him.

“I love you, Y/N.” He grasped her hand, squeezing it tightly. “I always have. Ever since we became friends. Ever since you were the first to find the courage to talk to me. I don’t know what I would have done with you.”

Y/N laughed as a sob bubbled up in her throat. “I love you too. If only your name wasn’t called. I could’ve won the games and come back to you.” She shakily sighed as she leaned down to kiss Cato’s cold lips. She placed her hand on his neck and when she felt no pulse, she pulled back in a panic.

“Cato?” She shook him once. Then again. “Cato?!” She repeated, this time louder. “No… no… no! Don’t leave me here! Cato!”

She screamed so loud that the sound echoed around the forest, scaring the birds and causing them to flee.

“Cato!”

Y/N walked out of the arena a free woman. Not quite since Snow would still have full control over her but she liked to think she was free to a certain extent.

The Capitol workers had tried to discard of the necklace she held so tightly in her left hand but she refused to let them take it away. It was the only remaining memory she had of Cato.

Anger swirled around in her heart like a monster, threatening to burst free and reign terror over anyone that came in contact with her.

Only now was Y/N realising why the victors never looked genuinely happy despite having everything they wanted. It was because Snow tore their deepest desires away, always holding it near but never within their reach.

Enobaria had wanted to be a mother.

Gloss wanted a peaceful life with his sister.

Cashmere wanted nothing more than to take care of the children in District One.

Brutus craved freedom from Snow’s cruel clutches.

And poor Y/N dreamt of becoming a bride but as she watched the light drift from Cato’s eyes, her wish was swept away with it.

Now, Snow had nothing to take away from her because the person she loved the most was already gone.

[ruewrote]

𝑡ℎ𝑒 ℎ𝑢𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟 𝑔𝑎𝑚𝑒𝑠 𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡.

➞ cato hadley

➞ peeta mellark

[enobariasdistrict2]

the heat of your electric touch by enobariasdistrict2/enobarias on ao3 | clato oneshot | word count: 2.5k

"You were lucky. Probably didn't get any major arteries. Come on, let's get you more comfortable," he tells her after his assessment. A brief glance downward proves him right - the blood loss doesn't seem too concerning. She only nods vigorously, breathing slowing to a steady rate as she waits impatiently for her body to adjust. When he holds out his hand between them, Clove accepts his help, allowing him to guide her to a nearby rock, his palm flat against the relatively small plane of her back. The relief she feels once seated on the cool grey stone and having pressure off her foot is immediate.

Clove accidentally injures herself and needs her district partner's help. Cato comes to the rescue with first aid that might just be too effective.

Read on ao3 or under the cut.

The steel jaws of the snare clamp around her ankle with a vicious, unforgiving clang of metal, teeth grazing the skin of her foot and tearing, before she can yank it away in time. This torturous pain draws an involuntary gasp from her, and every amount of self control she has prevents her from stumbling around clutching her foot like an idiot. The screaming of her nerve endings in that region, and the accompanying sight of blood pouring forth from the recesses of her foot, contribute to her own personal hell, but are not nearly as unbearable as the shame that squeezes her heart, a self-loathing that comes only from her own carelessness and incompetency.

Really, she is, or should be, better than this. A decade of training under her belt, only to be injured by some strange animal trap like a half-witted lower district imbecile? Much like some of the blood vessels of her foot, her pride is torn into pieces.

Clove at least has the strength to not curl into a ball and whimper on the ground the way she desperately wants to. Being idiotic enough to land in an easily avoidable trap is bad enough, but she doesn't need to look like a weakling with low pain tolerance as well. The reputation of her District is too important, the consequences of betraying a home that gave her everything too great. Unfortunately, her nervous system doesn't seem to agree, continuously attacking her with sharp signals of pain that she won't be able to ignore for much longer.

"Clove, come on, why the fuck did we stop - oh," Cato responds to his own question once he sees the issue.

Right. Yet another miserable aspect of her current situation: her ally (and the boy who has become almost an extension of her) is present to witness her humiliation. Although his words are harsh, she detects none of the frustration typically characteristic of her district partner, only a weary exhaustion that she too has been feeling the effects of.

"Listen, I can help you out with that," he offers his assistance quietly. She doesn't face him, instead glaring daggers at her traitorous foot confined by the snare trap at the base of a tree. Judging by the proximity of Cato's voice, so intense that she can almost feel the pulse of the vibrations in the air between them, he is now far closer to her than he strictly needs to be. Clove wonders if she's imagining that heat at her back being a result of his body's closeness, or perhaps it's just the Gamemakers and their sadistic temperature controls.

She removes her boot quickly and tosses it to the side of the path - whether or not she retrieves it later isn't something she cares about at the moment. Clove releases her foot, tentatively setting it on the ground to right herself, taking great care not to place too much weight on the sensitive area, and uses one of her hands to lean against the tree. Unfortunately, her hands are now both very much covered with thick blood, like messy paint splatters across skin that will congeal into a rather lovely if mildly disgusting paste, but Clove can't bring herself to think about hygiene right now.

"God, your ankle is fucked up," Cato murmurs, staring at with widened eyes in morbid fascination. Clove briefly turns her attention away from catching her breath to glower at him for his asinine statement. Unfortunately, he isn't worth the effort it would take to deliver a scathing comeback, and her rapid breaths wouldn't allow her to form a coherent insult anyways.

"I'm fine. We'll rest for thirty seconds and then keep moving," she grinds out between clenched teeth, her voice too high, blinking back tears. Cato's polite enough not to point this out, and she might have considered it a kindness on his part, that he had no interest in extending her indignity, but he could also very well be afraid of the fact that she'd tear him apart for daring to tease her. (Both possibilities are strangely heartwarming.)

Clove is not pathetic enough to be in this much pain, but they've spent hours hunting for the damned wonder-kids from Twelve and if she's being entirely honest, the tediousness of the task is getting to her - to them both. Besides, even if she did experience the sick euphoria of taking her competitors down that everyone back home had promised her, spending her days killing people was unbelievably tiring, even more so than Training had been.

(It's a secret she will carry deep down in her bones, never to be known by anyone other than herself...

or the boy who wordlessly stares at her across the campfire every night with silent understanding.)

"We both know you're not going to be just fine in thirty seconds, Clove," the boy in question mutters softly. The fact that he isn't yelling at her or degrading her for her mistake is jarring. Clove isn't used to him being so subdued. She can see his jaw clenching with irritation, but there are no signs of a classic Cato meltdown, no traces of the boy who could go ballistic at a moment's notice for even the slightest provocation. The absence of bulging veins against a reddening face, and the general lack of a hysterical outburst, is more terrifying to her than anything.

"Yeah? Then what's your plan, genius?" she replies bitterly. Her voice is far more shaky than she wants it to be, frayed at the edges with little of her typical venomous edge to her otherwise mean-spirited words.

Clove has never felt more weak in her life, especially for a technically benign, non-life threatening injury. She can only imagine the disappointment of their family and friends back home, staring at the large screens installed in the Square, watching their chosen Tributes repeatedly disgrace what the Games stood for with their failure to kill Twelves - Twelves, such easy opponents, the laughingstock of Panem. The additive pain of an incoming headache joins the ache of her ankle, the effects of both making her dizzy.

Her partner doesn't answer right away, and only conducts a silent once-over of her from head to toe, mouth slightly parted with concentration in a way that's oddly distracting. His gaze snags on the torn skin at her foot, narrowing in on the wound.

"You were lucky. Probably didn't get any major arteries. Come on, let's get you more comfortable," he tells her after his assessment. A brief glance downward proves him right - the blood loss doesn't seem too concerning. She only nods vigorously, breathing slowing to a steady rate as she waits impatiently for her body to adjust. When he holds out his hand between them, Clove accepts his help, allowing him to guide her to a nearby rock, his palm flat against the relatively small plane of her back. The relief she feels once seated on the cool grey stone and having pressure off her foot is immediate.

"Yeah, I'll be fine. We can just continue on," Clove concludes, her voice a light, breathy gasp, a fragile band that is worryingly close to breaking. She knows she has no chance of convincing him, but sheer stubbornness might work out well in her favor...

"Absolutely not," he snickers, more fond amusement than mocking. Clove inhales sharply when he suddenly drops down to his knees, unfortunately maintaining eye contact - if she didn't know better, almost deliberately. She spends far too much time viciously fighting off the salacious mental images that plague her diseased mind.

Thankfully, he doesn't seem to notice what effect the sight of him kneeling before her has, setting to work with the resolute purpose she's more familiar with from Cato. She watches him more intensely than she should as he shrugs off his backpack, taking in the ripple of his muscles and his confident movements as he pulls out a first aid kit - one of the few salvageable items from Fire Girl's little stunt on the mines. He unravels the white gauzy material and flings it over his shoulder before grabbing the ball of her foot gently and wiping away the blood with a damp cloth.

"I'm cleaning it," Cato grunts in answer to her hiss of discomfort as the searing liquid makes contact with damaged skin. "Last thing we need is you dying of something stupid like an infection," he reminds her, not unkindly, looking up to meet her eyes. Clove is stunned into silence by the impossibly soothing effect of his gaze, the delicate way he handles her foot. The little circles he rubs on the sides of her ankles render her placid, a serene calmness enveloping her as her eyelids flutter, tempted to close and simply let him massage her foot for eternity.

That simply won't do.

"You're taking too long," Clove feels the need to complain, rather childishly - if only to save face, to distract from what she's sure is very visible evidence of the effect he has on her.

Cato only grins at her cheekily. "Yeah, yeah, then do it yourself," he snaps back at her with little fire behind his words. He returns to his task with determined focus, and she's transfixed by the way he dutifully approaches his work, efficient in the way he takes care of the wound for her.

She knows that he's right - the curriculum back home had extensively covered first aid and injury recovery. Clove could have certainly taken care of this on her own - and really, before their circumstances had so drastically changed, she would have had to.

There is no help, no guide, for anyone in the Arena. Although alliances and partnerships were of incredible importance in the initial part of the Games, self-sufficiency was quite literally essential to survival. A Victor that needed assistance beyond the generous gifts of sponsors and the efforts of Mentors was practically a waste, and their Academies would never produce a Trainee who couldn't stand on his or her own, let alone clear them for the Games.

Training had in fact prepared them well for the physical demands and psychological impacts of killing 23 kids, and endowed them with practical survival/first aid skills, but the teachers never told them about some of the unsavory realities.

Long nights staring at the stars after seeing hazy electric-blue images of dead people flash across the black canvas of night sky - lives they had taken, a revelation that Clove knows should have brought exclusively pride with no residual guilt.

Or what to do with the silence that is a natural effect of fellow Careers having long since been knocked down like flies, a stark reminder that just nights before their sleeping space had been alive with the crackling of the fire and the sounds of teenage chatter.

The Academy had also never taught them how to work as a team for so long - by now, had the rule change not intervened, she and Cato would have gone their separate ways or, more likely, fought among each other for the honor of being labelled Victor, as was the expectation of any worthy representatives of Two. Instead, they'd been forced to retain the alliance for convenience.

But alarmingly, it was beginning to not feel that way. Clove had grown rather accustomed to him being an irritating thorn in her side, but somewhere into their partnership he became something other than a meat-headed brute, transforming before her eyes into someone more logical, focused, even receptive to her ideas. It certainly wasn't overnight, but she finds his ego more manageable nowadays. Rather than assuming he had automatic executive authority, he instead deferred to her. Cato constantly checked if she'd had enough to eat from their sponsor gifts, listened respectfully when she suggested something, and had even granted her Fire Girl, the kill that he wanted the most.

These were the signs of a more functional partnership, but none of this explained him holding her foot with such reverence as he cared for the wound, helping instead of hurting, willingly submitting to her needs... It should have been impossible. If anything it is unnatural for people like them to act this way.

Predators, rivals, enemies. This is what they were always meant to be, but Clove isn't sure anymore of this simple fact. She isn't sure of anything, really, only that her foot hurts less now and he managed this small crisis so well she can't help but swell with gratitude and pride for him.

The deep, throaty timbre of Cato's voice cuts through her thoughts. "Clove? You're real quiet up there. Don't tell me you're going to pass out on me over a little blood," he teases lightly, even as his pretty blue eyes glance up at her in wary concern.

Suddenly, she wants to scream in frustration for reasons that have little to do with pain. Doesn't he know who they are, where they are? He really can't be staring at her with such obvious affection, or handling her injury so gently instead of taking advantage of her weakness the way he was trained to. It isn't right, nor is it fair for him to treat her this way, to look at her so softly it hurts, to have a touch that makes her crave more.

"I just know when to shut up, unlike you." It's easy to slip back into the sultry, apathetic voice she usually speaks with, now that the pain in her ankle has been reduced, calmed into dull throbbing.

For as much warmth and concern he dares to show her, Clove will be twice as hard, twice as cruel. It's better this way, for them both.

He narrows his eyes at her in disbelief, then tightens his grip on her foot. "Way to show some gratitude, Clove, really." Cato squeezes her ankle one final time in the wounded area, not enough pressure to exacerbate the pain but certainly enough to make her flinch, before repacking the kit and rising to a stand. She ignores the pinpricks of guilt that prod at her chest when he refuses to meet her eyes.

Clove also will never admit that maybe she wouldn't have minded if he'd taken slightly longer to heal her. The heavy warmth in her foot, left behind from where he'd touched her, would have to be enough.

"Come on, Clove. We still have hunting to do," he reminds her. Hobbling over to her discarded boot, she manages to pull it back on, wincing at her ankle's protest. When Cato wordlessly offers his arm for support, still not looking at her, Clove has no choice but to ignore her pride and accept, leaning into his body far more than was probably appropriate.

"Thank you," she whispers softly into the space between them, not expecting an answer. He pulls her closer to his side in answer, almost compressing her into him. They didn't look like classic warriors, the loyal Tributes their District and country expected them to be. She doesn't even withhold the small smile that pulls at the corner of her lips.

Clove wonders how they must look to everyone back home in Two. Ruthless, courageous soldiers acting like best friends, dangerously teetering towards something more.

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if she didn't care.

[number-one-shadisper-shipper]

Okay I watched the Hunger Games for the first time and.... um. OW. WHY. but also

Sonic Hunger Games AU

Like:

Katniss: Sonic

Prim: Tails

Peeta: Amy

Gale: Sally

Haymitch: Knuckles

Effie: Rouge

President Snow: Eggman

Rue: Charmy

Thresh: Vector

Cato: Jet

Clove: Wave

Finnick: Shadow

Mags: Maria

THIS HURTS MY SOUL anyways someone make this happen I want art and oneshots but I'm overwhelmed with other projects

[autisticarachnid]

Hey Salem! I was curious if you read my Skate to the Heart story about Cato x Penny yet? I'm interested in hearing what you think of it? Again it's my first story about them and I'm quite happy with it! I was gonna ask you about it in our chat Thursday prior to you going up to New England but that got cut short sadly

i haven’t yet ! i’ve been quite busy lately unfortunately and didn’t even see you had posted it. but i’ll make sure to read it soon !

funny thing is i’ve actually been planning to write my own piece again, but i’ve been in too bad of a writer’s block skfhdkf. i just have my oneshot from march 😅