#study on Cato and Clove being unlikeable by the Capitol

[atefingersdagger]

"Crucify" - Short Clove/Cato one-shot

(Felt it was too short to post on ao3)

“They’re going to crucify you.”

Clove; voice beautiful and cruel, she says it with certainty in a rasp and a small tilt of her head. Her knife is pressed to his abdomen, cutting a hole in his burgundy shirt dyed a brown from old blood and dirt, the tip of metal a pinprick to his pain tolerance. She smirks at the shallow wound, the two of them alone in their alliance.

“Oh, really?” Cato stares her down with the same intensity.

“Yeah.” Her smile drops, and she looks at him as if he is something she wants to dissect with cold curiosity. “Unless I do it for them.”

“I don’t care what they want.”

She shakes her head with disproval, twisting the knife slowly and, somehow, softly. “Yes, you do. Because if you don’t, you’ll lose. You won’t even leave this arena without dying first.”

He is aware of that truth, that the people who run this country will piss themselves and cry by a mere insult. Cato may have all the bets, all the odds placed upon him by the aspects of his height, his strength, his training, but he doubts he’s a fan favorite. During the chariots, he did not smile. During the interviews, he only laughed when talking about the Games. There was no love or complimenting of the Capitol.

Not that there was on her end, either. Lacking isn’t the word to use. Affection was completely absent. Clove had threatened their host, albeit playfully, and even rolled her eyes when asked about the food and showers. She pivoted back to her abilities as quickly as she throws her precious knives and lacked a care in the world for the audience. They both had the chops to indirectly shit on the people in the crowd as the cocky tributes they are.

“I didn’t ask for your sage advice.” Cato keeps fists from forming, arms hanging to the side.

“But you should take it.” Her knife digs more, the warmth of his blood dripping to his iliac crest. “Because they might punish me for it too.”

He squints. “The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Means they dislike me by proxy.”

“Is that so?”

“You’re just full of questions today.” Clove tilts her head further. “Be a dear, and shut up about how much you dislike them.”

She points to the sky and waves her finger. It peeves him that she’s the only tribute who isn’t intimidated by him, and worse, Clove isn’t frightened. Which is as dangerous of a skill for her to have than her expertise in throwing blades.

“Why such visceral hatred?” There’s a glint of the rhetorical. “The Capitol has given us this honor.”

“Yes. The president has, the government has, our district has.” Cato breathes, unbothered by each inhale being a risk. “But the people in the city? They are vapid, they know nothing of hard work or glory.”

Twisting it first, Clove retracts her weapon, throwing it to the ground as though she is taking her anger out on the pine. “You’re going to get us both killed.”

Hands of slender fit reach up to grasp his cheeks, pulling him down with roughness, nails scraping. She brings his lips to hers, getting her a noise of shock until he groans, letting her swallow it down along with his saliva. His touch goes to her hips, jutting and protruding as he grips her in kind.

They both smell of teenage body odor, their taste barely mint from the leaves they’d been chewing on to curb their hunger pangs, teeth grainy with built-up plaque, but it’s apparent neither of them care. The hull has been breached, and they are crossing a near forbidden line, one that is certainly getting them condemnation back at home. District 2 as a whole must be seething at their piss poor choices so far. Mistake after mistake.

This isn’t one of them, though. He likes this and her preoccupied body tells him she’s not rendering him vulnerable to finish the job of gutting him like a fucking pig. Cato could more easily kill her here as they connect in warm waves. But that isn't appetizing.

Their tongues meet, Clove whines, and the kiss is over as quickly as it began.

She pushes herself up on her tiptoes in her boots – a schoolgirl action – and her mouth is at the shell of his ear. “For once, I agree with you, but seriously, watch yourself, or I’ll have to kill you sooner than is necessary. It’d be a real shame to see you crucified for just a few choice words.”

Cato gets a sting at his wound, her finger pushing at it. He hisses, her free ones in his hair as he leans down further, tilting his head into her as though she is not creating a burning sensation at both his wound and his lower stomach with arousal. She stays still as he speaks.

“I am a stickler for the rules.”

“Good.” Clove is sadistic even in her laugh. “Now, be a good boy, Cato. Be a good boy.”