I say we kill your heroes

fly fly baby don't cry

I'm going to sit and wait, and not fall // a collection of drabbles
Glimmer
burnitdownbaby
A collection of drabbles, mostly about the Careers of the 74th Hunger Games, that I've written. Just taking them off my Tumblr and sticking them here for organizations sake. Yup. Enjoy!
Warning for blood, violence, coercive sex, and sex in general. Adult concepts ahoy!




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everybody knows i'm a monster // a fanmix for the careers
burnitdownbaby

everybody knows i'm a monster
a fanmix for the careers of the 74th hunger games


1. cato | american trash innerpartysystem
xxxxx i've got this planet in my hands, i'll start to save it if i can
xxxxx i'm satisfied with myself, don't care for anyone else, i'm so united when i stand
xxxxx i get my facts from the tv, believe in everything i read
xxxxx it's such an ignorant bliss when the whole fucking world wants to be like me


2. clove | orca wintersleep
xxxxx i'll be a hurricane when i grow up, and ugly thunder, i'll be a forest fire about to flood over an empire
xxxxx i'll be an avalanche chewing its rupture, i'll be a killer whale when i grow up
xxxxx i'll be a monster


3. marvel | help i'm alive metric
xxxxx if you're still alive my regrets are few
xxxxx if my life is mine what shouldn't i do?
xxxxx i get wherever i'm going, i get whatever i need
xxxxx while my blood's still flowing and my heart still beats


4. glimmer | carmen lana del rey
xxxxx the boys, the girls, they all like carmen
xxxxx she gives them butterflies, bats her cartoon eyes
xxxxx she laughs like god, her mind's like a diamond
xxxxx buy her tonight, she's still shining light lightning


5. cato&clove | tear you apart she wants revenge
xxxxx i want to hold you close, skin pressed against me tight
xxxxx lie still and close your eyes girl, so lovely, it feels so right
xxxxx i want to hold you close, soft breath, beating heart
xxxxx as I whisper in your ear I want to fucking tear you apart


6. marvel&glimmer | the prayer bloc party
xxxxx is it so wrong to crave recognition? second best, runner up
xxxxx is it so wrong to want rewarding? to want more than is given to you?
xxxxx tonight make me unstoppable and i will charm, i will slice
xxxxx i will dazzle them with my wit


7. clove&glimmer | run the world remix beyonce ft. nicki minaj
xxxxx some of them men think they freak this like we do, but no they don't
xxxxx make your checks come at they necks, disrespect us no they won't
xxxxx boy don't even try to touch this, boy this beat is crazy
xxxxx this is how they made me


8. cato&marvel | who gon stop me kanye west & jay-z
xxxxx millions of our people lost, bow our heads and pray to the lord
xxxxx til' i die i'mma fuckin' ball
xxxxx now who gon' stop me? who gon' stop me huh?


9. career pack | the sound of violence remix cassius
xxxxx feel like i wanna be inside you when the sun goes down
xxxxx oh my heart takin' me back to blue, i've fallen into my own senses
xxxxx another night, another day, it's better this way, let the music play


10. career pack | heads will roll yeah yeah yeahs
xxxxx the men cry out, the girls cry out, the men cry out, the girls cry out, the men cry out, oh no
xxxxx off with your head, dance till you're dead
xxxxx heads will roll, heads will roll, heads will roll on the floor


11. career pack | come away glen hansard
xxxxx come away little lamb, come away to the water, to the ones who were lost and don't know what to do
xxxxx come away little lamb, come away to the slaughter, give yourself up so we may live anew
xxxxx we are coming for you, we are calling for you


12. career pack | ain't no rest for the wicked cage the elephant
xxxxx you know there ain't no rest for the wicked, money don't grow on trees
xxxxx we got bills to pay, we got mouths to feed, there ain't nothing in this world for free
xxxxx no we can't slow down, we can't hold back even though we wish we could
xxxxx no there ain't no rest for the wicked until we close our eyes for good


13. career pack | monster kanye west ft. bon iver, nicki minaj, jay-z, & rick ross
xxxxx i shoot the lights out, hide til it's bright out
xxxxx whoa just another lonely night, are you willing to sacrafice your life?
xxxxx bitch i'm a monster a no good blood sucker
xxxxx fat motherfucker no look who's in trouble
xxxxx as you run through my jungle all you hear is rumbles


14. career pack | take the heartland glen hansard
xxxxxand i'm going to grant my folk my life's one last wish, and i'm going to take their life with a knife
xxxxxand i'm going to sit and wait, and not fall
xxxxxtake the heartland with a sense of revenge, take the heartland and make it look easy
xxxxxtake the heartland - we'll die in the end, take the heartland
xxxxxshould i kill you with my sword, yeah? or should i kill you with this word


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they were only children; the careers of the 74th hunger games
cato
burnitdownbaby

they were only children
fandom: the hunger games
pairing: glimmer/cashmere, glimmer/cato
warnings: mention of blood, violence


Death was natural in the Districts. It was something that would happen one way or another. Life could only be prolonged so far. It was natural and guaranteed, and they were weapons. They died young, but only after bringing death to others. They were like archangels, executing the wrath of Panem, of the Captiol, snapping necks and tearing out hearts. Blood was like water, and the crunch of a broken bone was a common noise.

They were the Career Tributes, and all others fell before them. They were machines to some, nightmares to others, and their district’s greatest pride. Soldiers, beasts, monsters. They were feared and worshiped, idolized and dreaded. Others trembled before them, before their knives and swords and spears and hands.

But they were children.

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We were not meant for this life
burnitdownbaby
Written for this awesome Career tribute fic-a-thon
Cato/Clove, PG-13ish, tw: blood, violence
AU in which they win the 74th Hunger Games


She kills her with her own arrow, using it like a knife to slice and cut and dice. Lover Boy was left to Cato. It was her idea, though, to kill them together, to let them hear each other’s screams. It was always her idea. And when they are done, bloody and winded, the last two canons go off. They are done. They are alive and winners, champions for the world to see. Together, they wait for their hovercraft, standing side by side, finger barely brushing. He watches her. She has the familiar glint in her eye, the one she has when she is planning. The smile on her face cracks a patch of dried blood. He doubts that it is her.


They are whisked away, pampered and fixed up; blood is scraped from their skin, bruises healed and cuts sealed. And the tour begins, and they are side by side every day, seeing the faces of the families that they robbed of life. If they were from any other district, the looks they received would have broken them, torn them apart. But in District 2 they are stone masons, and they create cold statues that carry out the Capitol’s wishes. They smile and wave and do their duty.

She does not allow herself to be near him when they are on the train, though, and he does not mind.

“I’m going to kill you,” she had told him before the Games, sitting cross-legged in their Capitol apartment. It was a matter-of-fact statement from her, blunt and to the point. Clove hadn’t looked away from the TV when she said it, but he turned to her. She was smiling. Others would be disturbed by her actions, her words, her smiles, but he wasn’t. 

He had laughed, big, booming, and cocky. “Funny. I was planning on killing you, too.” Now she looked at him, smile wider.

They laughed together.

They were meant to kill each other. Two champions was not natural, and it was not the way that the Games worked. They were not the ones who were supposed to profit from the rule change. It was Lover Boy and the girl with the arrows who were supposed to win. They would have gone off and married and lived their life in dusty old District 12. 

In her head, so many times, she had planned his death. It would have been her greatest show. Brutal, bloody Cato, the monster that all of Panem feared and loved at the mercy of her knives. Of course, there was always the chance that he would have killed her. He would not have been as slow as her. It would be quick, in the heat of the moment. He would have felt Clove’s small bones snap under his hands, her skin break with the force of his sword. 

But only one of them was supposed to live.

It had been suggested that they fulfill the star-crossed lover’s role that Panem was so desperate for. They lived together in one of the sprawling mansions of the winner’s circle, making appearances for the press from time to time. But they were not the same when they were alone. Because only one of them was supposed to be alive. One of them should be dead. And that was at the front of their mind at all times. At dinner she gripped her knife tightly, stealing glances across the table, imagining opening up his windpipe with a single slice. When they fucked, he would find his hands grazing her throat briefly, wondering about the crunch her snapping neck would make. 

Live fast, die young. They were not meant for this life.

The Taste of Blood, The Hunger Games, Cato/Clove, training, vicious
burnitdownbaby
trigger warning for blood and violence
When they first fuck, there is blood on the floor.
He had lashed out, taking his sword and cutting viciously at a fellow trainee’s arm. It was not clean, and there had been cries and blood and a tense anger that vibrated through the room. Cato had stood there after he struck, chest heaving, red and flesh dripping from his sword. While the trainers and healers and others ran around, his eyes locked on her. Laughing. Her smirk was wide, white teeth flashing as she laughs at him. His rage has not cooled yet, and it only boils hotter as she laughs. He does not remember her name, because she is not important to him – yet – but he knows the thin knives that she uses to pin her hair up, the small slivers of metal that she carries with her wherever she goes. 
They have carried his victim out of the training room, cancelling the rest of the sessions for today, giving Cato fierce glares, but not daring to punish him. They all fear him, the trainers, his fellow Careers, the medical staff. All of them fear him, but not her. Not the laughing girl with the knives.
She is the last to turn to leave, still chuckling to herself as she heads to the door.
He lets the sword clatter to the floor, red splattering, and he leaps across the room. But she is quick, too, turning again to face him, steel at the ready. The slam into the wall together, his hand pinning on of her wrists to the wall, her knife pressed to his throat. She is grinning, still laughing, and the cool metal on his neck does nothing to chill his rage. “Stop laughing at me,” he hisses, mouth pulled back in a snarl. She laughs harder, head tilting as her dark eyes take in every twitch of his eyes, every bead of sweat that rolls down his face and arms and neck. His hand tightens on her wrist, twisting it, and for the first time he sees something other than mockery in her eyes. A flash of pain. He grins. “What’s your name.” It is not a question from him, but an order. 
The pain is gone in her eyes now, and a smirk has replaced her grin. “You don’t know by now, Cato?” she teases, pressing slightly harder with her knife, drawing the thinnest red line on his throat. This time, pain appears in his eyes. “We all know your name, because we just can’t escape the perfection that is Cato. Brutal, bloody, Cato.” She is joking again, and for a moment he considers snapping her wrist. But that knife is so very, very close and so very, very sharp, sharp like her tongue, so instead he sneers.
She is wearing red; red like the blood on the floor, red like the rage that blinds him. There is something about her that draws him in. Well, no, not drawing him in. But it gets to him, sinking into his veins and his bones. She gets to him. She is not afraid. The other tributes avoid his eye, drop their voices low when he is near. Everyone else worships the ground he walks on, steps out of his way, and only speaks when spoken to. She has a bite to her, a sharpness like her knives. And he likes it. She is his match, he knows it instantly. We’ll be in the arena together, and I will kill you. You are mine to kill. My perfect kill. And he presses lips to her, bruising and forceful, and she drops her knife, wrenching her wrist free and gripping the back of his neck, nails digging in.
When they fuck, they are fighting. It is a battle, a first impression, a fight to stay on top, to emerge victorious. Against the wall, she squirms against his weight, trying to get a firm holding on his shoulders as his mouth trails down to her collar bones, leaving bite marks and bruises in its wake. Her mouth is parted, and he wants to hear her say his name, but she only breathes heavily, inhaling suddenly as one of her arms wraps around his neck. His hands are roaming now, one gripping her hip, rough fingers, still stained with blood, squeezing and pulling her towards him. The other is beginning to work at her shorts, exploring below the waistband. She hisses as a finger slips down there. 
He is shocked when she pushes him away; shocked by the rejection, and by the force at which she hits him with. Cato stumbles backwards, face twisted in confusion, but she is still smirking. I want to cut off your lips, stupid girl, he thinks, but she acts faster than him. Clove is on him in a second, swiping his legs out from under him and slamming him to the ground. “If it’s a fight you want, it’s a fight you’ll get,” she whispers in his ear as she jumps on top of him.
They struggle together, tearing clothes, tugging hair, biting and pinching and twisting and pushing. His hands are rough and worn, leather like the hilt of his sword. Her fingers are as sharp as knives, leaving cuts all over his skin. But they move in harmony, a strong, forceful harmony, switching constantly between top and bottom. 
She does not cry his name, and he has yet to remember hers.
When they are done, he watches her as she dresses, tugging back on the slightly torn clothes. Her hair is a mess now, and she knots and braids it quickly, pinning it back up with the knives. Cato lies still, propped up on his elbows, taking in every sharp angle of her body. Memorizing it. Later he will dream of her, but not in the way boys his age are supposed to dream of girls. He will play her murder over and over again in his head, imagining it, perfecting it. She is his to kill now. 
And he is hers. Clove’s fingers had traced so much of his body, clawing at shoulder blades and scraping his waist. She discovered his weak spots, pictured separating the bone and muscle with her knives, smirked as she saw the metal puncturing his skin. He would be hers in the end, and the Capitol – no, all of Panem – would see their most memorable kill.
She moves to go without looking back. “Wait,” he calls out, sitting up. She stops, still not facing him. “You’ve got a name, don’t you?”
Now she turns, smirking, staring at his abdomen before walking back out. When she is gone, he looks down and lets out a high pitched hiss of disgust. CLOVE, it reads in bright red letters, the blood just beginning to trickle out from the wound. 
He hadn’t felt a thing. 

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