forever is the sweetest con (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
delacourtings) wrote2013-11-28 11:45 am
delacourtings) wrote2013-11-28 11:45 am
Entry tags:
[fic] birth of a killer; the hunger games, cato/clove
birth of a killer. the hunger games. cato/clove. pg-13. 411.
my mother sensed a war in her womb, and so she raised me to fight.
It's her mother who teaches her how to fight, how to hold a child with the same delicacy as a knife.
Her father is too soft, too gentle, almost kind. She thinks him weak.
There is no primary school in Two. One's school is one's home, and hers is where she learns to enjoy the taste of blood in her mouth, after making a perfect cut with the tip of her knife.
She meets him at the academy. He's older than her, by a year, and his eyes rake over her, assessing. He smirks, mistaking her small size for weakness. His mistake.
Everyone there has a thirst for blood. But it doesn't look quite as good on anyone else as it does on him.
He's her first fight.
"I'll pass," he says, cocky and leering, when offered his choice of weapon.
He tries to pin her the second he steps onto the mat, and she lets him. Lets him use his strength to bind her arms together above her head, keep his hold by placing a knee on either side of her. He smiles, the raise of his brow saying I win, sweetheart.
She smiles too, taking delight in his expression, as he realizes her knife is balanced on her patella, pointed precariously between his legs. His eyes flash red.
It's the most attractive she's ever seen him.
She's walking down a hallway, practicing counter-moves to future attacks in her mind. He comes out of the woodwork, slams her against the wall. He knocks the breath out of her, and he's close enough that she can feel her breasts brush against him as she tries to catch her breath.
Her mouth's parted in surprise, and she slowly moves her eyes to focus on his. He mimics her action and she chooses that moment to slowly drag her tongue across her lips. He hesitates, then closes his eyes, leans closer, mouth open.
She flips him around, putting him in her position, holds him in place with the perch of her knife, slanted against his throat. He makes to move and she smiles. "Uh, uh, uh," she says, drawing a spear from his back pocket. "Someone's overcompensating," she lowers her gaze exaggeratedly, raising an eyebrow, when it gets just below his waist.
He makes to move again, eyes flashing, that same fiery red. She pushes the knife further in, enough to draw just a drop of blood. "Save it for the Games, sweetheart."
my mother sensed a war in her womb, and so she raised me to fight.
It's her mother who teaches her how to fight, how to hold a child with the same delicacy as a knife.
Her father is too soft, too gentle, almost kind. She thinks him weak.
There is no primary school in Two. One's school is one's home, and hers is where she learns to enjoy the taste of blood in her mouth, after making a perfect cut with the tip of her knife.
She meets him at the academy. He's older than her, by a year, and his eyes rake over her, assessing. He smirks, mistaking her small size for weakness. His mistake.
Everyone there has a thirst for blood. But it doesn't look quite as good on anyone else as it does on him.
He's her first fight.
"I'll pass," he says, cocky and leering, when offered his choice of weapon.
He tries to pin her the second he steps onto the mat, and she lets him. Lets him use his strength to bind her arms together above her head, keep his hold by placing a knee on either side of her. He smiles, the raise of his brow saying I win, sweetheart.
She smiles too, taking delight in his expression, as he realizes her knife is balanced on her patella, pointed precariously between his legs. His eyes flash red.
It's the most attractive she's ever seen him.
She's walking down a hallway, practicing counter-moves to future attacks in her mind. He comes out of the woodwork, slams her against the wall. He knocks the breath out of her, and he's close enough that she can feel her breasts brush against him as she tries to catch her breath.
Her mouth's parted in surprise, and she slowly moves her eyes to focus on his. He mimics her action and she chooses that moment to slowly drag her tongue across her lips. He hesitates, then closes his eyes, leans closer, mouth open.
She flips him around, putting him in her position, holds him in place with the perch of her knife, slanted against his throat. He makes to move and she smiles. "Uh, uh, uh," she says, drawing a spear from his back pocket. "Someone's overcompensating," she lowers her gaze exaggeratedly, raising an eyebrow, when it gets just below his waist.
He makes to move again, eyes flashing, that same fiery red. She pushes the knife further in, enough to draw just a drop of blood. "Save it for the Games, sweetheart."