Pretty (prompt: bite)
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fandomocweeklyTitle: Pretty
Fandom: The Hunger Games
Characters: OC - Paisley Webster; OC - Arachne Cardew; OC - Tanner ???
Content notes: Implied canon-typical violence
Word Count: 678 (the exact same word count as the last fic I posted, "As Good a Plan as Any")
Prompt:fandomocweekly "Bite"
Notes: I went to post this week'sfandomocweekly round-up and I saw that there were zero fills so I whipped this up so there would at least be something.
“What’s your image?” Arachne stalks around me and I try not to be uncomfortable even though I'm standing there in only my camisole and panties. “Who are you? What are you?” I stand as still as a mannequin.
That’s how she’s looking at me, like I’m a doll to dress up.
She must see the confusion and the anger that flicks across my face. I’m a person. That’s what I am - not a mannequin, not a doll. “I don’t -” I start to say, but Arachne cuts me off with an impatient toss of her hair. It’s gorgeous, all luxurious magenta waves down to her knees.
“Are you sexy? Dangerous? Strong?” she elaborates. She runs her fingers over my own hair, freshly buzzed short the night before. I jerk away and she puts her hand down. Her nails are as long as my little finger and the same color as her hair.
“Not sexy,” I say hurriedly. I look her in the eye and I repeat myself clearly, in case she couldn’t understand me with her silly Capitol accent. “Not sexy.” I shudder thinking of some of the chariot rides I’ve seen, the tributes from 12 wearing only underwear and a hard hat, or the interviews where an older tribute from 1 wears a sheer dress and no underwear at all.
“Not sexy,” she agrees. I almost like Arachne for a moment and then she says, “That would be difficult to do,” and gestures at her own ample bosom. I tried not to notice earlier but her breasts don’t seem real. They’re unnatural, like two bowls on her chest. “Not sexy, so… What? You’re not cute. We all saw you punch that girl at the Reaping.”
She’s still pacing around me, now picking up my arm to measure me from armpit to elbow, shoulder to hip. I let her. I need Arachne on my side, as much as anyone in the Capitol can be anything but my enemy.
“Can I be pretty?” I feel foolish asking this, like a little girl asking to wear her mother’s best dress around inside to play make believe that she’s going to a party in the Capitol. I go ahead and say it anyway because what do I care what this woman thinks of me? She barely even sees me as a human being and it’s not like I’ll have to live with my embarrassment for much longer.
“Pretty?” she repeats, like it’s a word she’s never heard before. “Pretty like Aurelia?” I shake my head because I don’t know who that is. “Pretty like you’re going to a watch party?” she offers. I can’t help but sneer.
“I don’t want to look like one of you,” I say, temporarily forgetting that I’m supposed to be trying to make friends as best I can. I force myself to soften and I say what I’m thinking. “Pretty like a princess.”
I feel foolish asking for this but it’s not like I’ll have to live with my embarrassment for much longer. So I take a deep breath and keep going. “Like a princess in a picture story. Ballgown, beautiful hair.”
Arachne perks up at this. “Pretty!” She claps her hands. “Yes, delightful. I can make you pretty like a princess. The hair will have to wait. I can’t get it done before tonight. I don’t know why you girls keep your hair like that.”
Because you never asked, I think. When she introduced herself, Arachne told me this was her first year as a full stylist but she was Cassius’s assistant last year when he styled Bobbin. It didn’t endear her to me; Bobbin’s interview outfit was so poorly fit, any 12-year-old in 8 could’ve styled it better.
“We’ll see what we can do. Maybe a hood to hide it for tonight? I have an idea.”
Arachne takes a few more measurements and sends me off to her assistants to “do something about all that other hair.” Arachne says this with a meaningful glance at my underarms and I bite my tongue as I let myself be swept off into the styling room, grateful to be reunited with Tanner for the time being.
Fandom: The Hunger Games
Characters: OC - Paisley Webster; OC - Arachne Cardew; OC - Tanner ???
Content notes: Implied canon-typical violence
Word Count: 678 (the exact same word count as the last fic I posted, "As Good a Plan as Any")
Prompt:
fandomocweekly "Bite"Notes: I went to post this week's
fandomocweekly round-up and I saw that there were zero fills so I whipped this up so there would at least be something.“What’s your image?” Arachne stalks around me and I try not to be uncomfortable even though I'm standing there in only my camisole and panties. “Who are you? What are you?” I stand as still as a mannequin.
That’s how she’s looking at me, like I’m a doll to dress up.
She must see the confusion and the anger that flicks across my face. I’m a person. That’s what I am - not a mannequin, not a doll. “I don’t -” I start to say, but Arachne cuts me off with an impatient toss of her hair. It’s gorgeous, all luxurious magenta waves down to her knees.
“Are you sexy? Dangerous? Strong?” she elaborates. She runs her fingers over my own hair, freshly buzzed short the night before. I jerk away and she puts her hand down. Her nails are as long as my little finger and the same color as her hair.
“Not sexy,” I say hurriedly. I look her in the eye and I repeat myself clearly, in case she couldn’t understand me with her silly Capitol accent. “Not sexy.” I shudder thinking of some of the chariot rides I’ve seen, the tributes from 12 wearing only underwear and a hard hat, or the interviews where an older tribute from 1 wears a sheer dress and no underwear at all.
“Not sexy,” she agrees. I almost like Arachne for a moment and then she says, “That would be difficult to do,” and gestures at her own ample bosom. I tried not to notice earlier but her breasts don’t seem real. They’re unnatural, like two bowls on her chest. “Not sexy, so… What? You’re not cute. We all saw you punch that girl at the Reaping.”
She’s still pacing around me, now picking up my arm to measure me from armpit to elbow, shoulder to hip. I let her. I need Arachne on my side, as much as anyone in the Capitol can be anything but my enemy.
“Can I be pretty?” I feel foolish asking this, like a little girl asking to wear her mother’s best dress around inside to play make believe that she’s going to a party in the Capitol. I go ahead and say it anyway because what do I care what this woman thinks of me? She barely even sees me as a human being and it’s not like I’ll have to live with my embarrassment for much longer.
“Pretty?” she repeats, like it’s a word she’s never heard before. “Pretty like Aurelia?” I shake my head because I don’t know who that is. “Pretty like you’re going to a watch party?” she offers. I can’t help but sneer.
“I don’t want to look like one of you,” I say, temporarily forgetting that I’m supposed to be trying to make friends as best I can. I force myself to soften and I say what I’m thinking. “Pretty like a princess.”
I feel foolish asking for this but it’s not like I’ll have to live with my embarrassment for much longer. So I take a deep breath and keep going. “Like a princess in a picture story. Ballgown, beautiful hair.”
Arachne perks up at this. “Pretty!” She claps her hands. “Yes, delightful. I can make you pretty like a princess. The hair will have to wait. I can’t get it done before tonight. I don’t know why you girls keep your hair like that.”
Because you never asked, I think. When she introduced herself, Arachne told me this was her first year as a full stylist but she was Cassius’s assistant last year when he styled Bobbin. It didn’t endear her to me; Bobbin’s interview outfit was so poorly fit, any 12-year-old in 8 could’ve styled it better.
“We’ll see what we can do. Maybe a hood to hide it for tonight? I have an idea.”
Arachne takes a few more measurements and sends me off to her assistants to “do something about all that other hair.” Arachne says this with a meaningful glance at my underarms and I bite my tongue as I let myself be swept off into the styling room, grateful to be reunited with Tanner for the time being.
