Status: A Tribute
Blood and Roses
Page Five
Ricochet dropped her towel from around her body once she was safe in her bedroom. A pale line curved from her shoulder blade under her arm and over her ribs to her stomach, the only scar she had from the Games. Surgeons and Snow and the whole of the Capitol wanted her to have it fixed, that ragged and rough line marring her otherwise flawless body, but Ricochet wore it with diluted pride. It was a reminder and the only thing that reminded her she bled, she breathed, that one day she would die.
"I don't need or want your company," she called to the living room as she opened her wardrobe and stared at the brightly colored gowns therein. She was often gifted gowns she modeled for various promotions but when it came to wearing them she never felt comfortable in them. She ran her fingers along the various fabrics and closed her eyes, letting the feel of the soft fabrics consume her. She didn't hear Finnick come in and so when he touched the scar along her back she jumped and swung a fist at him; he caught her wrist and she swung at his middle but he jumped and spun, twisting her arm over his head and causing her to turn where he could pin her with her arm behind her back.
"You're stuck with me, Sanders," he said and she frowned, stomping on his foot and throwing him back onto her bed roughly. He smiled at her, a part of him fearing she was giving in to him and the other part thrilled with her exertion of power over him. She stared at him, long and hard, eyeing him as he lay on her bed with that playful and egging smile on his lips. He lifted his hand questioningly and she turned away from him, yanking a deep red and orange gown from its hanger and sliding her body into it. She tightened the back of it around her middle, the fabric contouring to her slender curves. She wasn't built like a real woman, she had slight curves if you could even call them that.
She went to her drawers as Finnick sat up on the bed and watched her slide on some underwear. Nothing sexy or lacy just black boyshorts that clung to her. She fussed with the layered skirts of her gown, mirroring fire that burned around her tanned leg and had a slit well up her thigh. Finnick watched her, eyes roaming over the slight curves of her body and finding beauty in the uncertainty her body now wore.
"You look beautiful," he assured with a genuine smile. Ricochet looked at him, masking her awkwardness with a hard look.
"You have to say that," she muttered and he frowned. She knew what this was and wasn't going to try and tell herself it was anything else. She went to the vanity in her room and sat down in front of the mirror. She had never done her own makeup or hair. She always wore it in a bun. Finnick stepped up behind and pulled the brush from her hand.
"Let me," he said pulling the brush through her soft hair and watching the water roll down her shoulders and into the crevice of her breasts. He looked at her reflection and noticed her eyes were closed. This was possible the only intimate moment of her life. He knew little about her but he knew she had nothing in Three and even less in the Capitol. He brushed her hair gently, pulling the bristles through her dark locks and then he began piling it up on her head, pinning this and that.
"What are you doing?" she asked skeptically as she opened those sickly eyes of her, those hallow and dismissive orbs of yellow and green forever fighting for dominance. Finnick looked at her and then back to her hair. "Are you tying knots in my hair?" she asked and he laughed.
"I learned a thing or two here in the Capitol, I can do your hair at least," he told her as he finished pinning it in a lovely mosaic of braids and knots. She looked at it and he pulled two stands down in the back to trace the fine lined of her back, revealed in its entirety by the gown. "Do your makeup, I'll wait in the living room," he whispered leaning down to admire her reflection as she looked at herself. He kissed her temple and then turned on his heel and walked out of the room, leaving her alone.
Just her and her thoughts.
"I don't need or want your company," she called to the living room as she opened her wardrobe and stared at the brightly colored gowns therein. She was often gifted gowns she modeled for various promotions but when it came to wearing them she never felt comfortable in them. She ran her fingers along the various fabrics and closed her eyes, letting the feel of the soft fabrics consume her. She didn't hear Finnick come in and so when he touched the scar along her back she jumped and swung a fist at him; he caught her wrist and she swung at his middle but he jumped and spun, twisting her arm over his head and causing her to turn where he could pin her with her arm behind her back.
"You're stuck with me, Sanders," he said and she frowned, stomping on his foot and throwing him back onto her bed roughly. He smiled at her, a part of him fearing she was giving in to him and the other part thrilled with her exertion of power over him. She stared at him, long and hard, eyeing him as he lay on her bed with that playful and egging smile on his lips. He lifted his hand questioningly and she turned away from him, yanking a deep red and orange gown from its hanger and sliding her body into it. She tightened the back of it around her middle, the fabric contouring to her slender curves. She wasn't built like a real woman, she had slight curves if you could even call them that.
She went to her drawers as Finnick sat up on the bed and watched her slide on some underwear. Nothing sexy or lacy just black boyshorts that clung to her. She fussed with the layered skirts of her gown, mirroring fire that burned around her tanned leg and had a slit well up her thigh. Finnick watched her, eyes roaming over the slight curves of her body and finding beauty in the uncertainty her body now wore.
"You look beautiful," he assured with a genuine smile. Ricochet looked at him, masking her awkwardness with a hard look.
"You have to say that," she muttered and he frowned. She knew what this was and wasn't going to try and tell herself it was anything else. She went to the vanity in her room and sat down in front of the mirror. She had never done her own makeup or hair. She always wore it in a bun. Finnick stepped up behind and pulled the brush from her hand.
"Let me," he said pulling the brush through her soft hair and watching the water roll down her shoulders and into the crevice of her breasts. He looked at her reflection and noticed her eyes were closed. This was possible the only intimate moment of her life. He knew little about her but he knew she had nothing in Three and even less in the Capitol. He brushed her hair gently, pulling the bristles through her dark locks and then he began piling it up on her head, pinning this and that.
"What are you doing?" she asked skeptically as she opened those sickly eyes of her, those hallow and dismissive orbs of yellow and green forever fighting for dominance. Finnick looked at her and then back to her hair. "Are you tying knots in my hair?" she asked and he laughed.
"I learned a thing or two here in the Capitol, I can do your hair at least," he told her as he finished pinning it in a lovely mosaic of braids and knots. She looked at it and he pulled two stands down in the back to trace the fine lined of her back, revealed in its entirety by the gown. "Do your makeup, I'll wait in the living room," he whispered leaning down to admire her reflection as she looked at herself. He kissed her temple and then turned on his heel and walked out of the room, leaving her alone.
Just her and her thoughts.