Chapter Text
Quiet: Alara
Alara Vox breathes through her nose in quiet relief when the door to the train closes behind them and she’s finally cut off from that oppressive, cloying smog outside. Finally! Let’s get to work. The lounge car is cleaner than it was when she left the train. At least someone is doing their job, can’t say the same for our wardrobe team this year.
She hasn’t released Voltaea’s hand since they left the Justice Building. It's not as if her girl has asked - even though Alara can feel her thin fingers shaking in her grip and pouring sweat. She watches her for a moment, taking in every inch of her steely posture, every sculpted angle in her face as she looks around the lounge car like a lost cat searching for a corner to hide in. It’s like every time the poor thing scans the room she finds something new to be terrified of. We’ll have to calm those nerves later, little spark. I have so many tricks to show you.
“You seem a touch overwhelmed, darling.” Alara lets her calmest purr of a voice roll past her lips. Gods, that does have an effect, doesn’t it? She can feel Voltaea’s pulse rise in the hand she’s still gripping - her sweat thickens - there’s that beautiful burgundy shade of warmth creeping into her face. Do you even know what’s happening to you, or is this your first time? The girl’s eyes scan her own. Looking for answers?
After a moment, her victor speaks in a choked voice - almost fearful . “It's too quiet here.” So you’re sensitive to the quiet too, not just the noise.
“Good ear - the whole train is soundproofed. Wouldn’t want to disturb our rest on the way there, would they?” She gestures around them. I do love the way you burn for me when I speak. The poor thing looks like she’s been slapped - her face scrunches unrecognizably. Perhaps it’s okay that you save that composure for the cameras darling. This is more fun.
She sees the girl, finally, look down and recognize that Alara still hasn’t let go of her. She half stumbles through the next words - like she can’t quite bring herself to ask the question so the poor thing feels she has to say something cheeky. It’s adorable - Alara gets a good chuckle out of it. “I'm not going to run off if you let go.” Oh, darling, I know you won’t. I know all kinds of things about you now.
Alara meets the girl's blue-grey eyes with her own piercing stare. She lets her eyes narrow, her smirk faltering slightly. She drops her voice lower, huskier, almost seductive . Let’s see just how aware you are, shall we? “Do you want me to let go?”
The words fall out of her victor’s mouth without her stopping to think - like vomit after too much wine. “No, but I'm getting too hot right now to keep it up much longer.” OH! My goodness! You are forward, aren’t you? Alara can’t stifle the cackle that rises in her throat. Voltaea’s face turns the deepest shade of red Alara has seen yet, she moves a hand to her mouth like she wants to clap it over the offending part of her face - but drops it. Oh this is TOO good. You have no self-control here, do you? We can shape that, not to worry. It doesn’t always do to be in control in the arena.” Alara tastes the chemically-coppery tang in the back of her tongue again like a spark of inspiration.
Show her that softness again, that’s what makes her heart race so deliciously. She coaches herself through the growing tremor in her hand - it’s noticeable right now, she has to temper her excitement - Don’t let her see that just yet, she needs to know herself better first. She uses the same voice she does with Selica when she’s trying to put the woman off a gossip trail with a tactical sob story - sweet, tinged with notes of bitter melancholy. “You're nervous. That's normal, darling.” Let her feel like she matters, but make sure she never forgets what she’s here to do. “but if I can tell, you should be certain that your competitors can too, and we can't have that.”
“I’M TRYING NOT TO BE BUT NOTHING IS GOING THE WAY IT’S SUPPOSED TO!” A crack in her facade - she’s not keeping track of her posture or her expressions anymore. Her victor hunches forward - face red - practically screaming the words at her. She sees the girl’s hands fly to her ears in response to her own voice - as if she could clench the scream rattling around in there out if she just squeezes hard enough. Anger! I love anger, darling - it’s such a valuable tool in our kit. Let’s just save it for the right people, yes?
Alara closes the gap between the two of them in graceful strides, circling her like she’s on the hunt. She wraps her hands over Voltaea’s shoulders - gently, not too rough now, spare the claws - she can feel herself shaking, feel the smile creeping into her cheeks when she leans into the younger girl’s ear. She lets the “ Shhhhhhhh .” fall from her lips just an inch away from her earlobe and she swears she can feel the blush creep back into her girl’s cheeks again as she guides her gently to a delightfully patterned Capitol-chic sofa behind her.
Alara circles around to the front of the girl again - You’re flustered, my little spark, let me fix that for you. She lets her stare fall into Voltaea’s. She’s crouched in front of her at about eye level, so she can take in every decadent detail of the moment. She notices the rapid rise-and-fall of the girl’s chest like a scared rabbit. She’s struggling to maintain eye contact now. Good. I love to win. The poor thing is drenched in sweat now - she can smell the nerves coming off of her in waves through the residual coal-smog bouquet all the tributes seem to take on the train with them. Alara lets her voice soften to a commanding, warm whisper. “Breathe.” Just some quick mentoring.
“I am breathing!” No, you sweet, stupid thing, you aren’t.
“No, you aren’t.” She sees something halfway between panic and rage flare through the girl’s eyes as the rise-and-fall of her chest speeds up even further. She’s digging those nails of hers into her hand so hard Alara can see the blood welling up around her fingertips. Gods, you look like me when I’ve had too many stims. She ignores the taste of sentiment in her throat, this time.
“Stop noticing things!” Alara feels her chest drop slightly - the girl is escalating. Not her intent. Wait. It hits her for a moment that there’s a weapon in her repertoire that might just work. Something bolder and softer at once. Alara stands and grabs both of the girl’s hands - she doesn’t bother to unclench them, just wraps her clawed nails around Voltaea’s wrists and stands up, pulling her with her.
Lean in for the kill. She doesn’t give Voltaea a chance to protest, or to ask about the thoughts Alara can see swirling behind her eyes. She just pulls her into a deep hug, letting her girl’s body slump into her own. She hears a small, choked sob escape - That’s it, darling. Let me be your comfort now - and squeezes tighter. Then, before the poor thing in her arms has a chance to shatter completely, she pulls back and releases her into her own world again. Perfect.
“Voltaea darling,” she lets the girl’s name slip out in the same tone she’s been using to say it - the sultry, smoky one that seems to have such an effect. She can see the girl relaxing in real time as she speaks, using a clawed hand to gently tilt her head down to look into Alara’s eyes. I want her to remember me in this moment when she feels like weakness again. “I know it’s hard to be in the spotlight, but we’re here now. Let me help you get used to it, yes?” Her future victor doesn’t nod, just sort of lets her spent body collapse back into the sofa and closes her eyes.
Alara settles on the armrest, legs crossed and in perfect balance. She sees the poor thing digging her nails into her hand again and sighs. Still leaning on yourself for comfort - I’ll have to teach this lesson more than once. Alara uses an old trick that Selica had with her, just after her games, when she had tried to bite the other woman in a feral rage for suggesting she wear pants to a stage interview. She just reaches her hand around the back of her girl's head, claws blazing, and starts to gently scratch her scalp - just enough to let the clawed tips graze across it.
The response from Voltaea’s body is immediate and visceral. That’s it, be a good girl and relax. Her breath starts to slow almost as soon as the nails graze her scalp - heartbeat visibly receding from the veins in her neck. She hears something like a small noise of satisfaction from her future victor before she leans back absentmindedly to push Alara’s scratches a little deeper. I wonder how long it will take you to realize I’m the only one who matters now.
Alara is watching her intently when her girl finally opens her eyes, taking her in for a moment with something like serenity on her face despite the sweat and the disarray she’s in. “I really don’t want to die.” the voice comes suddenly, and unexpectedly soft.
Alara feels the sickly-sweet sentiment hit her chest like an axewound. She has to smirk to keep herself from cracking - has to throw her thoughts fully into what they’re going to do together to keep them from drifting to death. Because she can’t let this one die - she won’t allow it - this one is hers. The arena won’t break her, the Capitol won’t change her, she chose this one the second she saw her on the Reaping stage. She grabs ahold of Voltaea’s hand - the scarred one - and digs the poor things nails back out of the blooded wounds by force. A blood promise, something we can never break, darling. “Then let’s make you my victor.”
She hadn’t asked it like a question, but Voltaea still nods yes. Good girl.
Satisfied with herself, Alara stands up - still holding onto her victor’s hand - and gives it a little complimentary squeeze when she follows. “The boys will be back soon, I’m sure.” I intend to keep us both far away from them. “In the meantime, Voltaea darling, why don’t I show you to your sleeper car? Then we can both take a few moments to slip into something more comfortable for strategizing in.”
“Strategizing?” Darling, we just spent all this time building trust, please listen! Alara bites back her frustration.
“Yes, of course. We’ll need to have a whole image planned for you before the train disembarks!” It comes out almost too harsh, she can feel her girl’s hand tense within her own. ‘ You’re biting again, Alara dear.’ She can practically taste the wine in Selica’s breath when she summons her voice. Soften yourself, the poor thing has never known softness, that’s how you catch her - be the silk not the spider. “And don’t think I’ve forgotten about what your mu-” Fucks abound, FOCUS! She coaches herself with more fury to calm her nerves again. “-sister said about you taking notes. I’d like to know if you’ve got anything special cooking in that head of yours.” If you called that shrieking little thing a mutt in front of her, you’d have lost her before you got to the Capitol.
They walk for a while in conversation, heading for the back of the train where the sleeper cars are hitched up. Voltaea divulges enough to confirm some of Alara’s suspicions about her - but Alara doesn’t probe too deeply - not yet anyway. She just learns enough to start confirming some suspicions. She keeps notes - relishes those little details. It’s because she knew she’d be chosen - she planned for it. Gods I could kiss that mind of hers - I wish I had been so prepared in my day. She was in an accident - something where she ended up in a coma. That’s how she got the scar. She shifts and itches every time the noise in the room changes, like she's clawing herself back into rhythm. She apologizes too much - and she’s much too formal with me, we’ll have to fix that. No ma’am’s - I’m not your mother, darling. Nearly there now… let’s put her on the end, nearer to my car, of course.
“This is you - they’ll have you in a room next to the weepy one.” She smiles at Voltaea, who seems to be preoccupied with something. She’s biting her lower lip and digging those nails into that beautiful scar of hers again. “But not to worry, the soundproofing should hold, I doubt you’ll hear much of him.” I hate seeing this look on your face, darling, please let it go. Alara presses the button to open the door to the sleeper car - it’s much plainer than hers, but she suspects her girl might prefer that after so many new sights today. You still look so concerned, let me take that from you. “I’ll have Orville attend to him on the way to the Capitol - you and I will need all the time we can get to prepare.” Her words don’t seem to shift Voltaea’s face at all - she’s still standing there looking like there’s too many gears turning in her head at once.
“I… but…” You can’t go around stuttering like that for the cameras, focus! She wants to smack sense into her, but now isn’t the time. “Aren’t you supposed to train him too?” You are an audacious little thing aren’t you? Didn’t I tell you earlier not to worry about him? Alara is torn between being irritated at her concern and elated at her boldness in challenging her. With my reputation? Good show, darling.
Alara lets her next words cut like daggers, but keeps her face a tight mask. This is a test, afterall. To see if her girl is really as capable as she thinks. To see if she can out reason her feelings, leave those pesky things behind to do what needs to be done to win . Calm. Collected. Controlled. “I’m supposed to train a victor. Tell me this, do you really think he has a chance?”
There’s a look on Voltaea’s face that flashes like rage for a moment and Alara half wonders if she miscalculated and the girl is softer than she’d anticipated. She stands there, digging those nervous nails into her scar, staring at Alara but not really seeing what’s in front of her eyes. After a long, static silence, she finally says “No… I don’t.”
Alara feels like the fire of victory has been ignited in her for the first time in 24 years - her face burns with a smile she can’t contain. “Good girl” She feels Voltaea sizing her up in the moment, trying to gauge her true feelings. She lets them show, just a bit, for her. I’ll let you see me, just this time, darling. So you know what a good job you’re doing. Her tremor is worsening, and the itching in the back of her teeth is getting sharper with every moment. I need a moment to prepare. We have so much to learn together, little spark. Alara’s voice cracks back into showtime mode - bright and sharp: “I’ll be back in half an hour, there’s clothes in the dresser - pick something comfortable. You and I have a late night ahead of us.” She gives her hand a last, tight, press before releasing her and stepping back out into the hallway as the door slides shut behind her.
She strides to the nearby exit door of the traincar to enter the next one - where her sleeper car is located, right at the very end of the train. She hadn’t mentioned that fact to her girl yet. Let her have her moment of peace before the real work begins. She enters the car in stride, too-tall heels from her Reaping Day outfit deadening their incessant noise when she steps onto the plush, opal-shimmering carpet. She kicks them off immediately - the heels are a costume piece, a weapon. There’s no need for weapons with her girl, she’s so much more responsive to softness . We’re going to be getting comfortable together now, darling, no need for such pretenses.
Alara strips her outfit and tosses it over her shoulder into the corner - taking a long look at herself in the floor-length mirror in the corner with a grin. Magnificent, I truly do have excellent taste in surgeons. She pulls her favorite robe - a crimson, silk number that shows off a flattering amount of her legs. We’ll see if you notice this, darling. It takes her a bit longer to find her slippers - she vaguely remembered an incident from the night before where she had thrown them at Orville for implying she should drink a glass of water instead of more wine. They were on opposite sides of the room, one slid underneath her dresser. I’ll have a talk with him about this behavior later. Ugh.
It's only taken her ten minutes to get dressed - she can’t hear the train moving yet so the boy and the weeper can’t have been back too long - if they could pry him away from the rest of his useless family without the Peacekeepers getting involved, anyway. She tenses for a moment - the twitching tremor in her hand and an ugly churning in her gut urging her to consider her thoughts. Alara, you aren’t going to sit around feeling guilty, not when you finally have your victor. She eyes the tray and the rows of pills and powders on the coffee table. Perhaps I’ll sharpen up, then.
She skates across the room and slinks down onto the daybed beside the table, pulling out a series of vials to examine like a mad scientist. She settles on a pure-white substance that seems to have more of a shimmering crystalline look to it than a powdery matte one - it’s one of her stronger favorites. She pops the stopper of the vial and pours a small amount of the substance onto the tray, using the back of a long nail to tame it into a line of submission. Perfect!
Scrape, schk, sniff. It’s practically a ritual for her now. She feels the burning, chlorinated taste hit her palette like a cleansing rain. Her eyes widen, pupils flare, mind sharpens like a killing blade. Gag. A particularly violent drip makes her nearly choke - the bile-burn coiling through her esophagus in rageful reply to the drugs. Breathe!ThroughyourfuckingmouthAlarafuck!
She has to shake herself for a second to get her thoughts to stop running together. Her heartbeat is too fast , the itching spreads too far from her teeth, the chemical taste too strong - Did I overdo it again, No, no this isn’t any more than I usually take, it can’t be, is it? The tremor is violent enough that she takes her other hand to clamp it down just to feel still for a moment. Her eyes dart back to the assortment of powders and pills, and she fumbles around for a particular sea-blue capsule that she knows will do the trick. Blue to calm, blue to calm, blue to calm.
There are two left in her pill case, she takes one, dry swallow, no hesitation. Twenty minutes, give or take, then I’ll be presentable and perfect and positively radiating, and I’ll have Orville watch the boy, the train, the train, until we get to the Capitol - OH! and we’ll make sure you’re all dressed up for me -
Her rambling thoughts are interrupted by the crackling voice of the driver over the intercom. “We will be departing District Five in five minutes. Repeat, departure is in five minutes.” Work faster, damnit! Alara looks at herself in the mirror again. Her nose is violently red, eyes bloodshot - If that pink-dress-motherfucker on the wardrobe team sees this he’ll send shots straight to the gossip rags. FUCK! She throws the pill-case still lingering in her hand across the room at the far wall where the contents scatter across the carpet like confetti.
It's then that the door to the sleeper car slides open. Orville in his hideous powder blue suit stands in the entryway looking like he’s stuck his hand in the cookie jar - Coulomb Vexel’s wild shock of blonde hair bobbing behind him in tow. “Ah… Alara, I have your other tribute, he’s asked what he’s supposed to be doing to prepa-”
“ORVILLE STRAUD I SWEAR TO EVERY FUCKING GOD IF YOU DON’T REMOVE THAT BOY FROM MY SIGHT-” Shes practically vibrating with rage - she can taste the copper on her tongue from nicking it with her shaking teeth.
“Ma’am -” You audacious little fucker. The stim-shakes are so violent now that she can tell the boy notices them. She doesn’t care.
“No! Orville! No ma’ams! You’ve disregarded me for the last time today - he’s YOUR responsibility now. YOU get him ready for the Capitol. You want the boy to have a mentor so badly, you fucking do it - maybe you’ll see why I save my focus for potential when you see how exhausting it all is.” Alara turns her shoulder away from him pointedly, plunging her claws into her upper thigh to steady herself - the angry red welts a reminder to stay calm, collected, and controlled .
She hears his breath rattling behind him, can practically taste his nerves over the artificial rose-smell in the sleeper car and the chemical tang in her sinuses. He speaks - not to her this time, to the weepy boy behind him. It’s softer than his usual voice - less affectated - He’s less chirpy. “It seems like Ms. Vox is busy right now.” Idiot. He pauses for a moment, mulling the thought, then whispers to the boy like he's sharing a secret with a dear friend. “Do you like sweets? There’s a gentleman in the dining car who makes the most marvelous chocolate torte!”
As the door starts to close behind her, she hears the tiny weepy boy speak for the first time. Just one thing, almost a whisper. “I do like chocolate…” There, see, he'll be right as rain with Orville. The boy will make sure he has the time of his life before they gut little Coulomb like a pig at the bloodbath, I’m sure. Alara knocks her shin off of the coffee table when the train lurches into gear and starts moving with a loud “Fuck!”
It’s been close to the thirty minutes she told her girl she had to ready herself - she checks herself over in the mirror one last time. Her eyes are bloodshot, red and streaked, as the tip of her nose. This won’t do at all, not the way she needs to see me. She rummages in a drawer by the mirror, producing a dropper bottle that she quickly upturns into both of her eyes. She blinks a few times to spread the drops out evenly then examines herself again. Oh good, now I look like the weepy one. Her eyes are watery, nose still burning red.
Hurry up! She glides to the bathroom attached to the car. It’s easily as lavish as the rest of her quarters - the centerpiece of the room being a large, circular, black bathtub with golden orchid designs inlaid on the outside. Ugh, if only there were time right now. She makes her way to the sink and plugs it, letting it fill for a moment with ice cold water. Then, she plunges her entire face into it. Please - for the love of amphetamines - let them have at least remembered the waterproof makeup.
It seems as though her styling team had done one thing right this year because Alara’s makeup is flawless when she rises from the depths of the bathroom sink a woman reborn. All the puffiness has left her face, and while she does look slightly damp, she doesn’t look quite so sad or derangedly high anymore. Showtime. Don’t trip, don’t stumble, don’t even blink darling. Calm, collected, and controlled.
She’s primed for power, itching with energy, and slides out of her sleeper car ready to face her victor again. She knocks, three times - short, sharp, striking - then enters without waiting for a reply. Oh, aren’t you sweet falling asleep like that? A terrible listener, but sweet. She bites back the sentimental taste welling up in her chest and focuses on the copper tang of blood from the burst capillaries in her nose.
It helps her not to smile too sweetly to raise a snarky eyebrow at the girl instead. She looks entirely too soft in sleep, none of the harshness and steel of her waking demeanor. It won’t do in the arena. “I thought I told you to find something comfortable, darling?” She feels a chill run up her spine and has to clench her teeth to stop it from making her shiver. Those blue pills need to hurry up - too much bite right now.
Her girl asks if they’re moving, Alara rebuts by asking if she was asleep. Since we’re asking obvious questions, tsk. She pacifies the poor thing with some kind words - then slips back into her teaching voice. “Stay put- I’ll find you something.”
She’s already laser-focused on the wardrobe in the room, where she strides like a cat on the hunt - for a suitable outfit to dress the girl in since she couldn't be bothered to do it herself. Nothing, nothing, FUCK, nothing, gods the fucking wardrobe team this year was less than useless, nothing, ugly, hideous, nothing, ugh is this for a child? ABSOLUTELY FUCKALL, NOTHING! Her mind races faster than her hands can throw outfits onto the floor - rejections, every one. You can’t be dressed like innocence, or sadness, or fear - no you have to be dressed in something that MEANS something - something with style, with flair, maturity. Steeliness, even.
Alara turns back to face Voltaea, who she gleefully notices has not taken her eyes off of her bare legs - though the look in the poor thing’s eyes is so glassy from sleep she can’t be sure she’s really taking it all in just yet. Alara strides past her, confidently, just to see if her gaze follows. Oh, and it certainly does. I’ll make a note that you like this one for later, my little spark. “Absolutely nothing! The wardrobe team this year was less than useless. Hang on, Voltaea darling, I’ll be back in just a moment with something suitable .”
Alara blazes down the hall and back into her sleeper car, a woman with intent and fire in her eyes. She’s never been handed such a gift on a silver platter before - Someone so shapeable, so capable, so insightful! So much like me, really. Alara leaps up onto her daybed like a cat hunting a bug, nearly tripping over her slippers in the process but catching herself before she whacks her head on the wall behind it. A version of me who doesn’t make mistakes. She reaches behind the bed to pull out her second-favorite robe.
Second favorite because Haymitch Abernathy once told her the color black brought out her crows feet when he drunkenly raged at her during a mentor gala for mocking a dead tribute of his on air. She tried to explain it was just show business, and the poor thing really did look like a coal rat, but he took the little things so personally. He had said other things too, regarding her character. I’ve heard it all and worse before from the rabble back home . But That. That was the one that stuck. That black aged her. She hasn’t worn it as more than a highlight since.
The robe is still silk, but black instead - a smidge longer than the crimson - with blood-red embroidery work that spreads out like veins across the surface. Darling, you’re a version of me who would look perfect in this robe.
The fabric snags on one of Alara’s nails with a sharp pull. Oh. I nearly forgot, darling. There is still something else you need. Sitting on the coffee table, next to all the neat little chemicals she uses to keep herself in order, is a silver and jade nail file. She picks up the implement, turning it over in her hands as a devilish grin forms on her face. A softer touch, then. For when the time is right.
It takes her a few minutes to get it right - to clip away the claws on one of her manicured hands and round the nails out to a softened tip. She leaves the other sharp. Can’t have people forgetting who I am now, can I? Satisfied with her work, Alara saunters down the hallway with the robe in hand. She stops at the open doorway and is struck with a scene of the girl - wielding a highlighter pen like a drafting tool - scribbling away on some of Alara’s very expensive personalized stationery.
She’s staring at the thing like she’s studying it - with all the intent she does when she stares at Alara, even. I’ll have to be more eye-catching it seems. It’s almost striking how innocent it all looks - this is her weapon, her victor, it almost didn’t occur to her that she’d find such fascination in something so simple. I might have too once, before my own games.
She stands there - taking it all in, letting the sentimental taste linger for a moment. That’s enough of that, now. We have work to do. She interrupts with a clear of her throat and a sarcasm-tinged “Coloring?” Darling - if I could bottle that shade of blush you have in my presence I’d do nothing but drink.
“These pens are useless, you can’t see anything you write with them.” Alara lets out an involuntary, snark-drenched laugh.
“Oh. Darling. That’s because it’s a highlighter.” She can immediately see it strike the girl across her face like a slap. Ah. My bad. Alara tries to soften her voice a bit to explain, lest the poor thing think she’s picking on her. Teslene would have given you enough of that for a lifetime, I’m sure. “Look - you don’t use it to write things with, you use it to emphasize what you’ve already written. It’s an organizing tool.”
She doesn’t want Voltaea to think she’s unappreciative of her curiosity, so Alara crosses the room to stand beside the girl at the desk - grabbing a nearby pencil and signing her name with the practiced flourish of a career victor. Don’t say I never do anything for you, darling. She slides her hand over her girl’s, savouring the feel of the pulse pounding against her, guiding her hand with the highlighter pen over Alara’s signature. She lets her half-whispered voice ease into the younger woman’s earlobe like a secret. “See, doesn’t it pop now? That way you’ll notice it when you look back at your notes again.”
Voltaea speaks, in an almost calculated tone. It’s adorable, really . “That’s what you’re doing with me then, isn’t it? We’re using a highlighter to make me pop for the crowd?” Alara laughs again - earnestly, not sharply. She has to clap her hands together to shock herself back into focus again. I haven’t laughed in such a long time, darling. Not really. Her girl still can’t look into her eyes - she can see the flush hasn’t left her face, and the poor thing keeps wandering back to Alara’s legs…
“Exactly!” Let’s focus on something a bit easier for you to swallow for now. She guides Voltaea’s face to meet her own again. “Anyways. For now, you can borrow one of my spare robes. Since there’s nothing remotely suitable for a woman of your sharpness in here -” she slides the black silk robe into Voltaea’s hands and feels something like hunger roiling her gut. - this will have to do.” She smirks. You’re going to look absolutely delicious in this, darling.
Alara lets her next words slip out in the sultriest whisper she can muster. “Although do be careful - it might be short on you.” The result is immediate - satisfying. The girl blazes red - her hand trembling as she fumbles around with the robe like she’s been tossed a hot iron and can’t figure out how to drop it quick enough.
“Um…” You poor thing. Are you flustered? Burning hot, even? This is almost too easy. “Are you going to leave?” Oh no, darling. Not unless you beg me to.
“Um…” She can see her future victor trying to claw her way out of her skin, trying to challenge her, trying to explain away the feeling she can see so clearly written across her girl’s face. Digging your way into that gorgeous scar won’t save you from yourself. Alara grabs ahold of her hand, to pull the nails back out again before she reopens the cuts from earlier and bleeds all over the new carpets. Her girl finally musters the courage to speak again. “I need to get dressed.” Modesty. I remember modesty. That was such a long time ago. The stim-itch in her teeth rises in a violent crescendo and she has to bite down to chase it off. Or, she thinks it’s the stims. It’s better than the alternative that she has doubts .
You have this girl wrapped around your finger already, don’t get cold feet. “I hate to break it to you darling,” You’re doing her a favor, you’re helping her cope, you’re helping her live, you’re helping her WIN. All you’re going to do is tell her the truth and let her make her own choices. All the self-coaching in the world and she still can’t help the drip of regret that drops into her voice. “But the Capitol is going to rip that modesty from you whether you like it or not. Best to get over it now, don’t you think?”
It’s then that she drops her girl's hand - the sharp uptick in her pulse enough to tell Alara she’s had the desired effect. She does her best to look patient, imposing, but she can feel the tapping of her fingers doing their best to chase away her tremor again and knows Voltaea must see it too. Sigh. She’s still just standing there. Alara cocks her head to the side, making a show of looking out the window rather than directly at the poor thing. “Go on, then. I’ll be here - for practice.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Alara sees the younger woman turn slightly away from her - but she’s fumbling with the robe with intent now. She can feel her own heartbeat rumbling into her throat now, that thundering rhythm that tells her one thing - she’s won. The girl undoes the first button on that stiff-looking white shirt of hers and Alara digs her nails into her thighs to silence the growing burn within them. She’s turned back to face her entirely now, Volteaea hasn’t noticed. Or she doesn’t mind me watching.
When the girl tosses the shirt over her shoulders with the same careless flick of her wrist that Alara does when she undresses herself, she can feel herself coming undone. It’s the first time she’s seen all of her. Even from the back, she's a sight to behold. The luscious lightning-patterned scar that strikes from her palm well up her arm and ends in scattered streaks across shoulder. Every toned, sculpted muscle from years of work - every slight curve of her body, still youthful, still sculpting - every pale, scarred, calloused inch of the girl invokes a vision of sharpness - of victory - that makes Alara’s breath catch in her throat. She’s not beautiful in the way the Capitol likes - not soft or pretty or sensual. She’s beautiful in the way a blade is beautiful - like Alara can’t tell if she’d caress her or cut her if she tried to make a move in this moment. The whisper falls from her lips without her thinking, or caring, to catch herself this time. “You’re perfect.”