on_va_voir (on_va_voir) wrote in districtmarvel, @ 2016-03-30 21:31:00 |
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Entry tags: | scott lang, steve rogers |
Who: Steve and Scott
What: The tribute parade and the glorious costumes that come with it
Where: Holding area near City Circle; Capitol
When: Immediately before the procession of chariots
Steve had forgotten the indignities of a full-body waxing. Apparently, his stylists hadn't wanted to push their luck during the arena dedication party; getting him to wear the spandex pants and latex body paint had been victory enough, and thus they hadn't forced the issue of depilation. But the parade of tributes required nothing less than physical perfection, and so Steve had suffered through a judicious application of hot wax from the neck down. He'd protested - vehemently - when his team of stylists had veered into territory that was best left covered up, but they'd apparently come prepared for his inevitable refusal, because three very broad, very muscular men had appeared and threatened to hold him down if he didn't cooperate. Steve had been fully prepared to go down swinging, but considering the close proximity of the wax to certain sensitive parts, he'd ultimately agreed to go along with his stylists' plans.
He should have known better, really, because there was no reason for such an up-close-and-personal wax job unless his stylists intended to show those areas off. Which, he realized as soon as he saw his costume, had been the plan all along. He'd tried to protest, had tried to point out that District Eight's main export was fabric, which meant Steve had reason to be even more covered up than any of the other tributes, but his logic had fallen on deaf ears. His stylists instead insisted that the sheer, gauzy fabric they had chosen was the finest, silkiest example of Eight's craftsmanship, and that the delicate drape of it would be ruined if they'd tried to make it into a shirt or a robe.
Which was how Steve found himself standing in the holding area, twenty minutes before the procession to the City Circle was to begin, in nothing more than a flimsy, glorified loincloth. His stylists had given him a list of other names for it, but Steve wasn't fooled. It was indeed a loincloth, and the careful tuck of the fabric and the artful layering his stylists had done was only barely preserving his modesty. He felt uncomfortably naked on a multitude of levels, and if it weren't for the makeup that was caked on his skin, he was sure the mortified pink in his cheeks would be horribly visible. As things stood, he was doing his best to hide behind the horses, away from the other tributes. He wasn't sure where Hogarth had gotten to, but then, she'd been cold to him since the Quell had been announced, no doubt blaming him for this latest cruelty, as so many of the other Victors did. Which was another reason Steve was keeping to himself; he was sure to receive a less-than-welcoming reception from the other Victors, and he certainly wasn't about to force his company on them, not when all he was likely to get in return were scathing remarks and furious glares.
So he stayed tucked around the side of his chariot, wishing he at least had Peggy or Bucky here with him, to help shoulder the burden of the waiting and to keep his mind off the looming horrors he would be facing in the not-too-distant future.