open rp post

[wunderkind]

an open rp post
(it is what it says it is)

-1-
pick a character

-2-
leave me a comment. maybe a scenario, maybe an AU scenario, maybe a picture, maybe a word,
maybe a request to resume old game canon, maybe just a comment.
i don't care. do your worst.

-2a-
helpful note: i am currently obsessed with the Hunger Games and Christmas. can you combine those into one tag?

-3-
let's get it on



disclaimer: we probably won't get it on
+ there are no promises i will take this seriously

Comments

hi baby

[fuckingsecrets]

hello luvah

[axeyou]

Look over there.

[How do you cope, after coming out bloody and victorious? The Capitol stitches you up and puts all your pieces back together. They dress you up and push you into the arms of your adoring fans, the people who were maybe chanting for your death a few hours before--before some act of valor or cunning changed their minds, made you a darling instead of a target. They paid for your water and your flint, they deserve a piece of you. It all goes by in a blur, a rush of riot and color and food too rich for you to look at, because when you look at it you just see flesh.

And then they send you home. But you've always got one foot in this world, their world. You're like an exotic beast no matter where you go. And pretty soon, you find yourself alone, totally and completely, in your big old house in the Victor's Village, with nothing to look forward to, living off the riches you earned with your bloody hands, and maybe the price of your soul.

Theatrical. Dra-ma-tic. Bullshit. The year goes by and they do another Reaping. Maybe the first year you care. But the second time, you don't. You let yourself move somewhere beyond caring, somewhere safe, you climb this mountain of your victory where only the other Victors sit, all of you, in this club that you hate. You hate yourself and you hate them and you have to live with it.

But some of them are worse than others. When Johanna gets trotted out to parties, she knows how to act--a little rude, a little rough, because people know she's a cunning killer, and that's the part she plays. She can play it really well by now. It keeps her from having to talk too much, if she's a bitch. The 73rd Games have come and gone, and here's the Victor: a boy from District 2. Two days ago his skin was patchy with black burns from frostbite; today he's dressed head to toe in grey, and his large hands look ridiculous holding the skinny little forks popular at Capitol balls.

Johanna smirks anyways, as she sidles up to Finnick. Finnick is okay. She's learned who she likes and who she doesn't like, and she's not shy about expressing either one. It's a little like choosing allies in the Games. She even gets that same familiar feeling of inevitable betrayal, even if it's unnecessary. Finnick is like her. They might as well be chained to this fucking table.]

It's pathetic. They always look like little baby deer, but they're putting on these fierce faces, like we didn't just see them pissing themselves in fear. We never looked like that, did we?

[fuckingsecrets]

[He's a little jealous, sometimes, of the difference in their acts. Johanna is the rude one, the rough one, the one who can be counted on to give all the fun dramatic soundbites-- she never pulls back, never knows when to shut up, and one day that's going to get her in trouble. But at least she can be herself.

Finnick is cleverer. He's far more careful. He's cultivated this stupid fucking personality, this flirty smirky teasing thing, and it's getting a little alarming just how easy it is to slip it on when he's dragged back to the Capitol.

So he smiles, that familiar little half smile that's so utterly false-- but the interest in his eyes is real, for once, because he likes Johanna, because she's one of the few people in his life who's honest.]

If I answer honestly, are you going to put an axe through my head?

[Of course they did. God knows he did, and though he honestly can't remember-- it's all a blur sometimes, of blood and screams and death-- he's fairly certain she did as well. Terrified, they all look terrified at the end, because they none of them can believe it's actually over, that they actually did it.]

[axeyou]

[She laughs, short, with a little edge to it, and her grin is all teeth--but in her eyes, she means it. Who knows why she's let herself become fond of stupid prettyboy Finnick Odair, in her own fucked-up way. She can guess at it, but that involves a lot of deep thinking, which Johanna would really rather not do. No good comes out of that.

So instead, she just grins at him, like maybe she really is going to split his face with an axe.]

And ruin your good looks? Come on. I have to have something to look at, at these idiotic parties.

[She knows his story. Sometimes she wonders what it would be like, to talk to him without both of them smiling through these acts. God, that's a stupid thought. Maybe once she really was a shaky little Victor after all.]

I don't remember anything about mine. Just a lot of noise and colors, and I kept eating, and I was wearing this hideous dress with a high collar. A lot like this one, actually.

[She tugs at the offending collar in question, and rolls her eyes.]

Can we trade stylists? At least yours was born in the last thirty years, and doesn't keep wrapping you in treebark.

[fuckingsecrets]

You'd rather be stripped and shown off?

[He tilts his head, a smirk on his lips.]

I thought you refused to be a sex object. Have a change of heart?

[axeyou]

I'd rather wear something that isn't trying to choke me to death.

[She tugs again at her collar, scowling. The truth of his words is sad, for him, but Johanna doesn't have a lot of time for pity. They are what they are, what they've been made to me. The roles that they play keep them alive. Whatever that's worth.]

And I refused on their terms. I might choose to strip and show off myself. We can dress to match. What do you think?

[fuckingsecrets]

Fishing and lumber? It could work. Have your people call mine.

[The words are a little too false, but they're meant to be that way; a private bitter joke between the two of them. Finnick grins again, bright, and then nods toward the new victor.]

Bet you five he'll vomit soon.

[axeyou]

[She matches that grin--hers is a different sort of bitterness, of course, a little fiercer, but they're matched. And maybe the bet is a bit cruel. But they're Victors of the Hunger Games. Of course they'er a bit cruel, and jaded.]

How soon is soon? I'll take your five, and I'm giving him... three minutes.