open rp post
Dec. 2nd, 2012 06:45 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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
THE HUNGER GAMES stuff
Date: 2013-12-03 03:49 am (UTC)sorry that i'm not sorry...but actually sorry that I am terrible at playing new characters
Date: 2013-12-03 04:22 am (UTC)you are _______, from district whatever, and you are a new victor
tawk amungst yahhselves]
also christmas
Date: 2013-12-03 04:24 am (UTC)are you tired of me yet
Date: 2013-12-03 04:25 am (UTC)I don't use JH I am pre Josh even being a possibility for being cast w/e I do what I want
Date: 2013-12-03 04:25 am (UTC)[That's it.
That's the prompt.]
hi baby
Date: 2013-12-03 04:25 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-12-03 04:27 am (UTC)Being Human Games
god the mere possibility breaks my heart]
johanna or an au i am cool for w/e
Date: 2013-12-03 04:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-12-03 04:33 am (UTC)it can be christmas if you want i'd be down for that. ]
AHA AHAHA AHAHAHAHA come Sirius meet a queen
Date: 2013-12-03 04:34 am (UTC)Well, no, she does.]
Bother!
[At least she's still grown, mostly grown, anyway.]
no subject
Date: 2013-12-03 04:35 am (UTC)even know. ]
no subject
Date: 2013-12-03 04:43 am (UTC)Spoiler: he got you bread.]
no subject
Date: 2013-12-03 05:03 am (UTC)h to the p!!!!!!
Date: 2013-12-03 06:06 am (UTC)i only regret i don't have a dw tamaki journal. also hello! bc we already did edgeworth&sirius HG:AU
Date: 2013-12-03 04:54 pm (UTC)Except maybe it is, now. Maybe when they finally let her go back, the trees will all be different, everything will be different, all the people and the things that she knows, the things she took for granted. It wouldn't be surprising, right? The Capitol can do whatever it wants. The Arena had changed around her, like something out of a nightmare. Cliffs where there hadn't been cliffs before, a sheer drop, hundreds of feet. A river running with blood, and then the river swelled, became a flood. Lightning striking a tree--and one of the other Tributes laying on the ground a moment later, black, burned, smoking, before a ship had come along, smoothly, and plucked up the body, carried it away, and there was nothing on the ground but a little black smudge that the rain had quickly washed away.
Johanna had seen it happen. It was okay: she was going to kill the boy anyways. She wasn't going to die, crying and scared, pissing herself. She was going to win and go home and it was all going to be over, all of it, that's what she said to herself every night, like it was some sort of fucking prayer. But it was only the Capitol watching over her. And no one was going to make her prayers come true except her, and she had, and now here she was, standing in this dress that doesn't look a thing like evergreen. All her wounds stitched up and fresh. All her sweat and blood wiped away. Clean and new and victorious.
And what she's starting to realize is that she's victorious, but she's never going to be done. When the fireworks start she feels something in her twisting around, like a knife digging from the inside out, and her knees feel weak, which she hates. She hates it, she hates so much, and she grabs hold of the nearest thing to stop herself from falling over, and she hates that, too, and she hates this person she's grabbed hold of.
When she comes out of herself, she shoves him away. He's another Victor, from the past. She doesn't remember a thing about him. When she looks at him, he could very well be one of the ones she killed in the Arena--except he's cleaned up too; he's with them, now, with the Capitol.
And so is she. This is Johanna Mason's victory ball, and she hates it.]
What do you want.
wow who is this hip journalmaker and qt pb! PS: this is pre catching fire
Date: 2013-12-03 06:10 pm (UTC)Haymitch has drinking. Katniss has hunting. Solitary pursuits, even drinking, at least the way that Haymitch practices it, but Peeta--
Katniss tries not to think too much of Peeta. They're twenty-five feet away from each other, in the Victor's Village. His windows are lit up at night and smoke comes from his chimney and sometimes, when she's pulling on her boots before she slips out into the woods, she sees Peeta outside, walking with an armload of firewood, or a few loaves of bread. And then she looks away, because she isn't thinking of Peeta.
It's maybe the last warm day of the year, a false summer. There's an old name for it that Katniss' mother sometimes uses, for days like these, but she can't think of it. Hunting will be good today. The deer want to be out in the sunlight just as much as she does.
When she steps outside, she smells bread on the wind. Peeta's windows are open, but dark. No one is home; at least, that's what she thinks--but the smell of the bread is so strong she wanders over anyways. It's not a smell she's ever going to forget. It takes her back to standing against the tree in the cold, meeting Peeta's eyes across the half-frozen mud. The thud of the bread loaf on the ground.
When she looks in the window--there's bread. Not one loaf, but a lot of loaves, stacked up, on every available surface. It's a little unreal how much there is. At first Katniss thinks she's seeing things, and then she thinks--maybe this is Peeta's hunting. Baking, nonstop.
But it's wasteful. She frowns, she can't help it. And then she hears a footfall, he's inside, he's not gone out at all (of course he hasn't, where do they have to go, either of them), and she backs up a step, unwilling to be caught, unwilling to be trapped in conversation.]
hello luvah
Date: 2013-12-03 06:49 pm (UTC)[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?
!!!
Date: 2013-12-03 07:36 pm (UTC)Anyways. That's Christmas at Hogwarts, or at least Christmas this year at Hogwarts. And maybe there's some of that mistletoe that's made it into the safe zone of the Gryffindor common room, but for now, there is just--]
That.
[Sirius is pointing, and somehow managing to convey an air of awed indigence, and somehow managing to make 'awed indigence' look a little cool and dashing. His arms are full of bottled butterbeers, and he has one open for himself already in hand, and the other hand is holding a second opened butterbeer that he was about to hand over to Remus before he caught sight of Remus as he is, today. That is to say, Remus Lupin, in a dark corner of the common room, just one day before everyone leaves for Christmas holidays. Remus Lupin, in an extremely ugly jumper.]
That is the ugliest bloody jumper that I have ever seen.
[This is an achievement, if Sirius' tone is anything to go by. The common room is mostly empty--thank God, because Sirius can't imagine being seen alongside this jumper for more than a few minutes at a time. If no one's really around to see, it's safe. He doesn't hand over the butterbeer just yet, but stands, with his mouth open a little, still wearing his cloak and scarf, newly returned from an illegal Hogsmeade visit. Night has come quickly, which means it's definitely time to celebrate, and if the Marauders are some of the last Gryffindors left, then so much the better. They can drink loads of butterbeer and fall asleep on sofas and wake up and drag themselves to the train tomorrow.
Except maybe they'd better expel Remus for that hideous jumper first.]
Where the hell did you get that thing? Please tell me someone's done a Sticking Charm on it and forced it over your head. Was it Snivellus? Merlin, the thought of him dressing or undressing anyone is-- Moony, seriously, what is that thing. I am so distracted. I want to give you this butterbeer but I can't stop staring at your chest, which has never been a problem before.
no subject
Date: 2013-12-03 08:15 pm (UTC)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.]
EXCUSE U what is wrong w my layout!!! (hi) (yay) (tell me if this works or)
Date: 2013-12-03 09:46 pm (UTC)Even Ron's life, as hard as that is for Harry to believe. It's never more difficult to believe than when they're installed at the Burrow, a house where you're just as likely to find begonias as you are gnomes uprooting carrots in the garden. It's brilliant, and coming back is sort of like putting on your favorite jumper, holes and patches and all.
Which, actually, coincidentally, Harry is wearing. What else do you wear at the Burrow besides Weasley jumpers? His is sleek and well made; Ron's is admittedly a little itchier. They're slumped together on a low sofa in front of the fireplace. Everyone's gone off to bed, and while Harry has an important question to ask Ron--a question he'll have to repeat to Mr and Mrs Weasley, later, but it seems an act of courtesy to ask Ron first--or, well, it would, except Harry is already in a sort of pre-Christmas doze, lulled to contentment by the warmth of the fire and the house around him, full and happy. Mrs Weasley had put together a brilliant feast for their homecoming. There will be another feast tomorrow, and another round of homecomings, and Hermione will turn up, inevitably, just as if they're all still in school.
Harry tugs his shirtsleeve over his wrist and rubs it against his forehead, idly. His scar hasn't twinged in the least bit in six months. He can't be arsed to ask any serious Ginny-related questions just now, so instead he offers Ron the half-finished bag of Every-Flavour Beans.]
I think it's just snot left, honestly. But if you want to try your luck....
no subject
Date: 2013-12-03 10:20 pm (UTC)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.
YOU CHANGED IT AND RUINED IT AGAIN this is nice tho also i'm intensely rusty sorry
Date: 2013-12-03 10:39 pm (UTC)it's a steadier sort of friendship, now. what it was in the best of times, minus the selfish and frightened push and pull. the only real remnant of the low times is the vague sense of guilt ron feels on occasion, usually wrapped up in the quiet, lingering grief of the war. but he's still selfish or cowardly enough to not act on it, maintains that it's never the right time to bring up such a downer of a conversation when things are... well, they're good. surprisingly good. the world's much quieter, and sometimes much sadder, but it's theirs.
it's sitting on the sofa next to harry while his family sleeps soundly, no threat of monsters banging down the front door. nightmares were the occasional thing, of course, but for the most part it's been ridiculously easy to relax in the aftermath - probably because none of them could remember the last time they had truly relaxed. ron's watching the fireplace, mind idly trying to make sense of the fact that he's not particularly concerned about the possibility of everything going tits up again, when harry interrupts. ]
Right. You know me and luck, we're fast friends. [ which sounds an awful lot like a sarcastic no, but he does turn his attention to the offered bag, half-heartedly reaching in to pick one out before idly inspecting it. it's hard to tell them apart in the firelight, so he's not in any rush. ]
I honestly don't think I could keep it down. Is that a thing that happens when you get old? Not being able to eat everything in sight?
[ "old". ]
yes good yes - before the quarter quell games?? furiously adds scenes
Date: 2013-12-03 10:59 pm (UTC)[Johanna shoves away from the wall and saunters up to Katniss Everdeen with an easy sinewy grace. An adoring fan had once told her that she moved like a mountain lion, and Johanna had laughed in his face.
Which was, really, a part of the act. But for once it was a part that felt good. She's not an animal--but she is, sort of, isn't she. Just because she hasn't filed her teeth or fused cat ears on her head doesn't mean she's not a kept killer. She proved that pretty well in her day.
And here's her day come again, and part of Johanna wants someone to blame. The Capitol is the easiest target. But she can take a little of her ire and pin it on Katniss Everdeen, the Girl on Fire, the Mockingjay, the girl whose smile Johanna can see right through, even if she doesn't know how to define what she sees behind it. Rebellion is something Johanna understands--only her own, but she's coming around, in her own way.
She grins at Katniss, all teeth, and stops right beside her, one hip cocked, her hand placed lightly there.]
That's my best advice. Start with the balls, they're the crunchiest. [And her tone turns a little sweet, here--] You look a little lost, Girl on Fire. Where's your light-up dress from our little Tribute Parade? Seriously, I love it, I want one for myself.
GUESS!!!!!
Date: 2013-12-03 11:08 pm (UTC)He steps out and sees her, and he's not sure what he's feeling - something between tension and uncertainty, and he grabs a loaf of something (he doesn't even notice what it is, it's stuffed with some kind of meat - ham, he thinks later, and cheese, little rolls that are all stuck together) and holds it, but not quite an offering.]
Your sister comes by for cookies.
Oh my god I would hate you so much if you used Tamaki
Date: 2013-12-04 12:15 am (UTC)Twice, the Victor did not take any lives at all. Miles Edgeworth had been one of those two.
It had been quite nearly all luck. He knows that. The portion that had not been luck had been sheer kindness: he had been the youngest Tribute on the field, and so there had been an older boy - District 7 himself - who had helped Miles for the first half of the games. The rest had just been hiding in trees, the serendipitous discovery of a cache of berries, and the Careers having miscounted and forgotten about the boy from District 6. They fell on each other; they bled to death; the boy in the trees had been the last one left alive. The Capitol had spun it into a story of the triumph of the meek. Et cetera. He'd lived. He'd become a Mentor.
And it was in his first year of that new career that he'd begun this tradition. He'd been fourteen; the female Tribute that year had been sixteen, and very pretty, and she'd cried on his shoulder, and he told her all full of hope and idealism that she could win simply if she didn't engage, if she stayed clear of the fighting and showed mercy and appealed to mercy from others. She'd gone down within six hours. The death had been brutal, and unkind, and lingering, and in the end her killer had won, and so at the party after Miles, full of rage and hatred, had gone to Quintus, her killer, and said such things about her to the Victor that he'd turned pale, that he'd shook. To this day, Quintus does not meet Miles' eyes - much to the good.
The next year, he'd done the same; that Victor did not kill any of his Tributes, but he'd presented him with the list of victims, confronting him with the information about what he'd done, and it had felt good. The next year had felt better still. Every year, he vented his rage over those dead children - those Tributes inadequately prepared - at the Victors, and watched their ashamed faces. Some of the other Mentors, over the years, have turned to drink, or morphling; Miles Edgeworth turned to cruelty and found in it great satisfaction.
For the first few years.
By the time he turned nineteen he was beginning to sicken of it, to dread that confrontation. He's twenty-one now. He dreads it now.
And this new Victor, Johanna Mason, with her axe and her anger and her evergreen dress, flinches at the sound of fireworks and grabs him for support. He'd come wanting to make her suffer for the lives she'd taken, to remind her of what she'd done, but...Instead of launching into his tirade, instead of making her suffer even more for not being the Tribute from District 6, for outliving the Tributes he'd mentored, he hesitates. And he speaks, his voice quiet, not responding to her question.]
Are you all right?