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this is fuckin' awesome

Open RP Post

⊛ find a character you want to play with and respond to their thread. can't find who you want? let me know!
⊛ we can make up a scenario, adapt a meme of some sort, or... something else? whatever the fuck we want.
⊛ if you need ideas, the random scenario meme has just about anything you could want.
⊛ wanna do a picture prompt? we can do some picture prompts.
⊛ FUCK YEAH WE'RE TOTALLY ROLEPLAYING RIGHT NOW!!!

Handy-Dandy Quick Links:
Vanessa Cleveland ⊛ Catty Turner ⊛ Finnick Odair ⊛ Belle Beaumont ⊛ Chloe Saunders
Commander Shepard ⊛ Piper McLean ⊛ Jordan Langley ⊛ Jaime Lannister ⊛ Eli Keaton
Sally Malik ⊛ Corey Carling ⊛ Shadow ⊛ Fenris ⊛ Meetra Surik
Revan ⊛ Keiko Nakagawa ⊛ Alyss Heart ⊛ Ava ⊛ James
Percy Jackson ⊛ Frank Zhang ⊛ Helen ⊛ Jason Grace ⊛ David Levin
April O'Neil ⊛ Galen Marek ⊛ Reyna ⊛ Jackson Swift ⊛ Jaime Reyes
Fran Zhang (AU) ⊛ Jasa Grace (AU) ⊛ Piper McLean (AU) ⊛ Gretel ⊛ Sirius Black
Cullen ⊛ Liv Durand ⊛ Maddie Moss ⊛ Daniel Bianchi ⊛ Finley Odair (AU)
Persephone Jackson (AU) ⊛ Derek Hale ⊛ Raleigh Becket ⊛ Allison Argent ⊛ Liam Hunt
Seph McCauley ⊛ Jonah Kinlock ⊛ Edward Kenway ⊛ Aveline de Grandpre ⊛ Gale Hawthone
Will Scarlet ⊛ Korra ⊛ Carswell Thorne ⊛ Scarlet Benoit

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

He doesn't need recognition to be powerful. [She rolls her eyes.] Some things are too dark to be written.

Johanna has existed in sort of a numb, robotic haze every since it happened.

She'd expected repercussions. But after winning the Games, she'd thought she could handle them. What more could they do to her, right?

A lot more, as it had turned out.

And so she works her way around the Victory Tour, smiling and laughing and acting appropriately solemn at all the right moments and feeling nothing as she does it. Johanna isn't a person anymore; she's just a Victor, a shell for the Capitol to crawl into and walk around in now that they've taken everything from her.

And then she sees him.

It's a total coincidence, some random hallway in her hotel in the Capitol after the parties are over and she can peel off the mask and be empty outside as well as inside. Finnick Odair slides out of a room that she knows isn't his, because the door isn't covered in desperate fanmail. And, abruptly, she knows. Knows that he accepted the deal where she refused it, knows that he gave in, knows that he is theirs now and a crack in the ice inside her appears. Rage fills her stomach, hot and a enough to make her want to vomit.

"You make me sick," she spits at him, every inch of her bristling in a way she hasn't since President Snow had showed her their cold, dead faces.

The problem is, Finnick gave in a long time ago. He tried to resist, when he realized that this was part of Snow's design (but for a while, he didn't really understand it, he was just a kid). Resisting hurts people. Resisting means that people who rely on him get hurt, too. It's never been the Games that haunts him; it's been the people who have touched him and the way their hands feel against his naked skin. It's been the way Snow thinks he has the upper hand, tugging at his strings like this is all his design.

Sometimes it still is.

He arches an eyebrow at Johanna Mason, the little girl who sniveled her way through the Games before slamming an axe into anyone who got in her way. It was brutal, but so was his own Games.

There's a slightly lift in the corner of his lips, almost a smile when she says that to him. "Is that so?"

His reaction only makes it worse; her fists ball up as the crack gapes wider. "You should have died in that arena." Johanna knows how to use her voice, and it escapes the realm of disgust into cruelty now. "How many nights did that trident cost you, Odair? How much fucking is a life worth?"

His head tilts a bit, and he's glancing her over, wondering what she's been taking tonight. What was slipped to her, what she went to find. "I did exactly what I was supposed to in the arena."

He's about to push past her and let her have her breakdown on her own when she fires out her next two questions. "The trident was a gift," Finnick says softly before he grins at her, licking his lips. It's an act. He has to maintain it, and who is she to question him anyway. A nobody. "That depends on who you're fucking, really."

Later, she'll never be able to pinpoint what it is that sets her off, exactly. There's just something about him, standing there, the perfect Capital pet. There have been no tragic accidents to make him appear more sympathetic to the masses. He is everything she killed her family to avoid being, and she can't decide if she hates him more, or herself.

Her body moves without thought, muscle memory remembering how it had work in the arena, how to push off, what to aim for. She doesn't have an axe, but they've given her long, sharp nails for the tour and Johanna intends to make use of them as the shell that is left of her gives up the ghost and breaks wide open. She throws herself at Finnick with a wordless snarl. Part of her just wants to make him hurt, punish him for being the proof of what she should have done, what she couldn't do. The other part wonders if he'll just kill her.

Finnick should have been expecting it. It's not the first time a victor has freaked out; maybe not at him, but in general. He's been doing this for six years, and he should have known not to press an angry victor. He stumbles back from the force of her body, still a little out of it from earlier.

Her nails catch his cheek, and his stylist is really not going to like that. The next guy he has to be with might not like it. Finnick snarls back, grabbing her wrists and pulling her off of him. She might have won through cunning and brute force at the end, but he was a contender from the beginning, and he's never stopped.

He pushes her to the ground face first not really caring about whether it hurts her or not, or the fact that her hair is ruined or her stupid dress. He sits on her back, shifting his weight so that he doesn't crush her at least.

The fact that they're in the middle of the hallway doesn't bother him.

"Don't be an idiot, Johanna."

It does hurt, and other than that anger, it's the first real thing she's felt since the Games. Panic surges through her after the pain, because Johanna fought so hard to be able to live and she's not ready to give it up yet. Later, she'll realise how stupid it is to think he would have killed her - victor on victor violence is pretty much never acceptable to the precious Capitol - but her instincts have kicked in from the Games. It seems as likely as anything else that has happened to her.

Don't be an idiot, Johanna. The sound of his voice prompts a fresh surge of rage, and her body bucks with a low cry that turns almost into a sob of frustration. She doesn't even know what she wants anymore, doesn't know what she's supposed to do. Being an idiot seems as good a plan as any.

His weight shifts again, and he's straddling her, pressing his hand down between her shoulder blades. It's a firm touch, meant to keep her in place. She's already acting like a fool on her tour, there's no reason to let her keep going on this way.

He leans down, mouth near her ear. "Calm down. Do you want to draw attention?"

He should leave her here, he should walk away before he's pulled into something he doesn't want to deal with. He has his own people he does this for, people he actually cares about.

A shudder wracks her body as she leans in, and that is disgust. She doesn't want him on her, near here, doesn't want him touching her, which is probably something she should have thought through before she did this.

She tries one last time to escape, but it's futile. She's trapped. And that opens the floodgates, her body going limp under him as a tear slips down the side of her cheek. Another. A raw laugh spills from her lips, but it's filled with pain as she starts to cry - actually cry, tears she isn't controlling. "What else are they going to do to me?"

The anger fizzles out of him easily enough once she starts crying. That's always been a strange weakness for him, at least once the Games were over. Little girls crying in an arena have no power over him. There's a moment where he pauses and tries to put that image out of his mind.

She's not fighting back anymore, so he leans up and removes his hand. "You'd be surprised what they could do to you, even when you have nobody. This never stops. Not until you're dead."

There's a bitterness to his tone, an anger he never lets anyone see. But maybe it's the only thing she's going to respond to.

"If I move, are you going to behave yourself?"

She turns her head as best she can, pressing her face into the ground so he can't see the way she cries. Which is probably the best indication that she's being legit right now; she'd always been so careful to make sure people saw her before. Johanna couldn't manipulate people with her pride.

Maybe that was why she'd made the choice she did. She'd let it all go in the arena, and was desperate to have some of it back. She'd thought she could handle anything.

"They took everyone." Her voice is harsh, inhuman. "They still need me to be in the spotlight. They can't do anything to me, and there's no one left to do anything else to."

She sniffs, a smaller shudder working through her. This one is just excess emotion, though, not disgust. "Get off me." That counts as an answer, doesn't it?

There's something tugging at Finnick now, and it feels suspiciously like guilt. He doesn't like it, doesn't like feeling this way because someone is crying.

"They can do things to you, and they only need you in the spotlight for so long. There will be another Hunger Games soon, a new victor to exploit." He pauses, brushing his fingers over her hair. It's supposed to be comforting, but Finnick knows exactly how he comes off to people. "You've met the addicts, haven't you? That can be you."

Not helpful, Finnick.

But he does what she says, climbing gracefully to his feet and brushing himself off. All he wanted was to take a shower and huddle in his room until he can leave again. And instead he's dealing with this mess.

Maybe it's supposed to be a warning, but when he mentions the addicts, for a second or two Johanna wonders. Wonders what it might be like to have that escape, to stop caring completely. She only has to finish up the Victory Tour, and then she could do it. Slip away, become numb forever.

But that pride that made her say no is still there, and even in the depths of despair, she knows she won't do it. It would be too easy. Too much like letting them win.

She should probably be creeped out by the way he's stroking her hair, but the truth is that no one really touches Johanna anymore. Even her stylists don't like getting too close to her, like the calm, docile girl she's been since it happened will suddenly turn on them. It might be meaningless on his part, but some part of her takes meaning from it anyway. It makes her feel human, if only for a second or two.

And then he's off her, and she just sort of lies there for a second before she remembers how to make her body work. Slowly, she curls up, first on her side, and then pushing herself into a sitting position so she can wrap her arms around her legs. Her dress, she notes, is ruined.

Good.

"Just go," she mutters, unable to look at him.

It's not worth it, he'd tell her if he knew what she was thinking. He's tried that route, and not knowing what's going on, not being able to have control over yourself, it's just not worth it.

He stands over her for a moment, making sure she's going to be okay. Finnick takes a step back when she finally sits up, and there's something about this broken image that tugs at him. It's like seeing Annie, all over again. Her dress is ruined, her hair is a wreck, face streaked with tears, and there's a rage in her brown eyes that tells him he should walk away. Just leave her here.

Johanna Mason's brought all of this on herself, the same as the rest of them.

"You can't sit in the middle of the hotel hallway. Which way is your room?"

If she knew who he was comparing her to, she'd probably throw herself at him all over again. Annie Cresta was weak, pathetic. Johanna isn't either of those things.

She's not.

"Haven't you been to enough rooms tonight?" she asks tonelessly, but there's nothing cutting or intentionally hurtful about how she says it. "It's the penthouse suite, obviously."

"Obviously not," he says with his trademarked grin, but there's nothing in his eyes. It's all for show, really. Finnick holds out a hand to her, to help her up to her feet.

She can dismiss it all she wants, he doesn't care. Why is he still here? Just, why. He needs to leave.

"Are you good to walk on your own, or am I going to have to throw you over my shoulder?"

She ignores the hand - she doesn't need his help doesn't want it. Her arm hurts from the way she grabs him, but she's taken worse. She levers herself to her feet without help, eyeing the ruined hem of her dress before just tearing it off.

"Don't touch me." Once her stupid clothes are sorted out, she rubs a hand over her face before lifting her head. Her make up is ruined and it's obvious she's been crying, but there's no trace of the broken girl that was lying on the floor bare seconds before.

She's not weak.

"What do you want?"

She's certainly a crowd pleaser, isn't she. Finnick wonders why Snow bothered with her in the first place. She's not ugly, but she isn't a Cashmere. She's not pleasant or polite, but it's true that the Capitol enjoys that sometimes.

He likes her strength, though. Her determination.

"To make sure you're not about to attack anyone else who couldn't defend themselves, mostly."

Johanna scowls, rolling her shoulder. The excess material from her dress gets dropped to the ground. "You defended yourself just fine." It's almost like she's annoyed with him for not just letting her attack him. Which, to be honest, she kind of is. It'd be nice for something to go her way for once.

She rubs her fist under one eye and then the other, getting ride of the smeared make up as best she can. "Whatever. Follow if you have to, I don't care."

His gaze flickers over her bare legs for a moment. Not because they're the greatest he's ever seen - not bad, though - but because of the dropped material. And then his gaze moves back up to hers, a slight smirk on his face. This one, as opposed to so many others, is definitely real.

"I said anyone else. That didn't mean me," he mutters before waving her on. "Lead the way."

That smirk makes her want to try hitting him again, but her arm still hurts. She's not eager to take on a Career twice in one night.

"Anyone else would probably deserve it, too." Anyone else is probably going to be from the Capitol, after all, and she's dreamt more than once of burying an axe in their pretty head. She sweeps on past him, reconstucting her mask as she does so.

It's a little less docile now, though, like she's begun the process of excising that numb little girl. That rage still roils in her gut, no longer blocked up by layer upon layer of unfeeling. She just needs a target.

"They're too stupid to deserve it," Finnick mutters back at her. For the most part, it's true. Most Capitol citizens are little better than children in his mind, so blown out on decadence and expenses and being treated like mindless idiots only worried about the latest fashions that Snow barely needs to have control over them.

He follows after her because... He doesn't have a reason. He just does. To protect her, maybe. To protect other people. Because she's sudden;y more interesting to him than she had been before.

"This is a better look for you."

Johanna honestly doesn't care. Smart or stupid, they're all culpable.

She lasts maybe two seconds with him behind her before abruptly slowing down. Johanna doesn't trust a Career at her back, especially not one she just attacked. She falls into step with him instead, although she resolutely avoids his gaze.

"Stop looking at me."

Finnick doesn't even bother to hide his grin, or the lofty tone his voice holds now. It's like she'd never attacked him, like he hasn't just seen her really cry. That's just how it works with him.

"But with all of that exposed thigh, where do you expect me to look now?" He heaves a great sigh, adverting his gaze slowly so that he's looking forward. Like it's just that hard.

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