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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

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They fall back onto the bed, Finnick's body on top of hers. It doesn't take much for him to shift his weight so that he's not resting on her, not pinning her down. He remembers that it only took him a few times to learn how to do that in the beginning. He's always been a quick learner.

His hands move under her shirt, dragging against skin. It's soft, because the Capitol stylists know what they're doing when they're not dressing girls up like trees. But it's not Annie soft. Hard muscles meet his fingers, but that doesn't stop him. Johanna's not Annie. Her shirt comes up with his hands, fingers spread out over her rib cage.

Finnick breaks the kiss, breathing hard as he looks her over for a moment. Then he leans in again, teeth scraping gently over her jawline as his mouth moves down her neck, hands sliding up until he's palming her breasts.

Whatever reason they're doing this for, he's going to make it good. Make it count.

Johanna arches into his touch; they might have done this before, but those are the only times anyone ever gets close to her. Her body is sensitive, at least in this sort of situation, and his touch is like fire spreading through her in the best sort of way.

Her fingers unclench from his shirt, gripping the hem instead as she tugs it up demandingly. She doesn't linger on his body, not yet, although her hands pause in their work completely when he stops like that. She glares up at him, defiant and maybe needy in the worst kind of way. Not for what they're doing, but for comfort, for reassurance, for him, for all the things she'd given up a long time ago.

And then he's on her again and Johanna lets those thoughts burn away with the rest, tugging on his shirt again until he doesn't have a choice but to get rid of it.

With a sigh, Finnick stops and sits up, pushing her hands away. His shirt comes off with practiced ease, mustering up a smirk for her that doesn't reach his eyes.

The fact of the matter is, he knows he doesn't have to be charming. He doesn't really have to be anything for her but himself, but sometimes, he's not really sure of what that means. Who is he? What should he do for her?

He pauses as he looks down at her again. This is right, and it's wrong. Leaning down, he tugs her shirt off as well, giving her little choice in that matter.

"You look fake." He's so romantic. A real ladies' man.

She bares her teeth at him a little when he smirks like that, her own expression more sardonic than aggressive. She doesn't get distracted by his beauty or some poetic shit like that as the shirt comes off - Johanna knows him too well for that - just lets him take her shirt off as well. Her fingers dig into his hips as she tugs him in close again, demanding.

"Then do something about it, pretty boy," she snaps, and kisses him again. The back of her nails skate up his back, not quite hard enough to hurt. Not yet, at least.

He wants to say that there's nothing he can really do. The Capitol's made its mark on her, the same as they have on him. But he kisses her back instead, his mouth hard and hot against hers, one hand sweeping down her side.

His hips grind down against hers at the feel of her nails on his skin, and he inhales sharply. His hand digs into her hip, breaking the kiss so that he can return his attention back to her neck. Teeth scrape along skin as he trails biting kisses to her shoulder.

Little marks that make her real again, less Capitol.

He grinds down and her legs shift apart almost automatically, wider. The stupid tree dress is long gone, but her stylist had shoved her into another skirt, apparently under the impression that her own little girl act still had some life left in it. She huffs out a soft, mocking laugh, although whether it's at the way Finnick sucks in a breath or her own thoughts, she's not sure.

Either way, the sound trails off into a moan. His teeth scrape her skin, and she twitches, caught between pleasure and panic. Adrenaline pumps through her, her body on the edge of anticipation, waiting for the killing stroke. Her mind might know Finnick won't hurt her (seriously, at least), but she never really left the Games.

Now her nails dig in, and she screws her eyes shut with a gasp. She won't admit that she's clinging to him, but she's pretty much clinging to him.

The act has enough life in it for him, at least. His hand moves down further, to her thigh, under the fabric of her skirt. It's convenient enough, and he's surprised she didn't ditch it before coming up here to him.

That sound brings another smirk to his lips, a real one, as his tongue paints over the lines of her collarbone. There's something to be smug about, when he can make Johanna Mason be as lowly and human as the next person with nothing but his mouth. And he's just barely started.

As much as this might be for her, it's for him, too. He needs this, needs someone to be with that's his own choice.

His breath ghosts over a breast, teeth scraping gently over the skin around her nipple.

She wishes she'd ditched it too, her pride pricked by how easy she's making this for him. "Shut the fuck up," she mutters, tangling one hand in his hair and tugging.

Pride or not, she's like this every time, too needy, too desperate. It's hard not to be, caught between everything that Finnick is and everything he is to her. Her nails drag down again leaving red marks in their wake. Down his back, lighter over his side until she's at his hip.

There's a moment of distraction when his teeth tease her nipple, but it'd take more than that to make Johanna Mason lose track of what she's doing. She wriggles her hand between the press of their bodies, ghosting over his cock before she palms it through his pants.

Her words drag a laugh out of him, mouth against her skin. "I didn't even say anything."

Honestly, as amusing as it is when she gets this way, he can't blame her. Not because it's him - even if he has a certain amount of pride in his ability - but because nobody touches her. Nobody does this to her, gets close enough to feel the way she shivers, how her skin tastes (right now, it takes like the Capitol, but he can live with that).

His lips close over her nipple just as her hand gets between them, and he isn't ashamed of the way his hips stutter into her palm, his erection getting harder. She never has been the best at being patient.

"You didn't have to." His stupid face says it all.

She pants out a laugh as his hips stutter down. She's not anywhere near as practiced at this as he is (obviously), but she's a fast learner. Her ego doesn't allow for anything else. And his lips are closing over her nipple and fuck it feels good, a streak of fire through her veins, pooling in her gut. She tugs on his hair harder, fingers working whatever stupid excuse the Capitol has for a button on his pants.

Multi-tasking, it turns out, is a skill she has in abundance. His pants come undone, and she doesn't hesitate in shoving them down over his hips. "Take them off already," she demands.

His pants are sliding down his hips, her fingers working against him as a low moan builds in the back of his throat. Teeth nip at her sensitive skin before he trails his mouth to her other breast, his own fingers traveling over her inseam where thigh meets hip. There's heat washing over him, strangling him, and part of him just wants to get on with it. Just wants to fuck her senseless, because it's what he wants. What she wants.

Instead, he looks up at her, gaze dark. "No."

His tongue circles her other nipple.

Johanna hates herself (or him) for it a little, but her body jumps with every nip, riding that edge of pain and pleasure. She hasn't relaxed even a little bit, too keyed up because of their proximity. It doesn't make it any less intense though - probably adds to it, if she's in an honest mood (she's never in an honest mood).

Finnick looks up at her like that, and even before he says no there's a wave of heat washing through her at the way he looks at her. A sound of frustration breaks past her lips, and she pulls her hand from between them to smack him in the shoulder. "Don't be an asshole!"

Finnick laughs, pressing a kiss to her breastbone as the sound of her smack rings in the air. It stings, but it doesn't bother him. It makes it better in a way, sends heat through his veins, stomach tightening. "I'm not being an asshole. I'm just denying you the absolute privilege of getting my pants off yet."

He plants another kiss on her skin, lower, below her diaphragm. "Can't always get what you demand, Johanna."

"Absolute privilege," she repeats, caught between mocking and incredulity. Honestly, the bullshit he comes out with sometimes makes her want to find her shirt and go.

She licks her lips absently as he works his way down, trying not to show her anticipation. There's no hiding the faint quiver of her stomach, though, and she waits with a sort of breathless irritation to see where his lips will go next. If they'll keep going down. "When was the last time I got something I demanded?" It's a poor attempt at covering up how much she wants this, but she tries anyway.

"You heard me." There's a definite shit-eating grin on his face at this point, like he knows what he's saying is so full of it. But he can't help it. Not at all. It's fun.

His lips make their way to the flat plane of her stomach, the muscles of her abdomen, tongue circling the belly button for a moment. Like if he can do this enough, use his lips and tongue and teeth on her skin enough, he can clean her - clean himself - of them. All of them.

"You got my shirt."

"I hear you being an ass." She's terrible at remaining still, even if she's not totally obvious about it. Her hips shift, the muscles in her stomach twitching. She curls her toes and then forces them to be still, only to move again. He plays her like a freaking instrument, and she can't deny that she loves it. Internally, at least.

Her teeth sink into her lower lip and her hands finally slip away from him. He's too low down for her to touch now, anyway - what's she going to do, stroke his hair? Not her style. "You got mine, doesn't count."

It comes with the trade really, but it helps that he knows her too. It's a mixture of knowledge that comes out just right in this particular skill set.

Now that he's able to balance himself on his knees, he uses both hands more effectively. Lifting her hips with one while the other expertly finds the zipper to her skirt and undoes it. His mouth never leaves her, weaving designs across her waist to her hips. He does pull back, however, when he has to remove the ridiculous thing from her body, sliding it down her legs.

"How many did you kill before they got you into this thing anyway?"

She doesn't lift her hips to help him, but that's only because he handles her body so well that she doesn't have to, the jerk. Her arm lifts, covers her face as she starts finding it difficult to keep control of her expression. His mouth is driving her insane, which is probably impressive, considering how crazy she is already.

How many did you kill? The arm snaps away immediately, hitting the bed as the words slice through her. Johanna scrambles to sit up, away from Finnick, staring at him with a confused, accusing stare. Why bring that up now - why bring that up ever--

It takes a moment, for the rest of his sentence to sink in. She swallows, looking away from him. Not wanting to admit to her paranoid mistake. "Stupid stylist wouldn't stop crying about how I ruined his creation. I had to do something to make him shut up."

Finnick sits back on his knees when Johanna pulls away from him like that, a sigh on his lips as he watches her carefully. There's a difference between him and others. Between most Careers and the other districts. Dead bodies aren't the problem. They never have been.

He reaches out for her ankle, thumb brushing over the skin gently. Not to frighten her. Comfort. He's not an idiot, after all. And then he tugs, just as gently, pulling her back.

"And here I thought my tears were the only ones that could reach your frigid heart."

Her heart is still racing, thumping too-hard against the walls over her chest. She jumps when he touches her again, but after a moment of two of his thumb brushing and forth, she finds herself looking back at him again.

He tugs her back, and she lets him.

"They only cry louder if you hit them. Anyway, I was preoccupied."

She was enraged, actually. But it's the same difference with her, most of the time.

Finnick leans over her now that she's allowed him to tug her back. "You're not hitting them hard enough, then." Not that Finnick has hit any of the sheep before, but hit someone hard enough, and they'll go down for a little bit.

His lips brush over hers. "We're not dead yet."

"You think if I tell them Finnick Odair told me to do it, they'll let me off the hook?" She doesn't even care what she's saying anymore. It's the stupidest thing in the world, but in some ways Finnick brings some kind of safety with him as his body leans over hers again. Or comfort. Whatever. It's something that she doesn't want to let go of right now, even if she should.

His lips brush over hers, but she's nowhere near gentle as she kisses him back, one hand tangling in his hair. "I don't plan on dying at all."

It's actually a promise, in a Johanna sort of way. Their aim is to get Katniss out, but she doesn't plan on letting Finnick die, either. But she can't say that, not when they're in the heart of the Capitol. So she says what she can, tugging on his lower lip with her teeth.

"Yes." And there's nothing but a serious tone to his voice, but of course she can use him as an excuse, and they wouldn't say anything about it. He's their darling, and he has been for ten years.

That's always how they've been, two sides of the same coin.

"Yeah?" He breathes the question against her mouth as he kisses her back just as hard as she's giving. There's almost a moan in the back of his throat at the touch of her teeth. He wants to tell her he's glad, because maybe nobody else would care, but his world would be a little darker without her rain cloud in it.

He wants to tell her that he has no delusions about whether he's going to live or not, but he wants to cling to the possibility. That he will fight tooth and nail to stay alive.

His knee moves between her legs, brushing against her core instead.

"Yup." She can practically taste that moan, drinks him and his need in almost eagerly. "Little girls who tell the Capitol to go fuck themselves are in right now."

Johanna has never been in in that Capitol. Between that and the lack of a hold they have over her, it's been her protection these last few years. No one gives a shit about what Johanna Mason has to say.

Except maybe Finnick. Which is probably why she's in the position she is now, a stuttered groan spilling from her lips as heat sears through her, spreading out from her gut as his knee moves against her. "I hate you," she gasps, unable to help the way her hips jerk down, seeking more.

His lips move to the corner of her mouth, to her jaw, teeth scraping over the skin as he laughs. It's a low sound, caught deep in his throat. "Those are my favorite kind of little girls."

It's what he likes best about Johanna. What he pities, too.

His knee moves again as he grins darkly down at her. She's desperate and needy and he's the only one who can really give her what she needs. There's something a little possessive about that thought, a little dangerous and disturbing.

"I know."

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kissmyaxe - 2013-12-29 10:58 (UTC) - Expand

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insecrets - 2013-12-29 23:53 (UTC) - Expand

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