and so i wonder :: Roger x Achilles (blitz)

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pogue
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Pronouns: He/Him
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Is she trying to interrupt our henna session?

and so i wonder :: Roger x Achilles (blitz) Jun 8, 2016 23:04:46 GMT -5

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Post by pogue on Jun 8, 2016 23:04:46 GMT -5

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A C H I L L E S

Her worship comes in the form of shattered glass and obsidian blue hues, bloody purple blood sinking deep into the bedsheets beneath her, falling in teardrops from his sliced eyeball, cascading down the cheekbones he'd prided himself on and pooling at the base of his skull, a scarlet pillow amongst and ocean of white suede sheets. Even now, when she looks in the mirror and sees icy waters roaring in her pupils, her hands shake, skin prickling at the afterthought of the blood trickling down her fingertips, staining her skin crimson with the actions of a broken pawn.

In the end, she's broken.

Maybe that's why she did it.

Styx pressed the icy edge of a gun to her skull, tightening grips when she felt her body tense up. Even then, with her hands like ice and the gun frozen to her head, Achilles could still feel the fire emanating from Styx like an aura, cascading down her back, burning her to the ground.

"Then prove it."

When she'd gotten up on the stage she'd convinced herself that it wasn't for Styx.

But, it was. She finds her answers whenever she closes her eyes, sees the pulsing lights of a club composed of half-assed royalty and cheating pigs, feels the hands on her hips on her thighs on her

Whenever she thinks of what she did for her, what she did for their master plan.

She realizes it was for her.

Her poker face is chiseled from icy granite, hardened in the fires of kindled youth. With every step she takes towards the District Four quarters she breathes the names of every volunteer to throw themselves in the games.

She runs out of breath with two left.

In the back of her brain she wonders what kind of god they're all worshiping, throwing themselves into an abyss like this, ending their lives to start another. This wasn't redemption, this was damnation.

She's a fool too, then.

"Mr. Rogers." She finds him in the living room of the District Four quarters, walking in as if she takes stock in everything in the room, eyes glancing him up and down before taking a seat across from him.

"Your beard isn't anywhere near as impressive as the dead boy from Seven. And i'm not talking about Sue."

She leans back.

"Regardless, I have a question to ask you."

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Last Edit: Jun 9, 2016 21:27:16 GMT -5 by pogue

aya
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"GUNNERRRRR~"

and so i wonder :: Roger x Achilles (blitz) Jun 11, 2016 13:55:48 GMT -5

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Post by aya on Jun 11, 2016 13:55:48 GMT -5

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Roger Strangways-Teach has retired to his room for the evening, having spent the day productively ~~flirting with~~ ~~antagonizing~~ teasing a good portion of the other tributes. The overstuffed leather sofa gives way beneath him, drawing him into the cushions like the world's most comfortable quicksand deathtrap. His considerable dinner sits heavy on his stomach and his eyelids, but Roger can't think of any good reason why he should fight sleep.

Or, he can't until the girl from Two stalks into his quarters. Roger's brown eyes snap open before she addresses him, too trained and too familiar with her district's notoriousness for brutality to leave his guard relaxed. It is not enough to take him from weary to wary, but he sits up a little straighter when he acknowledges her.

[attr="id","rSpeech"]"Ms. Achilleses," he greets, name pointedly mangled in turn and paired with a curt nod. Briefly, he wonders if he ought to be concerned with the chilly career oh-so-casually strolling into the apparently unguarded place-where-he-sleeps, a mere few days before he and she were to square off in a literal fight to the death. But he has nothing to worry about — if Achilles Muto had wanted to take him out early, she already squandered her opportunity.

Besides, settling into the couch across from him, she hardly poses a threat.

He rubs a careless hand over his jaw, giving his whiskers a scratch. [attr="id","rSpeech"]"My beard's still more impressive than yours," he remarks with a shrug and a smirk. Leaning further back into the leather couch, he mirrors her, finding the coffee table with his feet and repurposing it as a stool. In returning to his previous level of ease, Roger Strangways-Teach has made an accidental competition of comfort.

These were never the guards that Jolly Roger refused to drop.

[attr="id","rSpeech"]"Don't see why not," he agrees, eyeing Achilles. [attr="id","rSpeech"]"But then you owe me an answer, too."

tags - pogue

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{characters}

certified kindergartener
stranded in "beach" "city"
leader of the crystal gems

pogue
Graphics

1,890 POSTS

Pronouns: He/Him
last seen Oct 19, 2024 11:07:44 GMT -5

Is she trying to interrupt our henna session?

and so i wonder :: Roger x Achilles (blitz) Jun 12, 2016 20:04:58 GMT -5

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Post by pogue on Jun 12, 2016 20:04:58 GMT -5

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A C H I L L E S

She's seen her fair share of men who think themselves slick.

They wallow in their own confidence, closing their eyes and longing for the feeling of skin against skin. They sit in chairs at the club, unaware of every wrinkle in their dress clothes, every lipstick stain smudge brushed up against the collars of their shirts, woman dressed in nothing but the hanging threads of their indecencies running palms against their thighs, wrapping their hands around their necks.

Each and every one thinks they are different from the rest, laying kisses against the necks of a stranger, folding their money into the underwear of a broken lover, feeling the club lights pulse against their skin.

In reality they are as broken as the glass shards of women they lay in bed with, as transparent as the glass lives they so delicately cling to. Every word they speak is calculated, spoken with precision and form.

Every word they speak is the same. She has seen all of it before.

The boy in front of her is no different. She relaxes, sinking into the chair she sits in, letting her legs cross, eyes watching Roger as he scratches against his beard. He's like a lot of the men she's wandered across, a striking subtlety in their looks, the way their eyes relax when they see a woman. The personality comes to match, words spilling from his mouth like spit from a baby.

She imagines what he might look like in the Arena, bloody and beaten.

"Please, Mr. Teach, I'm sure I could grow a better beard than that if I tried."

She smirks, brushing her hair to the side, face turning from stone to glass, faking hospitality. She watches as he wipes the smirk from his face and agrees to her question, demanding an answer in return.

That is always how it worked with the other men, too. Nothing was ever free. They always wanted to take.

"Is that how it works?" She says, with a mock wave of the hand, flashing a smirk. "No matter."

She leans forward, glass expression shattering and revealing stone.

"I want to know why you did it, Mr. Teach. What did you stand to gain from volunteering?"