thecapitol | Slumber Party

Slumber Party

Who| All adult Tributes
What| Slumber party fun times!
Where| The common room
When| during the Chilren's arena
Warnings/Notes| For those who earn tickets, please see this thread to post who they send them too.

The Tributes are told to arrive back at the Tower by 4 o'Clock. Anyone not there by 5 will in fact find themselves nudged home by their friendly, neighborhood peace keepers.

Everyone finds a set of P.J.s on their bed, and although there isn't any particular theme to them, none of them fall under normal, and all lean towards the children's side of things. Footsie P.J's, knee length plaids in bright pink, polyester frilly princess night gowns. And although the night isn't saturated in it, pink and purple are solidly the color code of the night.

Once everyone had been dressed, even if it is by force, they are all hearded down to the common room, which has been decked out. Pillows are everywhere, and large chunks of the floor have been changed into giant beds. The whole room is geared just slightly larger, to give the tributes the subtle but inescapable feeling that they are smaller. Gauzy curtains separate areas of the room by activity, but most furniture has been removed, sans a few scant pieces left for party purposes. Each Tribute is passed over a bag, blues for the boys and pinks for the girls. Within are a selections of goodies-face masques, a small personalized blanket with their face printed on it, and a check list of the activities. For every activity completed you get 5 tickets to send to any kid in the arena, and for completing them all you get a 20 point bonus.

On one huge wall, the Children's arena is broadcast across the whole wall. No matter where you may be in the room, you can see this wall, and the majority of the pillows are gathered around to watch it. An avox near the side of the wall will take any earned tickets and get them to the Tribute of choice in the arena, who will receive it with their next ticketed activity. Directly across from it is a huge table, dripping with every variety of junk food. Pizza's are piled high, and whenever the pile runs low a "delivery" avox will bring more. Chips, soda, cookies, and even more hand made variety of junk food like buckeyes and pigs in a blanket are spread across the table. And there is always an avox near by to "spike" your pop.

Pillow Fight: A padded arena for two is set up, with pillow armor and stuffed weapons.

Make Overs: A small salon is set up, full of ridiculous supplies like wigs, tattoo stencils, and rainbow make up. Nothing is neutral here. There are no stylists however, just lots of their toys for the Tributes to play with.

Fashion Show: After your make over you can walk over to the dressing room, full of things that are all over sized. Shoes, dressed, boas, all made sized up as if the Tributes were children themselves. You must walk the fashion run way to get points.

Video Games: A whole gaming area is set up. However the only game is a fighting game programmed with all the Children Tributes as characters.

Cup Cake Decorating: Just about everything is here to decorate, including decadent things such as live flowers and real gems. Everyone is told they must submit a cupcake for judging, the winner gets 20 extra tickets.

Spin the Bottle: Much like the traditional game, except the bottle is full. Take a swig of whatever is in the bottle before you drink, and it makes you feel much better about having to play spin the bottle after just one shot.

Seven Minutes in Heaven: Two participants are chosen at random throughout the party and hurried into a large closet for 7 minutes "alone," which anyone outside the closet can see on the monitors on the wall behind the closet. Which your character may or may not have seen before being rushed in.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

It's nice that Molotov doesn't comment on why the off-brand pocky is half-empty. Brock likes pocky.

Brock makes a face, but holds the candy out, though he will snatch it back if she goes to reach for it because he has terms. "But not one of the little ones."

Generally, most women are shorter than Brock, so he's pretty used to bending. Most people are shorter than him, really; it has advantages and disadvantages both.

In terms of his limits, Brock basically has none. He lets Milla test the waters for a bit before he tips his head to the side to deepen the kiss, his hand sliding around her to press in at the small of her back. They're only supposed to be in the closet for a few minutes, and though he's not exactly sure if they'll be forcibly ejected or something, he doesn't want to get too involved, here. But it is increasingly difficult to be mindful of this, his fingers hooking in her hair.

She looks a bit stunned for a second, not offended but simply surprised at the answer to her S.O.S. She realizes at about that point that she was certain Sam was about to dismiss her and confirm the fear that lurked in every mirror since she was taken by the Peacekeepers, interrogated, tortured and branded.

And what's more, she realizes Sam has kissed her not out of charity but because he actually does believe her kissable. Not out of spin-the-bottle party-game peer obligations or out of pity or even just because she's pretty under the scar tissue, but because he likes her and she likes him and they talk together like people, like friends. Because they enjoy each other, the company and the conversation.

She stands up on her tip-toes (her footies have little pink embroidered paws under the balls of her feet) and gives him a kiss back, equally polite but no more chaste.

Putting the faith in anything the Capitol does making sense. Tsk tsk.

"They are." Forty-six of them. More than the old Hunger Games ever had; Venus' flimsy rationales creak and crumble under the weight of forty-six children. She sighs deep, more an inverted gasp than a melancholy musing, and she screws her eyes up for a second as she tries to make a place in her mind for this kind of enormity.

"I try to tell myself that at least the kids don't have to do all the killing this way, but they still find ways around it. Ways to make them suffer the most."

"You can have this one," she counters, holding out a decorative pillow shaped like a flower. It's not small, but it's also not that big. It is very pink. Super pink.

She holds it out at the same time she holds out her hand for his items.

She glances at her cupcakes again and shrugs. "It's the only poem I know," she tells him. "I learned it when I was little. It's about setting free a bird. The poet says he can't be mad at God if he can free one of God's creatures. It's a short poem, by Russia's most famous author, so they teach it to children."

Molotov misses the appropriateness of the poem in this setting, simply because that isn't how she thinks about things like literature. Not that she ever thinks about things like literature, really -- she's a non-fiction kind of girl.

'Friend'. It's probably a far easier explanation than 'alternate universe future reincarnation' and so instead of launching into the whole long story he merely nods. Maybe he can give her the full explanation later when the sounds of the arena aren't filling the air around them and he isn't dressed in exceptionally silly clothes.

"Yes. We... we're close. He's one of the ones in particular I want to see come out of this safely."

And he knows, deep in his bones, that Kankri is one of the tributes least likely to survive to the end of this or any arena. He's smart and he's sensible but that's only so far that can take someone here.

"Do you know him?"

"Orange. Sure, we'll go with orange." Tess leans towards the drawer of make up, a hand pressing to his thigh to brace some of her weight.

Luke, if he hasn't already, is going to regret answering that question. Tess pulls out a tube of orange lipstick, uncaps it, applies a small streak over the back of her hand on a snort.

"I'm almost afraid of handin' you a mirror after this is all done. Mouth open," she tells him, something her stylists tell her every time.

If only her onesie were big enough to fit his broad and massive size, Tess might offer it to him. In exchange for those cool little looking slippers. Because who doesn't want cute little cloud slippers on their feet?

"Well, at least one of us knows how to braid hair," she answers dryly, corner of her lips twitching into a smirk. "Might come in handy in the next arena."

Tess blinks at the information. Twice. Oh... She has to turn away to hide the way her smirk deepens, coughing to mask the sudden chuckling that almost turns into full on laughter. "Oh I'm sure you'd command something alright, with your hammer."

She knows some Norse Mythology but she never paid much attention to it in school. She should've... Maybe she'd be able to see Thor command thunder and lightning with his hammer...

With his eyes closed still, her touch comes as something of a surprise and his leg flexes under the warm weight of her hand. A slow tensing and release of muscles.

“Pretty sure it ain’t gonna be the worst I ever looked, if I’m bein’ honest.” He says, feeling the echoes of the same reflexive clenching elsewhere in his body. A soft snort escapes him. "I guess that's sayin' a lot." He absently licks his lips again, edging them open.

Edited 2014-11-24 04:44 (UTC)

She's looking at his mouth in waiting when he flicks his tongue out to wet his lips not thinking anything about it. He parts them and Tess takes him by his jaw, feeling the powdery texture under callused fingers, her thumb pressing to his chin to pull his bottom lip open a little more. Her thumbnail scrapes lightly against it before she's swiping the lipstick, following the curve to paint the lip orange.

"You guess?"

She's not sure she'd be up for long story time right now anyway. She can only stand to drag herself away from this spot for a few minutes at a time. Not doing so feels like a betrayal of some kind, of ignoring the slaughter. At the same time, she can't bear to look at it constantly either.

Nill rolls her cigarette idly between her fingers, and looks back up at the screen, before placing it between her lips to puff at it quietly while she writes.

I met him at the crowning
he's nice
I sent him tickets
I hope they help

The subtle differences in touch are everything. Had the fingers tucked under his chin or the grip on his jaw been any firmer he’s sure he’d have locked up more than parts of him already are. But she’s careful. Every move is calculated, it seems, waking his nerves to something other than pain for the first time in a long time, and he catches on. It’s hard to miss her intent when the tip of her thumb presses, tinglingly light, against the soft damp of his inner lip. Lingering there before lipstick traces the curve and adds a splash of colour to his face altogether different from the bruises hidden under layers of powder. Tension creeps into his shoulders, into his neck.

He doesn’t know her, he reminds himself; doesn’t know what she’s capable of.

And still some worn-ragged part of him is too ready to give in completely at the smallest promise of respite whether or not there was really any to be found. Was this just another game like what the Capitol is imposing on them?

Edited 2014-11-28 16:02 (UTC)

Anywhere, hm? Well. His mouth is right near Roland's neck and so that seems the obvious choice. He tilts his head and brushes his lips over the vein on Roland's throat, feels his heartbeat through the relatively thin human skin.

One of his horns presses up against Roland's jaw, but they're not sharp and they're not really all that unwieldy thanks to their small size so he doesn't really foresee it being an issue. Instead he focuses on the warmth of the skin under his mouth, the feeling of being so close to someone else. He parts his lips and runs his tongue up the vein, blunt fangs brushing Roland's throat as his mouth moves but doing no more than that. He doesn't want to leave marks if he can help it -- it invites too much scrutiny and speculation.

"Good?"

Anything that causes us any sort of duress seems to garner favour for them. From our untimely deaths to any drama they can concoct. [He sounds resigned to this by now.]

I'll wager we can't leave until they accomplish the task at hand. [He adds where a shrug.] But I've also nowhere to be. [With that, he's decided he feels awkward looming over Bilbo like an imposing tree, so he slides down the wall and onto the floor to sit. He minds his legs so as not to trip up Bilbo, but other than that he looks quite comfortable now.] How have you been faring?

Thor gives the poem a moment of consideration, because the appropriateness of it seems to resonate with him for the moment. Finally, he nods in understanding, giving her a sly smile. "Are Russians not renowned for poetry, or are you simply not interested?" He does wonder how one can only know one poem, even if he was never very interested in reading.

"I began with the Bifröst, but I think I may have gotten ahead of myself. Somewhat." He admits, setting his cupcake down in front of him with a briefly sad look. Whether it's because he's homesick or because he's disappointed in his ability to decorate cupcakes is hard to say.

"Perhaps. It does wonders to keep a clear face, at the very least." There is universally nothing worse than a face full of your own hair when you're in the middle of something important. Particularly when commanding wind and storms is just part of your bit.

Thor isn't so thick that he doesn't note the way her expression begins to change. The sound of laughter follows and his brows knit together in vague annoyance. Her quip has him realising she's something like Stark, so he wagers the best reaction is just to stare her down for a moment before shaking his head.

"I've not heard that one before." He says dryly, sarcastically. He's heard it too many times. His eyes cast downward to the make up alongside them, snatching up a red lip liner and flicking the cap off so he can advance toward her with it.

"You doubt me?" He asks, mock threat in his voice when he does. He's steadily losing the ability to approach this seriously, even if it is an infuriating little trap on the Capitol's behalf.

It truly is a little difficult to muster up the wherewithal to go ahead and do it rather than standing back and bickering. The more drawn out it is, the more embarrassing it becomes.

"An easy enough target, I suppose." He jibes, giving Loki a sly smirk, though he still hasn't made a move to lean in and kiss him.

"Or a hand," Loki mused, actually putting out his hand toward Thor now as if expecting him to kiss that instead. "Although that may seem more like we are courting and I would not want everyone to get the wrong impression."

There was a smirk back.

"Yeah," he says in a way that suggests he is not fully convinced, glancing over to the side. "I dunno. I think everybody suffers."

The Capitol pulls this shit with the kids so that people like Venus -- actual decent people who aren't drawn into the self-serving, mercenary notions of this whole place; Los Angeles on steroids -- suffer, too. Brock is pissed that they're making kids do this shit, but he's more pissed that they're using kids as leverage in that way. He's used to evil still having actual scruples.

Then again, there's nothing quite as evil as corruption. Brock rolls his eyes up, thinking. "I wonder if they'd go for an adults-only Arena. Give the kids a break."

Brock stares at the pillow, unsure if he should be more offended or angry, and slowly lowers his hand down to his side, clutching the candy.

"What the hell. No. Give me a normal one."

God damn it, Thor had performed an experiment to determine whether or not Carlos was blushing. Carlos cannot in good conscience falsify data and skew Thor's results. He stands there in his just-a-bit-too-big lab coat which has sleeves that stretch down past his fingertips and tries hard to think of a way around this.

He can't come up with one.

"...no," he says, begrudgingly. "No, I'm not running a fever."

She picks herself up off his lap, holding her hand to her forehead as if trying to keep the thought she's had in there from falling out. "We could propose it. We could- it'd spare the kids for a few weeks, right?"

She blinks in the lights that seem to bright and blurry and looks at Brock. "If I propose it, will you, um, will you back me up?"

Part of him has noted that horn nudging against the line of his jaw, is gauging with professional curiosity how much damage it could do if it weren't so dull. That's automatic, though, absent. The lips on his throat are his focus, the man in front of him expressing his regard the only way he can.

The question gets a grunt. Not many subtle variations of mood can fit into such a sound, but far as it can, this one sounds a little impatient. Touch is the point of this, whatever and wherever Signless sees fit to give it, but one touch is much the same as another and Roland does not quite understand the question. His hands cover Signless' sides in a loose, careful grip and move down, the shape underneath the clothing a familiar one, and Roland begins to lean forward, presses his hands against Signless' hips, wanting to urge him to move until his back's nearly flush against the door behind.

"Don't get a big head, I'm easy," Well, she is for right now, at least. Damn, what had been in that bottle? "Here, here, let me-- shit, let me help."

She tried to mop some of it up with a napkin, but Jane's main contribution to the effort was a pile of glitter from an overturned dispenser. Or maybe it only looked like glitter, and was supposed to be considered sprinkles?

Regardless, it isn't a particularly helpful endeavor. But she's trying, and therefore no one should criticize her.

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Slumber Party

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