Temple Stevens (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
clotting) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2015-08-23 02:27 pm
clotting) wrote in thecapitol2015-08-23 02:27 pm
Entry tags:
Dog Bait, Small Veins [Closed]
WHO| Temple and Peggy; Temple and Quintus
WHAT| Temple and Peggy have a horrible encounter; Temple sells out her fellow Mentors.
WHEN| After the mini-Arena.
WHERE| A bidder's house; the Peacekeeper Headquarters.
WARNINGS| Rape in the thread with Peggy. Graphic content, don't read if you're uncomfortable. Nothing yet in the thread with Quintus.
I. For Peggy
In any society but this one, Temple would be well within her rights to kick, scream, scratch or stab her way out of the situation - not only has she been bid on in retaliation for a stock deal gone wrong on Gowan's end, but she's part of a fetish package with her stronger, larger doppelganger, who also happens to be her murderer. But she is in this society, and acutely aware of it, and so any part of Temple that wants to put up a fight is submerged under pleasantries and rationalizations, until even Temple herself forgets that she ever had objections.
She plays along almost enthusiastically, giggling at all the jokes and cooing at their bidder's prowess with such conviction that any artifice would seem a projection on the part of the viewer. She doesn't cringe or whimper, even when the bidder runs his hand over that carved-heart scar on her thigh or when Peggy puts her hands around her neck only moments after the man did, at a command that Temple acted perfectly fine with. She doesn't even fake it because faking requires intent, but there's something off about the entire thing. She is like a carved eggshell, fragile and expensive and beautiful but hollow, aggressively hollow, as if to look at her is to be forced into acknowledging the serene emptiness of her expression, the humanity that doesn't exist behind her pale, pupil-heavy eyes.
She goes immediately to sleep after the 'rough and tumble', not because she's relaxed but because that is a foolproof way to shut out the waking world, and her ability to handle it is entirely expended. She rests so peacefully she looks dead.
When all's said and done, the bidder, who has paid for their services overnight, leaves them in the bed while he heads out to work as the head of some company that imports wheat from District Nine. He leaves in a three-piece suit, respectable, upstanding, a pillar of Capitol society, the image of a baron more than a robber. Temple gets up early, untwines herself from the bedsheets and takes some makeup from an Avox and sits in front of the boudoir, styling her hair and painting on a face.
She hums as she covers the bruises running over her neck, a spry little morning tune from far from the Capitol.
II. For Quintus.
Temple's never been discreet, per se, but she's always been careful to never leave any evidence that could be used against her. To be dragged in for questioning for a dalliance with a young man she's just met (not a Tribute, not a Staffer, not even a Districter) is embarrassing, but she already has firm beliefs in her ability to wriggle out of this situation without anything someone can send home to Gowan. He can't (won't) act on hunches, rumors, gossip, and Temple's ready to throw this young man under the bus if it means not having to spend the night in the sterile, boring Peacekeeper's offices.
And besides, there's no physical evidence of anything. Temple hasn't even given him a kiss yet.
"I'm Temple Stevens, Gowan Stevens' wife, you can't just hold me without telling me what I'm charged with." She tips her nose up (it would look comical on someone her height if she weren't in heels) and pouts and huffs until she's led to a seat in the lobby.
As usual, the waiting room is empty. The Peacekeepers have done an admirable job keeping the riffraff out of the Capitol city's borders, much less their own custody. Temple takes a seat and yelps as an officer handcuffs her to the chair.
"Excuse me!" she hisses, kicking her feet aimlessly out. "I have a kid to get home to. Make this fast."
"Mr. Falxvale wanted to have a word with you. He'll be here to take you to interrogation shortly."
"I demand cameras," Temple huffs. "I want everything he asks of me recorded."
WHAT| Temple and Peggy have a horrible encounter; Temple sells out her fellow Mentors.
WHEN| After the mini-Arena.
WHERE| A bidder's house; the Peacekeeper Headquarters.
WARNINGS| Rape in the thread with Peggy. Graphic content, don't read if you're uncomfortable. Nothing yet in the thread with Quintus.
I. For Peggy
In any society but this one, Temple would be well within her rights to kick, scream, scratch or stab her way out of the situation - not only has she been bid on in retaliation for a stock deal gone wrong on Gowan's end, but she's part of a fetish package with her stronger, larger doppelganger, who also happens to be her murderer. But she is in this society, and acutely aware of it, and so any part of Temple that wants to put up a fight is submerged under pleasantries and rationalizations, until even Temple herself forgets that she ever had objections.
She plays along almost enthusiastically, giggling at all the jokes and cooing at their bidder's prowess with such conviction that any artifice would seem a projection on the part of the viewer. She doesn't cringe or whimper, even when the bidder runs his hand over that carved-heart scar on her thigh or when Peggy puts her hands around her neck only moments after the man did, at a command that Temple acted perfectly fine with. She doesn't even fake it because faking requires intent, but there's something off about the entire thing. She is like a carved eggshell, fragile and expensive and beautiful but hollow, aggressively hollow, as if to look at her is to be forced into acknowledging the serene emptiness of her expression, the humanity that doesn't exist behind her pale, pupil-heavy eyes.
She goes immediately to sleep after the 'rough and tumble', not because she's relaxed but because that is a foolproof way to shut out the waking world, and her ability to handle it is entirely expended. She rests so peacefully she looks dead.
When all's said and done, the bidder, who has paid for their services overnight, leaves them in the bed while he heads out to work as the head of some company that imports wheat from District Nine. He leaves in a three-piece suit, respectable, upstanding, a pillar of Capitol society, the image of a baron more than a robber. Temple gets up early, untwines herself from the bedsheets and takes some makeup from an Avox and sits in front of the boudoir, styling her hair and painting on a face.
She hums as she covers the bruises running over her neck, a spry little morning tune from far from the Capitol.
II. For Quintus.
Temple's never been discreet, per se, but she's always been careful to never leave any evidence that could be used against her. To be dragged in for questioning for a dalliance with a young man she's just met (not a Tribute, not a Staffer, not even a Districter) is embarrassing, but she already has firm beliefs in her ability to wriggle out of this situation without anything someone can send home to Gowan. He can't (won't) act on hunches, rumors, gossip, and Temple's ready to throw this young man under the bus if it means not having to spend the night in the sterile, boring Peacekeeper's offices.
And besides, there's no physical evidence of anything. Temple hasn't even given him a kiss yet.
"I'm Temple Stevens, Gowan Stevens' wife, you can't just hold me without telling me what I'm charged with." She tips her nose up (it would look comical on someone her height if she weren't in heels) and pouts and huffs until she's led to a seat in the lobby.
As usual, the waiting room is empty. The Peacekeepers have done an admirable job keeping the riffraff out of the Capitol city's borders, much less their own custody. Temple takes a seat and yelps as an officer handcuffs her to the chair.
"Excuse me!" she hisses, kicking her feet aimlessly out. "I have a kid to get home to. Make this fast."
"Mr. Falxvale wanted to have a word with you. He'll be here to take you to interrogation shortly."
"I demand cameras," Temple huffs. "I want everything he asks of me recorded."