thecapitol | Wednesday's Panties on a Friday Night [Closed]

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Wednesday's Panties on a Friday Night [Closed]

WHO| Punchy and Darcy
WHAT| The new Victor hooks up with one of his roommates.
WHEN| A few days after the mini Arena.
WHERE| D6 Suite
WARNINGS| Punchy getting laid. Avert yon eyes.

For a few days, District Six is filled with what may be the loudest and most obnoxious set of mating calls the Capitol has ever heard. Between Punchy trying to drown his pain out in slamming bass and dope rhymes and Darcy's attempts to drown that out with MGMT and The Killers, there doesn't seem to be even enough silence to hear one's self think. All the air is taken up on transporting competing sound waves. It's bad enough that the windows rattle and someone in District Five accidentally puts a hole in their ceiling from hitting it with a broom.

Eventually Punchy switches over from Rakim and Cage and decides to engage with the assault of shitty hipster music Darcy's leveling at him. The soundtrack changes over, not in volume but in content, as he starts to retaliate with the kind of slick alternative hip hop that girls like to drink PBR to. That's the plan, anyway. Punchy doesn't really know if PBR's a thing here.

But soon even that becomes boring, and Punchy isn't doing well left to his thoughts, left to marinate in 'victory', whatever that means in this awful place. He's lonely and scared and sad atop his throne of murder. For the first time in his life he truly feels like a jester, this joke of a hero that the Capitol is telling. He does push-ups and sit-ups and paces in his room until his bare feet develop callouses. He dismantles the fire alarm so he can smoke weed and then cigarettes.

When he finally gives in and decides to tell Darcy that god damn it, Vampire Weekend is a terrible band, he's shirtless and in sweatpants and with some pretty intense bedhead. He finally turns off his sound system and shoves some gummi bears in his mouth and walks down the hall.

He bangs on her door. "Cracker, if you gonna blast on a bucket like that, we gonna have to get active, you hear? Your speakers is busted."

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There are certain small pleasures in life that Darcy refuses to let go of, being stuck in a totalitarian place that had fashion that made things on Drag Race look tame be damned. One of those small pleasures is her at least once weekly tradition of blasting her iPod and dancing around her room with very little on. And nothing, not alien invasions, or being stuck in an ongoing death match, or Punchy's hip-hop, is going to break her routine.

Okay, sure, sometimes she has to listen to her music with ear plugs in because Punchy's decided to engage her in aural warfare (or, as she's been taking to calling it in her attempts to blog in this strange, new world, waurfare) so yeah, she's morally obligated to crank up the music.

It's somewhere in the middle of Modern Vampires of the City when there's a knock on her door. It could be Thor or one of the Avengers. Or a Peacekeeper coming to tell her to turn it the fuck down. Except, nope, it's just Punchy. And as much as she's tempted to turn it up past eleven, there's only one way to hand this.

She turns down the music, pulls out the ear plugs, and yanks the door open to reveal the fact that she's wearing an oversized, somewhat cut up t-shirt advertising some beer that she had done a photoshoot for the week before, a pair of hot pink boyshorts, glasses, and absolutely nothing else (which, okay, is probably a hazard and she knows it, but sometimes a girl just needs to reject the confines of a bra while dancing). "Okay, dude, first off, cracker? Really? You're whiter than I am, Broseph Smith. Second, my music's fucking great and you need to learn to accept that. And third off, wow, I really did not need you coming to my door with attractively mussed hair and no shirt because that's not fair."

Unfortunately for Punchy, his lily-white, freckle-dusted cheeks are no good at hiding blushing, and when she shows up in those booty shorts and with certain body parts of hers just pointing at him like a two-person firing squad his face can't stop from turning a little red. A lot red. It spreads down to his neck, too, and although he can't see himself he can sure as hell feel it humming along his blood.

Darcy's always had a way of talking that's a little too fast for Punchy to keen. Usually he covers up for the fact that he ain't following with, well, being obnoxious, which is his trade in life whether or not it's always intentional.

"Nuh uh, I ain't! You're white!" He leans against her doorframe, though, aware he's just been complimented even if he couldn't chart her sentence out.

"I ain't saying your music's jank." Even though it is. "You just busted up your speaker. I can hear it rattling from my crib, you dig? I can fix it."

~~Thus started the Tribute porn parody.~~

Darcy has to admit that there's something about seeing him blush that makes Punchy adorable. It's enough that she's suddenly painfully aware of just how much she's showing off to him, even with a shirt on.

"I never said I'm not," she says, raising an eyebrow at him. "But that doesn't change the fact that, dude, you're like...really pale. I'm pretty sure if we put glitter on you, you could pass for a Cullen." Not that she read Twilight. Nope. Not at all.

"Oh really? You know how to fix a speaker?" Usually Darcy wouldn't even consider letting him into her room and would huff and convince herself that, no, the speaker's fine and the rattling and popping is only enhancing the sound. But this isn't a usual moment and her defenses are down and she's actually kind of digging him right now. Which is why she steps to the side and pulls the door open wider. "Well, why don't you come on in here and prove it."

He lowers his brows at her and says, as if it is a counterpoint to hers, "I'm from the streets. And the shit's a Cullen?"

If Punchy's oblivious to most things in the world, that cluelessness is doubled many times over with Things Girls Like. That might require actually taking an interest in their personality first and not other aspects.

Like the aspect that Darcy's showing off when she steps aside and gives him a nice profile shot of those booty shorts.

"Natch. I'm aces with hardware." He laces his fingers and cracks his knuckles, following her in and trying to catch the smell of her hair as he walks through the space she was seconds ago. And he does flex his abs a bit as he swaggers on in, hoping she's being just as shameless at leering as he is (he'd watch her face to see if she is, but, well. Leering.) "Almost as hard a gangsta as I am with software."

"The vampires from Twilight?" Dude, how out of the pop culture loop is he? "Sparkle in the sun, eat animals instead of people, have awkward boners over human girls?" Darcy doesn't even consider that a 'girly shit' thing and more of a 'lol pop culture' thing.

Darcy excels at multitasking. It's what makes her the Greatest Intern Ever (thank you coffee mug from Jane for bestowing that title on her). It also means that she can leer right back at him and notice that he's leering at her. Which, okay, maybe she should be offended by, but dude, she's got this shit. And she's doing the same to him, so they're good.

"Yeah, I'm sure you're just great with hardware," she says, waggling her eyebrows at him in a decidedly unladylike manner before bending over to turn off her music.

"Who don't have awkward boners over human girls?" Punchy tries to be sly when he chuckles, but it's a little more bro-ey than he wants it to be. Which is made even worse by the way he whistles when she bends over.

"Yeah. I am." Scintillating dialogue. He crouches down and pulls back her speaker so he can look at the wires running around and in it. "Ah, this shit's easy, just got to bump the jack a little and patch the pathway."

Darcy isn't sure which makes her eyebrows raise more, the completely unsexy, unsuave chuckle or the admittance to him having awkward boners. "Dude, if you were a hundred-something year old vampire, would you really pop a chub over a teenage girl?"

The wolf whistling only makes her stand up and turn around so he can see just how completely unimpressed she is right now. Which...okay, isn't as much as she should be in this situation, but that's only because, woah, abs. "So does that mean you're gonna prove that you're a master of hardware?"

He doesn't watch as she turns around, because he's so busy with a screwdriver he's had in his pocket and her faulty speaker. He only glances up when she starts talking to him.

"That an invite?" He raises his eyebrows, not making that a come-on but actually, honestly curious. Because he'd totally hit that like a truck.

"It could be." There's no attempt at tact or coyness in her voice. Actually, it's blunt as hell. "What would you say if it was?"

AKA Darcy's curious if she's going to be able to tick 'Have sex out of a bad 70s porno' off her bucket list.

Punchy's face flushes a bit, not because sex is completely foreign to him but because he has no game. He's been using his newfound celebrity Victor status to make up for his utter lack of game.

"I wouldn't say, I'd do. I'd get on my knees and lick that puss."

Truly, Punchy is a modern day Romeo.

Out of all the things Darcy expected Punchy to do, blushing definitely wasn't on the list. As tempted as she is to poke fun at him for it, she knows that might A) hurt his manly pride and B) keep her from getting laid tonight. For once in her life, Darcy proves that she can keep her mouth shut and not just say whatever's on her mind.

That is until he speaks and, holy shit did he actually just say that? Is he actually the one person in this place who has less of a filter than her? "Woah, I think you might be the first dude to ever bring up eating a girl out in his attempt at seduction. Kudos," she says with a playful smirk and a waggle of her eyebrows.

"Yeah? I'm cutting edge like that," he says, taking her absolutely one hundred percent seriously. And with that, he returns to her speaker system for a whole ten seconds to fix it (really, it takes no time at all, he came with a patch because he suspected what the problem was as soon as he heard it) before getting to his feet and taking a few steps towards Darcy.

And indeed, getting to his knees at her feet, looking up at her with a smile that would love to be a smolder but instead seems a little too puppyish, a little too uncertain of whether or not to believe her offer was mode in honesty.

"Fixed your system, shawty," he whispers, trying to make it sound husky and seductive.

With how fast Punchy fixes it, Darcy can't help but wonder if he came in and fucked it up in the first place so he could have an excuse to come in and try to seduce her. Emphasis on 'try.'

And that sad attempt is enough to almost make her giggle and call him adorable considering the impressive puppy eyes he's shooting up at her. Except she's pretty sure that would ruin the moment and right now she doesn't want to be 'Darcy the Boner Slayer.'

"Oooh, my knight in shining armor." As much as she's tempted to reach down and ruffle his hair, she's pretty sure that'd also be a boner killer of some sort. Instead she steps backwards, towards her bed with a little hip shake, trying to lure him into following with a beckoning finger doing the interuniversal symbol for 'c'mere.' "I guess I need to show you my thanks," she attempts to croon, trying not to laugh.

He follows her almost like a dog might pursue its owner, overly attentive, too quick to obedience. There's nothing graceful about the way he gets up, nothing intimidating about the way he approaches her with a sort of youthful earnestness.

"I ain't no knight. I'mma be your bedroom gangster, though."

He puts his hands on her hips and bends his neck down, hoping her head tilts up as he moves to press his lips on hers.

Darcy's done the whole 'leading a guy as he chases after you playfully' thing before. The difference between those times and this, other than the setting, is that she actually feels like she's really leading the chase this time instead of merely following her pursuer's lead.

"Alright there, Al Capone." She's not going to tell him whether or not she's missing the point on purpose.

And, just his luck, her head does tilt up. It's not the worst kiss she's ever had. Or the best. Somewhere in the middle, which she's fine with. It's not like she's going to be kissing him everyday for the rest of her life, so a kiss that's just okay isn't that disappointing. Which doesn't stop her from reaching up to cup his face.

Taking her tilt, then her hand, then her open mouth as permission, he takes it a step further by jamming his tongue into her mouth. He explores the roof of her mouth, the strange ribbing there, the crevices of her teeth, and with his hands he ventures up and down her back until he's got his hands all over that fine booty in the short-shorts.

Okay, she's actually a bit boney, but even he's got enough sense not to tell her that. And it doesn't do anything to stop the blood that's rapidly pooling up in his nethers, making leaving Darcy's in just sweatpants an impossibility without significant embarrassment.

Oh yeah. Boy's going up like a Drake single up the Urban Contemporary charts.

Darcy has a kissing scale that runs from 'Dementor' to 'The Notebook, only with less angst.' This kiss solidly clocks somewhere in the middle. She once read some young adult romance novel that described the snarky, daring protagonist's love interest kissing her as 'exploring her mouth.' And looking back on it, the idea sounds much sexier than it actually feels. Not that she's passive and just letting him and her tongue's trying to fight back.

Which feels just as unsexy to her as it sounds.

The only thing that takes her mind off the kissing is the feeling of Punchy Jr. pressing up against her. At first she isn't sure what to do. It's not that she's inexperienced, quite the opposite. It's more that...well, they live in the same space, actually doing anything could give him the wrong idea. But at the same time, she hasn't gotten laid in months and, well, YOLO. Which is why she slowly, deliberately grinds against him, just to see what he'll do.

What Punchy does is squeeze her ass.

He grinds back, feeling his junk rub up through the sweatpants against her mons and the bottom of her stomach, the little pooch that all twenty-something women have unless they're judicious users of Photoshop.

He really isn't terribly gutsy; there's something nearly shy about how he moves over her body, as if he's looking for encouragement at each step of the way. The Victor groupies usually throw themselves on top of him, and he may as well just lie there for all the forwardness he needs when sleeping with them. They come up with things - sex in the shower, tapes, blowjobs with schnapps in their mouth - and he just goes along with it, because eventually one of them will find something so mindblowingly orgasmic that it'll be like a nuclear bomb going off in his head, and all the sounds of Dave's head splitting and Topher gurgling on his own blood will be blasted clean.

He starts to pull down at her booty shorts.

Darcy doesn't really have much in the way of Arena-related trauma that she needs to drown out. Maybe it's because she's a newbie, but the worst thing that happened to her was being killed by the lovechild of Batman and the Terminator. Really, in some ways life in the mall was almost fun, other than the being scared shitless of being murdered at almost every turn. Which isn't to say she doesn't have nightmares that lurk at the edges of her brain about Puente Antiguo and giant firebreathing suits of armor or Dark Elves. This isn't about flushing away her trauma, this is about something else. Everyone has their needs, Darcy's just happen to involve sex right now.

The moment he starts to pull at her booty shorts is not her finest. Her brain grinds to a halt for just a moment, like a train trying desperately to avoid a collision, and she doesn't know what to do. Reaching down his pants at this angle would be awkward as fuck and she doesn't want him to stop.

And then, as suddenly as before, something kicks into gear again as her hands snake up and lightly fist in his hair a little bit as she starts kissing him again, her leg reangling slightly so it's easier for him to slide her shorts down.

For the moment she pauses, he does too, because while Punchy's a horndog and a sexual harasser and probably a few other things, he's also at least a little bit of a gentleman. He sits at the strange intersection between self-absorbed and chivalrous in more ways than one. But then she begins again, and so he eagerly follows her with dogged enthusiasm.

He gets her shorts down around her knees, and slides two fingers up between her legs, exploring with almost nervous anticipation to find the slick, warm wetness that tells him he's doing something right. He strokes, jiggles his fingers a bit, and then begins to descend with his mouth down her neck. He places his hands on each side of her hips and pushes her shirt up with his thumbs, trailing his mouth over her stomach and pelvis and pushing her to sit down on the bed.

"Lay back, shawty. I'm a pro."

Okay, so him stopping? Isn't exactly what she had hoped for. Sure, it kind of pleases her that he does in one of those 'oh wow, consent is really sexy' kind of ways, but it also makes her worry that he's suddenly decided to shoot her down.

Of course, any of those worries are erased when her shorts wind up around her knees before quickly winding up on the floor. Not that she notices because he's touching her and...okay, it's not like he has magic fingers or anything, but it's been friggin' months since she's gotten attention from a hand that wasn't her own and, by god, she's going to enjoy it. And then, okay, she's never going to say that Punchy is her ideal guy, but there's neck kissing and fuck, she's a sucker for neck kissing. And then he's kissing downward (and she's kind of shocked that he's skipping over her boobs because...dude, everyone seems to go for her boobs. They're like her Batsignal) and pushing her back onto her bed.

And wow, okay, she wasn't exactly expecting to feel something wet on her hip and it's too late to tell him to wipe his hand off on something.

Despite how obviously into all of this she is, she can't help but snark slightly as she watches him. "Oh really now? Should I ask for your credentials?" No matter how cool she tries to make herself sound, she knows the truth, that her voice is breathy with a thickness to it that wasn't there before.

It's a relief, in a way, to have a girl who's enthusiastic but not fawning, not obsequious and desperate and wanting him as a notch in their belt as much as he wants to add her to a number on his list and something to take up space in his head, squeeze out everything else.

"Nah, I don't need no rap sheet to back up my rep," he whispers into her vagina.

Then he begins. Punchy's actually pretty decent at eating a girl out, mostly because he sure spent a lot of time on the internet looking up pictures of pussy when he was like, twelve. He knows exactly where the clit's supposed to be, and he gives it the attention that little princess of nerves deserves. He pays homage to ho button. With one hand on that fine booty to help guide her to the oh-zone, and the other on her stomach thinking she'd look really fly with a belly-button ring, he massages and strokes and sucks.

If she wanted to, Darcy could easily snark back about how is she supposed to trust him if he can't even present her with a list of references. Except her brain's a little preoccupied with 'holy shit, yes good.'

As far as people going down on her...Punchy is by no means the worst. Actually, as far as guys go, he's one of the better ones, which is something Darcy never would've considered before this. It's obvious that he's a man with a very particular set of skills, only less with killing people a la Liam Neeson and more being able to make her see stars with just his tongue. To the point where years of communal living fly out of her brain and she starts getting...well, it's not quite verbal, because she's pretty sure she isn't making sensible words, but definitely vocalizing at him ecstatically as her hips twitch under his touch.

Those little sounds, Punchy thinks, are the kind of music to his ears that he would want to accompany his theme music when he hits the stage. They make his tongue feel electric, and he increases the intensity of his work.

The only thing distracting him from providing Darcy pleasure is the fact that his own genitals are yelping at him to pay them some heed, hot and blood-filled and straining against the skin that contains them. He removes one hand from guiding her along and jams it into his underwear, artlessly grabbing and trying to soothe, not release, but take a little bit of the pressure off.

Those little sounds start to shift from incoherent babbling to straight up needy panting. The pretense of trying to make words is now completely gone, as if her brain issued her mouth a 'you tried' star and she paid attention for once. Instead of attempting to verbalize, she decides to let her hands do the talking. Well, one hand at least, whose fingers wind their way into Punchy's ginger locks as if to say 'oh god please don't stop' since her mouth is completely out of service for once.

Or at least it's mostly out of service until something manages to crack through the sex-filled haze in her brain when he takes that hand off of her. It's the (kind of bizarre) realization that she's getting everything out of this while he's getting nothing at the moment. It's difficult, but she finally somehow manages to regain control of her senses for long enough to ask him one very important question through her pants and moans. "Need a hand?"

"I never need nothing, shawty." Punchy pants (into her vagina), exhaling through his nose (also into her vagina), and then delivers a broad stroke of his tongue, strong, slick with saliva and with her sweat and the cream of her loins, there, to the locus (which is her vagina). His free hand, the one not giving his junk a jerk, creepy-crawls like the world's fleshiest and least intimidating spider over to his workspace, pressing her lips back a bit so he has better access to the power pearl. The bonanza button, if you will. "But want...shawty, I always got wants."

He takes a break from her for just a second, just long enough to scramble up onto the bed with her and slide those dumb sweatpants off (he's reminded, briefly and ephemerally, that they have his name on the ass). And just like that, his hot rod's kind of right there in her face.

Darcy would try to diagram that sentence if this was a normal situation, and then tease him about it. But this isn't a normal situation and it seems downright rude to correct someone's grammar when they're going to town on your ladybits. Not to mention that she doubts that she could properly diagram it with how preoccupied she is.

Everything's going so well until he decides to stop. "Wait, what ar-" she cuts herself off as soon as she realizes what's going on. Well, more that she cuts herself off when his not-so Slim Jim is in her face. The "Oh my god" that she lets out is less of the euphoric sex variety and more of the 'wow, my life has become an actual porno' variety. Not that she lets that stop her from wrapping her hand around the base of his discostick before wrapping her lips around Punchy Jr.

He's already back to eating her out by the time she gets her hands wrapped around his shaft, as if she's a Chinese buffet and the place is about to close in five, with hungry, eager laps. He's close enough in there that the groan he gives when she puts her mouth around him looses a gust of air from his lungs that affectionately rustles her pubes.

"Goddamn, shawty, you give brain like you gone to college," he grunts, dragging one hand up the back of her thigh to position her supergash a little better. He lays his tongue flat for a moment, wagging the end just a little bit, and then uses a bit of suction to stimulate the clitoris. "You minor in exercise or some shit?"

Okay, so hot Punchy-breath against her lady bits is...actually really goddamn pleasant. It's not even a power 'oho, I have him just where I want him' thing, it's something else entirely. Something that makes her feel a little squidgy that she refuses to name because there are times and places to spark a relationship and this definitely isn't it.

Instead she runs the tip of her tongue over his womb broom, trying to remember what it was that Todd liked when they fumbled around in the back of his car at Culver. Because, holy shit, there's a part of her that wants to do this right and not just half ass it. She extracts his taco warmer from her mouth, running a cupped hand over his length, as she lets out a groan and feels her sideways smile moistening at the suction and his tongue. "What, is it that obvious?" Okay, so maybe her minor was art history, but still, close enough.

Punchy's mind is far more one-track than Darcy's. Physical pleasure has become a foolproof way for him to blast away his earthly concerns (which are surprisingly many for someone as dunderheaded as him) as if with a sort of epicurean shotgun.

"Shawty, you be- uhn-" Punchy's tongue-twister and its ensuing commentary is interrupted by a groan that seems to come way down from his stomach. "-sending me back to school. Ain't no bitch got a doublepuss like you."

He brings his fingers over her shameless flower and spreads the petals so he can better cover them with the surface area of his tongue. "You taste like straight Hennessey."

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Wednesday's Panties on a Friday Night [Closed]

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