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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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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