When you own the world, you're always home.

[streetsmarts]

Who| Nick and OPEN
What| Fresh in from the zombie apocalypse.
Where| D7 suits, Commons bar, through the halls.
When| 11/01, ish.
Warnings| Sexual stuff in some of the threads.

It was over. Done. Done like dinner. After a goddamn marathon of bullshit, after continuous strife and disappointment, their asses were safe. That doesn't mean Nick isn't in a mild state of panic when he arrives. You spend a while attached at the hip with some mouthy assholes, you kind of notice the silence when they're gone. The fact that they'd come so far to be separated isn't as much of a relief as he'd thought it would be. He could use Rochelle to tell him to snap out of it right now, but instead he has weird looking guards devoid of emotional response regardless of his questions.

If they think he's bad, they should meet Ellis.

It becomes abundantly clear that this isn't some quarantine facility. This isn't the Thunderdome of the apocalypse, and somehow that makes it weirder. His chest is still tight with uncertainty and fear, but he hasn't really processed all of the information he's been spoon fed just yet.

D7 suites: It's hard to be angry when he's lead to the lavish suites and left the fuck alone. His grubby suit doesn't suit the fine decor, and that becomes abundantly clear as he catches his reflection in the reflective surface of a window. He visibly crinkles his nose, and he can't be looking anything but himself at this point.

"Rough.." He mutters, brushing off his front like it'll do him any good at this rate. Whatever. He's bone tired and the couch looks all too appealing, so he's sinking back onto it with his dirty shoes propped on the arm of it. He's already lounging around like he owns the place, but he couldn't care less about what anyone thinks. Hell, he hasn't seen anyone to be dismissive of yet. Not anyone who seems to care what he thinks, at least.

Lobby Bar: After lounging, Nick finds something to change into. He almost wants to keep his suit on for how little he wants to be caught dead in jeans and a button up, but the stink of months of fighting zombies is far more notable when you're removed from the situation.

He's had a shower, he's clean and he's ready to scope out what the Capitol has to offer. He's headed out to the streets when the bar catches the corner of his eye and well, one drink couldn't hurt, right? He makes his way to the bar and orders, and his desperation probably obvious from the way he slams the drink down. One drink becomes a couple and he's starting to become curious, he eyes people nearby and decides to approach them every so often.

"If you've been here longer than an hour, you could really put my mind at ease here." He says smoothly, trying to come off as someone in need of sympathy without compromising himself too much. "I'm having some technical difficulties here." He taps his head to demonstrate this. "Is it meant to come off like some weird fever dream? 'Cause I can't be sick. I use hand sanitizer religiously."

Through the halls: Now that he's had a few drinks, he figures he might leave wandering the Capitol for some other time. Instead, he'll work from the ground up. He pokes around the floors of the towers, but it's getting to be night and it's getting to be quiet. He's in his own head, mulling over how impossible all of this crap here, wondering where the other assholes got to and pretty much any sudden noise could have him lurching to the side. He reaches for a gun that isn't there before he forces himself to calm down, shoulders slumping a little when he does.

"I'm never gonna grow out of that." He groans mournfully, his heart still racing in his chest. He's going to be thinking about the Infected for a long, long time.

Comments

[fusshionable]

Well, thus far, this has all the makings of a rather nice bar bathroom hookup, and Porrim's pleased to find that he's responding to all her cues quite nicely. He knows his way around a woman--that's good. Very good. Accommodating as always, Porrim lifts her ass enough for him to get her panties down, gasping lightly and wishing those hands wouldn't stray so far from the juncture of her thighs.

She angles her neck upward for his lips, laughing a little breathlessly as her head thunks against the mirror, and then--

"Fuck." A tinny little beeping fills the room just then, a vibration coming from her purse where it's tossed so carelessly atop the counter. "That's, mm--my pager," she informs him, wishing with every fiber of her being that the damn thing would just stop.

[streetsmarts]

Evidently, this is a little like riding a bike. Nick came into the zombie apocalypse with lipstick on his collar, so it hasn't been a devastating dry streak for no good reason. He is efficient in his work and it comes back to him effortlessly. It helps that Porrim doesn't play games, not when it boils down to it.

The lift of her ass makes it easier to drag her panties down past her thighs, and knowing that they've dropped past her knees is making him crave a little more friction. He's getting bold ideas about switching the positions a little when the beeping starts to rouse him from his thoughts. He acknowledges it and her enough to let out a disinterested and dismissive hum.

His hand is tracing back up her thigh, fingers spanning over it so his thumb can rub circles against her inner thigh. His other hand moves from it's brace on the mirror so it can move brazenly up her midriff, under her top and over her bra for a moment before he decides life is just too short for that shit. His hand slips under her bra, cupping her breast as he adjusts his leg, not so discreetly shifting so her knee can rub against him as he dips his hand further down her thigh.

[fusshionable]

Normally, she wouldn't even be a little bothered by the fact that she's in a restroom with her panties almost off and a strange man with his hand on her tit, except for the fact that her beeper only ever goes off when one of her tributes is seriously fucking something up, and bad. "God damnit," she growls into his shoulder, torn between letting it go and encouraging his hand even higher between her thighs, and checking to see what the trouble is. Eventually, it stops going off, and she huffs, satisfied that that will be that for the moment. Playfully, she lets her knee nudge into his crotch, moaning lightly as his hand pushes up under her bra. See? She can do this. She can totally forget about work for ten fucking minutes--

"Fuck," she repeats, teeth gritted, as the damn thing in her purse starts to go off again. "Nick, I need to--I should--" Her free hand reaches for her purse, just out of her reach. Some serious shit must be going down upstairs, and she's kicking herself for this already.

[streetsmarts]

This situation is basically the most normal he's felt all day. It's really damn easy to pretend you haven't just been kidnapped and isolated from everyone you know when you're hooking up with a gorgeous woman you met at the bar. The more the beeping permeates his mind, the more it brings him back to the reality of everything. Then it stops, dear god it stops and she starts again. He lets out an appreciative grumble when her knee nudges against him, kneading his hand against her chest.

He's about to make a smug remark about keeping her mind off work, hell. Even when her beeper goes off he wants to remind her, but he isn't oblivious to the urgency in her voice. For a moment, it doesn't seem like he intends to pull away, but he draws back with a frustrated groan. "C'mon, honey, don't make me break my promise." He lifts a brow at her, exasperation clear in his face as he grabs for her purse and thrusts it at her in the most inelegantly helpful manner. "Just tell them you need five minutes, Christ." And then he pauses. "Five minutes and half an hour. Tops."

[fusshionable]

Porrim lets out an exasperated sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger. God, she really wants to just say fuck it and put her own pleasure before the bullshit she's certainly about to be faced with--but that's exactly the opposite of her work ethic. She grabs her purse out of his hands and digs through it for her communicator, expression going from annoyed to panicked all in the space of a moment as she sees exactly what needs her attention so urgently.

"Five minutes? Really?" She ignores that last bit, absentminded as she stuffs her device back into her purse and gives Nick an apologetic grin. "I'm really sorry. I can't ignore this..." Her lips curl, and her gaze drops to his crotch, giving him a once-over. "As much as I really wish I could."

Catlike, graceful, she slips off the counter and past him, bending to pull her panties back up and, well, if he's not going to get any today she can't exactly begrudge him a shot of her ass under her skirt as she bends down. She checks her lipstick in the mirror--flawless, and gives him a wink, hitching her purse over her shoulder.

"I'll make it up to you later."

[streetsmarts]

That is an array of expressions Nick does not care for. His eyes are glued on her, brows furrowed as his gaze bores into her impatiently. He is not, for the most part, a patient or friendly guy. He isn't going to get in her face about this, because that's not his scene, but he isn't even going to pretend he isn't pissed about this.

"It's called an exaggeration, sweetheart, look it up." That is his ever so eloquent and helpful addition to this increasingly sad situation. She's definitely leaving, she's absolutely leaving. She is definitely..bending down. Well, okay. He enjoys that for about a fraction of a second before it reminds him of the state he's currently in.

He's almost desperate enough to try catch her wrist or follow on her heels, but he opts to pull back and drag his hands through his hair in frustration. "You have got to be kidding me right now." He hisses, turning away from her to glare at something that isn't her, like a tile that offends him for some reason.

"Yeah, yeah. I'll be waiting, Santa." He folds his arms over his chest, moving to lean against the wall behind him so he can better level the most dour look on her.

[fusshionable]

She really does feel bad; it's not that she's leaving him with an unfortunate boner in the men's restroom, but more the fact that it's his first day here and she probably just made it worst. But hey, he's at least walking away having had a handful of titty, so he can't be too broken-hearted. Also, she was really looking forward to his attempt at fucking her troubles away, to be perfectly honest.

"Sorry, darling," she calls back behind her as she makes for the door, anxious to get back to D5 and smooth over the situation going on up there. "You'll hear from me."

[streetsmarts]

A handful of titty pales in comparison to the holy grail when that's what you're in pursuit of. If he'd known he was in for heavy petting and some kissing, he would not be disappointed. But here he stands, a mess of a man with a scowl on his face that could be a pout.

"Right." He says skeptically, but to his credit he's trying his best not to sound too bitter. He does want to hear from her, even after this, so he's at least semi-aware of the fact that he should refrain from being an asshole. He'll spare her one more glance before he turns away entirely while she walks out the door, figuring it's better to face in a direction where his boner isn't apparent.

"God- god damn it!" He hisses loudly to himself once he's pretty sure she's out of hearing range, bringing his hands up to his head again so he can spend the next few minutes thinking about the least sexy things he can imagine.