thecapitol | [closed] you met me at a very strange time in my life

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[closed] you met me at a very strange time in my life

Who| Porrim + Kurloz
What| A friendly meeting among peers
Where| D4 suites
When| Backdated to pre-Arena
Warnings/Notes| Language, probs. edit: Adult Situations ahead!

She's waited a suitable amount of time before making good on her promise to drop in on Four's new Stylist. Partly, it's out of a desire not to seem overeager; partly, it's because the pain of Initiate's Avoxing is still fresh and she wants to proceed with caution. But in the end, she knows it's no more Kurloz's fault for existing than it is her own, so she moseys down a floor during a lull between Escort obligations, a pricey latte in hand.

Porrim is dressed in her signature all-black, including a pair of leather hot pants because it's summer, and that's about as summery as she gets, and her hair is coiffed into perfect pin-up waves down to the middle of her back. She breezes in on heels that should be impossible to walk in, smiling at Four's inhabitants on her way to the Stylist's workroom. It would be rude to burst in unannounced, so instead she raps smartly on the door, hoping vaguely that she didn't pick a poor time to drop by. That would be incredibly unfashionable of her.

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Meeting with others of the Capitol is both a show of acting and flattery, and that of competition. As soon as he knew she was coming, he'd of course been quick to don something new and had the Avoxes set a small table of drinks. Today is stripes, very District 4, with matching lash and offsetting rainbow upon his long nails, tinted just enough purple his eyes would make to match. Casual, light, summery, and still a statement.

He's up just after the knocks conclude. He greets Porrim with a gracious bow, opening the door wide enough to let her through. The wall projection has changed from charming sea-side to a star lit waterfall, muted so as not to drown out the one person he'd be speaking here. The avoxes have set the champagne bottle out, two glasses already filled. Tarts have been left alongside it, clearly not meant for him. He welcomes her into his room and invites her to take a seat.

Porrim's eyes widen just ever so slightly under the plush fringe of her lashes at the sight of Kurloz's answering bow, but she's charmed by the ceremony of it. "Hi," she says simply in response as she breezes through the door--taking in a quick sweep of the room and letting her gaze land on the little table with the champagne and sweets. "I'd ask if this was a bad time, but apparently you heard me coming a mile away." There's a little smirk on her face as she turns to study Kurloz, extending her free hand toward his.

"Nice to finally meet you in person," Porrim goes on, surreptitiously tossing her latte in the waste basket behind her. "And welcome to the Tower."

He shrugs his shoulders and extends his hands out, the only thing marring his false display of sheepishness being the grin still upon his face. The rumor mill runs fast. He likes to be prepared.

His hands go over his heart and he bows his head (just a shallow dip this time), to say thank you for her welcome. He heads on over to his own desk seat, spinning upon it as he grabs his paper and pen.

YOU AS WELL, MAIDEN FAIREST. AN HONOR TO MEET A FORMER STYLIST.

Porrim watches with an air of vague amusement as Kurloz crosses to his desk chair and writes out a reply. What he's written has her waving her hand. "'Maiden' is a stretch," she corrects him, "and I was only an Assistant Stylist." She sniffs, remembering how little she'd enjoyed her job back then. How it had been hard, near the end, to even show an interest in fashion, when she was being paid to dress people on the way to their own funerals. Much better to keep her stylistic abilities to her own wardrobe. "I had talent, of course--I still do--but I'm much better suited in temperament for Escorting." It's a lie, but easier to explain than anything potentially traitorous-sounding. Porrim studies Kurloz surreptitiously, pretending to gaze at the window projection. Very nice...and the window is, too.

Her strides take her over to the little table he's had set up, and she takes a seat, crossing her legs and generally making herself at home. His workroom is nice--atmospheric in a way that's vaguely spooky, something she can, of course, appreciate. She's always been a little bit spooky herself. "I like your skulls," she adds, by way of segueing the conversation away from herself, gesturing toward them where the sit in rows on the walls.

His palms go together and his head bows. A quick means of saying, my apologies. Yet, he doesn't seem to bothered by his apparent error either, considering the smile he still wears all the while. Especially not when his sharp eyes catch her looking at him. His legs cross with deliberate. His chin lifts a little higher, approving.

AN HONOR NEVER THE FUCKIN LESS.

But his control slips for a moment when she acknowledges his skulls, genuine enthusiasm coming over him and lighting his eyes. He scoops up a bat's skull, small and delicate. He shows it to her in his hands, then places it gingerly upon the table, away from the food.

WONDROUS LITTLE MIRACLES. BEAUTIFUL EVEN IN DEATH. THE VESSELS OF CREATURES WHOSE SOULS HAVE FLED. THE BODY LEFT BEHIND IS MORE A GHOST THAN ANY SPIRIT COULD TRULY MOTHER FUCKIN BE. IT IS HUMBLING, DON'T YOU AGREE?

Porrim's lips curve into a smile, watching his every move--from the rather deliberate way he crosses his legs, to his movement across the room to pluck down the bat's skull. He's interesting to watch, she knows that much. Her smile widens, and she gazes down at the tiny skull with something akin to wonder.

"Like one last lingering reminder, yes," she agrees, once he's finished writing. Her expression turns a little sly, reaching out to trace a careful finger over the top of the bat skull. "Did you know that some species of bats are known to give oral sex? Really makes you rethink the phrase 'wild animals,' hmm?"

Of course she pulls out a fun fact like that. It's what happens when a girl like Porrim Maryam studies biological sciences.

Of course it's surprising. How could one ever expect a statement like that so sudden? He laughs for it. For a second, he actually makes a sound, showing he does in fact have all the functioning parts for speech past those stitches.

Porrim Maryam, aren't you forward. With a wicked grin curving up, he can't say he minds.

FLIGHT. ECHOLOCATION. ORAL INTIMACY. IT WOULD MOTHER FUCKIN SEEM THE WILD THINGS HAVE MADE CLAIM UPON ALL TRULY CONVIVIAL-WORTHY ACTS.

Or is he wrong about that, Maryam?

The little sound of mirth he lets out is interesting, but far from making her interest known, Porrim merely lets it widen her little smirk. His reply only furthers the action, and if she wasn't at least a little bit interested in whatever this is before, she most certainly is now. Maybe it's the thrill of the challenge; maybe it's knowing that she hasn't even needed to try, really. Either way, she lets her tongue dart out to swipe at her lower lip, just a hint of her sharpened canines showing in the process.

"Oh, I wouldn't give them all the credit," she murmurs, tilting her head up at him. "I've found humans can be surprising, too."

It's all pretence at this point, but he's finding he's rather enjoying it. Who's going to give first, she or him? His fingers trace his lips as though he's considering something or other. Then, to her final point, he gestures out, fingers twirling. A quick movement to say, You have a point, but also...

CHURCH. HUMANS ARE BLESSED WITH QUITE DEXTEROUS APPENDAGES. OUR SPECIES CAN PROVE STUNNINGLY FLEXIBLE IN A VARIETY OF SITUATIONS. AS IT HAS BEEN SAID.

To him. Very much to him.

She can feel something warm and heavy unfurling in her stomach, a strong desire that she wants very much to act upon, but she knows as well as anyone that timing is everything. And really, why shouldn't she want this? Why wouldn't she want to act upon her basest instinct, when it's been proven time and time again to be ever so enjoyable? And the thrill of discovering someone new, someone unknown and all-too mysterious, only adds to her anticipation.

Porrim hums softly. "Is that so? You know, I'd rather like to find out what you mean by that."

Hook, line, sinker. Like they would say over in District four. He tries not to look too smug. She is a guest after all and it is his duty to be a gracious host.

WOULD YOU? OUR RENDEZVOUS HAS ALREADY BEEN ARRANGED IN THE NOW. IT MUST THEN BE A MATTER ONLY OF DESIRE. PERHAPS IF A PLEASE IS HEARD.

And it's only going to come from one of them.

I BELIEVE WE BOTH KNOW TRIBUTES AREN'T THE ONLY ONES CAPABLE OF A GOOD SHOW.

She doesn't even pause to consider that this might be a terrible idea--to fuck her colleague, at work of all places. If she were sensible, she'd invite him over, arrange things for another time. But he said himself that they're already here, already right in front of each other, and to Porrim that's as good an excuse as any.

Her full lips twist into an expression that's wry and clever, and she rises from her seat most effortlessly, long legs unfolding as she does--intricate whorls and patterns of her tattoos shifting beneath the dark glisten of her tights.

"They most certainly aren't," she murmurs, reaching out to tease a finger under Kurloz's chin, playfully. "Pretty please?"

He watches her rise. Shamelessly, his eyes trace the patterns run all along her legs, from the bottom and up and up and up. His chin is lifted higher, past the curves of her hips, over the flat of her stomach and the shape of her breasts as seen through her sweater. Her neck, her jaw, her full lips, and her eyes at last.

He's low and looking up. He's beneath her. It's a very nice place to be.

Anyone watching the security cameras will see them. Right now, he doesn't care. He has many secrets but this needn't be one of them. His approval comes clear in a grin and the slow reaching out of his hands to her legs, fingers spread and rising up over, teasing, to her hips. He holds eye contact all the while, even as he slips down from the chair onto his knees.

Edited 2015-08-12 15:37 (UTC)

She can feel his eyes on her, even if she didn't notice the direction of his gaze, and damn if it doesn't feel good to have them lingering on every part of her. She watches as he sinks to his knees, a glint of approval in her gaze, and then his hands are on her thighs and rising upward.

Porrim lets out a soft sound at the contact, her thighs tightening briefly beneath Kurloz's fingertips, her gaze watchful and interested. "You look good down there," she murmurs, letting her voice grow throaty and not a little bit wanting. Oh, she's already finding that she doesn't regret this one bit, even if there's a chance Quintus Falxvale is squirreled away in an office somewhere getting quite a show out of these two.

Maybe he'd send poor old Quintus an apology basket later. Or maybe he'd just laugh.

His hands pause when she makes a noise, hands holding her a little firmer then, fingers pressing for just for a moment to see if he can't cause her to elicit more. He creeps them the edges of those hot pants, thumbs curving to her inner thigh.

He's grinning to hismelf at her comment, but he changes it up for a quizzical tilt of his head. A question. Namely; She's not too attached to these leggings of hers, now is she?

His nails dig just that little bit into the fabric, enough a little bit of tearing can be heard.

Porrim has a little too much self-control to give him the satisfaction of any more of those lovely little sounds. No, he'll have to earn those. But she does settle a little more firmly into his grasp, pressing her thighs forward into his hands, letting her sharpened canines peek out in a breathless little smile as she realizes what he's proposing with that head tilt.

"By all means," she purrs. "Be my guest." Hosiery is easily replaced, and tearing clothing, nails biting into skin: these are fun games to play. This she knows from experience.

He's different from that creature. But a little destruction, especially in a case such as this, well, it's a beautiful thing.

Permission granted-- and that's its own thrill-- he drags his fingers down with a near vicious glee. The shred is loud in his ears. His long kept nails leave light trails on her skin.

Casting that aside, his hands move again, running over bare skin this time. He leans close and presses stitched lips to the first tattoo he spots here.

She can't help herself; she gasps just lightly at the shred of nylon and the faint sting of fingernails. Glancing down, she can see where the smooth golden-brown of her thighs has gone just that side of red in long trails, over and under the trails of black ink.

Porrim murmurs appreciatively, watching him press those lips to her skin, and almost fondly she rakes fingers through the nest of his hair, letting her own sharp-edged nails tickle at his scalp where she can reach it. "I didn't much like those anyway," she says wryly, still watching--always watching.

Kurloz disagrees. The leggings look lovely. Shredded and discarded on the floor. Especially if it's going to earn him another sound, however faint it might be.

His kiss is interrupted when her nails rake through his hair. It's unfair. Downright cruel is what it mother fuckin is. It's all right there for the pulling. Make him hurt, he thinks, head tilting up with her touch.

He reaches again, passing over the pants and falling upon that fine fuckin ass of hers. He gives a brief squeeze there too.

She can't resist, letting her fingers bunch in his hair and tugging at that glorious mess of curls. He seems to enjoy the attention, so let him have it if that's what he wants. Porrim's no shy, wilting flower. She'll happily give what a partner needs, if that's what gives them off. And acts of the rougher persuasion come easily to her.

Kurloz squeezes at her ass, and she huffs in laughter. "Don't worry. I'm not too modest to admit that I have one of the best asses in the Capitol." Wait till he sees what she's got on under those tight leather shorts.

She pulls his hair just like he wanted and his head is pulled up with it. The corner of his mouth lifts in reaction to the pain of it, momentarily exposing teeth through his stitches. That grimace quickly becomes a grin of pleasure.

He laughs a long with her. Shoulders shaking in place of any noise.

If her ass is that much a prize, then he guesses he'd better save the best for last. His hands start to rise and he does with it. He doesn't even think to have Porrim let go of him, hoping she doesn't, and focus instead on the steady rise of his hands, lifting her shirt.

Kurloz begins to rise, his hands skimming up along the curves of her ass and sides, and true to form Porrim doesn't let go, keeping her fingers anchored in his hair, so that once he's standing she's got his head tilted back. This means that while he's busy with pushing her sweater up, revealing more inked skin--most notably the cycles of the moon inked across her ribcage, just under the hem of her lace brassiere--she busies herself with leaning up and beginning to kiss into his neck, just under his Adam's apple.

Time to amp this shit up a little bit.

Physical entanglement is always a thrilling experience, but with her he's got a secondary show to behold, her body inked all over with pictures and patterns. He spots the moons and finds himself fascinated, running his thumbs over the design simply to feel their mark. How beautiful. Especially on top of her.

But he forgets that in a moment when she kisses his neck. There's a hundred little scars there, the works of scratching nails in a moment of panic, the lines altered so as not to show visibly, but they can be felt there like Braille under her lips. He loves it.

His jaw arches up and back, allowing her in. Giving more. The breath is caught and exhaled quick. He holds there.

The skin under her lips is tantalizing--unmarked to the eye, but as her lips murmur over it, laying soft kisses intended to tease, she feels scar tissue instead of smooth skin, and it has her brain buzzing to imagine exactly how it got there. So she smiles, and then nips at his throat with teeth that are far sharper than they have any right to be, filed into points as they are, murmuring at the thumbs running across her ribcage. Her hips move to press flush into his, and it's a blessing they're both as tall as they are, so there won't need to be any technical difficulties where this little rendezvous is concerned.

She swipes her tongue just under his jawline, then pulls back to look up at him with low-lidded eyes, licking her lips. "You taste marvelous," she informs him, twisting a lock of his hair around her fingertips.

It's a good question, but the answer of which is one of many reasons why he can't speak anymore. She's only so interested as to taste. That is more than just okay by him. That's mother fuckin miraculous.

His back arches, but never so far he's out of reach. Especially not out from those teeth and the little bit of sting that they bring. He's hungry for it. But in the meantime, he'll busy his hands with undoing her bra instead, reaching to pop it free.

He hums and chuckles in response to it all. Why thank you, sister.

She could go for it, really go for it, if she had half a mind to. It wouldn't be the first time she's contemplated what it would be like, to bite with a purpose, to feel flesh part beneath her sharp teeth, to feel blood well up. To be a vampire the way she's been told she was, once upon a time in a different time and a different world. But she couldn't--not without a good damn reason, not unless she really wanted to hurt someone. Or someone really wanted her to. This, here, this is just play. Toying with her meal, as it were. So she nips at his throat again, letting him relieve her of her bra--silly, lacy thing as it is--feeling the weight of her breasts bob with the motion of it.

Porrim pulls back, eyeing him, smirking. Letting him look, if he wants, her own fingers creeping up over his ass, grabbing, groping.

She keeps teasing and toying. Driving him mad is what she's trying to do. She might succeed, and then where will he be?

He brings his hands slowly around from her back to catch those breasts of hers and spread his fingers wide over them both. He cups them as greedily as his eyes take them in on her back-step. Her shirt is but a ghost over top. God, she is a treat for the eyes.

She gropes his ass and his back arches for it. He has to (tragically) sacrifice one hand so as to bring it over top of hers. He keeps her there, and further, pushes up the edge of that skirt he's got.

She'd be lying if she said she didn't enjoy doing this. Driving men mad. Women are different; with women she tends to prefer an even score. But with men comes the allure of having the upper hand. Of finding power. And when you live in the Capitol, you have to take power where you can find it.

He'll notice, as he takes in the sight of her breasts through the sheer of her blouse, gold bars glinting in each nipple; her tattoos swirl enticingly around the swell of each breast, every line carefully calculated to adorn and emphasize, never to impede. Her hands, meanwhile, take his encouragement and run with it, fingers pushing up his skirt, a fistful of ass cheek that she doesn't relinquish as she delves beneath layers with glee.

Finding power. Now, how could he possibly find fault in that?

He spots those pretty little bars, the tattoos that swirl and lead him in to an answer of that question asked. Yes, that top will definitely have to go. He brings his hand back, pushing it up so her breasts are completely exposed. He leans and starts to kiss down her collar bone and along those swirls.

Her grip on him, as she works on up, causes him to laugh a little, the sound muffled but easily felt upon her flesh. Yes, yes.

Being stitched, there's not much he can do in the way of tongues and biting, but for something as small as those gold bars, small as the straws he slips between stitches, that he can work with. Takes hardly any manoeuvring at all to reach in and tug.

She merely smirks, and continues what he's started by pulling her blouse off over her head, letting it pool to the floor without a second thought. The progress of her fingers is halted only by the sudden meeting of his lips with sensitive skin, and when he lets one of her barbells slip into the space between his stitches and tugs, Porrim stiffens and jerks, letting out a soft whimper at the sudden stimulation. Suddenly, her mouth is rather dry.

"Fuck," she manages, letting her fingertips delve beneath the hem of his tights.

He goes still, listening and feeling for what reaction he might get. He's not dissapointed. It's really difficult not to grin wide so he doesn't bother trying to resist, even if she can feel it on his skin. Especially so.

He bites just one last time before pulling back, teasing her the way she did to him. He drifts over and and around the other side but leaves that little bar be. For now. Save of course for his breath as she takes down those tights.

She steels herself, resolves not to give him any further satisfaction for the time being. Instead, she busies herself with his tights, pushing them down just below his ass so she can get another handful of bare skin--and to use that handful to pull his hips into hers, to feel him press into her and to seek out friction with reckless abandon.

"Too many clothes," she informs him, tugging at his garments irritably. After all, she's already topless. It's just rude and unfair.

He laughs, a little bit of muffled noise from him at her frustration. He opts to appease, at least in this particular instance. But not before she's pulled his hips close and he's ground them against hers. It's difficult to resist continuing as is, but somehow he manages.

He tugs those bits of clothing up and off. Physically he's not got much to show, just a skinny ass thing is he, but he suspects she'll find the tattoos lining his ribs and collarbone to be interesting, all white on his dark skin and marking every bone. His arms go down and his hands go back to grasping her ass without shame.

'Interesting' is only the half of it; Porrim's eyes light up at the sight of those stark white bones lining his skin, a direct contrast to all the black ink covering hers. Curiously, she moves her hands to his chest, his ribs, letting her fingers trail each marking, a hum of approval from between her lips.

And then she's sinking to her knees, slowly--impossibly slowly, but it's clear that those thighs are strong enough to manage it--kissing each rib on her way down, tugging at his tights as she goes. She has a feeling he won't protest.

He wouldn't even pretend it's not an ego boost the way she admires him. He's sure she feels the same. They are indeed some very, very strong thighs. It's a wonderful thing, simply to imagine the feel of them around. He's sure it's an entirely different thing to know it.

His arms go up, the backs of his hands layered on top of his head as she traces over him, making his back arch with each little kiss. His breath gets a little louder, a little heavier, as she sinks on down, bringing them tights with her.

He can't help biting the inside of his lip, pulling his stitches. He brings a hand down to brush over her hair.

Maybe that's what this is, in part; a nice ego boost for the both of them. It's not wrong to feel wanted, to want to feel good and help someone else feel that way in return. Which is exactly what Porrim is intent on doing, the moment she's tugged those oh-so-artfully ripped tights all the way down, his underthings going with them, and bared him to her completely. Her eyes light up before the lids go heavy with want, and minx that she is, she can't resist finding his gaze with all manner of impudence as she licks a long, wet stripe up the length of him.

Oh, she is going to have all sorts of fun with this one.

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[closed] you met me at a very strange time in my life

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