thecapitol | [open] sometimes your words just hypnotize me

Who| Porrim + Shepard
What| Vaguely inappropriate blind spot activity.
Where| In a holding area beneath the city.
When| Backdated to immediately before the Tribute parade.
Warnings/Notes| Rated S for smooching.

There's been so much to do lately, so many things to prep--pre-interview interrogations, to put it lightly, final wardrobe checks, making sure everyone is where they're meant to be. And of course, Porrim's head is in the game, so much so that she's found herself focusing on little details over remembering the big picture. That being said, she's pretty sure she told all of Five's Tributes the correct meeting place for the Parade. Or at least the time. Maybe both. Or did she tell some of them the time and some of them the place?

So it's understandable if she's in a bit of a tizzy as she approaches the long, cold hallway where Five is meant to be meeting, so they can finalize their lineup and get ready to get into the chariots. And her tizzy isn't remedied by the fact that apparently, only one of her Tributes has shown up so far.

"Commander Shepard," Porrim calls respectfully as she approaches, surprisingly fast, on long legs made even longer by impossibly high heels. She's dressed in skin-tight leather pants and a long, flowing black blouse that's completely sheer to her bra underneath, her hair pulled up in a shining, coiled bun. She stops a few feet short. "I'm so glad you're here. I...don't suppose you've heard from the others?"

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Not my fault of what's left of the team's only as punctual as they have to be."

Shepard's got more grease in her hair than she feels is strictly necessary, and is being extra blunt to make up for it. Then again, she's always kind of a bitch.

"That's a no," This last while actually turning to glance at Porrim, "Since we got time, wanna see something cool?"

"Fair enough," Porrim replies with a little sigh, holding the glossy leather binder in her arms close to her chest. She takes in Shepard with a glimmer of appreciation; it's always nice when your Tributes manage to clean up well. Porrim's always been lucky in that aspect.

The question catches her off-guard, and she arches an eyebrow. "I--sure, why not. What is it?"

If there's one thing Shepard is used to, it's getting the look from people. Like, this, with her hair slicked back and her sleeves torn off? It ought to be illegal not to.

"Look over there. See the far wall?" It was a big wall, painted an artful sort of white that was just slightly not white, and probably came with a fancy name comparing it to eggshells, or foam off the sea, or some complete and utter bullshit. She'd have to be blind to miss it, "See where the light fixture lines up with the corner there? Follow that line to where the wall meets the ceiling."

A little tiny speck, a spot of paint that wasn't any kind of artful off-white, but instead just white. Ordinary white. It was small, especially at this distance, hardly noticeable, unless you knew exactly what to look for. Shepard knew this about Porrim; she was good at her job, because she was dedicated, and stubborn, and most crucially in this moment: detail-oriented.

"See it?"

Alright, color her intrigued. She follows where Shepard is telling her to look, scanning the expanse of the wall. For a moment, she's not sure exactly what she's looking for--some kind of graffiti, maybe? A hidden panel of some kind? She's about to question it when she sees it. The tiniest difference, but there it is.

Porrim hums, glancing back at Shepard with a cocked brow again.

"Alright, I'll bite. What is it?"

"Hidden camera. You see them all over the place, if you know what to look for. It's always pretty subtle, and some of them aren't visible even if you're looking, especially the mics."

Although, most of those involved grates and fabrics, upholstry, thin walls-- this place was sturdy, underground concrete. No need to trick it out with the fancy Hunger Games arena rig. What for? People didn't stop here, they just walked through. Waste of money.

"That one's pretty new. It's hard to match paint colors, y'know?" Of course you do, "What's more, if you look at how the hall's set up, that one can't see the whole angle from here. It's probably pointed out towards the exit. Even a wide-angle lens can only give you so much."

Without even realizing she's doing, Porrim tenses as Shepard explains exactly what that little spot is. She knows, obviously she knows, that there are eyes and ears everywhere, but she's not exactly expecting one of her Tributes to start pointing them out. Still, she listens to everything Shepard has to say, her face purposely blank.

"Ah," she replies finally. "So what you're saying is, this is a blind spot." Her voice is down, low--but smooth, inconspicuous. "Interesting."

"No, no. I'm probably in the shot," What she does next is, perhaps a little mean. A lot mean. Cruel, even. But Shepard answers to "bitch" as readily as her name, and has long cultivated the rarified air of someone who does not give one single solitary fuck, "...But you aren't."

She turns to look at Porrim.

Innocent enough, until you caught her expression, smug and shadowed and more than a little threatening. Fires burn red behind her pupils, fractures of magma-light in the cracks of her skin. She could kill you right now, Porrim. She could reach out and snap your neck and it would mean her life, but no one would see or be able to stop her before it all became, to you at least, nothing more than merely academic.

She moves, and it's so natural that anyone watching could be forgiven for mistaking it for simple conversation. Brutality has always come naturally to Shepard. Easy: two steps into Porrim's space, until she's backed up against the wall, until they're both out of the line of sight of the camera. This is how you break the law.

You take your hands, callouses worn smooth, fresh manicure that you'll fuck up before sunset, but they can't erase the strength in them. You curl your fingers in the soft short hairs behind her ears, along her jaw. Push her back, don't let her think; then you kiss her, don't be afraid to do it right. Don't be afraid to lick or bite. She'll be surprised, how could she not, so press your advantage. Take that little sound she'll make, and swallow it whole. Good job, now you're a criminal.

Was there ever any doubt?

It's entirely too obvious for Porrim's taste, the way she feels herself blanche--because she might be on the right side of things here, but that doesn't mean that Shepard knows that, and for one long moment she's pretty well convinced that she's going to die right here at the hands of her own Tribute. After all, there's those one, two steps right into Porrim's space, and her hands come up, and Porrim's waiting for them to close around her neck, to strangle the life out of her, and she's even thinking maybe it won't be so bad, to be dead, maybe that's just her lot--

oh.

It is the absolute last thing she is expecting, to be pushed back into the wall, to feel fingers tangled in her baby hairs, lips pressing into the surprised O of her mouth. And there it is, the softest sound of surprise, and this is illegal as fuck and wrong and they shouldn't do this but even so Porrim is letting her fingers fist in the front of Shepard's shirt, without her permission. Kissing Shepard back even though it'll fuck up her lipstick. Hope you don't mind a smear of black cherry across your lips, Jane.

And here Porrim was thinking that Shepard didn't even like her.

Edited 2015-10-08 22:38 (UTC)

Shepard doesn't like Porrim.

What Shepard has for Porrim is close to respect, which is better, what she has is a competitive lust, and a more ordinary lust, and a lust for power. She would see that calm facade damaged, any way she can. Shepard can't really help that; destruction, like brutality, is part of her nature, fit over her like a second skin. Like teeth in an open-mouthed kiss, licking her way inside only to bite. They haven't even really begun to be wrong together.

Who minds the warpaint, when the battle's already won?

Then, it was over, and Shepard pulled back wiped her mouth on the cut-off leather gloves to hide the evidence; had she planned this? Did she ever? Porrim's response had been a pleasant surprise, and to say Shepard was smug would be an understatement. There were voices, echoing down the hallway, the boys were arriving. Soon, it would be showtime.

"Sort your shit out, Maryam."

It's over all too soon, and before Porrim can even begin to remember herself she's making an indignant noise, like a child whose toy has been taken away too quickly. Before she could even start to have fun with it. She's aroused, blood thrumming, pumping through her veins in a heady way, and now she's blinking at Shepard, eyes that low-lidded sexy-sleepy, bemused, barely cognizant of people coming close.

The words seem to strike a chord in her, though, and some kind of recognition of danger comes back to her gaze, and she finds herself straightening without even thinking, smoothing her hair, her blouse, righting her lipstick where it's blurred across her chin and her cheek.

"Consider it sorted," is all she can manage to say, her facade settling back over her, a purr both smooth and professional.

[open] sometimes your words just hypnotize me

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