"I wish somebody would tell me what in the fuck is going on here." The man in the ragged, bloodstained white suit stopped to lean against a wall, adjusting his open collar. Underneath, scratches and bruises abounded, and he looked the sort who'd been through the wringer, as a stray animal, with a curious sort of detachment
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Explanation time, then. "You're in a magical trap shithole." Granted, not a very good explanation, but can beggars really be choosers?
And it doesn't take much scrutiny to see what, uh, magical effects the place has already had on this stranger's pants, either.
"Survivors of what?"
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Nick took a time out mentally from bitching to evaluate the other man in turn. Little roughed up, but nothing as wild as he'd expect for someone still vertical three weeks after hell broke loose. Pretty attractive, too.
Whoa, he didn't just. No.
"Survivors of the goddamn apocalypse. You are one, don't worry, you look good. Must be a crack shot."
He did, however, catch the other man looking, and flashed an instinctive inviting grin. "See something you like?"
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Huh. Apocalypse. Zombie apocalypse, judging by his earlier comment? It would explain the biting. ..... Cool. Wesley can play along with that. He grins a bit despite himself - crack shot isn't the half of it. "Sure - I'm the best."
And- whoa, nelly. More experienced with the wily ways of the hotel regardless, even a decade in this place wouldn't make Wesley immune to the airborne aphrodisiacs. The look he's suddenly getting certainly doesn't help, not when it's plastered over a face like Nick's. He licks his sore bottom lip, rather more uncomfortable in his worn jeans now than he was a couple minutes ago, and halfway torn between wanting to bolt over protestations of his heterosexuality goddamnit and absolutely not caring anymore. He's been around, awhile. "Yeah, I might."
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"Maybe I'd like to see that sometime," He purrs--oh god there's something wrong here, is he flirting?--yes, maybe he's flirting. He's been through hell and back, he's sore and tired and really, really hard, and he's been three weeks without an opportunity to sleep eight hours, let alone use a bed for any other purpose. And this guy - whatever his name is, doesn't matter - he's clean and handsome and, from the look of his package, equally interested ( ... )
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Anyway, bolting is about the last thing on Wesley's mind. Granted, there isn't much on his mind right about now, but that's a minor detail. He takes a half-second to lick his lips in subconscious response to the flirtation, and finds them curling upwards of their own volition into a slow grin. He'd gotten (relatively) accustomed to the mindfucking effects of the Hotel's aphrodisiacs, but it wasn't too terribly long ago that he'd have ( ... )
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"Good man," He said, setting the jacket down on a chair inside ($3000, that suit cost, okay), "C'mere and help me get these off, huh?"
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