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txemrn · 1 year

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Déjà Vu

Chapter 4

New? Check out the first THREE chapters HERE! (Go ahead; we'll be here. 😉)

Series Summary: After an unforgettable night with a stranger, Princess Eleanor finds herself caught in a secret love triangle between a noble and a commoner.

Chapter Summary: Drake heads to Club Core with Leo; he unexpectedly meets a young woman that reminds him of a past life.

Pairing(s): mention of Liam x Riley; Drake x Riley (former)

Word Count: ~4970

Warning: 🔞 Mature Audiences Only 🔞 language (tons; it's Drake); sexual references (crude); mention of excessive drinking; drug-use reference; brief violence

A/N: Welcome to my Crack Fic! If you are new, hi! Thank you for joining us! This story takes place approximately 2 decades after TRR/TRH. I have made some canonical changes (they will be mentioned). Although this is from my crazy mind, it takes a village! Huge thanks to my sweet writing buddies for helping me figure out various parts! Love y'all! Characters and some plots belong to our friends at Pixelberry! This was not Beta'd; please excuse my errors.

~🖤~

Drake

What the fuck was I thinking? I hate large crowds and eardrum-piercing music. I hate being around people who can't hold their liquor, not to mention I hate dancing. But even worse, I hate Leonardo Anselm Phineas Rys. Old thorn in my side. What in the actual fuck made me agree to hang out with blondie in the first place? At a club? On opening night?

Because you're lonely, and he offered free booze…

My twisted expression relaxes as I shrug my shoulders. Meh. I guess it could be worse.

"Okay, baby… I'll be home later… yes… I'll tell Liam you said, 'hello'..." Leo gives an obnoxious kissing sound before disconnecting his call with the touch of a button. He lets out a sigh, taking a hit of his vape pen. "Dahlia," he answers to the question I never asked. He glances at me, sucking in his bottom lip before giving me a slow flutter of a wink. "She's a bit clingy."

I nod, drumming my fingers against the leather interior, playing it cool like I care. "Is… she your–?"

"Friend."

Ah. Okay. 'Friend.' The term just glides off of his tongue. Nonchalant. Sweet and syrupy, almost as if he believes the bullshit he's feeding this poor girl that's waiting at home for him.

And she thinks what now? That he's coming over after an evening with his brother's family which, no doubt, she has never met. And judging by that brief interaction with goldie locks here, she doesn’t seem to have the intellectual capacity to wonder why she wasn't invited to the dinner in the first place.

Side-piece. Booty-call. Friend. It's all just semantics to douchebags like Leo Rys.

I fidget with the navy collar to the button-down shirt Leo loaned me. I could barely fit my broad shoulders into the lean cut of his tailored threads. The guy has a rock hard physique, but tough, manual labor creates a different kind of body. A strong one. Like mine.

The buttons pull slightly across my chest as I flash a glance in the car visor mirror. I look like a fucking tool. I'm not used to my stubble brushing up against starched cotton; I'm usually wearing a tee, my work denim and my steel-toes. I mean, unless I'm meeting with a client or going out to dinner where you have a waiter and utensils. But, other than that, I am a fish out of water: this shirt is uncomfortable. And I have a feeling this is just a prelude of what's to come.

At least Leo approved of my jeans and Tecovas. He tried throwing my trusty chambray shirt in the trash. "No one has worn this for at least twenty years… and they weren't even wearing it then."

Fuck off.

We pull up to this club, and I swear everyone in Cordonia has turned out for this spectacle. The moment Rys steps out of his 'I didn't want anything too flashy' red Ferrari, the paps were on him like white on rice. Flashes of light rain from every direction as reporters flood him with curious questions about his Gucci loafers and gray Brioni blazer.

Lucky for me, I'm a nobody, and the press quickly discovers that the moment I step out onto the red carpet. Dropping their cameras and microphones in disappointment, they instantly turn their attention elsewhere. I don't know if I should be grateful… or offended, to be honest. At least confuse me for Leo's new lover… bunch of dickwads.

I push past the commotion, combing my hair out of my eyes as I look around the red carpet. This place is pretty snazzy, but holy fuck, they didn't spare with any expenses. It’s like a fucking fortress: a tall, wrought iron fence encased with stone surrounds the perimeter. Armed security in black tie a la James Bond swarm the space.

Now, the entrance? This wasn't just any ol’ red carpet; oh, fuck no, that wouldn't do for such a prestigious guest list. Contortionists and acrobats on pedestals perform sultry poses and maneuvers, leaving the crowd bewildered and amazed.

Scantily clad women tend to the average Joe commoners waiting in line. They serve hors d'oeuvres and complimentary spirits, fooling them into thinking they're still important even though they're on the outskirts of the main event, and truth be told: they'll never get in.

Taking it all in, I suddenly feel a massive clap against my back before an arm hugs tightly around my neck.

"Ready, Walker?" Leo pops his gum in between his smarmy grin. "Let's get our dicks wet."

—

Fucking. A. I'm pretty sure I just entered the third level of hell.

"Hey-yo, Walker!"

Make that the fourth level…

I glance back at Rys who is now flocked with an entourage of, and I quote, ‘aspiring models,’ all with their fake tits falling out of their tops, their overly-injected blow-job lips, and lashes so thick, you can't tell if they're sleeping or having a stroke. He flashes those pearly whites as he dangles a small, gram-size plastic bag of white powder.

Now, I'm not against tokin' up or getting obliterated with alcohol, but cocaine isn't my style… not to mention, if we got caught–no doubt, Leo knows people that could bail us out, but if Liam and Riley were to hear about this? They'd kick me to the curb in an instant, especially with their kid around. They’d label me as a bad influence, and Liam would give me that fatherly disappointment glare.

"What do you think, Walker?" Leo nods with eager anticipation. "Wanna join… all of us?" He lets out a knowing laugh, winking at the women around him. They take his cue and begin to giggle, as if he was the funniest, most charming man they've ever met.

And my IQ just dropped two points.

"I think… I'm going to… " I notice a large bar area, quickly throwing a hitched thumb back at it. "...I'll check out the bar,"

"Suit yourself." The women practically swallow him whole with their arms. "Don't forget: give 'em my name. Drinks on me!"

The drove of venereal diseases buzzes off with their king, and a sense of relief washes over me. Would I rather be at home? Absolutely, but since I'm already here…

I make my way toward the crowded bar area, ducking between drunken cat fights and groping couples. Finding a stool, I plant my ass down, and despite how busy it is, the bartender tends to me quickly–probably because I'm a 45- year-old man alone in a club. Translation: I have money, I know what I want, and chances are, what I order doesn't require my rim being bedazzled with seasonings, flowers, or fruit.

"What can I get ya?"

Oh, shit, I haven't heard that distinct nasally Portavira accent in so long. My God…

"Um… Larceny. Neat."

"Double?"

My man… I nod as I watch him pull out the bottle and a clean tumbler.

"Do you have a tab started, sir?"

I reach for my wallet, but I abruptly stop, remembering Leo's words. 'Give 'em my name. Drinks on me!'

"I do. It's under Rys," I smirk, "and actually, do you have Macallan?"

The bartender stops, giving me a glance over when finally a Cheshire grin creeps across his face as if he just struck oil. "We sure do, Mr. Rys." He extends his hand to fist bump me before reaching to the top shelf for a new bottle of the liquid gold. Before I knew it, he's twirling the tumbler across the bar. "Enjoy, Mr. Rys."

Taking a sip, I give him a wink as a thank you as I bask in the much needed woodsy burn of clove on my tongue. Damn, that's tasty.

Feeling more relaxed, I glance out onto the dance floor as other club-goers get lost in the hypnotic buzz of the ethanol electrifying their veins. The tantric beat of the music and the flashing swirl of multicolored lights feeds the adrenaline and raging hormones as people grab and grope one another.

I am way too old for this scene.

I grab my glass to take another pull when out of the corner of my eye, I see a familiar face at the bar. Turning my head to get a better look, I suddenly swallow my whiskey down the wrong pipe, causing me to fall into a fit of coughs. Smooth, Walker, real smooth.

Blinking back the tears, I sniff into a napkin before looking back at the beautiful face. Shit. She's absolutely…wow. Gorgeous dark, silky waves, porcelain skin, that pouty mouth with those big, doe eyes… She's the spitting image of… Riley.

"Fuck," I growl at myself before rubbing the shit out of my eyes. No way, it can't be. I look up again, and instantly I can feel my jeans begin to tighten.

You're just wanting to see her. You're just wanting it to be her, especially with what happened back at the palace.

I down the rest of my drink before allowing my attention to be completely saturated by this girl.

It's not Riley. It's not…

See? Her nose appears more prominent from the side, and-and her neck. Her neck seems longer, slender. And her eyes. They're gorgeous and big… they aren't Riley's navy blues, but damn, that sparkle–

"Would you like another–?"

"Please," I grumble as I stare at this Riley look-alike. I just… can't tear my eyes away. Her presence feels so real, so intimate. Now, judging from this woman's creamy, velvet skin, she's young. Maybe early 20s. Way out of my league… but still that face. It's like looking into a past life, a life I once loved.

—

(Two decades ago…)

"Brooks," Drake whispers loudly, "come on!"

"Shhhh!" Riley presses a finger to her lips, stifling her giggles as she looks down from her palace window. "Are you trying to wake everyone up? You're going to get me into trouble."

"You are trouble, lady."

Riley looks back at the commoner, the glint of mischief in his eyes making her adrenaline pump faster through her veins. "Now are you sure about this?" She bites her lip, "you'll catch me if–"

"For the hundredth time, yes," Drake rolls his eyes, holding his arms out wide.

Since Drake's confession to Riley at Applewood, the two of them have been enjoying each other's company, especially after hours. They flirt with danger, sharing in kisses that they swear will never happen again for obvious reasons: she is there to pursue Liam and his hand in marriage; Drake is his best friend.

After watching Liam share a kiss with Riley, a dam of excruciating jealousy broke in Drake's heart. He already shared with Riley before that he was developing feelings for her, but now, it was… something else. Something more.

During dinner, the commoner passed her a note, asking her to meet him outside her window after midnight because they needed to talk.

Riley is staying in the guest quarters off the West Wing with the other suitors. She's only on the second floor, but still, a jump from that high could be dangerous. So, Drake helped the brunette construct a climbing rope with her top sheet.

"I've got ya. Just… ease yourself over."

Riley takes one step at a time, following Drake's directions; but when she gets close to the ground, she looks back at Drake, raising an eyebrow, then jumps.

"Whoa!" Drake stumbles as Riley crashes into his chest, his arms quickly cradling her close. "What the fuck are you doing?"

Riley giggles, combing her fingers through Drake's thick hair. "Sometimes a girl just wants to be caught."

Their eyes lock on one another, Drake's hand finding her cheek. He gently rubs his thumb across her soft skin, her eyes fluttering closed as she leans into his touch.

"Come with me," he whispers softly while grabbing her hand.

"Wait… I thought we were going to talk–"

"I want to show you something." Riley gives him a curious glare. "It's a surprise," he smirks, pulling her to follow him.

They walk silently, hand-in-hand across the grounds, playfully gazing back-and-forth at one another–that is, until all a sudden a bright flashlight skims over where they are walking.

"Who goes there?" A palace guard bellows.

"Brooks, take off your flip-flops," Drake commands under his breath, watching the guard in the distance.

"What? Why?"

"Just trust me," he squeezes her fingers.

Riley quickly kicks them off, holding them in her hands. "Okay… now what?"

Drake grabs her hand again, his grip tight. "Run!" Giving her a warning tug, they both take off across the wet lawn, Riley following Drake's lead.

"Where… are we… going?" She pants, laughter bubbling from her chest.

"You'll see," Drake chuckles, "but we have to lose Barney Fife first!"

Dodging the glow of the searching lights, Drake and Riley finally make it to a large wall of greenery. Finding an entry, they pass through the walkway and hide behind the vines and leaves.

Drake looks to see if they finally lost the guards, but Riley takes a moment to look around the thicket they just entered.

"Whoa," her eyes widen as she looks at the well-manicured covert. "Where… where are we?"

"It's… a maze. A hedge maze that we used to play in as kids."

"Are you serious?" She meanders down a corridor, looking around a corner. "It's so dark. Did you ever get lost?"

Drake chuckles, reaching into his pocket. "Plenty of times." He saunters closer to Riley, pulling out a flashlight and handing it to her. The air crackles around them as the charm of the blue moon ignites the twinkle in their eyes. Drake lowers his voice into a deep gravel. "Come get lost with me, Riley Brooks."

With that, he smiles and takes off jogging, Riley staying close behind. "Hey, not so fast Drake." She turns a corner and notices his denim shirt discarded on the grass. "You lost your shirt."

"Did I now?" He snickers. "Can you bring it to me?"

Riley scoffs into a giggle as she continues through the maze at the sound of his voice. "Maybe if you'd stop running away–"

"Maybe if you weren't so slow–"

"Hey!" Riley chides, "I just jumped out of a window–" she falls silent as finds Drake's belt tossed on the ground. She collects it in her hand, biting her bottom lip. "Drake?"

"You're getting warm," he teases. Riley stumbles through another corner, turning left, then right. The sounds of her toes in the grass compliment her heavy breathing as she stops again to the cooing of his voice. "Warmer, Brooks."

She continues until suddenly, she notices a warm glow just up ahead. Her steps quicken until finally she reaches a small clearing in the maze that opens to a stunning backdrop of the star-filled sky. Gas-lit sconces illuminate the garden, revealing tapestries of vines and flowers fixed to wooden lattice work amongst the bushes.

"Wow," Riley gasps, her eyes glowing with the wonder all around her. "This is beautiful." She feels Drake's warm touch on her hand, their fingers lacing together.

"Cmon," he tugs on her, "I want to show you something."

"There's more?" She giggles, following his lead. They walk a short, pebbled path until they are standing in front of a large gray-stoned well. Riley presses her fingertips to the cold marbled edges before looking down into the dark abyss. Her eyes shift to Drake, "Is this where you murder me?" He chuckles, shaking his head as she turns back to the well opening. "Hello!" She shouts, the echoes welcoming each other back and forth.

"I'll be honest, Brooks." Riley looks back at Drake. "I'm kinda shocked Liam hasn't already brought you here. It's one of his favorite places to show off in the entire estate."

"Oh," Riley's eyebrows knit together with a pained expression.

"Hey," Drake nudges her playfully. "What's with the long face?"

Riley snickers into a scoff before finally succumbing to tears. "I'm just exhausted," she pulls her hands to her face.

"Brooks," he pulls her into his comforting arms.

"This social season bullshit is just … it's really screwing with my head," she sniffles. "I've never been more insecure in all my life, and what for?" She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, clearing her throat. "I wish I knew where I stood. I wish the competition was over. I wish–"

Drake reaches into his pocket, pulling out a couple of worn copper coins. He offers them to a confused Riley.

"Pennies?" She sniffles.

"Yeah," he chuckles, "I forgot to get rid of them when we were in New York. They're worthless here. No conversion."

Riley's lips begin to curl. "Then why keep them?"

Drake starts inspecting the coins in his hand, allowing them to softly clang together in his palm. "I read a book once–"

"--picture books don't count as reading."

"Ha. Ha." He smirks, feigning annoyance as he starts to jingle the coins in his hand. "I read that in ancient civilizations, finding random metals was a sign or a blessing from the gods."

"You see them everywhere back home. The streets, sidewalks," she snickers, "a whole cent. How generous of the gods."

"What? A penny isn't enough for you?" Drake playfully growls, slowly leaning closer to Riley. She coyly bats her lashes, a soft titter in her throat. "Here." He puts a coin in her hand.

"What's this for?" Riley studies the trinket.

"For something bigger, citizens would offer the metal back to the gods, like a payment. So they would say a silent prayer, then toss it–"

"--into a well," Riley softly finishes.

Drake nods over his shoulder to the stoned well. "Let's make your wishes count."

One by one, Drake and Riley silently take pennies, casting them into the well with unspoken hopes and dreams until every last coin was gone. Feeling his close proximity, Riley stares up into his dark eyes, getting lost into a charming stillness.

"What did you wish for?" She whispers.

Drake slowly shakes his head. "Nothing."

"Nothing?"

He offers a crooked grin. Combing his fingers into Riley's dark, espresso waves, his hand gently grips the back of her neck, pulling her closer. "All my wishes have already come true, Brooks." He closes the space between them, their lips grazing one another. The feather-light touch instantly ignites a hunger, one they both feel and crave. Drake pulls back, chuckling under his breath as he fidgets with the hem of Riley's shirt. "So... why didn't you take off any clothes?"

Riley bites her bottom lip. "Maybe... because... I wanted my wish to come true." She pauses, her fingers tucking into the front pocket of Drake's jeans, pulling his hips flush against hers.

He swallows thickly. "Which is?"

"Take them off for me, Walker."

—

(Present)

Damnit. I adjust myself in my jeans, but my cock always hardens at the memory of Riley and me that night. We fucked. A lot. But that night, our first night together, it was more than just sex. We made love.

I take a swig of my new drink that the bartender must've dropped off while I was taking a stroll down the boulevard of broken dreams when my eyes dart to my Riley look-alike.

And I feel my dick shrink.

She's with someone, some blond tool, probably named Chad, with a tool haircut that shops at Tools-R-Us with a matching trust fund.

I sigh to myself, polishing the rest of my drink before staring at my empty glass.

He is pretty hot; I don't blame her.

I glance at them one more time, kissing my own dirty fantasy away when I notice something odd. His hand is sternly gripped around her wrist, staring at her like she's his next meal.

But her face tells a different story. She seems to be struggling, trying to tear her arm away from him. Those big, doe eyes are panicked, large as table saucers as she frantically looks for help.

I sigh. Goddamnit...

I wipe a napkin across my mouth as I stand, my glare fixed on this commotion transpiring before me. I shrug my shoulders, loosening the tight fabric off my back as I stretch my muscles. Just in case.

I hurry my way through the dense crowd of patrons gathered around the bar. I flex my fingers, bending my wrist as I get closer.

Ah, shit. This is the part I'm bad at. What do I say first? 'Stop that!' No, that's lame. I need something clever, like maybe, 'Is there a problem here?' How about–

My clenched fist meets his jaw, knocking the asshole in one swing into a bartop table before he crashes down onto the floor. He's so disoriented; he's trying to get up, but he keeps slipping on shards of glass, falling back into the pathetic rumple he calls his life.

Fuck. My hand. I know it will hurt like a bitch in a few minutes when my body depletes of adrenaline, but for right now, I'm basking in the moment.

A smirk grows on my mouth, but it doesn't last for long. The young woman. I turn to the Riley look-alike, her terrified stare already fixed on me. Instinctively, I carefully put my hand on her shoulder. She's shaking.

"Excuse me, miss. Are you alright?"

Ho.ly. Fuuuuuuck.

Brooks? Seeing her up close is almost painful; I can feel my balls beginning to ache. This woman is hauntingly stunning: the subtle freckles on her nose, the curve of the bow to her top lip, even the flounce of her long, flirty eyelashes. She's beautiful; she's… like somebody I used to know…

The young woman shyly nods, but she's trembling. She's clearly not alright.

And I suddenly possess this overwhelming need to take her in my arms, hold her tight and let her know she's safe.

Calm down, Walker.

"Let's get you away from this." I look up, noticing an open lounge-type area near the dance floor with large, plush couches. Offering my arm, she holds on tightly as we escape through the debris of the nightmare that just happened. Placing a reassuring hand on her back, I encourage her to sit.

I, on the other hand, keep an eye on douche canoe who is being helped up by security and his friends. But, I don't think he'll be a problem for us anymore tonight. He never got a good look at me, and even if he had, something tells me his ego would keep him away from telling the truth of who made him taste his own blood.

Turning towards the young woman, I notice she is anxiously looking around, her body on edge. I tilt myself to her ear, shouting over the blaring music, "Are you here with anyone?"

She nods, "B-but it's okay," she yells back, waving her hands. "I'm fine."

"Are you sure?"

She fakes a smile, and my God, it knocks me back. Stunning.

Focus on her words, Walker...

"I don't exactly want to…"

I don't quite understand the rest of her statement, her words lost in the heavy beat of the music. I give her an inquisitive look, causing her to careen towards my ear, her hand brushing across my shoulder.

And my cock twitches. Breathe, buddy…

"I said… I don't want to interrupt their fun." She motions aimlessly to the dance floor. Got it.

"Can I call someone for you? Family perhaps?"

Her eyes widen. "What? No, no."

She grins, but it's clearly hiding her true feelings. Which is fine. I'm a complete stranger. Shit, she probably thinks I'm some creepy old man, hitting on her at the bar. And sure, maybe on a night where she wasn't assaulted, maybe I would've bought her a drink, asked for her number.

But the fact of the matter is this: I really don't feel comfortable leaving this girl alone. She just got into a physical altercation with… whoever that guy was. Her boyfriend? Oh shit, husband? I look at her hand; I don't see a ring, but that doesn't mean anything. You never know these days. Still, she doesn't need to be by herself right now. She really doesn't need to be here, but again, who am I but another creep at the bar.

I run my fingers through my hair. Oh, what the hell. "Do you mind if I sit with you?"

A hint of fear crosses her expression as she looks me over.

I hold up my hands in defense before leaning over her shoulder. "I don't feel comfortable leaving you alone in a place like this," I shout, "especially with what happened with your boyfriend."

She takes a deep breath. She flashes those big, brown eyes at me before finally nodding in agreement.

And my heart melts.

I offer my hand. "Drake."

The corners of her lips curl as she takes my hand, leaning towards my ear. "Jake?" She yells.

I shake my head, facing her ear more directly. "Drake!" I holler over the deep thrumming of the bass.

She raises an eyebrow. "Jake?"

Eh, close enough. I smile in agreement.

"I'm Nora," she smiles, already more relaxed.

"Nora?" I repeat, ensuring I heard her correctly. At least one of us should be called by our real names this evening.

She nods innocently, a beautiful rosy pink painting her cheeks. "Oh, and, um… he's not my boyfriend." A piece of her hair falls like liquid silk into her eyes as she looks down at her lap. She quickly shoos the wisp away, chasing it behind her ear before looking back at me, trying to figure out my angle. Am I here to hurt her? Flirt with her? Invite her home for a messy, drunken fuck?

Don't worry, sweetie, you're safe with me.

"American?"

She catches me off guard with that one. "Uh, yeah. How did you–?"

She points to her mouth, her lips perfectly rounded and plump, painted a deep crimson. Oh, duh. My watered-down accent. Toto, we're not in Texas anymore. It's hard to believe that at one point in my life, I actually sounded like these people. Every once in a while, the Cordonian beast pounces, but these days, I sound like the typical American mutt.

"Are you on vacation?" Nora asks.

I smirk, shaking my head. "I… moved here for work."

"To Cordonia?" She snickers. "Of all places?"

"Fair," I chuckle under my breath as I feel the heat rise up my neck. "I… grew up here, so I have… connections, friends and family. It makes for an easy transition. How about you?"

Her eyes brighten, like a pageant contestant being asked about world peace. "Cordonian. Born and raised."

"That's unfortunate," I joke. Sorta.

"Hey," she giggles, scrunching up her nose playfully. She swats the back of her hand against my shoulder. The touch sends a shockwave of familiarity, robbing me of my breath. "I love Cordonia–"

"Spoken like a true Cordonian."

"And… what's wrong with that?"

Drake guffaws. "What isn't wrong with that?"

"Your tone is suggesting that there's something wrong with having pride in your country–"

"It's egotistical–"

"The only thing egotistical is thinking that your opinion about Cordonia is the only opinion to be had." She furrows her brows. "If you hate it so much, why did you come back?"

Shit. She's feisty. And this conversation has gone completely off the rails. I can't tell if she's really pissed… or if I'm just really turned on and wanting a sparring match.

Fuck. You just had to be a jackass…

"Okay, truth?" I offer, even though I'm sure she wants to toss a drink in my face at this point.

She turns to face me, tucking her leg underneath her. "Please."

"I had a rough time fitting in here. Except for my best friend. He's–" I grin thinking about Liam and I, growing up together, how perfect and inseparable we were. "--as Cordonian as you can get. Well, except… I mean, his mom… nevermind," I shake my head. "He's the nicest person I've ever met in my life. I needed some help after a bad business deal, and… he was there and… now I'm here."

"Huh." She sits back, crossing her arms as she takes me in. She raises an eyebrow, the corner of her lips curling. She's clearly unsure of me, and I don't blame her.

"Drinks?" A cocktail waitress dressed in a skimpy, leather skirt interrupts us.

Rubbing the back of my neck nervously, I turn to Nora. I have a feeling that this might be the end of the night for us, especially if I don't offer her a cocktail.

I stare at the sparkling flecks of bronze in her eyes. There's something about this girl, more than just the memories she stirs up in me. I can't explain it… shit, then again, maybe I'm fooling myself, wanting something to be there that never was. Still… I clear my throat… you never know unless you try.

"Would… you like one? A drink?"

She narrows her eyes in thought… and fucking hell, she's so goddamn beautiful. Like Riley incarnate. The mannerisms, some of her expressions. Watching her literally robs me of speech and air, and I am dying to spend more time with her. Hell, who knows where the night will take us.

I really hope she agrees to this drink. I can tell I haven't exactly won her over in the past twenty minutes, but if she would just agree to one more drink, just a few more minutes with me, maybe history could repeat itself. Maybe I could experience the woman of my dreams in a different way. Now, I could never tell Nora this; she could never find out. I mean, I am attracted to her, it's just…

"Sure," Nora interrupts my thoughts, her lips curling. "I'll take a drink."

~🖤~

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total-drama-takes-takes-2 · 10 months

Text

tti episode 17

“Last time on Total Takes Island: the campers competed in a friendly game of hide-and-seek- with Chef. Courtney finally stood up for themselves and reconciled with Bonnie right before getting voted off via Ass’ ever-growing web of alliances. Michael impressed the rest of the team with her hiding spot, gaining Patrick’s allyship, and Julia tailed Scary after witnessing something… peculiar. Will Bonnie cope with losing another friend on the island? Will Staci ever live up to her kin dreams or will she die trying? Find out now, on Total! Takes! Island!”

It’s early in the morning- not even light out yet. Against the gentle breaths and hums and snores of the girls and such, Scary’s eyes snap open.

She looks from side to side, monitoring the breathing of the campers before slipping out of bed and melting into the shadows, disappearing outside the cabin without making a sound. Within the cabin, one of Julia’s eyes open and she smiles, pushing off the covers to reveal she’s fully dressed, holding a proper notepad in one hand and pen in the other.

She hops out of bed, landing with a thud that luckily doesn’t wake anyone, and follows Scary outside, tracking their trail far into the woods.

After what feels like half an hour of hiking in the dark, Julia spots Scary by the rock formation she’d found them last challenge. They flip up a secret cover over a keypad, typing in a sequence of numbers just for the rocky wall to slide down in a series of mechanical whirs. Julia squints as they do, taking note of which numbers she pressed before creeping over as they door closes again.

She waits for a few moments and then types in the sequence. The door slides open and she walks into the dark tunnel, which is, to her relative surprise- tiled and air-conditioned.

Julia attempts to make no noise as she travels down the long hallway, spotting the illuminated outline of a door with a window in the distance. She creeps up to it, pressing her ear against the smooth surface.

“There’s not really any evidence, yet, I’ve found nothing,” Scary’s garbled voice says. Julia listens in closer.

Chris follows: “You’ve been here for weeks! We didn’t hire you to have fun with the other teens and win challenges, you’re here to figure out what’s going on!”

“And I’m trying, but there’s just nothing that indicates anything left on the island! The animal and plant specimens are mutated, no doubt, but there’s no traces of seriously damaged strands of DNA, and my Geiger counter has gotten nothing anywhere on the island,”

There’s a brief pause. Julia’s trying to take notes on whatever’s happening the best she can without moving from her place against the door and without making any noise.

“If it’s not leftover radiation, then what is it?”

“That’s what I’m asking,” there’s another pause. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“...Olivia, you and I both know that there’s nothing that Chef and I haven’t told you,”

“I’m not so sure if I believe that anymore,”

“Well, you should. You’re not the only international science prodigy who applied for this job- we could have you gone and replaced by an actual adult in seconds! No more disguises, no more cool conspiracies, and no more carrying you through challenges!”

“Do it, then. I’ll tell everyone,”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

Julia drops her pen, and both fall completely silent at the echoing sound of it hitting the floor. She covers her mouth and presses her back against the wall as two sets of footprints approach. The door swings open, luckily right over Julia, obscuring her, and Chris walks out. He scans the hall, and on seeing no one, rolls his eyes.

“I thought we took care of the squirrel problem. Whatever! I’m missing out on my beauty sleep,” he says, walking away. Scary follows, though from what Julia can see, it’s not exactly… Scary. They’re wearing a labcoat, thick gloves and safety goggles. Their hair is somehow longer now, and more of a ginger than a purple and red. And they’re making normal human expressions.

They disappear around the corner and Julia hears the sound of the large door opening. She waits a few moments, and then follows.

---

Much later in the morning, the sun is risen, and most of the remaining competitors are still awake. Ass is waiting outside the communal showers, casually filing their nails as Julia approaches. “We need to talk,”

“About?”

Julia looks around to make sure no one can hear- the only other people are the two showerers, who can’t listen in over the sound of the water anyway- and then lowers her voice to a whisper.

“Scary isn’t who she says she is,”

Ass scoffs. “Okay? She’s a poser, everyone knows that,”

“No, I mean, I overheard her and Chris this morning. She’s a science prodigy from out of the country, her name is really Olivia, and she’s a ginger!”

Ass gives Julia a look. “Very funny. If you wanted to pull a prank on me, you could’ve at least made it believable- and when exactly were you up sneaking around without me?”

“This morning- I had to do it on my own- and I’m telling the truth!”

“Yeah, sure. Just no more snooping around without me,” they pause to link their arm with Julia’s. “We’re friends, remember?”

---

JULIA: “I’m... not sure if I like where this alliance is going. They’re so… condescending and sarcastic and fake,” she pauses for a moment. “...Is that how I treated Michael?”

---

“Campers, meet me outside the arts and crafts center in ten for your next challenge!”

The intercom clicks off just as Chris yawns, making Julia narrow her eyes at the speakers.

---

“Welcome to the arts and crafts center!” Chris grins, opening the door of an old, crappy tool shed. “Your challenge today is to build your very own tricked-out set of wheels! All the parts are here, in our bike depot!” he gestures to a pile of scrap parts beside the shed. “Best design wins! I’ll see you all in two hours!”

Ass pulls Julia close to them and frowns at Bonnie, who’s been glaring daggers in their direction every second they’ve been near each other. Julia is too busy scanning the campers, looking for Scary, who’s nowhere to be seen.

“Awesome, I’ve always wanted my own bike!” McLovin says, jogging over to the pile of scrap metal. “My mom never let me have one, she was afraid my skinny body wouldn’t be able to hold any weight down and I’d get blown away.”

Patrick rolls his eyes. Staci giggles.

---

Michael sits on a boulder nearby, wrenching a green mountain bike together. A bead of sweat trickles down her face as Patrick sits next to her, elbows on his knees and face cupped in his palms. “Hey,”

Michael gives him a confused stare. “Um. Hi?”

“You know, I’ve been thinking,” Patrick says. “You’re probably the strongest player left, right? So, we should team.”

“Um… really?” she blinks, looking at the remaining campers. Ass is making Julia build both of their bikes, Staci is complaining about getting a splinter while they look for parts, Max is following the torn-up manual Chris provided, McLovin is trying to figure out what a pedal is, and Scary has been missing all morning… again. “Me?”

“You. Say this- alliance until the final three, or until whichever one of us gets eliminated first,” Patrick says, wrapping his arm around Michael’s shoulder.

“Well, um…”

“Oh, no, no. You stay away from her!” Max shouts from across the clearing. He drops his bike for a moment and jogs over, pulling Patrick off with surprising ease. He grumbles something indistinct and stands up, brushing off his suit before drifting back to the shed.

Max puts his hands on his hips and stares at Michael before walking off. “You are not this gullible,”

Michael rolls her eyes. “Jeez, thanks,”

“What’s this?” McLovin asks, holding up a bike chain.

“That’s the, uh, bike chain thingy,” Staci says. “It makes the wheels turn like that big metal thingy on a train’s wheels.”

“Ohhh, I get it,” he says. “Thanks, Staci, you’re really smart! Which one of your relatives taught you that?”

She opens her mouth for a moment, then pauses. “Um… none of them. I taught myself that,” she pauses to walk over and sit by McLovin, helping him assemble his parts. “I was really into engineering when I was younger, believe it or not.”

“Wow. Was the original Staci an engineer?”

“No, this is… just a me thing, I guess,”

---

STACI: “I guess I... kinda forgot a lot about my extra interests during the competition,”

---

Staci holds up two bike skeletons- one is thin and pink, the other is thick and plain metal. They sigh, choosing the metal one. “Winning over kinning. Winning over kinning,” they mumble to themselves as they put together their bike.

“Campers, time to judge your bikes! Line up outside the craft center pronto!”

---

“Let’s see… Staci!” Chris studies their bike- it’s a thick, metallic and black bike with huge wheels and spiked sides. “Surprisingly hardcore. I like it!”

He walks over to McLovin’s- hastily put together, and on the verge of falling apart. “I guess it works,”

“Sleek. Smooth. Efficient. I like it,” Chris announces, looking at Max’s. He turns to Michael. “And a mountain bike- very useful!”

“Bonnie! Um- okay,” he squints at the black, purple and silver skull-adorned bike. “I guess it’s fun.”

“Patrick- this is not a bike, man!” Chris shouts, staring in perplexed amusement at the unicycle Patrick is holding up.

He grumbles. “I couldn't figure out the chain,”

“You know what? I’ll allow it!” he chuckles before walking over to the two bikes. “Julia and Ass- these look… um, functional!” Chris smiles while staring at the two duct-taped together wooden bikes. “Hopefully.”

He steps over to the final bike- a tricked-out purple and red striped vehicle, practically brand new. “Scary, nice work!”

“Um- where did she come from?” Ass says. “And I didn’t see any of those parts in the pile!”

Julia leans in and whispers. “See, I told you,”

Ass frowns, and rolls their eyes.

“Now we get to the fun part- we’re gonna race these things!” Chris beams. Ass and Julia suddenly look nervous.

---

ASS: “Okay, I admit, I should’ve done my own. But I thought this was just for the aesthetics, not for actual racing! If I fail, Julia is so done!”

---

“Here’s the catch: you’ll be switching bikes with your fellow campers! Usually, I’d do the selection process randomly, but I’m going to let you choose your bike this time!” he chuckles. “So, get to it! First come, first serve!”

The campers look at each other cautiously. Ass scans the bikes, makes their selection, and then smiles. “I’ll take-”

“I’ll take Max’s,” Michael cuts in as soon as she notices their gaze. Max blinks.

Ass grumbles. “Okay, fine, then I want-”

“Staci!” Bonnie says. “I love the design, anyway.”

“OMG, really?” Staci squeals. Bonnie nods in approval.

“Okay, fine! I’ll take-”

Patrick walks over and nabs Scary’s- Scary somersaults over to Bonnie’s- and Bonnie is already sitting on Staci’s hardcore bike.

“Oh, I’ll take yours, McLovin! I helped build it anyway, so it’s half mine,” Staci says. “You should get a good one before Ass does… how about Michaels?”

“No. Way!” McLovin says, staring Michael down as she gears up across the clearing. “No way in a million years!”

“Well, you better hurry, ‘cause it’s either that or those ones,” Staci points to Julia’s and Ass’ rickety wooden bicycles. McLovin sighs.

Max gets stuck with Julia’s bike (which, admittedly, has a lot more care put into it) and Julia takes Ass’.

Ass stares at Max. “You’re willingly riding that thing?”

“It’s either that or…” he points to the remaining unicycle. Ass groans, kicking a rock across the grass before walking over to the one-wheeled wonder and propping it up.

“If you cross the finish line in this round, you’ll be safe to ride in the invincibility race,” Chris says as each camper lines up their chosen bike. “Okay, racers- ready- set- go!”

The bikes start off, rolling down the sandy trail- all seem to be working relatively well, much to everyone’s surprise. Scary pedals the fastest, panting heavily with a huge grin. Julia catches up to them, staring at them intently. Eventually, she yells: “I know what you are! You may be fooling everyone, but not me! I heard everything!”

“Silly, silly!” Scary shouts back before speeding up, leaving Julia in the dust.

Ass wobbles the furthest down the track, falling off the unicycle every few seconds. They spit out another mouthful of sand as they board the vehicle again and slowly catch up to McLovin, who’s having trouble staying upright, too.

“First time?” Ass asks, pedaling by.

“Y-yeah. Yours?”

“Yeah, but I’m a fast learner!”

Scary crosses the finish line first, Max and Michael both in close pursuit. Their bikes are nearly touching as they move down the track, every so once in a while swerving and bumping into each other. “Stop doing that!” Michael yells.

“You stop it!”

“What the hell is your problem!”

“You!” Max says, suddenly losing control of Julia’s poorly-made bike and crashing into Michael. They both roll off to the side.

Michael sits up and groans. “You’re acting like a jerk,”

“You’re acting like a-”

“Enough! What did I even do to you!”

Max glares, crossing his arms defensively. “You know exactly what you did,”

“No, actually, I don't,” Michael says, crossing her arms. “And I’d be very grateful if you’d clue me in on that, cause I still don’t understand why we hate each other!”

“I heard what you said! About using me to get ahead in the competition! I’m not an idiot, you know!”

Michael pauses for a moment, looking confused. “I never said that. I thought you were using me to get ahead,”

“Where on earth did you hear that?”

“Julia- oh, shit,” she says, smacking her forehead. “We got played!”

Max’s expression drops. “God. Maybe I am an idiot,”

Michael rises to her feet, brushing the sand off of her. She offers a hand to Max, and he hesitantly accepts it. “I would never use you like that, for the record,”

“Yeah, I… I guess I always kinda never believed you would. You are a little too gullible to come up with something like that- but Julia…”

“Julia,” Michael sighs. “I shouldn’t have believed her, either. Friends?”

He smiles. “Friends,”

The two smile at each other for a moment, hands still in each other’s until Julia whizzes by on her bike. Then, Michael gets a determined look on her face. “Let’s win this thing,”

The two board their bikes again and pedal up to Julia, who’s rapidly approaching the finish line. “Give me your hand!” Michael shouts. Max blushes slightly and takes Michael’s hand in his. “What’s the plan?”

“I’m gonna whip it!”

“What?!”

“Hold on!” she yells, her hold tightening on Max’s hand as she speeds up ahead of him for a split second before pulling him forward and launching his bike ahead of Julia and straight onto the finish line. Julia stares in shock, giving Michael the leeway to make third place, her former friend not far behind.

Ass is next, Bonnie, Patrick, and Staci following behind as Michael helps Max up from the sand. McLovin comes in dead last, crashing into Max's bike as soon as he's able to sit on his own for more than five seconds.

“Looks like everyone will be competing in the invincibility challenge!” Chris announces. “You’ll get a ten minute break before the next leg begins.”

Ass tosses the unicycle to the side, huffing. They grab Julia, dragging her to a secluded area of the beach and glaring. “Okay, so, that sucked, and I’m gonna need you to start pulling your weight around here if we’re ever gonna win,”

Julia rolls her eyes. “You mean if you’re ever gonna win,”

Ass narrows their eyes at her. “Watch it,” and with that, they storm off, leaving her behind.

Nearby, Julia catches Scary slinking away from where Patrick and Bonnie are sitting, hiding behind a boulder. They pull a small device from their hoodie. It emits a few beeps, and they squint intently at the screen.

"Hey," Julia says, suddenly standing over them.

The device vanishes into their hoodie again and they smile, almost nervously. "You-!"

"Cut it out," she says, pointing an accusing finger at Scary. "I know you know something. And once we're done here, you're going to tell me exactly what's going on."

Scary's face drops. "Julia, listen, I-" they pause for a few seconds, stammering before getting back into character, giggling and cartwheeling away.

Back on the main track, where most of the campers are resting, Staci comforts a dejected McLovin, attempting to give him a bike riding lesson before the next leg- Patrick glares at Max, who glares right back before turning to Michael, who’s attempting to fix Max’s bicycle for him after McLovin crashed into it.

He sits next to her on the sand. “Where’d you learn to do that thing?”

“What thing?” she asks absent-mindedly, attempting to reconnect the flimsy chain to the wheels.

“That… you know, the thing?” Max says, vaguely gesturing to recreate the move she did.

“Oh, the whip? It’s a roller derby move. Usually requires two people, but I figured you’d be light enough,”

Max blinks. “You do roller derby?”

“Um… sometimes. I mostly just watch, though. McLovin and Joner think it’s a girly thing, so I usually go alone,” Michael explains, sighing as the bike loses a few more parts every time she attaches one. “I pick some stuff up.”

“Well, if it’s any consolation, I don’t think it being girly is necessarily a bad thing,” Max says. “I could never do that, anyway- sports aren’t my forte.”

Michael laughs a little. “Yeah, I think you’ve mentioned,”

“Alright, campers! Line up and get ready for the final leg of the challenge!” Chris says. “This time, you’ll be using your own bikes!”

“Oh, shoot,” Michael says, looking at Max’s still-slightly crushed bike. “I don’t think I’ll be able to figure this out in time.”

“It’s okay, I can do it,” Max says, taking the bike from Michael. It immediately falls apart. He sighs.

Staci walks over, smiling. “I don’t want to bother, but, maybe I can help?”

---

“Alright, here’s the deal!” Chris announces to the lined-up campers. “You’re going to be dodging landmines, maneuvering over oil, and jumping piranhas! First camper to cross wins invincibility, and the last one gets voted off the island immediately! That means no campfire, no voting, no marshmallows- you're out!”

The campers stare at each other nervously. Julia frowns as Ass smiles wickedly.

“Ready, campers? Set- go!”

The racers start off the landmine trail, all narrowly dodging the mines. Patrick lags behind, wobbling pathetically on his unicycle, far from the rest of the competition. Bonnie passes through the oil slick, forcing their bike to stay straight and steady with a firm grip on the handles.

---

BONNIE: “I’ve already lost two friends, and from the looks of the remaining competition, I don’t have my hopes up for making any others. But… if there’s anything Caesar and Courtney taught me, it’s that giving up isn’t an option, no matter what. Plus- when I win this thing, I’ll have a million dollars and two friends waiting for me!”

---

Bonnie speeds up, passing Julia and Ass, who’s bikes have been connected by a spare chain to create a four-wheeled vehicle of terror. They run over McLovin and just narrowly miss Michael during the oil slick portion.

Staci and Max aren’t far behind- he clings to them as they pedal faster than anyone, looking confidently ahead.

“You need to slow down!” Max yells.

“WHAT?!” She shouts back.

“The oil! You need to-”

Staci’s bike veers into the oil slick and gets thrown off course, both of them landing in the water.

Scary pedals just ahead of Patrick, though it seems as if there are twice as many landmines they just narrowly manage to avoid, and the oil slick is twice as thick for them. They press a hidden earpiece under their hair. “Chris, what’s going on?!”

“Sorry, Olivia! We were just reviewing the footage and you got found out! You’re not safe here anymore,” the speaker crackles off and the earpiece dies as another landmine goes off.

Patrick, wobbling on his unicycle, finally reaches the first section of the race, and immediately gets blown into orbit- though, somehow, he miraculously lands just beyond the finish line.

“And we have our winner!” Chris says, walking over to Patrick’s sooty body as he lays face-down in the sand. “Patrick wins immunity! Oh, and here’s Bonnie-”

Bonnie rolls up, groaning and rolling their eyes as they see Patrick and Patrick’s charred unicycle already beyond the finish line. Ass and Julia have similar reactions as their monster bike rolls up, followed shortly by McLovin and Michael.

“Where’s Max?” Michael asks, shielding their eyes as they look around the beach.

McLovin chimes in “And Staci?”

“Technically, they never crossed the finish line at all, so they’re safe- which makes Michael the last to cross the line,”

Michael’s face drops, though just as she’s about to say something, Scary’s bike rolls in and immediately falls apart just beyond the line. They cough weakly and collapse, their purple and red wig singed.

“...Except for Scary, who will be going home tonight!”

Chef walks over, hoisting Scary over his shoulder and walking away. Her wig falls on the ground as they walk off.

"Wait-" they say. "Julia-"

Chef disappears with Scary beyond the beach, and Julia steps over to pick it the fallen wig, showing it to Ass, who rolls their eyes.

---

Patrick sits in a makeshift cast at the mess hall table (now only one) and weakly coughs as Bonnie attempts to feed him the slop Chef made for dinner. Staci and McLovin are on their seventy-fourth round of rock paper scissors that night, which Ass is blocking out with their earbuds and audiobook. Julia watches them carefully, a cautious expression on their face.

Max and Michael are far from the depressing dinner tonight, though, sitting on the steps of the former Anon’s cabin together.

“She really said that to you? And you did nothing about it?” Max asks, face cupped in his hands.

“Yeah- well, I mean, I didn’t want to burn any bridges,” Michael pauses to sigh. “And look how that turned out. I come to this island with my only goal to make new friends, and now half of the cast hates me.”

“But that’s your problem. You’re so concerned about being liked. Who cares? These people don’t deserve you, and you definitely don’t need their approval. Being alone is way better than being surrounded by people who treat you like crap,"

Michael shakes her head. “I don’t think I’ll ever understand that,”

“You will. I can teach you, if you’d like,” he grins. “I have a lot of experience in being hated.”

She smiles and playfully shoves him. “I’m just glad Julia’s done messing with us,”

“Yeah, she’s a real piece of work. So… what about McLovin?”

Michael pales. “What about him?”

“You two are supposed to be friends, right? What’s with all the glaring and shouting?”

She sighs, putting her head in her hands for a moment. “You wouldn’t understand,”

“Try me,” he says. “I promise I won’t be weird about it… whatever it is.”

“Well…” she looks up, eyes heavy. “Some time after he joined me and Joner, we… kinda-maybe went out for a little.”

Max gives her a look. “You dated that guy?” he looks to the mess hall, and then back to Michael. “That guy?”

“You don’t have to rub it in, I know! He just seemed so simple, I thought it’d be different from all the jerks I dated in the past. But it was worse,” she sighs. “It’s not that he did anything wrong, it’s just that- well, he never did anything wrong. Cause that’s the thing about guys who are actually nice- nothing is ever their fault. And everyone likes McLovin, so I was completely alone- everything was my fault. I guess I didn’t really handle the breakup very maturely, either. We’re civil for Joner, cause he hates seeing us fight, but we’re not friends. Not in my eyes, at least.”

Max bites the inside of his cheek. “...I’m so sorry, I still can’t get over it. That guy? You- you- dated that guy?”

“Yes, okay! And it’s totally embarrassing!” Michael says, rolling her eyes. “And that jerkwad totally made everyone from my hometown hate my guts because he’s so perfect and can’t do anything wrong because he’s nice to everyone and I was never a priority for him while we were dating because he was basically everyone’s boyfriend, not just mine! So I went through a year of high school feeling like a jerk for wishing he’d care about me, and then I dumped him and it totally crushed him and everyone treats me like I'm terrible for it!”

“It’s okay! I believe you!” Max says. “I swear, I’m only judging your taste a little. A lot, actually. But I’m going to assume there’s not a lot of people where you come from, so the options are limited?”

“Small town,” Michael nods. “And everyone in that town still calls me Michael or- ugh, Mikey- cause that dweeb refuses to use any names I actually like. It’s like the world revolves around him or something!”

“Ew,” Max says. “That sounds like crap. If it means anything, I don’t think you’re terrible. I would know, I am,”

Michael smiles and shoves him lightly. “You’re giving yourself way too much credit. You’re not that much of a jerk. Not to me, anyway,”

He smiles softly at her, and scoots a bit closer, both falling silent to listen to Ass and Patrick scream at each other over who used the last of the ketchup.

#tti #total takes island

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lilyrizzy · 2 years

Note

Loved that Girl Daniel fic you posted, any chance we get more of that?

come play (incase i need to warn about that)

“Why are you not wearing any underwear?” Max demands the moment they’re alone.

Daniel is backed against the motor home’s wall, and her chin only has to tip back the slightest amount for her to look Max in the eye. She’s smirking, like there is anything funny about making Max hard in the middle of a debrief with Helmut.

“Did you not like the surprise baby?” There’s that teasing edge to her voice that always appears when she knows that she has pushed, and wants to see how much further she can back Max off the ledge.

Pretty fucking far this time, it seems.

Because the last thing Max had expected during their debrief, was to crawl under the too-big table and see Daniel bare. Pink, red in some places, white where Max’s come from this morning was clinging to her. She’d spread her thighs to show off for him, the insides of them shiny, sticky-looking where he must have been dripping from her all day.

He should have known better than to trust her sweet voice as she’d asked him, “Max, can you get that pen for me?”

“That was not nice,” Max tells her now, leaning in to press all of his body along the front of her, palms flat on the wall either side of her head. The hitching of her breath gives away the moment she notices just how tightly her plan has wound Max, how hard he is, aching for the place where she is already wet. “I banged my head on the table, I was so shocked.”

The laugh she lets out at that is music, the best fucking sound in Max’s world, and he can’t help but grin back at her.

“Well, baby, I didn’t want to wear them,” she chides right back, hands coming to rest on his hips, working her thumbs so they are reaching under the hem of his t-shirt to stroke against bare skin. “You didn’t leave me my present.”

Max has to drop his head into her neck, rocking into her with a groan.

It’s something they’ve started doing, something Daniel had whispered into Max’s ear that she wanted. For Max to come into her underwear so she could wear them and have him rub against her cunt all day. It wasn’t until she’d asked again, eyes hot as she tossed him a scrap of lace the next morning, in bed, that he’d realized it hadn’t just been something sexy to say.

So for the last four days, Max has jerked off with the material wrapped around his cock, or pulled out of Daniel just in time, and filled her panties for her. Daniel has smiled, told him thank you, and slipped into them before it’s even had time to cool.

Max knows, because-

“Still warm,” she’d teased the first time, and Max can’t think about that now, not when he has to think about the way Daniel is bare and wet underneath her skirt. When it’s his fault because he didn’t think she would let him do that on a day she was going to spend on the track, didn’t even think to ask for it.

“So now I have to know that you are like this-“ he swipes a hand under her skirt then, through the warm, sodden mess of her- “all day. That anybody could see if you drop any more pens.”

Her tongue pokes out then, and it makes Max’s stomach clench and twist hotly to feel the tip of it start to trace his lips, the bow of his mouth, before pulling back to say, “I only drop pens for special boys.”

I can be that. Special. Let me prove it, he thinks wildly, crashing their mouths together in something so hot and dirty, it barely feels like kissing.

All he tells her now though, is ‘please’, whimpering as she pushes his head down.

(i originally wrote this a while ago for lorna, the genius who suggested max coming in girl! daniel’s panties to me)

#sorry to spam everyones dash this week #home alone so writing or posting to avoid existential dread #i hope you like this anon!#now to try to write something new!#max/daniel #fic #girl daniel

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home-sick-shambles · 26 days

Text

The first of many:

This Rocoo Pengoi (Rock-o, Pen-goi) ((idk if that helps with punctuation)) He’s is an bright red lobster bard who has a magical guitar that does cool lightning tricks.

This is a little doodle of him I did. I hope you folks like him! If you have any questions please ask!

#my ocs #oc stuff #Rocoo Pengoi

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reddpenn · 2 months

Text

I’m back from my rock show! I got some Cool Rocks!

First, the agates.

Another Turkish stick agate to join my collection! I can't get enough of this stuff. These form as pseudomorphs of selenite. A bunch of criss-crossing selenite crystals grow inside an empty pocket in the rock, and then the space around them fills in with agate. Eventually, the selenite crystals dissolve, and the hollows they leave behind are also filled with agate, preserving a record of their shapes!

Bonus! This pair has a nice green fluorescence.

Here is another Turkish agate. (Almost all of today's agates are from Turkey; Turkey produces some beautiful agate specimens.) This one has a really interesting pattern to its banding.

I actually picked this one out for its fluorescence, which is a stunning bright green.

Also from Turkey! Growing inside a super cool crust of volcanic rhyolite, this agate is called sagenite. Sagenite agate has a fibrous appearance because it is a pseudomorph of a fibrous zeolite mineral.

The last two from Turkey: a pretty red specimen with a sparkly central vug, and a weirdo with squiggles of yellow. What’s going on with that guy?

This one is from China! The red and orange agates from this locale are called "Fighting Blood" agate. I already have a Fighting Blood in my collection, but I thought this one was neat because its vug is full of amethyst!

Here are some things which are not agate!

This one is a lead mineral called plumbogummite! Specifically, these crystals are a pseudomorph of another lead mineral called pyromorphite. Over time, the lime green pyromorphite crystals were slowly replaced by the tealy plumbogummite. In a few of the broken crystals, you can still see a green pyromorphite core!

Hyalite opal! This rock has been on my bucket list, I am so excited. This form of opal is known for its water-clear, jelly-like globule formations. Though typically a colorless mineral, this specimen is tinted yellow due to iron staining. It’s also a mineral famous for its bright fluorescence… but this specimen’s glow is utterly unimpressive. :c I will be on the lookout for a more glowy specimen at future shows. Honestly, I’m just happy to finally own some at all!

This year, I also got some high-end mineral specimens! Take a look at these beauties.

Roselite! This rare, toxic mineral is full of arsenic. If I ate it I would probably die! Roselite’s deep red color comes from the cobalt in its chemical structure, and makes it highly sought after by collectors. This specimen is showing off a well defined lenticular crystal habit! Again, I cannot overstress how rare this stuff is. I spent… an inadvisable amount of money on it.

Oh, the best and most sparkly boy. This is wulfenite! I have wanted a piece in my collection for so long, and I’ve been waiting for just the right specimen to come along. It's a lead mineral, and it forms the coolest square, tabular crystals! This mineral is extremely brittle, which makes large, intact crystals of it very hard to find. But check out the huge tabular crystal on the right side of this specimen, it’s bigger than my thumbnail!!

And finally, I could not resist buying something silly.

This is Tully. He's a plush Tully Monster, which is my state fossil!

#red pen has cool rocks #rock collecting #look at my cool rocks

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mysteryinkkat234 · 1 year

Text

Let’s Dance (Eddie Munson x Reader)

Happy Halloween Gamers and Gaymers, fun to post on Halloween (of it’s scheduled on halloween and also doesn’t get shadow banned. This is a story based on the place I worked that I talked about last story. Oh course if you have any request, I will always have my DMs open (I’m popular enough to get bots to DM me again. Also if you like my writing, here’s is my masterlist. Hope you enjoy!

Gender-Neutral Reader (You/Yours)

Let’s Dance - David Bowie

“Let's dance Put on your red shoes and dance the blues Let's dance To the song they're playin' on the radio Let's sway While color lights up your face Let's sway Sway through the crowd to an empty space”

(fun fact this is the actual roller rink I work at)

The entertainment center in Hawkins came out of nowhere. The owner of it didn’t make a big ceremony for it, it just now exists. This place has everything: a bowling alley, go-kart track, arcade, and a roller-skating rink, which you sadly work at.

You’re behind the concession counter, giving people pretzels, cotton candy, and whatever other food they’ll waste. It was a busy day, the line for concession almost felt never-ending, and it’s only you, no one to help give people what they want, just you, you have to do both.

It’s 8:15 pm, you let out an exhausted sigh, putting your face in your hands. . “Please,” you whined, “I just wanna go home.”

“You and me both, man.” A voice comes out of nowhere, you look up to see a man, around your age you presume.

You get embarrassed, scuttling to go back to your position, dropping a pen you were fiddling with. The man laughs. “I am so sorry,” you said pathetically, you weren’t sure he even heard you because the DJ decided to play the music at max volume tonight, “what can I get you?” You ask, pretending you didn’t have the biggest fail ever.

“No, I’m not getting any food,” he said, still a laugh stuck in his throat, “you looked bored so I’m deciding to keep you company.” You sigh in relief.

You laugh awkwardly, even if most customers are fine and understand you are flustered, it still catches you off guard. “Ok then, thank you, I guess?” You don’t know how to respond to something like that, a stranger doesn’t just come to you just to say hi. “Why are you here?” He said that he also wanted to go home, who was he with?

“It’s my friend’s birthday and they wanted to go roller-skating. I’m not saying I’m here against my will but I’m not into the whole skating thing,” he explained, looking over at the rink where dozens of skaters, young and old, going around the circle, “but I didn’t want to hurt their feelings so I’m here.”

“At least you’re a good friend,” you said smiling, “but judging from what you’re wearing, you don’t look like you’re enjoying the music they’re playing.”

He groaned, leaning his head back, you both laughed. “I know right!? Why can’t they play Bon Jovi, or Dio, or any good music instead of this garbage.”

“I mean, you can ask the DJ for a song request. But, in my opinion, I don’t think rock or metal music really fits the rink’s vibes.”

He shrugs his shoulders and sighs. “Well, I’m stuck here til this place closes, I doubt you want to talk for three hours straight.”

You giggle, covering it with your fist. “You might hog up the line if you do,” you try to get it out, you see him smiling, “I don’t really know you either.”

“Eddie, it’s nice to meet you,” he holds out a blinged-out hand, almost every finger has a ring on it, you take his hand to shake, they’re cool on your skin. Once he retracts his hand, Eddie looks down at the paper menu in front of him, “Hmm, you know what? Can you get me a medium Coke?” He asks, pulling out a wallet.

You give him his drink, he gives you two dollars as a tip which you take graciously (every dollar counts), and he walks away, back to his seat, which was closest to the rink and the concession stand.

~~~~

As the night comes to an end, one last song plays as you spray and clean tables: Let’s Dance by David Bowie. You know the moment it starts that your hips and feet move to the beat…kind of. As everyone was packing up to leave, you were there shaking your butt off, some of the patrons were smiling at your strange dancing, others giving you a look, and one in particular was smiling ear-to-ear.

Your ‘dance cleaning’ was absolutely adorable to watch, you mouthing the lyrics as you skip table-to-table. Eddie couldn’t help but smile like an idiot. He puts his head in his hands, making sure his friends don’t notice that his cheeks are getting pink.

As you were getting closer to Eddie and his friends’ table, you make eye contact, you stop your movements immediately, looking down at the floor, gripping your rag.

~~~~

“Alright everyone, sadly this will be our last session tonight. Please return any rental skates back to the counter, make sure you throw away any garbage, and return any pitchers to the concession stands. We hope you guys had a wonderful night and stay safe.” The DJ announces.

Almost everyone is gone, except Eddie, he wasn’t with his group, just by himself, waiting at the exit. You check everything and make sure from your manager you were good to go, it was almost midnight and all you wanted now was to fall flat on your bed.

As you walk up to the exit, Eddie stops you in your tracks. “Shouldn’t you go home? We’re closing up,” you asked.

“I am, I am driving everyone home. But I think you dropped something while you were cleaning,” Eddie hands you a slip of paper, “have a goodnight, sweetheart.” He winks and finally leaves.

You’re confused at first about what he meant by that until you look at the slip of paper. It was a phone number, and something was written under it. ‘See you soon, dancing machine’. You’re taken aback.

All you can do for the rest of the night is look at the piece. Remember when you said you would fall asleep right when you landed on your bed? Well thanks to this man, you were up all night.

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #stranger things #fanfiction #fanfic

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mayordoi · 1 year

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Welcome!

hi, you can call me mayor or delia. i'm an aroace artist who really likes kagamine rin and robin fire emblem. this account is where i post art i make :) while i wanna keep it focused on that, i might expand to making text posts on random thoughts and will still answer any asks that come my way!

things of note

Art tag -> #mayor doidles

instagram

my artfol (this is just for portfolio documentation/only has my favorites with proper descriptions, so it’s not up to date and i’m not active on there)

smash prose server info

google drive link to access lineart files for some of my pieces to use as coloring pages! currently a work in progress :)

my "main" blog (which appears in notifs when i like a post or follow someone) is @dois-funnyzone. that account is where i just reblog things. even though it appears as my main, please don't follow that one in favor of this one!!

i don't take comissions

reposting my art is permitted as long as you fully credit me 🙏🏻 you can reblog and all that ofc

personal use is okay!! :D for things like pfps, just credit me somewhere

some more detailed things about me below the cut :]

what i draw

i draw a lot of fanart of whatever interests me! so please don't follow me if you only want to see fanart from one thing haha,, though the most consistent subject i draw is vocaloid (mainly the mascot characters and how they appear in different songs) and fe awakening (mainly robin, of either gender). i also have ocs that i might occassionally subject you to. oc masterpost coming eventually hopefully TwT by the way, all art of my oc can be found in the #mayors ocs tag~

here's some things i generally like as well, though no guarantee i'll be mass producing art for it like the other stuff i mentioned

☆vocaloid (favorite characters are probably rin, miku, una, meiko, and kaito. favorite producers are utsu-p, ghost, and pinocchiop. casual enjoyer of kikuo, nyanyannya, vane, and kairiki bear) ☆fire emblem (even though it's probably the weakest game i've played, i really like fe awakening, even past it featuring robin lol. i have played and enjoyed all the modern titles!) ☆super smash bros (heavily intertwined with my enjoyment of fe. i really like the crossover stuff about it and used to write fic about it (unpublished)!! i may occasionally draw some of the characters from that cross over here. be warned though that what i tag as "smash bros" is wildly inconsistent across my page TwT) ☆jojo (favorite parts are 4, 5, and 7!! johnny and josuke are my favorite protagonists) ☆shining/love nikki (don't play LN anymore but shining nikki is one of the only tolerable gachas ive played lol! i love the fashion and might sometimes draw suits from the games or outfits i've made) ☆persona (suuuper casual though, only played 4 and 5) ☆rhythm heaven (i just think it's neat!! also fever's soundtrack rocks my world) ☆stardew valley (cool farming game yeah) ☆animal crossing (though i have much to criticize about NH, i really like using it for background inspo lol)

haha sorry for the ramble. but yeah i draw a lot of stuff pertaining to the things i like, some more than others. all art of that nature can be found in the #fanart tag.

supplies and brushes!

in case you're curious about the things i use to make my art, here it is. i like making both traditional art and digital art depending on how i feel.

traditional supplies

paper - i almost always draw in sketchbooks. for full colored pieces, i'm fond of strathmore's visual journal sketchbooks (the ones i'm using atm are mixed media). for on-the-go sketches and doodles, i use a notebook with dotted paper, nothing fancy. sketching - i like using a red grading pencil (essentially a waxy colored pencil with an erasing) for sketching since markers and paint blend into it which means less erasing. i also use a regular mechanical pencil or gel pen for concept sketches or doodles. inking - there's a lot of inking tools i like! i like using staedtler pigment liners for simple lines and hatching, as well as tombow brush pens for quick line weight. markers - my primary coloring tool. while they're not perfect, i primarily use ohuhus; they're great if you're starting out since they're quite cheap! i also use a grab-bag of other marker brands like tombow or copics, but those are my mains. colored pencils - prismacolors, baybee!! i mainly use these for lineart and additional shading and texture. paint - also far from perfect, but i use the himi jelly gouache for paintings even though i'm kinda ass at it. i also used to use a very crusty windsor & newton watercolor kit. as for brushes, idk i inherited most of mine and they work fine.

digital stuff

program - i use procreate on an ipad to draw digitally. i know it's basic but it gets the job done for me default brushes i like - among the brushes that come with procreate, the ones i like are: HB pencil (sketching), 6B pencil (sketching), technical pen (inking), gel pen (inking), honeyeater (vintage), and campagnia (vintage). would like to make a detailed brush list eventually TwT brush packs i like - i download a lot of brushes, but these packs are ones i absolutely swear by. all are free! jingsketch basics is a must-get for anyone that likes digital painting. i use "soft chalk" to render. rusty rakes is a set of textured line brushes i love to use to add extra hatched textures to my paintings. mainly rely on rr dark. i also use a halftone brush to add texture to my art, but unfortunately i cannot find it or the author! will update when i do~

anyway

thank you for reading. this post might get updated in the future when i think of more stuff to add or change. i def wanna update my meet the artist thing cuz that is oooold!!

bye bye!!

last updated: 3/3/2024

#artists on tumblr #intro post #meet the artist #not art

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empty-masks · 1 year

Text

Book Four, Chapter Four

CW: Strong Language, Sexual References, Graphic Violence, Fantasy Bigotry, Smoking, Alcohol Use, Light Body Horror

Between a board of incredibly ungrateful directors and a flaming wolf monster sits a lone woman, perched in the latest of ergonomic office seating and clothed in the finest of business casual fashions. Though the beast is drooling some horrid mix of foam, charcoal, and embers, her cool, grey eyes do not waver from the glowing red gaze that weighs down upon her. Perhaps she clicks her pen a little harshly, giving away a hint of her nerves and cutting a small slice from the spring’s lifespan, but far as Blondie’s concerned this woman is as stoic as stone— a hard feat to pull off in a field filled with people made of literal rock.

A lot of people prefer to hire golemnic sorts for this exact reason. When a problem, like a hulking creature dripping with fire and hate comes to call at the doors of people in suits, they usually have to rely on outside physical, and mental muscle to help stop the fire. Golems are great for that. And yet this secretary does not budge no matter how loud he screams, no matter how many holes he punches in the office’s drywalls, now matter how far he tosses the pair of rent-a-cop guys who continue to urge him to leave as he’s continually denied entrance by one Ms. Bleu.

“Listen to me, goddamnit! I am ALIVE! Look at me and tell me I’m not ALIVE!” Blondie shouts, stomping back and forth in the unfamiliar reception room. After all, he used to be the top dog— why should he have to spend any time sitting around here with Ms. Bleu, the lady literally hired to shut out impromptu visitors with the aid of security. Such security, at this very moment, are picking themselves up off the floor again and thanking whatever backwater deities watching over that they’re in a little something called “civilization,” otherwise known as Black Hill. Being in a place like this, even with him in this state, has his hands tied.

“You most certainly are, Mister… “Blondie.” Unfortunately, we already have it on record that you’re dead, which voids your contracts, including your security clearance.” Bleu’s lips— painted purple to pop against her blue-slate skin, matching the dark off-black hues of her hair— pull into a small and insultingly courteous smile. “I am most certain you are most definitely alive. Most definitely. Of course.”

He claws at his upper jaw as more hateful froth drips from between his teeth, finally coming to a halt in front of the desk. It’s fine, grey wood, smooth enough to run a hand over and feel like one had actually touched incredibly refined glass. On it is no less than Ms. Bleu’s nameplate, her average day-to-day paperwork, and a single framed picture of the woman and a few others, dressed in preparation for what might be a day out on the green, or perhaps a day playing tennis.

Blondie picks up this picture frame, turns it around, and waves it in the secretary’s face. “Don’t fuck with me, lady, don’t fuck with me! I’ll fucking destroy this. I’ll destroy everything you’ve ever known! I can burn this whole fucking building down if I wanted!”

To his surprise, she yanks it from his hand and sets it back into its place on her desk, all before folding her hands over her paperwork to keep his dreadful molten flecks from falling onto them. “You have no identification, you stormed up several now near ruined flights of stairs to get to this floor, and you’ve even taken the time to give almost every security guard in the building nothing less than a heart attack. Not to mention, again, you’re claiming to be a dead man whom I have seen very often before, and while you most certainly act like him, you really, really don’t look like him. Like, for instance, the dead man you’re arguing that you are tends to wear clothes when coming to meet with his superiors and isn’t constantly on fire. All that said… I believe you, Blondie.”

He blinks, tone losing its edge for a second as he asks, “Huh? You do?”

“I do,” she replies. “I believe you because to be quite frank, if you were some insane monster you would have killed those guards and probably myself as well, but you haven’t. And this is because as big and scary as you are, you don’t bite the hand that feeds.” Her head tilts.

Blondie snarls, returning to his sour mood as he slams a fist against her desk, denting the perfect wood and warping the area around the contact with heat. “You’d better take that shit back. Don’t you fucking accuse me of being some kinda bitch, just—”

“Sir, even if I do believe you, even if you had identification, even if you didn’t leave a molten pile of trash in the VIP parking and didn’t beat up all of our security, I would not be allowed to let you in.” Her smile widens. “You died, or you didn’t, whichever! All that said, your contract was voided upon your reported death. Again, this means you have none of the security clearance or resources afforded to a Shepherd Acquisitions Officer. This is above my pay grade to fix, and as much as I do so want to help you, I need you to understand that I’m just doing my job.” Venom drips sweetly from each word as they leave her mouth, and Blondie can barely contain himself.

He wants to use her spine as kindling, burn the entire building down with everyone in it just to pick their bones from the ashes, but he can’t. It’s enough to make him roar and punch a nearby pillar jutting up from the floor, an entirely decorative affair meant to put forth the image of power and affluence despite being nowhere near an actual load bearing position or on the ground floor, where most pillars are more snugly placed. “Fuck! Off! Just let me in, you blue wh—”

“If you were to be reinstated by someone above me, of course, I would have to respect that,” Ms. Bleu interjects. “But nothing less than an administrative miracle can help you now. You’d need someone on par with Ms. Hickory or Mr. Gilroy to walk in and wave their hand, and then I’d be more than happy to let you walk on back to Acquisitions. Or you can go through our several week issue logging process…” A grin on her face now, she turns her head toward a box against the far wall, where some papers barely poke out of a small slot in the dead center of its face; across it is a thin layer of dust, conspicuously left despite immaculate cleaning as an administrative warning. “You’d just need to sign all the necessary paperwork to prove you’re you, offer up compelling evidence and several witnesses, plus letters of recommendation, and then give or take some business weeks for us to have somebody in admin look over your claim.”

It knocks the flame out of him. He slumps onto the floor with his head in his hands, groaning rather than growling. “Fuck it! Fine! FINE! Make some calls, damn it!”

“I can do you that courtesy at least.” She clears her throat and, from inside a larger desk drawer she hauls out and sets onto the desk a sizable telephone, a bit larger than her torso and connected by a wire than runs into the desk and down into the building’s overall system, whose writhing mass of horrid wiring is comparable to a pasta dish that’s somehow older than it actually is and also far, far more flammable than it ought to be. “Whom would you like to call?”

“Gimme Penny— no, Penelope Hickory, if I call her Penny she won’t fucking help me.” He’s back up and pacing, burning his prints into the ruined, fractured tiles, sending up the smell of something that somebody’s going to discover is probably very toxic in about three more years.

“Ms. Hickory is unavailable, sir,” Ms. Bleu says. “She’s out.”

“Damn it. Fine, give me Gilroy. Shit.” Now that he’s calmed down, he scratches the back of his neck and growls at the security, who have by this point huddled by the door on the far end of the room, prepared to dart down the stairs if need be.

“Mhmm, as you wish sir.” The digits long memorized, she enters Gilroy’s office number. Not his office back at the main site, but his HQ Office, one of the few given to those of his corporate rank or higher, which more or less acts as a small extension of his horrid realm inside the lair of his superiors. Blondie has a similarly disused and ignored office somewhere on a floor above. Still, with all the latest happenings, Gilroy had been spending an awful lot of time back in the city.

The phone rings, rings, and rings, but there’s no answer. She hangs up. “Would you like me to try his house number, sir?”

Blondie’s rage is starting to boil again. He’s foaming from the corners of his mouth and his eyes are threatening to roll so far up that they’ll do a backflip. “YES.”

She nods and enters this number also, again memorized from an inordinate amount of time playing paper jockey and message courier between the several higher ranked members of the corporation. This time, however, the phone picks up. “Mr. Gilroy? Yes, sir, this is the office. No, sir, we know you’re using your PTO. We wouldn’t be calling if it weren’t important. Mr. Blondie is here— oh.”

“What do you mean, oh? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?!”

“He hung up.”

Smoke plumes escape both his nostrils in unison before a tense, uncertain silence enters the room. Then everyone inside with him realizes that he’s starting to shake, and it’s rising in intensity, rising in its own strange, violent way before he raises both fists and is screaming bloody murder at the ceiling as he rises too, hefting himself up only to start stomping against the floor like a frenzied animal. The security guards, then, start running down the stairs and slam the door shut behind themselves.

Ms. Bleu watches as Blondie takes her telephone, rips it off the wire, and then tosses it at top speed through a nearby window before he begins pounding his fists against the already ruined floor. Each throbbing pulse warps the wood and steel underneath the destroyed tiles crack by crack, sending creaks and shudders throughout the room. Bleu sighs, leans back into her chair, and pulls out a small magazine catalogue out from her purse to begin reading. “Sir, do be careful. At this rate you might go straight through the floor.”

“SHUT UP, DAMNIT! FUCK!” He screams, before his fists go clear through a particularly weak section of metal and already burnt wood, taking Blondie to the level below. The force carries him through that one too, but he’s stopped by the sizable, almost comparable bulk of a golemnic office worker on the floor after that. That said, that office worker goes through the floor in his stead while Blondie storms off, but only halfway, so on his path through down to the ground floor the wolf passes what he thinks is some kind of tacky art installation, but is in truth the bleeding, groaning tangle of a stone accountant halfway punched through a spaghetti of metal, wood, and wiring.

At least Blondie knows Gilroy’s home. He knows where that is. When you hate someone this much, it’s hard to forget. The fire likes it when he thinks about what he wants to do to Gilroy. When the fire likes something, Blondie likes it too. It’s warm, comforting in a painful way.

Unfortunately the car is a literal pile of molten metal in the parking lot, so it’ll have to be a jog.

==============================================================

Brie pokes at her poutine, attempting to keep her train of thought straight while Roxanne teases Meat over their current outfit, and how they would’ve looked so cute in those flowery patterns with the glorious weather they’re having. It’s difficult to keep out, but once she blocks it by focusing on fiddling with her gravy-covered, fried potatoes, it’s out for good, and nothing interferes with her internal monologue.

That woman, Piper. She was a Shepherd Gemstone foreman, not an auditor or whatever the formal title is for that particular breed of corporate muscle. She had the dress and the gait of one though, and that’s very concerning. Her attempts at bossing Brie around were somewhat lacking, due to a number of potential reasons. Lack of experience? Lack of willingness? Insecurity due to either or both of these options? It’s hard to say, but she conducted herself as someone on the up-and-up rather than someone who was already on top.

And she asked about the quarry. Those five escapees that Brie is supposed to be tailing. As a part of her job. The job she had been hired to do. Right.

Setting that thought aside, she considers the possibility that Ms. Hickory had replaced her. Piper had no notebook, and certainly seemed unconcerned with the task of keeping track of all the damages. And in her years as a PI, Brie had yet to meet someone who could produce an accurate model of destruction for a city-wide disaster with nothing but their head. Hell, she had hardly met anyone who had lived through such an event in the first place, but here she is, trying to decipher the odd situation in front of her.

The squeak of a cheese curd in her mouth gives her an idea. “Roxanne, how much do you remember about Shepherd Gemstone’s administrative workings, and would you have any understanding as to their protocol when an outside private investigator catalogues an entire city’s worth of damage expenses?” Brie asks, mouth still full of food.

The Medic laughs in amused disgust. “Ms. Brie, please, remember what I said about asking questions with your mouth full.”

“Yes,” she pauses to swallow. “I recall, but this is urgent. How much do you remember—”

“I wasn’t much involved with admin, not even when I was younger. What’s the urgency, dear?”

“I would like to know if I am getting sacked, and whether it will be violent or not,” she says, sticking her fork into her fries. “I have been thinking on the matter, and it is making me concerned for my safety.”

“The city nearly burning down didn’t?” Meat asks.

“Contextually, yes. But currently and specifically, it is making me concerned that my safety is being breached by my own employer, rather than a burning wolf-man.”

Roxanne takes the moment to sip on her iced tea, so spiked with mint that it wafts into the air around her when she lifts the cup to drink it. “Did Piper hit a nerve?”

“Absolutely,” Brie nods, “she was acting as though she was some kind of mercenary. Which, if I recall the definition of the word, is not inclusive to those on the payroll of a company not run by themselves. And the word, in and of itself, tends to have connotations of overconfidence and bravado, both of which she had quite a lot of. I am a technical mercenary, and she is not. And yet...”

“And yet,” Roxanne replies.

“And yet.” Brie pulls another forkful of potato-goop into her mouth to think.

“If she’s after you, that’s a problem,” Meat says, scratching their skull.

“Not a big problem, though.”

“She is many problems. She could, potentially, be my replacement, making her a monetary problem, as it would mean by contract has been voided without my knowledge or consent.”

“And if that’s the case, there’s a good chance she’s also playing hitman,” Roxanne chimes in.

“But there’s no way of telling. Either way, she is most certainly after the same runaways as we are, which makes her competition, and I do not think she will be the friendly kind if push comes to shove.”

Meat leans back in their chair. “What’s the deal?”

“There is no deal to be made,” Brie replies, frowning, “unless there has been a deal made behind my back.”

“That’s not what I meant. What are you thinking?”

“Oh. I recommend we leave Fusillade tomorrow for Pickman’s Hope.”

“Good idea,” they nod. “I think Leslie has his guys looking for me.”

Roxanne raises her eyebrows. “You’re the hero of Fusillade, Meat. Wouldn’t that be bad press for the family?”

“They have ways of making it happen. I vaguely remember something about making people disappear.”

“That’s dirty.”

“Leslie’s a dirty guy, I think.”

“And if you are to be pursuing your quest of stopping Blondie from further destruction, it would be good for you to tag along with us, yes?” Brie asks.

“I thought that was the plan from the start.”

“Was it?”

“Yes, it was,” Roxanne says, patting Meat on the shoulder. “We weren’t gonna leave you here, honey. Don’t you worry.” “I’m not worried. I thought it had been decided.”

“I had not decided on anything,” Brie starts, before realizing that the semantics were not the focus of the conversation. “However, you can assume that I would be okay with it, as you are my friend.”

“That’s sweet, Ms. Brie,” the Medic says, “but before we get sentimental, perhaps we should discuss what to expect while we’re there.”

“What to expect?”

“Do you know what kind of town Pickman’s Hope is?”

“It is a union town, yes?”

“And do you know what kind of employer you’re under contract with?” Brie scrunches her face. “I see.”

“Indeed. We’re going to have to find some mode of hiding it, Ms. Brie, unless you want all three of us barred from town permanently.”

“Hm,” she hums. “I shall take tonight to think of something. It’s not as though I am a known figure or face amongst the corporation, yes? I’m a contractor, and the most I’ve done is collect data on the damages.”

“Your nametag,” Meat points. “It says Shepherd Gemstone. Take it off.”

She raises both eyebrows, and looks down at her lapel. Of course it’s still there. She puts it on every morning, like clockwork. Taking it off would break the pattern she had built, but if it meant not getting herself forcibly removed from the town, she would have to do it. So, she unclips it and sticks it in her breast pocket. After a moment of silence she says, “This feels odd.”

“Not having your nametag on?” Roxanne asks.

“Yes.”

“You’d also better get used to not mentioning the company, unless it’s to trash it. No contrarian talk on that matter, you hear?”

She takes a while to process this. Eventually, she replies, “I do have a few grievances to air.”

“Perfect. Save them for the locals, then,” Roxanne says, standing up from her seat and downing the rest of her mint tea.

==============================================================

When Harry Gilroy opens his front door with a frown, the only surprise that registers in his brain is over the matter of Blondie’s nudity, with a slight bit being from the inexplicable fire crackling away beneath the man’s skin, setting his heavy claws, feet, and bright eyes to glowing a menacing, but aesthetically pleasing red. As a fan of the color himself he almost considers it an upgrade to the old fool he’d become unfortunately used to spending so much time with, though after another brief and silent second thought he realizes he’s still not very enthused to see the man. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

“I walked it off. Let me in.”

“No, go away. I’m taking the rest of the week off. I don’t talk to dead men or hallucinations. Either way, you’re bringing the property value down just by standing on my front porch.” Gilroy sneers, baring fangs as he moves to close his door, which he had opened only as far as the door chain inside would allow.

Before it closes, however, Blondie’s glowing claws grip the lip of the door and slowly pull it open, even pulling the chain taut and tearing it from the inside of the wall. Harry Gilroy stands there, doorless, in a wine red lounge robe and a pair of cherry colored house slippers. Blondie laughs at him, then shoulders his way inside with his typical swagger as the owner of the house shuffles out of the way of the flaming bulk of condescension and fur.

“Man, I forgot how nice this place is. I’m surprised you can afford this shit on your pay, buddy.” Blondie teases, taking heavy, heated footsteps into the living room, which of course is decorated in a similarly red and and woody fashion to Harry’s office back in Smokestone, which is to say rather tackily and vaguely resembling a middle to high end sports bar someone’s elected to live in. “All this crap and you still can’t score a point on the board.”

“Lovely, sex advice from the dead.” Harry’s face is already pulled into a frown, so it can’t get any worse, but then again his default expression is almost always a frown anyway, so at this point it’s just par for the course. This might as well happen! He might as well be visited by the disgusting, fetid soul of his departed coworker post-draconic barbecue. It’s about on par with all the rest of the irritating nonsense he’s had to deal with thus far. A little further out there, maybe, but nothing outrageously beyond the average irritation. At least the tree-hugging dumbasses whining about magical this and magical that won’t be on his case for this one. Everything from the smallest inconvenience to potentially cataclysmic events in his life earn the exact same reaction: a frown, expensive whiskey in a glass nearly as, if not more, expensive than the drink it holds, and a low, discomforted sigh that trails into a frustrated growl. “I don’t need to be told how to score by someone who appears to have been cleanly handled by somebody’s overzealous barbecue.”

The front door is propped shut amidst grumbles about payment and this and that, which Blondie ignores entirely as he makes after the bar inside Gilroy’s living room, off to the far side of it. Once there, Blondie uncorks a remarkably pricey and obviously imported bottle with a claw, and empties the entirety of its contents into his gullet. In a moment he’s struck by a series of informational bursts of thought which unlock hidden recesses of his mind, as though the simple and outrageously overpriced flavor is familiar enough to tease out knowledge nestled deep inside the ever consuming, mental and metaphysical fire and ash. First and foremost, he recalls that he’s never been a fan of wine.

Secondarily, he’s reminded that it might actually be a good thing he decided to bother Gilroy over this rather than Hickory, because unlike the damage control enthusiast, Gilroy’s the sort of sniveling little bastard he can wring for all he’s worth. Hickory’s a great many things, but manipulable is not one of them, even under threat of violence. After all, she’s a half-decent lycan herself. Not like Gilroy.

“You’re staring into my liquor collection like an idiot, Blondie. If you’re not a hallucination, which this bullshit with my good wine is beginning to make clear, you’re actually here, which means you actually have to talk to me about why the hell you’re barging into my house on my day off and guzzling my drinks.” Harry slams his hands on the countertop to punctuate his statement, and that does manage to get Blondie’s heft to swivel around and face him.

“Right, right. Got a lot on the mind, my sincerest apologies.”

“You don’t think, you just break things.”

“And I’ll break you if you keep this smarmy shit up. Lemme cut to the chase— Harry, I’ve gotta have you or Hickory reinstate me at HQ so I can get my job and my shit back.” Blondie sets his hands on the counter too, making certain they were on either side of Harry’s hands so as to remind the smaller man of the remarkably gulf of power between them. The anticipated reaction to this is something akin to watching a mangy scavenger hiss and back off from a carcass, in the more literal sense Blondie expects Harry to agree wholeheartedly, if begrudgingly, and this would lead into a ride back to HQ and the restoration of his position.

In actuality, Harry Gilroy, the man unremarkable among the remarkable, the simple businessman and lackluster werewolf, laughs in Blondie’s face as though he’s just been told a joke so funny that it demands a smile which pulls his sharp features into a twisted, mirthful grimace and sets his whole body to shaking as he pounds the counter with his fist. It’s a high, peeling laugh like the squeal of a dying pig, Blondie thinks. That’s the sound he thinks of when he hears Harry laugh, dying pigs.

It takes a moment for the dumbstruck Blondie and the near incapacitated Harry to both return to their more typical postures, but it does happen, and after the shorter man wipes a legitimate tear from the corner of one of his eyes, he clears his throat and actually settles into something very strange: a genuine smile. And then he tells Blondie, “No.”

“Excuse me?” Escapes the charred jaws of the dead man. “No?”

“No, Blondie, I’m not going to get your “job and shit back.” I celebrated your death by taking paid time off just to make sure I could drink without worrying over the headache that is replacing you— beyond the paperwork I already helped approve alongside Penny, that is.” Harry’s fingers drum against the countertop as the fearsome, ever dangerous Blondie stares in mounting fury and utter confusion. “Yeah, that’s right, we’ve already got a prospective replacement lined up. Well, the bosses did, not us, but she is one of mine. Unfortunate, but that’s just the way of things, isn’t it?”

“Ex-fucking-cuse you,” Blondie growls, “What you meant to say was “yes, Blondie, of course. Let’s go, we’ll take my car.” Now shut the fuck up and get your keys you little—”

“Bitch.” Harry’s smile widens disquietingly. “No, I said “no” and you’re going to have to respect that, dead man. We aren’t out in the sticks where you can just go and murder people all willy-fucking-nilly, because around here we aren’t a bunch of useless bums pretending we’re worth anything more than the dirt we can haul out of a bunch of sub-standard mines. This is civilization. If you could solve this problem by killing me, or hurting me, you would’ve busted down that door and beat me within an inch of my life, but you can’t. You can’t do that here.��

Gilroy’s grinning as he backs up, turns, and finds himself a place to sit in a large and remarkably cozy looking red velvet and dark wood recliner. “You can’t touch me, especially if you really do want your job back, because this is the one actual place where the only backstabbings that get to happen have to be through red tape and subterfuge unless you’re very, very subtle, and that’s not what you are. You’re not subtle. You’re sudden and unpredictable, yes, but not subtle.”

“So, you’re hiding behind that, huh. Don’t be fucking stupid, Harry. I’m a publicly dead man. The law around here won’t think a dead man killed you.”

As Blondie rounds the counter to close the distance, Harry clears his throat. “That’s true, any crime can be gotten away with if you prepare to cover your tracks. Why, if nobody could see us in here I think you could probably kill me and walk out in broad damned daylight and not get caught because nobody’d accuse the dead guy of killing someone who’s ostensibly his friend. Too bad there are people who can see us right now. You see, Blondie, your main problem is you’re not a team player. More than that, you’re so stuck in your own head you’re too dense to realize the issues with the way you operate, the way you tick. I’ve been waiting a while for this.”

The blazing red eyes narrow at Gilroy, then snap to the windows, where the blinds are down but open to allow in the sunshine. Across the street, just with a quick turn of his head, he spots two glares.

The first is the scope of a rifle, behind which is an unidentifiable humanoid covered head to toe in tactical gear, about average height. The rifle itself, as Blondie identifies with a lightning flash of his synapses, is high quality and the sort of grade used to punch holes in animals like those skitterbears in the wild, comparable to the custom job he’d been carrying around as a pistol for the past many years. It’s not hard to trace the aim, somewhere around his left pectoral, probably hoping for a heart shot or a lung rather than go for the head. This operator wants it to be a killer, but slower than a perforated skull and faster than a bullet through the bowels. Optimized suffering to fatality ratio.

He huffs out smoke. The second glare is from a scoped revolver big enough to crack the wrist of any lesser being that might fire it. Again, something almost on par with his custom job, but just like the rifle he can tell it’s assembly line crap, even if high end. The person with the revolver is neatly hidden inside of a neighbor’s privacy hedge, peering just out between the branches and small leaves, barely visible in identical tactical gear.

The rifleman is settled neatly on top of a house across the street, and Blondie’s certain whoever lives there has no clue there’s a trained killer on top of it. “So. Roof, hedge…”

“There are another two, and you’re not likely to find them.”

“They’re in the house with us.”

Harry chuckles. It’s a strange sound.

Blondie’s eyes feel drawn downward and back behind him, and he realizes there’s a shape where there ought not to be one. Another vaguely humanoid figure, hidden head to toe, near impossible to make out in the shade of a doorway toward what is Gilroy’s walk-in kitchen, the lights out behind them. This one’s holding a shotgun, simple and efficient, another all-black mass production. As if to formally announce its presence, or perhaps just to assert itself as a threat, the figure takes that moment of staring, hidden behind the gear to pump the shotgun.

That means the fourth he can’t even tell the whereabouts of. He counts three, and they’re all easily visible, readily available, but he can’t find the last. One’s at close range, and while a shotgun might not do jack or shit to his flaming hide it’s got stopping power on him, not counting the high caliber ordinance he’s likely to take from the revolver and rifle outside.

He could kill Harry, but he’d have to deal with them too, and by the time he’s managed to kill them he’s certain someone in the neighborhood will have gone screaming for the law, which would only cause him more problems. He lives in this town, after all. He can’t go home if he’s burned it all down.

“What, all those years I spent busting my hump to bring you fucks a comfy, cushy, cowardly life means nothing now?! You owe me, Harry, you all owe me fucking everything.”

Harry Gilroy clears his throat and points toward the exit. “You’re dead, Blondie, and we at Shepherd Gemstone don’t really like bothering with dead weight. You must understand, nobody in this company has any reason to help you. You’re a freak. A burning, monstrous freak, and if I were a worse man I’d have you brought in just like your quarry to be cut open so we can find if there’s anything valuable inside. I’d tell you to go home to your wife and kids, but… You’d just burn them, wouldn’t you?”

The immeasurable rage inside of Blondie in this moment is hotter than even the explosion that put him in this state, but the point is made. Only dignifying Harry with a snarl, the wolf exits the building and begins jogging down the street, trailing half-melted asphalt with each step. Gilroy’s a problem now. Hickory’s one too, if she did approve of whatever replacement they have out and about, and he can’t go back to Janet like this. He has nothing anymore. He’d be out on the street, kicked out by some stupid ex-model. It’s not as though dead people can claim ownership of a building, let alone burning, naked dead people.

Those weaselly little hicks are his only way back in. He drags them in, drops them at the feet of his bosses, he gets a promotion and all his shit back, and then he takes Gilroy and Hickory and all those other disgusting vermin and reminds them who’re the wolves and who’re the sheep.

Inside his house, Harry Gilroy is smiling pleasantly. It’s even more unsettling than the smiles he wore during that conversation, but not one of the three humanoids in full gear would ever admit it to his face or to themselves. They make their way inside, congregating around him as he settles back into a near perpetual frown, a huff escaping him.

“Where’s the fourth?” He asks, roughly. “You told me he’d be here on the phone. We’re lucky he was stupid enough to believe you to be competent enough that the fourth was still in here somewhere.”

“I am,” a voice, muffled by a mask, offers. He’s in the same tactical gear as his companions, and altogether they’re two men and two women, faceless, covered head to toe in the finest available from the Sulfur Solutions urban warfare line, “COBRA.” It’s high quality, available only to the real competent operators, but still factory produced. It lacks the artisanal, homey quality of even the most dangerous, personally made weaponry.

In his hands is a take-out drink tray, in which are set four paper coffee cups with open tops, steaming. Each of his companions take a cup and pull their masks down to begin sipping as he turns toward Gilroy. “I got some coffee on the way.”

“...Of course you did, Jack, of course you did.” Scowling, Harry takes the last cup and takes a few heavy gulps of the steaming, almost entirely black liquid as beneath his mask the man opens his mouth to protest, but elects to instead keep quiet. “You didn’t even make it the way I like. Cute. Whatever. You four know your job?”

“Anything Ms. Piper tells us to do, sir,” one woman says, standing at attention and barking the words hard. Slung on her back is the shotgun. “Acquisition of the five runaways and elimination of loose ends, sir!”

“Yeah, yeah, cool it. Fuck, you’re a loud one.”

The sniper clears his throat then speaks with a low, gravelly voice, asking, “We clear to head up north yet?”

“Yes, you are.” Gilroy sighs as he leans back into his seat. “Make sure to take an unmarked vehicle, not a company car. Those backwater morons don’t like us up there. Oh, and let Piper know there’s soon to be an in-house bounty on that walking corpse.”

“Sir, yes sir!” The shotgunner says harshly, her boots knocking together as she again practically barks it out.

Beside them all, the revolver toting one, the other woman, has been simply spinning the cylinder of her gun while drinking her coffee, and only now does she speak up in a soft voice to ask, “And what’s our protocol on civilian altercations during this job?”

“Why’s that matter?” Gilroy asks in turn, raising a brow.

“In case of unforeseen circumstances.”

His eyes roll. “Don’t tell anyone you work for us and don’t get caught.”

The sniper laughs. So does the woman with her revolver, and the shotgunner. Jack’s slow and nervous to join in, but does so after a moment of realizing this is supposed to be a group thing, one that even Harry partakes in.

Chapter End.

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[ Table of Contents ]

#empty-mask #b&tsm #writing #oc #fantasy #adventure #serialized fiction #b&tsm-blondie #b&tsm-gilroy #b&tsm-brie #b&tsm-roxanne #b&tsm-meat

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