The Merciless Eyes of Deceit

=> Be late. As usual.

Sat, 04 May 2013 16:52:01 -0400

The ease of it is unexpected. Their other…encounters, of sorts, have set a standard: Swift attentions from Droog, forward and pressing, sometimes literally in the case of a wall downtown. To just be…sharing a space with him, now, feels like a stellar alignment.

Where else would he be?

Anywhere but here, with anyone else, for a start.

“Dunno,” he says, and it isn’t smooth, he winces at his own stupid answer. He answered it in his head, and then, that, just came out of his mouth. Stupid. He sets a hand over the one on his hip and leans in to kiss Droog again, more than the corner of his mouth.

He backs up a little, toward his bedroom. He kisses Droog again and takes a few more steps back. His room has a skylight, a wide bed right under it, books on a shelf and scattered everywhere. A small, barely-stable looking desk in a corner. The sheets and blankets and pillows are a nest lined with literature and a spatial puzzle or two. The big window gives the room some pale light from the city and the moon.

Pickle lifts Droog’s wrist and kisses the burnt number in his skin. It’ll be alright, he wants to say. Forget the Felt.

He follows attentively, leaving the mug on the counter. Droog’s hands move instead to Pickle’s hips, holding him and stepping in time with him as they kiss, and it’s so easy to follow someone with strides that match his own for once. Tall and confident in his steps, even backwards; this is the Inspector’s apartment and he knows where he’s going, what he’s doing. It’s like a dance when they move in time.

He lets go of the detective’s hips when they’re in his room, eases the door shut behind them for posterity. A small space for just the two of them, and Droog’s breath is caught in his chest. This isn’t his style, it’s not how he works. He makes things fast and hard in situations like these, and that’s how it’s been with the two of them since they started their game of tag.

But, he supposes, this is why he’s been following the detective like a dog for so long.

Because everything is different in all the right ways.

Especially when soft lips slide over the burn on his wrist, blond hair and pale skin and white coat literally glowing in the moonlight and Droog thinks he might be poetic about it if he were a different man. But he’s not, he’s Diamonds Droog, and his focus is there and on Pickle and nothing else in the single-minded way he has always functioned. It’s close and warm, and Diamonds kisses the Inspector hard, wants to push him into that nest of a bed and make him come apart. He thinks he might. If there weren’t so many books scattering the duvet. Instead he loops an arm around his waist and kisses him slow, wet, careful.

Droog ==> Concoct Your Revenge

Sat, 04 May 2013 00:12:28 -0400

The bag was heavy in his hand, and he curled his fingers around the handles as Droog walked down the stairs of the hideout. He pushed a bookshelf to the side and pulled a door open, and down another set of stairs he went, flicking on an overhead light that buzzed angrily at the end of the stairs. The Crewman glanced up at it and sneered, but kept on into the small room with equally loud generator whirring in the corner.

There was a bench, a small metal pipe attached to a tube plugged into a tank. There was a sink, a rack of glass tubes, a stack of plastic dishes. It was, well, a lab. Droog hadn’t used it for a while, no need to make anything, no desire to create.

But for the type of revenge he wanted, Droog would need to. Diamonds Droog was and would always be a sadist, and he knew how to make people suffer. He couldn’t and wouldn’t start a war, no. That was for another day. He’d take them apart some other time. But to hell if he was going to let Die get away with what he’d done, if he’d let them keep his hat without some sort of warning.

The Felt wouldn’t know what hit them.

He kept in touch on his phone while working, and the mobster stayed underground for days on end, culturing and testing, a mask over his face, gloves to his elbows. Droog was by no means a professional, nor a scientist, but he’d learned. And he had a talent for certain things, one of those was creating death and destruction. He outdid himself, worked until his head swam and he slept in a chair waiting for cultures to grow.

When it was done, he mixed it carefully into a small, clear bag, zipped it shut and slipped it into his pocket. Burners turned off, generator shut down, Droog stepped back up the stairs, rubbing his eyes, and shot a text to Meenah.

How did you learn to play pool?

Wed, 01 May 2013 20:39:31 -0400

Ah, excellent question.
My mentor sat me down in a pool hall when I was twenty. He gave me thirty dollars and said that if I wanted to make rent for my new apartment, I was to get it from playing pool.
Pool is math and thought, yes, but it is also feel. I had to learn to hustle very quickly.

A good game of pool will get you pretty far in this business. Men talk over pool and drinks.

What would you do if a pigeon crapped on your hat?

Wed, 01 May 2013 20:10:34 -0400

Send it to Mr. Anatol to have it cleaned.
Fucking pigeons.

What do you do to relieve boredom on a stakeout?

Wed, 01 May 2013 20:07:32 -0400

Smoke. Take someone along. Crosswords. Read the papers. Make sure my gun is clean and ready to fire.

Does Droog ever bother fawning over celebrities of any kind? If so, who?

Wed, 01 May 2013 20:06:10 -0400

Only impressed by performances; if there’s an attraction, I would much rather go out and find someone to take that attraction out on rather than fawn doe-eyed over someone I will never meet.
I can say I am a fan of Duke Ellington, and in terms of more imported media, Adele is enjoyable.

World Building Wednesday

Wed, 01 May 2013 19:58:46 -0400

World Building Wednesday:

[please because im in class and stressing out]

What does family mean to Droog?

Wed, 01 May 2013 19:44:52 -0400

Family means quite a bit to me. I don’t reveal much about my own, but family is something that should be respected and protected.

Could you describe Droog's tattoos please?

Wed, 01 May 2013 17:48:00 -0400

[[Wiggles because I’m currently drawing them.]]
The most prominent one is black and red, across his mid back. There is a vibrant red diamond shape in the center, with a trout jumping and colored in all red with deep red waves below it. A trout for a symbol from a story his uncle told him when he was young, red fish for Swedish Fish, his favorite thing to eat, and red waves deep, the color of blood. Behind that are a crossed cuestick and tommy gun, his preferred tools of the trade which were also passed down from his uncle. On either side, between the cross of weaponry, is a D, mirrored perfectly so that there are two, for his name and his moniker. And surrounding the letters are filigree to fill in the space and give it a classic 1920’s tattoo look.

He is still debating what he will put over the six that was carved in his back, but he is currently toying with the idea of a lotus or a star [the conversation about what it will be has yet to be Rped vuv <3].

It's World Building Wednesday: Ask me Headcanon Questions!

Wed, 01 May 2013 17:41:04 -0400

It's World Building Wednesday: Ask me Headcanon Questions!

=> Be late. As usual.

Wed, 01 May 2013 17:13:35 -0400

adisconcertingogle:

He smiles. More than anything, Pickle smiles. He takes a look down, at the hardwood flooring, then up the stairs at his door, and decides to go for the latter. The key to his personal room jiggles a couple times, the lock pops and so does the door. The Inspector holds it for Droog, and doesn’t waste time before making coffee. He does have a coffee pot, for emergencies only, such as java-loving guests or the kind of hangover he can’t afford to muddle his way through.

Pickle mixes the coffee with something stronger and hands it off to Droog, presenting it with one hand curled under the mug to cradle it, the other wrapped around its side, all formality and welcoming. He takes a couple swigs of the “something stronger” (gulps, actually) and puts it back into a cupboard, finally bothering to strip out of coat and hat. His coat goes behind his door, his hat very carefully on top of it, and Droog’s is placed softly on the tiny kitchen table.

He doesn’t have anything else to do except for be near Droog, fall into the invited inevitability of closeness that makes his chest tight and his nerves work even though Droog kissed him first, and second. He keeps close, wonders just how badly Droog will hold Alan against him, if he’s going to wake up sore and bloody with a splitting headache. Inspector has to trust that, no, he won’t. That Droog wants something from him that isn’t the usual.

“I…am glad you’re here.” A simple statement as he hovers, light still low in his apartment, but he knows his way around his space and Droog knows his way in the dark. He leans in for a moment to kiss at the edge of Droog’s lips, tipping his head down where he would normally need to lean. “Please stay…?”

Droog peels his own coat off as the water boils, then his jacket. Things move quickly, easily, calmly, and he settles into the feel of the apartment and Pickle and the way he flits around his kitchen making coffee, eyes on his mouth and neck and hands as he takes large drinks from the bottle of spirits. Droog knows things. Like the Inspector’s alcohol tolerance. Like how much he drinks and where he gets his liquor. These things are filed away like a list of Pros against Cons in the back of his mind, carefully evaluating the detective.

So far there are only two cons, and one of them isn’t even Pickle’s doing. Weighted carefully, there is no rationality for Droog to claim he doesn’t want this. There isn’t a thread of him that is able to convince him to stop.

When he’s handed the mug, the Crewman’s fingers linger on Pickle’s, and he takes a nice, long drink. Caffeine and alcohol. It’s a dangerous combination for some, but for them, it’s like nothing. And when the detective leans in, and the Inspector kisses at the corner of his mouth, Droog nearly spills it. It’s been a while since someone’s kissed him like that. And he thinks…that he has never been with someone taller. It’s soft, chaste, and it makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end with how pleasantly different it all is.

“Where else would I go?” he returns, one hand on Pickle’s hip, not urging him to move closer, just holding, just there. He has never before been just there. It’s always fast and hard and motion, fighting for a need or for an end. This is calm water, like the Inspector is calm water, flowing exactly where it needs to be and no more.

fuschiagold: She laughed a little back and shrugged “What can I say it’s just in my nature. On the...

Wed, 01 May 2013 17:03:21 -0400

fuschiagold:

She laughed a little back and shrugged “What can I say it’s just in my nature. On the plus side nomoby gives me grief aboat wearin pants anemone more.” Meenah grinned wide.

“Hmm whale, I do got my fin to the ground, so I know a few.” She tapped her fingers rhythmically on her arm as she considered, squinting up at the cieling past her fuchsia rimmed glasses. All in all Meenah was a street kid when she came to the Crew and had stayed a street kid in some ways, felt pretty well at home there. “I’m gonna assume you want discreet and…whale aboat as trust worthy as those types ever get. I got a name or two.” Meenah finally nodded. “I can get a hold of them for you.”

Droog scoffed. If there was one custom he could never understand, it’s why Crew women were looked down upon for wearing pants. Utility and class are basic aspects of being a mafiosi, pants are classy and useful. He rolled his shoulder and nodded.

“We’ll see. I have a very particular mission in mind…I’ll keep you posted. Good work, Meenah.”

He tipped his hat for her, rolling the cigarette from one side of his mouth to the other. “I have work to do. Have a good evening.”

elias-williams: Vomit, 2011

Wed, 01 May 2013 08:01:47 -0400

elias-williams:

Vomit, 2011

Photo

Tue, 30 Apr 2013 16:02:36 -0400

Photo

Tue, 30 Apr 2013 08:01:51 -0400

Photo

Mon, 29 Apr 2013 16:02:33 -0400

Photo

Mon, 29 Apr 2013 08:02:04 -0400

fuschiagold: Meenahs cardiac pumper felt like it was going to burst out of her chest when Droog...

Mon, 29 Apr 2013 03:37:55 -0400

fuschiagold:

Meenahs cardiac pumper felt like it was going to burst out of her chest when Droog actually complimented her and swelled with pride. To her credit she did try not to look too excited about it. She could gush in private to herself later.

“Little bit.” She admitted. She hadn’t actually thought of it like that when she did it. Meenah had just been so slammed with her own life, the Jolly Roger, and the things Droog had her doing during the reconstruction of HQ, that she had to put other people in charge of the micromanaging to save herself the headache. But like hell she was going to admit those reasons.

“Thanks for the offer.” She said with a genuine grateful smile “So far there ain’t been nomoby I can’t beat up myself that stepped otter line, but if somefin harpoons I’ll let you know. Anyfin else you want me to get done Bossman?”

“Of course you can take care of them yourself. Given your history of beating the living snot out of anyone you dislike.” He gave her a chuckle, to let her know it was in good nature. Tugging a cigarette from behind his ear, Droog shrugged, stuck it between his lips as he considered his needs for the rest of the plan.

“I’ll need some contact with any dealers we have on call. Not insinuating that you’re in association with any of them, I simply have a task for you. Find one that can do some work for me. That would make this easier.”

He looked her over, rubbing his chin softly. “Other than that, no, I do believe I have everything under control.”

fuschiagold: She raised an eyebrow at that but didn’t question him about not telling Slick, she...

Mon, 29 Apr 2013 03:22:31 -0400

fuschiagold:

She raised an eyebrow at that but didn’t question him about not telling Slick, she trusted Droogs judgement impeccably. “Yeah a bait.” Meenah grinned.

“Glad that healed up alright then Boss. I’m not reely under any orders, just doin my normal job. I’ve bounced the liquor shipments to somemoby else though, I wound up realizin that nomoby was takin care of the Jolly Roger while Connie was gone, and I stepped in. Its eatin up a pretty big chunk of my night life life, but one of my fronds that used to work for Connie is kelpin me out here and there.” Meenah explained, shifting her weight to her other foot.

“Other than that though, I’m pretty free. The place doesn’t need constant watchin and I’m not doin the micormanagin’ of the shipments anemone more. Got people doin that for me.”

Droog’s brow raised in very obvious approval. He quirked his mouth up just a hair. The little guppy had grown up, it seemed, from the little troll girl running around and fishing for orders, to a full-fledged shark with her own workers. Only natural, for a kid in the mob, but she did it faster than most.

Almost as fast as Droog himself.

“Been making a name for yourself, I see. Got your own little minions doing your dirty work, taking it easy?” It wasn’t an accusation; the more free time a man in the mob had, the more power he could exert. She’d done well. Whether that was proof of her training or her own personality, he wouldn’t question. “Be careful of that sort of work. If you need extra muscle to keep the johns in line, give me a call, but it sounds as if you have everything under control.”

fuschiagold: Meenah gave him an unhappy pout, the same one she had been giving him since she was...

Mon, 29 Apr 2013 02:55:17 -0400

fuschiagold:

Meenah gave him an unhappy pout, the same one she had been giving him since she was six sweeps. “I ain’t nothin but trust worthy am I? Alright, I won’t pry then. But yeah this is everything.”

She grinned at him when he asked about her injuries and pat her hip where Crowbar had sliced her with her own weapon “Bait of a scar here, but all patched up. Had it healed in a couple of days.” Meenah reassured him “Though it drained me for a few days after that.” She glanced curiously at his leg “How are you doin boss?”

“Mm, will it calm you down a bit to know that Slick don’t even know exactly what I’m doin’? Bet that’ll take some of yer heat offa me, now won’t it?” He sighed, running fingers through his hair and setting his hat back down on his brow.

“Leg’s fine. Back’s taken care of, too. Got that nasty scar covered, just gotta wait for the ink to heal.” He didn’t feel any reason to hide the fact that he had tattoos. Meenah was covered in them, and no one but, well. His victims. A certain detective. A few select good fucks. Had seen them. Or ever would. “Gonna be fine. Lots of work to do. Are you under any current orders?”