#deadmxnsparty ( garret )

[bruisedconscience]

Pump Up the Volume - Irving & Garret (deadmxnsparty)

[awanderingselkie]

[ STRADDLE ] from Garret!!

𝐍𝐒𝐅𝐖 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒.

Oliver hated the summers in New York. He hated a lot of things about the city, frankly, but the summer time was the worst. It was the height of mating season, the heat inside his body making his skin crawl and his mood sour. The heat outside and the humidity made his clothes stick to him, the smell from the streets became thick with rotting garbage and human stink, and the tourists flooded in in droves. The locals were easy to handle, no one bothered anyone or even really made eye contact half the time, but the tourists set his teeth on edge.

It was good for business, good for hunting, and horrendous for his mood.

Garret's penthouse was an oasis of quiet in the cacophony. His relationship with him was the closest he'd had to a friendship with a human in some time, he was tolerable (even if his dog wasn't), and there was a blessed, blessed pool. So he'd essentially moved himself in, taking to spending his evening in his air conditioned, nicely scented, living room.

He lounged deep into his couch, casually flipping through a novel he'd read perhaps a dozen times by now, when Garret made his entrance. Had he been home long? Did he just come back? Oliver didn't know, didn't care, just cocked his brow as his host unceremoniously took the book out of his hands and straddled his lap.

"...I was reading that," he said simply, his voice flat despite his interest. After all, it was that time of year...

[bulletballetarchive1]

@deadmxnsparty​   said   :   " god, your taste in music is terrible. " from Garret?

          Atlantic Starr’s “When Love Calls” plays from the club’s speakers. It’s a slower song. A laid back melody that doesn’t provoke too many to get up and dance. It is also a song that hasn’t been relevant in the last eleven years, but that means little to Sal.

          Firmly planted in his booth with Garret, he lets cigar smoke ease out his mouth. His manner is anything but relaxed. Sal doesn’t have his head so far up his ass that he would declare himself a connoisseur of music. With the old stuff, he’s never given Mozart or Beethoven a chance. And with the newer stuff, he won’t give them a chance purely based on their names. Backstreet Boys? C’mon, the band manager coulda done better than that. Hell, he still doesn’t know any fucking thing about The New Kids On The Block, let alone how many kids there are.

        Rick James? Bozz Scaggs? Those were his kind of guys. Donna Summer? Teena Marie? Sal would’ve killed to take just one of those ladies out on a date before dutifully wearing his wedding ring. He’s not dumb to the fact the singers he held dear have lost their relevancy on the youth. Nick and Cass personally prefer that rap shit, which - if he gave a chance, could have brought in a younger, fresher crowd. But Sal’s fifty-two this year. He’s at a point where he’s firmly stuck in his ways.

        So, it goes without saying that slick comments like Garret’s didn’t fly well. 

         “Who’re you, huh?” Sal knows who Garret is. As an individual. As a worker. But who was he in the bigger picture of things? Fuckin’ nobody, as far as Sal is concerned right now. 

         “My club, my rules.” He coolly says, but irritation hangs in his eyes. “Don’t like it? Fuck outta here...”

[tcpimpabutterfly]

THE KIDNESS OF STRANGERS 

Status: Accepting 

@deadmxnsparty​ said: “ I think we — switched orders ” from Garret to Munroe!

            Maybe this was his karma for never coming to pick up his own coffee and always sending his assistants to do it for him. It’s not like he knew much about the world of fast coffee anyway, always giving vague descriptions like, “Get me something with caramel that’s not too sweet” whenever the challenge of ordering was brought to him. So, it was no surprise when he went for a cup that was left unattended on the counter mistaking it for his. “Well, yours just looked so appealing I couldn’t resist.” He defended himself with a chuckle, outstretching his arm with the drink to return to its owner. “Don’t worry I didn’t slip out of it or poison it, but if you’re weary I can always buy you another one.”

[dxsole]

@deadmxnsparty​ | It’s Murder— Tea Time!

“Aren’t the cook’s nice? They’re always nice to me at least.” Yasmin murmurs between bites of...well, the chef had called it a teacake but it just seemed like a fruit bread to her. Ah, well, she’s not well-versed in the culinary arts like they are. She could barely even afford the food served at the restaurant she worked at; the only reason she got to taste anything was because she had made good with the cook staff.

She also figured Garret wouldn’t mind having extra snacks for tea time. “Apparently, you’re supposed to have these with tea so it’s pretty perfect.” She nods, daintily dabbing crumbs from her lip before continuing. “I’ve got a new one— New number, new guy.” It may sound difficult to juggle so many personalities all over the phone, but Yasmin seemed to have a firm handle on it; she clearly enjoyed being the perfect listener to so many. “He’s actually real sweet. A lot better than some of these snobby ones.” Her nose wrinkles as she thinks about it. 

“At least...he sounds nice. I don’t wanna get my hopes too high and regain my faith in humanity. A lot of them started out good too.” And then they got comfortable; told her things they shouldn’t have, about the bad things they did, said, wanted to do. Eventually, they start to see her as only a voice, as if the things they shared, the way the objectified and used her wouldn’t really matter. 

It’s a vicious cycle that just ends with her never calling again— You can’t call a dead number after all.

[bruisedconscience]

@deadmxnsparty​ liked for a stabby starter 

Sometimes, people had to talk to him for a bit first before Victor realized they needed saving. Sometimes people were Sionis’ business partners or one of the man’s lovers, sometimes they were a little too young or they were on their way to take care of their material baggage themselves, shuffle off their mortal coils on their own terms. Usually, Victor could respect that. Like that girl he’d slashed low across his neck for. 

Sometimes, people seemed too...eerily settled. They knew where they were going, not just that day or that minute, but in general; they were so sure that they could be content and at peace in their empty-ass lives, shambles of people walking around, zombies with fake hearts and shallow souls. 

And Victor had somebody like that walk by him, head high and important, and Victor just felt it. He just felt this guy needed to be set free from whatever the fuck his life was. So Victor started after him. It was dark, but the streets weren’t deserted. There’s a glance back as he’s rounding a corner, Vic surely about to be found out, but he was faster, his knife already out, and he found a spot at their back so easily, right against their kidney, probably piercing it as they started to struggle. Fuck, they were tall. Victor tightened his grip over their shoulder, about to wrap his arm around theirs in case they had their own weapon they were reaching for. 

Vic had been pepper-sprayed three times in the past. He thought he’d learned after the first time, and then the second, and then he’d started working out and the third was a matter of underestimation rather than indolence insolence. 

[bruisedconscience]

The talk seemed to have gone over…a little less well than Irving had hoped it would. Well, hoped… He didn’t have much personal connection or feelings about whatever happened while he was on the clock, but he knew that She didn’t want to have to make the time and come talk with this guy. So hopefully the heavy sedative and the threats he’d gotten were good enough. Stay back. Here’s a complimentary needle broken off, wedged up beneath your finger nail.

Irv had never been given that particular punishment reminder, and he actively worked toward never needing to receive it. They’d gotten some of the guy’s blood on his shoes, so Irving had to trash one of his favorite pairs of loafers. Shame. She liked his loafers…

He found himself in his socks at the other end of the club, avoiding people’s heavy footfalls with a harder, nicer whiskey to tide him over for the road. He’d have to make his way outta here, soon. Business as usual. Another job done…

And that person with the long hair from earlier was still around. Hm… Irving pretended to not see them just yet, his Bluetooth idling in his ear as he sweat from the heat of the club and finished his liquor.

Pump Up the Volume - Irving & Garret (deadmxnsparty)

[bruisedconscience]

The cigarette went away, and Irving couldn’t help pick apart the similarities and differences that motion had compared to Her. He didn’t think about Her every time somebody smoked around him, but sometimes, with nails like that… Well, he couldn’t help what images his brain jumped to. What he could control, however, was what he did with or thought of them, and he decided to not waste a minute more of this person’s time.

“Is’at so?” Irving crowed, smiling that small, trustworthy smile again. He turned back around and picked up his fru-fru drink in his martini glass, finished it politely—he didn’t have to knock it back like a whiskey just to prove something—and set it back down against the bar.

“Well you have been very helpful,” he said to this individual. Irving reached into his inside jacket pocket again and removed a business card held between index and middle finger extended it to them and made a gesture with it the same as he’d done with the lighter, a jovial “eh?” tumbling from his lips. “I think I’m gonna go freshen up in the little boys’ room before I head on up an’ go see him. Thanks again.”

Irving stood from the bar leaving his empty drink behind, not sure if this was the sort of place where a few bucks left under the glass would ever see the bartend or not, so he kept his tips for himself. He did make his way toward the restroom, and clicked a button on his Bluetooth earpiece to make a call while doing his business.

“Hello,” he greeted the operator on the other end. “Eh heh,” he said. Zip. “He’s upstairs.” Rustle. “No, I haven’t seen him with my own peepers yet, but from what I remember, that wasn’t the plan.” Release. Relief. “Eh heh.” He paused, eyebrows knitting together at the graffitied tiles in front of him. Apparently, he was supposed to call Mike for a good time. He just might. “Eh heh…” a more disappointed sound. “No, no reason. I suppose I’ll head on up, then. Will this be a family affair?”

Meaning, was he going to have back-up with munitions. Zip. Over to the sink to wash his hands.

“No, I don’t think a guy who wears sequins leggings is gonna be packin’ an AR-15 in there. You want me to treat him like he does?” The operator was getting smart with him, making jokes, but Irving had done his search and report, and that was all the deal was. “F’you want me to chat this guy up, I’ll do it, but I’m just saying…I’ll need approval from Her, and I don’t think She’d appreciate gettin’ bothered about something so small like this this time of year, eh?” She was always so busy and there was no…paper towel dispenser. Just that germ ridden space heater that looked like a pasty white ass set into the wall. Irving grumbled a sigh out and opened the bathroom door up again with his wet hand.

Pump Up the Volume - Irving & Garret (deadmxnsparty)

[bruisedconscience]

Thankfully, that hadn’t ended the conversation right there. Irv remembered the time he’d asked some person with a shaved head their pronouns, and his teeth had cut into the inside of his lip pretty hard after their fist was done with him. But he could handle getting banged up by those who were insecure. Better to be safe than sorry with these things. 

He/him, as well. Lovely. Irv’s gaze skittered down to follow their hand, taking in the outfit and the skin glistening lightly with the heat of all these bodies around. Irving still had his suit jacket on — he wanted to look presentable. 

“You mean nibbles from the bar,” he said over the music before leaning a bit closer to the stranger, his eyebrows quirked suggestively, “or d’you wanna change of scenery?” A few alarm bells were going off in his head, but they were dull and incredibly distant. If this guy was gonna pick his brain for more intel about their conversation from earlier, Irv would brush it off as smoothly as he could. Possibly focus more on them. He wondered how much he was expected to focus on them. She probably wouldn’t mind Irving socializing a little, since he’d gotten his assignment done for Her tonight, and all. 

Pump Up the Volume - Irving & Garret (deadmxnsparty)

[bruisedconscience]

@deadmxnsparty​ 

He made sure to never look too out of place anywhere he went. In the city or the suburbs–the places he often roamed the most–it wasn’t unlikely to see a guy smartly dressed in a caramel-colored suit, with aviator specs and a bluetooth lodged into his ear.

For a club like this… Well, he played it off like he’d just got off work. The truth being, of course, that was actively on the clock, looking for a person that had wronged The Boss one too many times and now needed to be warned off during their private life. This had gotten a little too personal for Her, so She’d sent in him.

Irving stayed by the bar and got himself a tiny, colorful drink in a martini glass to tide himself over, attentive, his so-brown-they’re-black eyes scanning the crowd for his assignment. His thick, dark moustache was just visible above the rim of the dainty drink.

Pump Up the Volume - Irving & Garret (deadmxnsparty)

[bruisedconscience]

Irv wasn’t easily startled, but he wasn’t a stone-cold killer, either. So beneath the sound of the heavy bass, making his skull vibrate and starting to give him one of those migraines, he heard the thud of a solid punch. None of it was his business, though, so he didn’t go looking around for answers. 

And then that person from the bar was there, again, shaking out their hand to get the sting of red knuckles to go away. Small world. 

“Hey,” Irving said, giving them a smile. Oh... “Maybe.” He pushed his almost-empty whiskey over, close to the edge of the table, and folded his hands nicely in front of him, relatively clean and worn out only from years of automobile repair. He needed to figure this out before they continued, so he raised his voice enough to be heard over the cacophony around them. 

“Pardon me for being forward, but what pronouns d’you use?” Irv set his hand over his heart. “I’m a he/him kinda guy, myself...” Mostly. This way, he wouldn’t shit all over this person’s...identity. That was the word She used. Identity. 

Irving didn’t really have one of those. 

Pump Up the Volume - Irving & Garret (deadmxnsparty)

[bruisedconscience]

Hearing the endearments tossed back his way, Irving gave them a smile, slight and professional but kind, with his eyebrows raised up. He could stretch his age as far as 55 and as low as 30, for whatever the circumstances at any given time needed. He was all right with being 35 or so tonight.

His eyes track the hand as it moves, a snake keeping track of its prey, but the moment wasn’t sudden. Just ordinary. Their outfit was entirely unordinary and a bit inspiring, really. Irving never undid more than three buttons on his shirt for walking-around purposes, but he might start if that’s what it looked like on somebody like this.

Oh, good. “Knew I asked the right person,” he mirrored with a playful smirk, readjusting in his chair to look out over the crowd with them. “Ah, lemme see… Where to start…”

Their name had nearly smeared off his hand by now, just the first initial visible and the rest a long smudge over his palm if you managed to catch a glimpse of it.

“I won’t give away his name,” he said over the music, clear and a bit authoritative, knowledgeable, “but he’s got shaggy black hair and a piercing right here.” He point to his own right eyebrow, at the outside. “Not sure what he’s wearing… Probably some glittery pastel bullshit.” He glanced down their frame at their outfit again and decided to amend his statement with another easy lie, briefly splaying his fingertips out across his heart. “His words, of course. Not mine.”

Pump Up the Volume - Irving & Garret (deadmxnsparty)

[bruisedconscience]

Irving didn’t mind getting up close and personal with people. He often did so as a form of intimidation or persuasion—whichever was needed at the time. He had a few pet peeves, like people who bitched and moaned about something they had no control over, but so long as nobody got on his nerves, he could be buddy-buddy wherever.

Including with this person with long, strikingly orange hair. He’d learned over the years to not assume anybody’s pronoun. It was something She had carved into his personality, alongside the scarification tattoo on his thigh. They’d spoken up but just barely, the pounding bass line nearly drowning out their inquiry, but Irving managed to catch everything with his unoccupied ear.

“Young man?” he echoed, jovial, with his thick Bronx accent front and center, “Honey, I’m facing forty,” he was facing fifty and a pathological liar, “and I don’t smoke.” That sure was a winning smile, though. Irving reached up and dug around in an inside pocket of his blazer. “But, lucky for you, my boss is always askin’ me for this or that, so I’ve got a light here for you. Keep it, eh?” He offered it as he spoke, a little jab into the air with the tiny Bic. He’d restock later. “And hey, if you know any mensturating persons around that need anything, I got that, too.” He patted his exterior breast pocket, even though all that held was a handkerchief.

This person didn’t look anything like his mark. Hair wrong length, wrong color. Wrong style of dress. “You come ‘round here often? I’m lookin’ for a friend o’ mine, but I ain’t got their number.”

Pump Up the Volume - Irving & Garret (deadmxnsparty)