It’s a tie between the bootleg Pringles man and the guy he overthrew. I like to think that Reginald and Terrence are both assholes in their own right, but while Reg tries to hide it behind British politeness, Terrence embraces the asshole.
It’s been a while since I animated anything so I wanted to try again. I ran out of time to fix it up though.
bless Schrötters and Millers friendship - they were in California together after Argentina and Jack gave Marcel all kind of advice for the AustinGP - to quote Schrötter: “I’m gonna think of him every damn round”
“ it’s almost time, you know. xehanort is preparing the final vessel. and once this keyblade war is done and over, the lost masters will return. ” the two of them are probably hanging out in the world that never was -- away from where anyone would spy on them. “ can’t wait to get my keyblade back, let me tell ya. ” it’s been a long time, after all. and the return of his keyblade marks the success of his mission, his role completed.
My Ask | My Ko-Fi | My Ao3 | Requests always welcome!
“Mr Drumknott,” came the voice from behind him, and Drumknott turned to regard Mr Willikins as he came up the path toward him, and he raised his chin, shifting slightly on his feet. “Are you here to see his grace?” Mr Willikins was walking up from the gate, toward the service entrance Drumknott had been knocking at. He was a big man, broad-shouldered and with flesh heavy on his body, but Drumknott well-knew the difference between a man who looked fat and idle and a fat man built for war.
Mr Willikins was most plainly of the latter class, no matter the whiteness of his service gloves or the neat tailoring of his suit.
“No, Mr Willikins,” Drumknott said lightly, shifting back slightly to look up at the other man as he blocked the light. He had a tendency to do this, although Drumknott did not believe it was out of especial aggression: it was merely one of the ways in which he did his best to display his dominance over other service staff, clerks included. Drumknott found it rather droll. “I have a missive for her ladyship.”
“She’s out with the dragons,” Willikins said pleasantly. “I can take it for you.” He set out one hand, which was broad and well looked-after, with callouses upon the palm and some of the fingers, and very neatly manicured, clean fingernails. He did not, per se, like Mr Drumknott. The little clerk was fastidious, neat, and particular, which was to be respected, but he had a genuinely unobtrusive nature that made him difficult to look at properly, let alone to really get the measure of him.
When you couldn’t get the measure of a man, you couldn’t trust him.
“No, you can’t,” Drumknott said in an equally friendly tone. “Might you walk me down to the dragon sheds?”
“I might,” Willikins said slowly, with a lingering smile, but his eyes had become just that bit harder, and Drumknott exhaled slightly, leaning forward. “I don’t trust you, Mr Drumknott.”
“Don’t you, Mr Willikins?” Drumknott asked.
“No,” Willikins said, and he took one more step toward him. Under the little porch that overlooked the service entrance, Drumknott was left looking up at Mr Willikins, his shoulders almost back against the closed door, and he inhaled, taking in the scent of Willikins’ subtle cologne. Drumknott didn’t wear any, himself: Lord Vetinari was sensitive to the smells of perfumes and colognes, and none of the staff at the Palace were permitted to wear any, but Drumknott had never especially desired to. He liked the one Willikins wore, though. Subtle, earthy. Precisely the sort of scent one might expect of a gentleman’s gentleman.
Willikins’ eyes were slightly narrowed as he looked down at Drumknott, and he said, “Her ladyship said you delivered a letter last week.”
“I did,” Drumknott said.
“And the week before, you were here with one of the coppers from the Watchhouse.”
“Yes,” Drumknott agreed. His expression was quite neutral, revealing nothing but polite attention, and he could see Willikins’ irritation in his face, see the intensity of his suspicion.
“The Patrician can’t send a more junior clerk for petty message taking?”
“I don’t believe it’s really my place to question what Lord Vetinari can or cannot do, Mr Willikins,” Drumknott said softly.
“Do you know what I think, Mr Drumknott?” Willikins asked, and he took another step forward: his gut, which was both prodigious and prominent, shoved Drumknott back against the door, and he leaned over the little man with a scowl twisting his mouth. “I think you’re a spy.”
“A spy?” Drumknott repeated, apparently uncaring of the fact that Willikins had him pinned back against the door. “You believe, perhaps, I am spying on the Watch Commander on Lord Vetinari’s behalf?”
“You think I should believe otherwise, is it?” Willikins asked, and Drumknott shivered: the butler’s accent, smooth and neatly cultivated, was giving way to an accent more like Drumknott’s own, now, a city boy’s accent, and more than that, a rough boy’s accent. “I ain’t fooled by your prim little secretary’s act, you sneaky little sod.”
“Aren’t you?” Mr Drumknott asked in a whisper.
It happened so quickly that in the aftermath, Willikins didn’t know what to think of it. The clerk moved as fast as shadow, and Willikins was a big man, but regardless of how big a man is, there are pressure points that can cause him agony. He let out a bitten back noise as Drumknott bent his arm hard behind his back, twisting the thumb of the other hand in the same movement—
And then the clerk pulled back, and he laughed.
The little bastard laughed, flitting past Willikins and down onto the path.
Willikins lunged, but Drumknott ducked, and Willikins’ hand grabbed at the crop of slicked-back hair instead of at Drumknott’s throat, but Drumknott’s foot hooked about the back of Willikins’ ankle with surprising strength, using his weight against him and sending him tipping back into the grass.
Drumknott went with him, hauled by his hair, and landed heavily on top of him, straddling the butler, red-cheeked, his glasses askew. He was breathing heavily, and Willikins could feel the sticky slickness of the unguent he wore clinging to his hands, could feel the weight of the younger man straddling his belly. He was heavier than Willikins would have thought, too, from how he looked—
“Yes,” Drumknott agreed as understanding dawned on Willikins’ face. The clerk was apparently uncaring of the indignity of each of their positions, and Willikins stared at him, taking in this new context to the situation.
“Oh,” Willikins said.
Judging by how quick he was, Drumknott probably could have struggled away, especially given how hard it was to keep a hold of Drumknott’s hair with the brilliantine thick on it, but when Willikins turned them over to pin Drumknott back into the grass, the clerk went over. Willikins’ knees rested in the grass either side of his hips, not putting his full weight on him, and he grabbed for Drumknott’s hands, pinning them each above his head.
“I can feel your comb pressed against my thigh,” Drumknott said.
“That’s not my comb,” Willikins said.
“Yes, it is,” Drumknott said.
“It was a joke, you little cad. An inducement.”
“I don’t need inducement, Mr Willikins. You might kiss me, if you like, but I should be quick, for I really ought be back at the Palace withi—”
Willikins wasn’t of the belief that everything needed to be talked about. He leaned down and caught Drumknott’s mouth under his own, kissing him hard, and he felt Drumknott’s mouth against his own. The clerk was not yielding: for all of Willikins’ aggression, he met it in kind, and when they drew back from one another, Drumknott’s mouth was kiss-bruised, his lips shining with wetness.
“I’ll take the message,” Willikins said.
Mr Drumknott smiled, his dark eyes full of manufactured innocence. “What message?” he asked.
Willikins wrenched his head to the side by the hair, and Drumknott actually let out a noise, now, a satisfying yelp that made Willikins’ cock give a jolt of interest, his hands grabbing at the butler’s shoulders and uselessly trying to shove him off as Willikins sucked a hard mark at the very top of his neck, where it adjoined his jaw. He didn’t pull back until the bruise had blossomed, dark red in its place and obvious, too far above Drumknott’s high collar to be hidden by it.
Drumknott was breathing heavily when Willikins made to crawl off, but his hand whipped out, catching Willikins’ wrist and shoving up his shirt cuff with the other hand. He didn’t just suck a lovebite into place, but really bit, and Willikins hissed at the quick nip of teeth against the inside of his wrist, just above the heel of his hand. The red marks were plain, although they didn’t break the skin, and Willikins knew they’d leave a bruise. His shirt cuffs should hide them… mostly.
“Bastard,” Willikins said.
Drumknott looked a mess. His hair, usually neatly coiffed back from his head with a perfectly straight parting in the centre, was an absolute mess, and his suit was ruffled. Willikins was dimly aware he likely didn’t look much better himself: he knew this, for the most part, from the satisfied look on Drumknott’s face even as he drew a comb from some inner pocket, fixing his hair.
“You made up reasons to come?” Willikins demanded, aware that his voice was a little huskier than usual, and he noted the way Drumknott’s body language shifted, the way his chin tipped slightly back.
“That romance, is it?” Willikins asked, arching an eyebrow as he ran his comb through his own hair.
“I must back to the Palace,” Drumknott said quietly, taking a step back. “Are you free tonight, Mr Willikins?”
“Free as an eastern breeze,” Willikins said, and when Drumknott turned, his gaze flitted down from the back of Drumknott’s head, to his loose-fitting trousers… He had to wonder what exactly the loose lines of his suit were hiding, when it came to Drumknott’s body. He was heavier than he looked, certainly, but his shape…
