Lemon Pledge

January 06, 2018:

Sugar stops by the SKWAD pad in hopes to find Taskmaster and instead, round two with Regan! (NSFW, NC-17, Don't read if tender!)

Gotham Arms - 6th Floor

Characters

NPCs: None.

Mentions: Taskmaster

Plot:

Mood Music: [*\# None.]


Fade In…

What time of day is it? It doesn't matter if it's morning or night. Living on reverse-vampire hours has kept the wayward, now devoid of most of her roommates Lady Mastermind keeping the strangest hours and sleeping off the rest. The apartment has been a mess for well over a week, covered in hidden shards of broken glass and bottles left on the kitchen counters.

Regan Wyngarde…doesn't clean. She's left a pair of black boots lined with Finnish Fox fur outside of her door, and has been pulling them on like snow boots just to go out to the kitchen.

The door to Regan's room cracks open.

For long minutes, Regan watches with quieted interest. Dressed in a pair of simple, black boyshorts that hug the swell of her backside in creamy half-moons and a shredded tee shirt, ripped along the backs with gaping sides to hide her lack of bra during her FOURTH consecutive day of staying indoors…she watches. She really should help. Regan /should/ help. After all, Sugar doesn't LIVE at this place.

With a frown, Regan combs her fingers through her long, blonde hair, turns to a mirror to double-check her eye makeup and how well her flat-iron job is holding in place today, then swings her door open with a grunt.

Regan Wyngarde tugs those calf-height boots onto her feet and stomps out towards Sugar, passing her in a room so loud that she can't hear her own bitchy thoughts towards the mercenary /intern/, and helps…

…by moving the sofa out of the way of her vacuum and hopping onto it, waiting for her to clean the space beneath it.

There is a determination in those pale eyes - narrowing when the couch moves without her own gesture…

Sugar is in a 'modified' mechanic's top, one that rises high upon thighs clas in 'netting', the name on the patch of 'Nametag?'
'Puta Muerte'?

Death. Bitch.

Welcome to the Cleaning Service?

Regan's show of Life is something that gains the Hammer-Head a white knuckled grip and a set in jaw while she is still watching, waiting… Taskmaster has disappeared and her IRE is surmounting!

The sweeps of vacuum are with more jerk'd motions and when the couch shifts and Regan is watched in her saunter to 'move' and then /claim/ the furnishing…
… in her way…

Sugar sidles up to the furnishing, a 'net-clad hip perk'd upon the arm rest and the Hammer is clicked off.

"Sleep well?" A small smirk offered the blondes way as hair tipped in tiny skull bone beads is fklicked over her shoulder and she rises…
… slowly.

A hand hooks beneath the arm of the couch…

Move bitch, get out 'da way!! May as well pay from the Third-World Boom Box as the couch is meant to be sent into a flip with Regan aboard!

Hammer….
… ON. Sweep sweep. Puta.

Daintily, with expert balance, Regan swings one leg over the other to cross her legs and balance on the edge of the sofa. The two slender, oversized stems bounce now that she's got Sugar's attention, and the look on her face is not one iota afraid of the weapon in her hand that could turn Regan's skull into a wind tunnel. She traps her tongue between her teeth and tilts her ruby lips at the edges, waggling her plucked brow-line in a grin that's so pleased with herself for actually /HELPING/ THE HELP.

But why does Death Bitch not look so happy about it?

Regan, seeking to liven the mood of the room, dips her shoulders from side to side, butt-dancing on the edge of the sofa. She snaps her fingers, then fans her painted nails towards the hand cannon. P-shaw. Not needed.

"You know what? I did!" Regan gushes, straightening her back and primping the fabric of her ripped shirt to cover more of her breast than it would at the angle Sugar's coming in from. It's about kinda flashing, not actually flashing. "I woke up about an hour ago and haven't looked outside yet, but it looks really gray and stupid nasty out there. Oh!-" Regan reaches out for Sugar's hair. "I loooove these…"

The couch lifts.

Regan? Shrieks. The high-pitched squeal bounces off of the walls. The sound, so feminine, so fresh out of college, truly would have no place in a den of mercenaries if not for the fact that her kill count is higher than most enlisted Marines and undercover DEA operatives.

Her balance up-ended, her four-hundred dollar snow boots kick through the air beside Sugar's head as the delicate perch of the sofa's back isn't enough to keep Regan on. Two half-exposed butt cheeks and waves of hay-colored blonde hair flail ass over tea kettle onto the other side of the sofa.

Regan bounces once, rolling onto her side at the end of her tumble down onto the carpet. She lies there, staring at the busted television set, ass to the wind, and drumming her fingernails against the floor with a huff.

"Okay, fine, bitch." Regan does a push-up, rises to her feet, and walks over to Sugar with a glare in her eyes. "What the FUCK was that for!?!" Regan yells at the woman. "I was HELPING YOU. GAWWW-"

Regan lifts her knee to her chest for a kick, that scurries wide. The angle? Horrible. Sugar's hips are more than a feet to the right, and Regan couldn't wish upon a falling star to hit Sugar with such a poorly-aimed kick.

The canister filled with dust bunnies on the back of the vacuum, however?

*CHUNK*
*WHIIIIIIRRRRRRR*
*POOOOOFFFFFFFFFFFFFF*

For the first time, it snows in the apartment.

It snows…dust.

The looks from Regan, the smirk on her lips. The Haughty way she plops into place and reposes as if 'Above' her??

In no way is ??Puta Blanca// -above- Izel Caballero… Sugar to her… Bitch!

The fingers sweep through her extensions, but a craning snap of neck comes to 'fan' them away from fingertips (it seems) placed in condescension, narrowing the ink-lined /leer/ upon Regan as that couch is lifted and hefted with an unseen flex of upper body that twists with the motion to send hay, ass, kettle, feminine exposure into the room while the vacuum comes to power down at a kick Sugar is rocking away from only to have it bring her …. Consuela… Skills to a clean reset.

"Oh."
"For."
"Fucks…"

The words uttered through clenched teeth that flash where skeletal grin should remain. It is no wonder she is Taskmaster's 'Henchie'.

The disposable bucket for reuse is caught while the lid, filter, and contects go flying.

"Fuck Yo Couch!" Sugar is down-swinging upon Regan with that dust-bucket in a pivot through dust-cloud.

It is a wild flail but she is tossing her body into it!

"Ha-ha! Fuckurrr."

The snarky, defiant sound comes out of Regan's mouth after the kick to the vacuum's tank. Leave it to a bitchy, little blonde fireplug to fight a taller, stronger woman by pissing all over her housecleaning work.

Surrounded by a cloud of dust, Regan winks a delicately mascara-lined eye towards Sugar. She sucks in a breath and puffs out her cheeks as the dust billows about them. She lifts the backs of her hands with a playful rocking of her hips, dancing in place as both of her middle fingers come up, telling Sugar to go fuck herself with little, purple lotus flowers drawn over her black fingernails.

Regan may be weaker, but she's agile.

Holding her breath, the flat streams of her platinum blonde hair swing into the cloud of dust. She side steps the overhead katana strike of the dustbin, pressing her backside into the backrest of the sofa for balance. Her lithe, leggy body rocks backwards, then forwards, to send her meager weight towards Sugar with a continuation of their last scrap in mind.

Regan reels back with her arm, swinging it in a straight-armed slap towards Sugar's face. Pairing it with a lunge to spear the Hispanic mercenary through the cloud of dust towards the tile floor, Regan has come to the point of enough.

Sugar wants to fight?

Regan's not going to lie down and take it.

Sugar… Is one to appreciate such things, as she is the same. Pa trained her as such, and when one's 'Pa' is basically Major Cartel Lord, who trades her for…
… this shit??

She has a right to be pissed! Sorry Regan, but you are the proverbial 'punching bag' of aggro since 'T' is nowhere to be found and this was all she was left with, the only pulse? Regan's.

Sugar underestimates no one, you may look Barbie Girl - Barbie World - Manicure and All! Giving her the finger on both hands!

The canister shatters against empty carpeted ground, plastic shards scattering into the haze around them, fishnet thighs clad in straps and inked in lineage as well as 'statements' exposed with the bend and hike of tattered shorts. Grey outside has nothing on how Clouds just fell inside!

The slap impacts Sugar's cheek, smearing over makeup and reddening the skin beneath while it sends her jaw to the side, but a hand rises to seek at grappling Regan's wrist, not holding, but spinning her body in a over-compensated follow through and thrust! that seeks to send her body careening across the carpet(burn!).

Tonge to cheek, tasting copper Sugar smiles to narrow the set of her eyes even as she finds her as *hop-screech(skin)-jumping* across tile into a bar that CRACKS! with impact.

There's a distance between them perhaps, but the island bar door splintered is gripped, unhinged…

"You wanna go Blanca? First blood, after… now…" A spit to the side and tile is spattered in pink mottle.

Regan Wyngarde doesn't have a talent for poison, but the resounding clap of her palm against Sugar's cheek is filled to the brim with venom. There's no greater attack meant to demoralize and establish dominance as a good, old-fashioned slap to the face, and between women? Oh, it's only worse if someone either of them want to impress is in the room.

Which there isn't, but Regan always wants to impress herself, and slapping a bitch in the mouth always makes her feel better…

…until she's being thrown onto her ass to grind her neck and shoulder into the carpet in a rug-burn that feels like fire. The alarmed squeak from the blonde turns into a pained groan for the duration of her uncomfortable floor ride. The top layer of skin is peeled away, flushing her skin red from cheek to shoulder, save for the tiny strip of thread that holds her shirt to her body.

'You wanna go?'

Regan pushes herself up with murder in her lovely, blue eyes. She pounds her fist into the carpet, blowing her hair away from her eyes. The dust coalesces about her body as she reaches behind her head and wraps her blonde hair up in a loose knot.

"You bet your housekeeping-for-life ass I wanna go, Puta." Regan spits a word out in Sugar's language, curling her lips over her teeth. "Is it not abundantly fucking clear to you that I'm the last one standing? That this is my house now? that everyone, even your boss, have scurried off to their little solitude caves and left me to keep an eye on it and /your/ substandard ass?" Regan swings her arms wide, throwing the onus of being left behind away from herself and onto Sugar.

"It's just you and me, and I call seniority." Regan hisses. "So I'm gonna hurt you, and then you're gonna clean all of this shit up while I shower the ass off of my hair."

Deflecting the burden of loneliness in herself, Regan turns and storms over to an overturned chair. She plants her delicate heel against the edge and rips off the leg of the chair, then turns to diminish the distance between them, preparing to swing at Sugar's knee.

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