Drive Ian home
From Create Your Own Story
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| - | + | The afternoon sun glints off Ian's crisp white tennis shorts as he leans against your car, his polo shirt clinging slightly to his sweat-dampened shoulders. His designer sneakers—spotless despite whatever roadside misadventure stranded him here—tap impatiently against the asphalt. | |
| - | + | "You're an absolute lifesaver," he says, flashing the kind of smile that suggests expensive orthodontics. The leather seats sigh as he settles into your passenger side, radiating a faint scent of cedar cologne and freshly laundered linen. | |
| - | + | Between directing you through winding suburban lanes ("Left at the stone fountain, darling"), he reveals snippets of his life—the law firm partnership, the aborted tennis match with some barrister named Charles, how his vintage Jaguar chose the most inconvenient moment to overheat. His questions about your job feel practiced but sincere, the polite curiosity of someone raised to charm servants and social equals alike. | |
| - | + | The houses grow taller, their wrought-iron gates sprouting security cameras like mechanical blossoms. You pass a Bentley, then a Rolls, each driveway more obscenely manicured than the last. Ian's manicured finger points toward a monstrosity of glass and limestone at the cul-de-sac's end. | |
| - | the | + | "Home sweet home," he chuckles, as if a six-car garage and turreted guest wing were mildly embarrassing quirks. |
| + | |||
| + | The house sprawls across the hill like a sleeping lion—three stories of honey-colored stone, ivy crawling up the columns, a circular driveway big enough for a helicopter. You stop at the gates, and Ian gestures lazily toward the intercom. "Hit that, would you?" | ||
| - | + | You press the button. A clipped, aristocratic voice crackles through: "Yes?" | |
| - | + | Ian leans across you, his cologne—something expensive and woodsy—filling the car. "Geoffrey, you old bastard, it’s me," he barks, laughing. | |
| + | |||
| + | The gates swing open without another word. | ||
| + | |||
| + | As you creep up the drive, Ian turns to you, his eyes bright. "Come in for a drink," he says, like it’s not a request. "Geoffrey makes a lethal martini, and I owe you at least that much." He’s already unbuckling his seatbelt, one hand on the door handle. | ||
| + | |||
| + | You both get out the car and You follow him up the marble steps, half-expecting a butler in a tailcoat to materialize. (He does.) The front door yawns open, revealing a chandelier the size of a small car. | ||
| + | |||
| + | Ian grins over his shoulder. "Welcome to the madhouse." | ||
| - | |||
[[ go in for a drink and check this mansion out ]] | [[ go in for a drink and check this mansion out ]] | ||
Current revision as of 19:55, 18 February 2026
The afternoon sun glints off Ian's crisp white tennis shorts as he leans against your car, his polo shirt clinging slightly to his sweat-dampened shoulders. His designer sneakers—spotless despite whatever roadside misadventure stranded him here—tap impatiently against the asphalt.
"You're an absolute lifesaver," he says, flashing the kind of smile that suggests expensive orthodontics. The leather seats sigh as he settles into your passenger side, radiating a faint scent of cedar cologne and freshly laundered linen.
Between directing you through winding suburban lanes ("Left at the stone fountain, darling"), he reveals snippets of his life—the law firm partnership, the aborted tennis match with some barrister named Charles, how his vintage Jaguar chose the most inconvenient moment to overheat. His questions about your job feel practiced but sincere, the polite curiosity of someone raised to charm servants and social equals alike.
The houses grow taller, their wrought-iron gates sprouting security cameras like mechanical blossoms. You pass a Bentley, then a Rolls, each driveway more obscenely manicured than the last. Ian's manicured finger points toward a monstrosity of glass and limestone at the cul-de-sac's end.
"Home sweet home," he chuckles, as if a six-car garage and turreted guest wing were mildly embarrassing quirks.
The house sprawls across the hill like a sleeping lion—three stories of honey-colored stone, ivy crawling up the columns, a circular driveway big enough for a helicopter. You stop at the gates, and Ian gestures lazily toward the intercom. "Hit that, would you?"
You press the button. A clipped, aristocratic voice crackles through: "Yes?"
Ian leans across you, his cologne—something expensive and woodsy—filling the car. "Geoffrey, you old bastard, it’s me," he barks, laughing.
The gates swing open without another word.
As you creep up the drive, Ian turns to you, his eyes bright. "Come in for a drink," he says, like it’s not a request. "Geoffrey makes a lethal martini, and I owe you at least that much." He’s already unbuckling his seatbelt, one hand on the door handle.
You both get out the car and You follow him up the marble steps, half-expecting a butler in a tailcoat to materialize. (He does.) The front door yawns open, revealing a chandelier the size of a small car.
Ian grins over his shoulder. "Welcome to the madhouse."
