Punks Got Your Heart (Duncan x Reader)

Once Upon This Island

The boat, if you could call this floating death trap that, veered directly towards an empty dock. Rays of light glimmered down on the crystal blue water, slowly seeming to increase the midday heat that already had sweat settling on your brow. Water and sprinkles of light skipped across the newly broken water as the boat continued, sputtering itself towards its destination. This scene was almost beautiful except for the trash that was being cycled through the waves. Wiping the sweat off of your forehead, you inspected what would be your home for, hopefully, the next eight weeks. The island was absolutely gorgeous from a far, a welcomed escape from the city life that littered Canada, the life that you had lived in up until this moment.

    "So, what do you think of it?" A voice asked as an arm reached around your shoulders and a hand grasped your arm. "We started scouting as soon as we got the green light on this season. A  perfect scenic island, within budget of course." As the boat swung directly parallel to the dock, the hands moved to frame the scenery around us. "Total Drama Island." The hands moved with each word spoken, separating themselves further. The sputtering engine cut off and luggage started to be flung onto the dock in front of us. "Hey! Chef! Watch the cargo, man! My hair gel is in those!" Your dad ran off of the boat and began righting the luggage and inspecting for external damage. A loud chortle came from the sturdy older black man that came to stand next to you in your fathers spot. With one hand on his chest and the other on your shoulder, Chef sighed, his chest heaving.

    "I've never seen a man care so much about his hair care." Chef said with a shake of his head. "Probably the reason he does all these insane reality shows." 

    "I was going to bet on clinical narcissism and a need for admiration, but feeding his hair gel addiction is also a good route." You said as you watched Chris McClain, reality show host extraordinaire frantically rifle through his bag. His head snapped up and his finger shot up to point at you.

    "Not. Cool. Kiddo." Chris said as he repacked and stood up. "Now, come on and unload. Chef has twenty one other victims to collect" He rubbed his hands together as Chef helped you unload your two bags and your Burning Fire guitar which you slipped over your shoulder. Chef ruffled your hair that was barely contained in a [bun/ponytail/braids] before boarding the boat once again and setting sail.

    "Okay, so are you finally going to let me in on the plan here, Pops?" You asked as you sat down on a stack of a few of his many suitcases.

    "Twenty two contestants, eight weeks, insanely dangerous and hilarious challenges all for the chance to win $100,000." He said with his voice raising and becoming more dramatic as he spoke. You nodded and turned your head to check the surroundings, noticing a set of cabins off in the distance.

    "Real summer camp vibes, the network likes this kinda stuff now?" You said, reminiscing on all the other wacky shows your dad had hosted/produced.

    "You got that right, and don't you forget you're the lucky ticket here, [Y/N]." He said, grasping your shoulders and shaking them. His eyes locked onto yours and you picked up a glint of what could be described as insanity, but your dad chose to call the "McClain Magic". "The wild card, planted to get intel and knowledge that our cameras here don't pick up." Breaking your fathers gaze, you scanned the island, noticing cameras were hidden quite literally everywhere out in the wilderness. A squirrel got flung from its perch as one ground mounted camera spun around to lock its lens on us.

    "Where's the production team at?" You asked

    "They're finishing setting up the confessional; camera in the outhouse." Chris shrugged as some interns wandered over the dock and started setting up a raft right off of the dock.

    "Dirty place for dirty secrets." You nodded. "Very nice, but please tell me that there are actual bathrooms without actual privacy intruding technology. Especially if you're making me stay in those dipilidated cabins while you're off in your four star trailer." You narrowed your eyes and he laughed, his head thrown back and a hand clasping his chest.

    "Of course, kiddo! We're not that kinda reality show." He chuckled as you kicked off your flip flops, letting your bare feet warm on the decades old wood. "Maybe next season." He elbowed you and laughed before clapping his hands together. "Let's go over your cover one more time." You sighed and began reciting from memory.

    "Hi campers! My name is [Y/N] Connors and I'm 19 from Toronto! I'm here because I couldn't wait to escape my complete narcissist of a father and I'm going to use the $100,000 to buy all inventory of his favourite hair gel line and sink it to the bottom of the ocean." You said, applying a sickly sweet smile and tilting your head as he frowned at you, his brow furrowed in a way over dramatic fashion.

    "You're a punk rocker from Toronto, here to escape the fast paced life that the city provides, and you're gonna kick ass, and you don't care whose." He corrected as you rolled your eyes.

    "Yes, yes, I know. Just glad you didn't make me dye my hair for this stupid identity." You said as a hand landed on your head, patting down the bun, strands off [Y/H/C] coming lose and framing your face. 

    "We do have wigs on hand in case we need to utilise a dramatic breakdown for character development." You scoffed and crossed your arms over your chest. Before you could reply, the unsteady growling of the boat engine broke the idyllic island soundtrack. Your father clapped his hands together and grinned.

    "Showtime!"