#drunken bar brawler

[girl4music]

Can somebody please do a gifset of Waverly in the bar brawl already. I’m fucking dying to see that again. And I can’t because the special isn’t released in the UK yet.

[prickly-paprikash]

My favorite thing about every single Belmont in Netflix's Castlevania and Nocturne?

Every single initial appearance radiates sad, pathetic energy.

Trevor's bar fight scene was equal parts hilarious and disheartening. This is the Last Belmont? A legendary clan of Vampire Hunters, reduced to a drunken brawler who gets his nuts kicked in so many times?

Julia Belmont? Bodied by hot, gay Dragon Daddy Olrox while her son watches. He brings the direct Belmont line down to two, and traumatizes the kid so hard he has ED—Enchantment Dysfunction until he becomes an adult.

Richter? Yeah! Literally has to have his first true core memory be his mom be fucking owned by the sexiest god damn bloodsucker in history. Little bro's canon event was to watch his mama be crushed.

Juste? Sure his entrance is cool, but then we realize he's also suffering from ED, he sucks at this whole grandfather thing, his wife and bestie killed, and he could never even confront his own blood over the death of his fucking daughter.

I love the fact that every single Belmont makes the worst first impressions. Regardless of sex or gender or age. They just fucking suck when introduced.

[emyluwinter]

You have been waiting for a long time, many have asked.

And finally…

*dramatic pause*

*drum sounds and intro*

°˖✧◝(⁰▿⁰)◜✧˖° CONTINUATION OF THE SILVER BULLET!!🎉🎉🎉🎉

*throws candy, confetti around*

It's just a pity that the author of AU deleted his account. I hope they're all right.

I apologize that you had to wait so long. (as much as a whole year! And give or take a couple of months. Well, better late than never at all) Ahahaha.

I hope you enjoy it as well as the first part, enjoy!

⸜(⸝⸝⸝´꒳`⸝⸝⸝)⸝

A few agonizing weeks of ghostly unknown after the attack on the Silver Bullet Bar.

The whole city was overwhelmed by a pressing, unnatural tension, seeping into every crack or forgotten speck of dust lost among the furniture. Unpleasant, compressing, like a prickly chill penetrating to the bones and settling somewhere in the stomach with a heavy load. From the unbearable pressure floating in the air, it was possible to turn on the entire light bulb factory when it was completely de-energized. No one dared once again to be near the paths of the thugs or the leaders of the mafia houses. Both old and new.

Civilians, the unfortunate ones who managed to stay in such a place, went out as little as possible to keep their safety and peace. Away from the eyes of angry minds and aching chained hearts of mafia people. People who have turned into a wild unbridled force, turning their souls into the likeness of monsters that thirst for revenge, blood and cutting. If earlier they held their territories in unshakable respect and fear, now it was a regime of terror and chaos. The rules became stricter, more tyrannical, insane and ridiculous. The brutal curfew imposed on civilians hardly gave out a grain of hope for the sun's rays in this hopeless dark storm.

The policemen, whose fate was more unenviable, were stunned as just one attack on a neutral territory alarmed the entire criminal world, like an overturned bottle with settled sediment, turning the pure exquisite contents into a completely muddy and unimaginable brew. Many who had a head on their shoulders wrote a statement on the same day and fled the city, capturing their families in a hurry. People who knew what price, no, pricelessness has only one person in the whole district, a modest, ordinary worker, understood. One scratch can lead to a couple of good quarrels. One bruise inflicted by a drunken brawler turned into a bloody massacre in the darkness that had never seen the light.

But when there was a rumor that Yuu were badly injured...

Knowledgeable people could understand that this would result in the explosion of not one barrel of oil or dynamite, but a huge powder magazine, engulfing everything around with its uncontrolled flame. By splitting their lives into splinters into events "before" and events "after" the incident.

"Ghosts" are the shadowy faceless workers of Dire Crowley, with whom no one wanted to have any dealings among the living, and even more so those restless souls who met their final path from their hands. They guarded the "Silver Bullet" without a single respite as their eternal silent grave. Not letting any of the living people, no curious civilians, no random souls lost in darkness and ignorance, no mafia or police bloodhounds. The latter were more than happy not to step into the trap with the "tombstone", after their close accidental step happened to be nearby.

No matter how many futile attempts were made, no matter how many professional people were sent, all attempts were crowned with failure. Not a single soul was able to enter the place of the attack.

People from Savanaclaw, famous for their bloodhounds, with their animal charm and stubbornness, were met with a suffocating smell, knocking them down two blocks before the bar. Which only aggravated their attempts to find at least a barely "remaining trace" of the bartender. People from Octavinelle, with their connections and eyes and ears on every corner of the city, like hidden anglers in the depths, were met with scattered traces like dust on the cracked old paving slabs around the bar. Two unsurpassed Ignihyde, geniuses whose technology could wipe someone's life to powder with just the push of a button on their endless devices. They were met by "Shadows" who stirred up their every technique to the last screw and left only piles of mutilated and chewed metal, which would definitely violate the agreement on their "neutrality" and not interfering in the affairs of others, if not for the statement that no one from other "Territories" can conduct "their own affairs", and this it also included the search for information and evidence on neutral territory, The ''Silver Bullet'' was a guarantee that any knowledge, words, negotiations, swearing, will remain in oblivion and scattered in the thick smoke of tobacco and cigarettes.

Hunt - Shadow and the best hidden sharp blade, among the luxurious elegant flowers of Pomefiore. A person whose actions could create a headache for at least three groups only by their appearance in the room.

Was delivered to the head of Vil Schoenheit in….

…a closed elegant crystal COFFIN…

Strewn with flower petals (from the persistent aroma of which the head was dizzy to fainting as soon as the coffin lid was opened, and several pawns had to leave their posts because of this), like a sleeping unearthly beauty and left in a deep sleep, in ignorance and ecstasy of their own dreams and dreams.

But by some unthinkable miracle still alive. Not remembering the events a week earlier, when he went on another search. Not remembering how the hell HE could have been taken by surprise.

Schoenheit took such a clear and open message "Mind your own business" as an intimidating warning and decided that first of all he would take care of the safety of his subordinates. It was reckless to count on the "mercy" of the first time, and no matter how much the Hunter persuaded him to continue his independent search, Vil was unshakable. If they follow the same scenario, with a warning, then the ending and the curtain will come sooner than it should. And they will hardly be able to get out of this alive.

This was definitely the work of the "Ghosts", there were only isolated exceptional cases when their victims remained alive. The "survivors" were delivered without any prints in closed coffins back to their homes. Treating the "victim" with respect and accuracy. Not the most terrible fate, unlike those that befell other unhappy souls. Not even one of the "old leaders" is eager to say out loud what these people are capable of. The very mention of each of them brings incredible discomfort or the thought that they will meet Charon's boat or the Gate of Judgment faster than they finish their thoughts.

There was only one thin thread connecting the event with the fact that this attack really happened. Some of the particularly kind-hearted people hoped that the Bartender just managed to escape from all this incessant nightmare. Trappola and Spade were the only witnesses who last saw the Bartender-Yuu and their cat Grimm alive that day. In a very deplorable condition, wounded, with a strong smell of blood and medicines hastily used so that Yuu would not get a painful shock. From their testimony less than two hours from what they saw, it was clear that the "Dogs" took them in an unknown direction. The duo of card soldiers were only tied up and abandoned a couple of blocks from the crime scene.

Unheard of luck in the opinion of many. An unsolicited curse due to the realization of his helplessness before the power of others.

What was surprising about this luck, because Ace and Deuce remained whole and alive after meeting with the people of the older gangs. It usually ended very tragically or was a bloody warning to everyone. If this is not an official meeting and you have interfered in their affairs, you have witnessed something that no one should ever see. Even taking the same air next to them had terrible consequences.

But this time…..they didn't touch any of the younger mafia groups.

What infuriated the heads more was that Yuu suffered. Their unapproachable jewel, their treasure, their of love and adoration, were wounded. The priceless blood that flowed in their veins was spilled to them, without the approval of any of the heads (they would not have given their consent anyway, even for all the money and privileges that the tsunami poured into them), they dared to touch and insult their body with wounds. It was a silent declaration of war for every mafia group leader from the younger generation. Because no one dared to approach, even to approach more than a step closer to their flawless flower, their holy grail, amid the dust, dirt, alcohol- and tobacco-soaked air of the bar. Definitely in need of repair and better sponsorship.

Waiting for any news, any clues or at least any lost crumbs about the alleged whereabouts of the Bartender, it seems as if time itself decided not to go any further and waited in hiding for any news about this case. Each of the gangs "tried" to cope with anger from the realization that they could not deal with the attackers themselves. They also disappeared without a trace as well as their "favorites". The fate that would have awaited the attackers would have been recorded in history as the most greedy and brutal massacre in the mafia world. The heads in some inconceivable way even concluded an agreement that if the attackers, these desecrators of their inviolable peaceful abode are found, they will pass through all 7 groups. And each gave an iron guarantee that they would remain in sufficient consciousness and the rapidly approaching end of their lives to pass a verdict from each. Juniors or novices were not allowed to "take part" in this Vendetta.

Drowning out these moans and screams of their desperate souls, which moaned and demanded revenge, prayed to see the Bartender again at least once. "Senior gangs" - such as Crowley's Crows or Crewel's Watchdogs or others, did not give answers to countless questions of gang leaders, no matter how much they were voiced. Their pleas went unheard. The rules tightened more and more, hunts became more frequent without any control or purpose, the destruction became more global, but nothing could calm the rampage in the thoughts and actions of some mafia leaders.

Despite this, they continued to work harder, harder, more obsessively.

It was as if Yuu's life hung on a thin web from every beat of their hearts..

Schoenheit, Kingscholar, and Ashengrotto were to visit one of the Crewel mansions to discuss the supply of some medicines, their manufacture and the construction of new points. Mundane things that required their attention and distracted them at least in some way from the endless search. From this endless trap and agony where there was no end in sight. A clue can appear out of nowhere and completely by accident, even the thinnest thread of the web would be for them a strong sea cable pulling them to Yuu.

Their paths passed through the familiar tangled green labyrinths. Tall, densely growing, lively and very well-groomed hedges of shrubs with plants with long thorns dotted every centimeter. Whether they were poisonous, no one was particularly eager to check it, well, except that there were a couple of "curious researchers" from different groups who got a very good kick in the ass.

The hedges were so dense that they seemed to be made of walls that barely let the sun's rays into the tangled, tangled paths. If you didn't know the right way, it was easy to get lost in them, even worse if you start running into dead ends with traps. It will definitely not end well for you. Disposable drawing cards were issued for each visitor and for each visit. The drawing was different each time and somewhat confusing for an ordinary person, but not for gang leaders. A kind of puzzle check for the assertion that you really deserve to come by invitation. At the end of the meetings and the exit, they were burned without leaving traces or pulling out the "system" or "algorithm" of the passage.

An artfully designed system of passages and entrances on a relatively large territory.

Enough to take away uninvited guests, and enough to inspire guests with at least a drop of prudence and caution to meet with the owner of the house.

-How much more do we have to play this nonsense, damn it, I'm not in the mood to play this game. - Leona growled irritably, following the signs to a certain place. Along the way, kicking small pebbles of gravel from the path, which unpleasantly clogged into his open sandals. They had been walking for more than 40 minutes. The same green walls, only the paths were replaced by gravel, old vintage tiles or a finely sprouted lawn. The monotonous picture and the surroundings only irritated his mind, which was plowing without a blow.

Catching something out of the corner of my eye, less than a fleeting flash, so much familiar flashed somewhere in the thicket. A barely tangible joke of a tortured mind?Or was it the same smell that was carved like a stone in the rough rock of the canyons and sand? It can't be a hallucination, it can't be a mockery from others. Yuu's apartment where they lived was easily found. But even if you knew the address, there was no guarantee that they would be allowed there. The old groups guarded both the bar and Yuu's apartment as if the very word "protection and patronage" were invented for this case. No matter how much Leona longed to get a tidbit in the form of Yuu's clothes or clothes with their smell, it was a forbidden fruit that no one could get. And it infuriated him..

But if it's not a lie, not a vile trick of others..then… this?

Suddenly he stopped dead in his tracks when he saw someone in a small almost barely noticeable gap the size of a baby's little finger nail, among dense green bushes. When this lion had a high motivation, and a thirst to get something. His own "pack" was afraid of its leader, his mind was frightening to them.

-I dare to agree with you, Kingscholar,… but still Mr. Crewel has a stronger position of his affairs and we still need to consider their opinion…?Excuse me?! -Azul added irritably, but in a more polite manner, trying to tread carefully so as not to scratch his expensive patent leather shoes on another path of rough gravel. Azul and Vil noticed that Leona was looking somewhere rooted to the spot, fascinated and detached from reality, clearly not participating in their conversation and not even adding irritated snorts or caustic comments what he had been doing for the last hour.

-Leona?What did you see there? – already tired of the bickering and bickering of his fellow travelers, Vil was going to scold the obnoxious lion for his slowness and that he was delaying them. Instead of any explanations or answers, Leona resolutely fixed his gaze on the bushes, estimating their height and width.

Like a jeweler inspecting a new uncut stone. Without answering a single question, without giving any hint for further action.

The lion moved into action.

Abruptly running away from the place, Leona famously and masterfully jumped over two-meter bushes, as if it was child's play for him. Leaving their "fellow travelers" in complete bewilderment and with their eyes wide open from shock. Even if lion was so tired of these wanderings, it never reached the moment of outright "cheating", because later in this version, the "lost way" doomed himself to imminent death. Painful or fleeting was determined only by the will of fate and chance.

As much as Kingscholar hated all these rules and frameworks, he followed them. Because he wasn't crazy enough to risk that much.

What the hell made him suddenly cross that line and risk everything?

-Leona you will be eaten by dogs are you in your right mind?! - Vil's voice was heard further and further away, but Leone didn't care. He found what he wanted.

No, what I've been looking for intentionally all this time.

There was a tall tree behind the hedge, maybe an apple tree or a peach, it didn't matter. Not now. The important thing was that the branches of the tree could serve as an excellent ladder for landing on the other side of the maze.

Caught in the midst of a beautiful manicured garden with a glass stained glass greenhouse inside, filled with various flowers and buds of different colors and sizes. Plants that could not be found anywhere in the city and a small artificial stream in the shade of trees.

It was a hidden garden from all eyes, like a paradise, an escape from all the troubles and sorrows of the world. It is not surprising that Divus has never invited guests to this part of its vast territory.

The nose gently tickled the smell of flowers and fresh greenery, interrupting the very subtle, barely perceptible smell of medicines and severe wounds…

It wasn't a trick of his imagination or a tired mind.

There in the shade of the trees in the greenhouse next to an artificial stream. Snoring sweetly in their sleep, tired and exhausted from treatment. Dressed in a light, elegant, terribly expensive dressing gown and carefully covered with a blanket, they slept soundly on a small folding and antique armchair…

…Yuu.

Their wounds were still healing and they looked frightening to say the least, but it was definitely much better compared to how the senior heads found them. The face that had been swollen from the blows was already slightly yellowish in the area of the jaw, the blow seemed strong enough to leave such a huge mark. The rest of the wounds could not be seen from the warm blanket. Despite the first-class care from Crewel himself and probably the best masters that saw this light, Yuu still looked very sick and weakened.

Leona was sure it was them. Even though the light fabric of expensive lace covered their face, their body was carefully wrapped in a fluffy blanket. Which made the task of identifying a sleeping person very difficult. Swallowing nervously and taking a step towards him, Kingscholar once again cautiously looked around, not noticing guards or dogs anywhere.

And then he ran like a "stupid, reckless boy"… towards his unsuspecting sleeping "prey" Leona could not even remember when he could give himself up to the "moment and emotions" for the last time.

He was so eager to find what had been taken from him. To cling with your claws and teeth and not let anyone else take it away even for a moment. Even if they resist. And they would definitely hit him with everything that came to hand, it was worth reaching out closer to their "protective layer". It's good that they're not in the bar right now, getting hit on the head with a bottle or a metal shaker was not the most pleasant of possible developments. Although of all that could be used now, Leona noticed a watering can. Also mettalic, he even grinned that "garden tools" had never occurred to anyone before to be used against him. And Yuu would probably use everything they have. Maybe they even hid a small cast-iron frying pan or kettle somewhere to protect themselves, oh, definitely this was one of the most interesting traits of the Bartender's character.

He missed their "indifference" so much, their unapproachable facade, their body language, their movement. They began to fade in memory due to the lack of certainty that it was not a dream.

If Riddle's Roseheart personal space s would have porcupine thorns, Vil Schoenheit poisonous potions, Malleus Draconia impassable thorns and vines…

Then the Bartender Yuu had a damn impenetrable safe, with all the layers that could only be thought up, to rebuild all the indestructible thick walls, which did not take any dynamite or invasion in the form of any mafia leader.

For the first time in his life, Leona Kingscholar felt his hands tremble. From trepidation? From the feeling that he will reveal his desired "gift" that he has always wanted to receive? A priceless reward that was awarded only by his touch and attention?

Slowly, unhurriedly, without tempting fate with unnecessary movements, Kingscholar carefully hooked his nails on the delicate flawless lace on the cheek of the sleepers.

Somewhere in the back of his mind a voice was screaming and he was afraid that it could be….not them. Not their bartender, impregnable as an indestructible tower. And someone… different.

Not the person that he wants to immediately kidnap to his lair and subjugate to his will. Of course it would be wonderful if Yuu wasn't given even the slightest resistance, but that would be too boring. Too mundane. Too easy. What kind of leader will Leona be if she grabs prey that is inactive?

Removing centimeter by centimeter of lace from his face, Leona nervously licked his lips dry from exertion, seeing traces of ointment for the treatment of bruises and swelling after blows. If only a single scar remained on this face, Kingscholar would personally dig them out of hell, tie a contract with the King of Hell and the Dead, just to get to the idiots who dared to approach and desecrate with their own hands this living temple of his captive heart. Just to show that "death" was a heavenly mana for them before what he would do to them.

Perhaps he himself would like to leave a small scar? A mark from his fangs on his neck so that everyone can see who this person belongs to. No one would be able to stop him now. Sounds very tempting~

But…

It was too childish, because with such a fragile neck that was always hidden from prying eyes by the "bartender's uniform", it would be easy to break it with one hand. His strong, callused hand. And it would have ended so quickly and so pitifully.

Ah, right now he can, just take this easy prey with him… and.. -Get your rough dirty hands out of their face. - Vill said tensely through his teeth, spitting out each letter like a caustic poison. Taking out his pocket pistol and pointing it directly at the back of the head of Savanaclaw. Leona did not even turn around or, in any way, react to these threats. Not considering his attention to be something important.

He was too preoccupied to appreciate the extent of Yuu's injuries and the stages of treatment. The blood loss was very serious, but not enough to bring them to the edge of the border of life and send an invitation card from the "soul boatman". The head of the "Dogs" has good connections with doctors and scientists, so skillful that Leona would not be surprised if Yuu was taken out of the other world by agreeing with heaven about a postponement. After sniffing, the head of Savanaclaw notices notes of certain medications. He may not be familiar with the full list of pharmacology from around the world, but he can definitely find out which ones are being used now. Yuu is kept on strong medications and medications, there can be no doubt. Because their body simply could not cope with the painful shock due to the wounds received. They are not fighters like every "piece of the puzzle" of any of the criminal gangs, they do not harden their bodies with fights and training. They are an ordinary person who will definitely be in a serious condition after the incident. Bruises on the face, apparently trying to break through their bones to break the jaw so that there would be no screams. Traces on the neck, Leona growled menacingly just from the very idea that someone had time to touch their body. There is no medical collar on the neck, so they left only swelling and terrible bruises. For a second it might have seemed that this could have been "staged as a case with a rope and a chair," disguising an ordinary murder as a suicide. It's enough to scatter the evidence and cover up all traces.

The police sniffers are too exhausted with their work, they didn't even begin to sniff out what happened. So there is a possibility that "someone" wanted to get rid of the Bartender. It's a lousy deal for them. Or use this sacrifice to lure someone out of the current young groups.

Now this explains why Yuu is so much patronized by the senior heads. Their life is the only piece that gives a neutral territory for civilians. Kill them and even more chaos will begin. To leave them alive means to give people hope for a peaceful time for which everyone is starved like in the desert.

A fragile wounded herbivore, what an irony that they don't know their full value now. Gently pressing his fingers below the sternum, Yuu shuddering immediately squeezed out a painful hiss and turned away from the touch that disturbed their sleep. Broken ribs. More than two, perhaps there are cracks in the others, which is why they breathe so shallowly and barely flinch when they try to turn on their side. Is there still a sharp smell of blood, a knife wound? Or stabbed? Damn, it's easier for him to tear all these pieces of cloth on them to examine every inch than to play these charades.

They beat purposefully, there is no doubt, but they did not try to kill immediately for some reason, and apparently there are still injuries. But at gunpoint with the clinging gaze of a "Peacock with curled curls" it will not be easy to do.

Now it's easy to understand why they sleep soundly and a lot. Medications do not allow them to "wake up" and give the blissful a rest from the world. Even without reacting to someone's presence and outsiders, any noise or action will be missed by their sleeping mind. The shock of the experience is huge, physical injuries would definitely have great consequences on their minds.

Well, "the best medicine is sleep", right? How ironically they were connected by this particular detail in behavior. Ah, it would be so nice to just soak up in such a garden and take a nap together. Perhaps he would have had more time to make sure how severe their condition was.

-Do you think I'll let you at least allow such a luxury to look at? - Leona chuckled, still feeling the cold metal of the gun at the back of his head. Like hell he'd show what he could find. None of them. He would personally examine every inch of Yuu if he had the chance. The lion does not share his prey.

- Well, neither of us is going to give in. Be an obedient lion and move away from them so that your brains don't get dirty on them, and blood doesn't scatter like beads on their chest and face.

The silence that had arisen between the Lion and the Queen was broken by very heavy breathing somewhere behind them, in the accompanying sloppy running noise from shoes on the path laid out to the greenhouse.

Cursing because of the more hardy and athletic body of his "fellow travelers", Azul cursed them for the sixteenth time. His thoughts were filled with such obscene ejaculations and expressions that he did not even expect that he remembered and even more so ever heard something like that. Floyd could only dream of such a set of obscenities that Azul had now.

Shortness of breath and shortness of breath were practically the main enemies at this moment, the out-of-breath leader Octavinel. Azul had to put his hands on his knees and bend over to straighten his appearance. Running is definitely not his strong suit, mind games? Yes, he's a pro at it, but not a sport. He would rather start playing Russian roulette than agree to a ridiculous marathon on gravel in the private garden of one of the leaders of the old groups. You have to be a completely desperate person to take such risks without a specific goal and without having all the cards in your hands for your own victory.

"… so that instead of tea in the morning, a cup with medical leeches is served to you…."

And another one of 15-20 curses and curses flew by with lightning speed in the octopus's smart brains.

It was too unpredictable and unexpected turn of events when Kingsclar suddenly rushed over the fence somewhere or……to someone? Schoenheit quickly realized or noticed something, rushed after him. It would seem that only one moment had passed, and these two had already jumped the fence as if it was child's play. But Azul was unlucky, he had to find a "loophole" in the hedge along which Crewel guard dogs usually crawled and cut his detour. How glad he is that Floyd once got stuck out of pure chaotic curiosity in one of these loopholes!!

True, Crewel was definitely not thrilled with the behavior of this unnecessarily ubiquitous puppy that day.

Having finally recovered from a sharp tiring run and climbing through narrow places, Azul began to look around quickly, catching his eye on every detail that would later become a benefit for him. He needed an answer why did these two break the rules that they followed so strictly for who knows how long?

It could be a plant that few ordinary people have heard of, but so rare and precious that a lot of blood could be shed. It could be the fruit of a tree… or a piece of real divine… forgotten by the gods.. ….ambrosia…..

For the second time, Azul's lungs lost all air. Seeing just for a brief moment someone's silhouette behind Leona and Vil, his gaze could not deceive. Acutely feeling how icy water doused him from his head to his feet, penetrating to the bones and into every cell. Shackling and squeezing, feeling how everything squeezes every part of his being and at the same time bursts like the brightest firework in the darkness of the night.

Oh, the mighty, boundless, rich dark waters of the ocean…

It was a lost Pearl.

Not yet "belonging" to him, a pearl adorning a dark, gloomy, old and in need of repair place in the bar. Like a forgotten sunken treasure hiding in an old decrepit wooden chest at the bottom of the sea. Like an opaque seashell hidden among sand, silt and the bottom of the sea, it conceals a tiny treasure hidden from all curious eyes.

Yuu wasn't taken away by someone's dirty uncouth hands! Right now they're in front of him! He can approach and see their face, clearly enough, clearly enough and not foggy, without fear of waking up again. Not the dreams that tormented his head every night, every moment, every second of the impossibility of seeing them in reality, when Azul could not hear their voice, their restrained manners. Their courtesy in the form of a box of napkins, when the leader was a little overdoing it with alcohol and his tears flooded the entire bar.

Which Yuu were definitely not happy about when it happened, so confused Ashengrotto with the realization after a hangover. But he still appreciated every moment with them. With their "impenetrable" wall around their personal life, habits, interests. Of course, Azul could, at the click of his fingers, find out everything up to the last second of the Bartender's life if he wished. But, it won't be so interesting. This is an exciting game where they always slip out of his tenacious hands, despite all his efforts. And he keeps looking for any crack or hole in their defense, just to get to them.

It remains only to deal with the "two" problems standing next to the treasure.

Speaking of them..

The tension between Leona and Vil could have been cut by a drilling machine, because an ordinary file would have broken how heavy and oppressive the atmosphere between them was. Maybe Azul is eager to steal Yuu right now, until they can neither resist nor feel alarm or fear that they are being taken somewhere without direct permission. But he is still in his right mind not to get into conflict with these two. It would be possible to use a garden cart to transport the "Pearl", but too complicated escape routes would have to be endured. In addition, he can barely cope with his two, and now also with a weighty cargo in tow.

No, this is a bad idea.

On someone else's territory, senior leaders, without support, with a visible physical advantage. That would be a deal with a fatal outcome, definitely not desirable at the moment. It was a lousy alignment from which side he could not turn the game board in his direction.

-May I remind you, gentlemen. That we're not at home. - cautiously threw a reminder that worked like an explosive bomb, Azul looked indifferent and looked through no alarm or trap had worked somewhere. Any oversight that leads them to a more dangerous turn of events. Now that the "guest" rule has been violated, you need to urgently look for a way not to run into even more trouble. In the best scenario of his game moves, Azul will be able to leave on his own without suffering and begging, bargaining or even selling for himself an "invitation" or "courtship" for Yuu. A couple of extra skillful hands would definitely not fit them? To prove himself in the best light in front of the "elders" was definitely more reasonable, a very good alignment and a lot of benefits for him!

-Huh, when did you care, Azul? - Leona sneered caustically, pulling the lace fabric back onto the unsuspecting Yuu's face. He saw what he wanted, learned what he wanted, others are not allowed to see it. Even through the lace fabric Schoenheit could clearly see all the consequences on the pale face of such quiet and slumbering Yuu. With compassion filled to the brim in his poison-soaked heart, Vil memorized every wound, every bruise, every small swelling on his face with undisguised rage. All that distorted the charm of the Bartender hidden from prying eyes.

It wasn't just a crime….Oooh, no… it was an attack on "his property"

Although technically and straightforwardly speaking, Yuu was not given any hints, signs, flags, at least anything that could be considered confirmation for an affair or a relationship. They kept their personal space and relationships firmly at a distance until the next galaxy or more. As far away as possible from the "regular visitors" of the Silver Bullet. To tie yourself to at least one of them means to sign a one-way ticket without the right to make a mistake.

One step forward, two steps back, Vil regarded it as a leisurely graceful dance with partners who are just getting used to each other's movements and pace. A light, delicate and courteous touch here, a couple of compliments there and the pace can gain momentum for more decisive movements.

Only if your "partner" is not as closed as a refrigerator in cement, which was Yuu. The bartender was a pro that even Rook couldn't find out anything from their personal information. According to rumors, the same person was the cause of Octavinelle's insomnia, because with their influence, even they could not find anything. Or someone "intentionally" covered up the traces of life, the past and everything that was connected with the Bartender. What was a more reasonable explanation than the complete absence of at least some meager crumbs of information. Their occasionally sharp comments, like a defensive structure, only amused Schoenheit. A silly, naive little man behind the bar. They don't even need to coquettishly clap their matted eyelashes covered with dust from behind the bar to get the attention of the "Queen" herself.

-mhm… - a quiet sleepy sound barely escaped from Yuu's chest when they changed the position of their head for a more comfortable sleep. The three men froze with mute awe and adored their every breath. Judging by the slight trembling from time to time, it was very painful for them to lie in one position, which bothered their ribs and the Bartender had to hold his breath for a couple of seconds to endure the acute pain and finally exhaust the air from his lungs when the pain finally eases.

Their hands were so stained with someone else's blood and taken lives that it was ironic that the three men were afraid to make an extra move or make too noisy a sigh, just so as not to wake them up. Do not disturb their peace and peaceful sleep in ignorance. Of course, they were like hungry animals and longed to hear their voice again, to see their deft hands pouring glass after glass of alcohol in the bar, to see their subtle emotions on their face. They were thirsty, they were hungry. But they were still miraculously restrained by an unknown force, unknown even to themselves.

Finally, Vil decided to take a step and threw the lace fabric from Yuu's face with a gesture filled with grace and lightness, briefly examined their condition. Just like Leona did a little earlier.

Oh, what a loss. Their lips were slightly cracked. Apparently the Crewel dogs made a small mistake by not giving them proper hydration for the skin. Of course, their wounds are now in the first place, without a doubt! But the very thought that their lips would be cracked and bleeding was driving the already frazzled nerves mad. Drinking medicine or eating with wounds on the lips is very unpleasant and uncomfortable. Even the slightest movement will be painful. As a Queen, he couldn't ignore it, he must take close care of his precious Bartender.

Schoenheit's personal pocket cosmetic bag always had a set for such "emergencies", even though it was used only for himself. Recently, Vil liked the hygienic lipstick with the smell of peaches. Not a plitar apple like Epel's, nor something citrus, nor tart or strong, but a very soft peach smell.

Using one hygienic lipstick was a somewhat… intimate and very close gesture from Schoenheit's point of view. It's like sharing a lovers' kiss away from all the prying eyes and fuss. It's like keeping this novel in the strictest secret and pouring out all the love behind tightly closed doors.

While Leona was distracted by some sound and listened attentively, Vil took the opportunity and, still holding the gun at the ready, took out his sanitary lipstick and carefully applied it to the pad of his index finger.

Touching their lips with even the pad of a finger was enough to confuse his thoughts so much. After the devil knows how many unbearable nights when his perverted consciousness gave false hope, dreams where they were completely at his mercy. In his delicate graceful hands, drowned in his strength and movements. His tenderness, his love, his touch. Pull every sound, plea from their mouths and divide the breath and air from the lungs for the two of them. In private. Away from everything… After such nights and a heated mind, he spent the whole next day in the most lousy mood that only Hunt could notice.

Ah, it seems one fleeting touch was so painfully little for his insane hunger. He wants more.

Their thoughts, their thirst, their hunger were disturbed by a voice they didn't want to hear right now. In everyday matters, for them it was neutral or at least respectful. Now he was putting some of them in fear for his actions. -I don't remember giving my invitation to MY personal garden for bad puppies. - menacingly breaking the silence like a rumble of raging thunder among a quiet harbor, the voice of Divus sounded, in the tense silence of the uninvited guests present. Walking along the winding path laid out by expensive tiles, like an angry deity waiting for the right moment to grab someone by the throat with his hand. Violation of the boundaries of its territory, meant only a brutal massacre of the unfortunate that dared to commit such a misdemeanor. Crewel's "chain dogs" followed him like his own shadow in clear weather. Two particularly tall and stocky subordinates with "masks" of Dobermans covering their faces, walked one step ahead as if protecting their master from even the slightest sigh of enemies.

The others immediately surrounded the three "uninvited guests" in a tight knot, as if throwing a noose around their necks and waiting for the owner to order it to tighten until the bones crunch.

The numerical superiority of the dogs was obvious, now they are in an extremely disadvantageous and precarious position.

-What does it mean, Crewel? Have you and the feathered jerk been hiding their location from us all this time?? - Leona growled, looking around imperceptibly for at least the slightest chance to escape or leave. He didn't lose his mind enough to rush into a fight alone against an entire group. Although he could quite try.

-In my defense, Mr. Kingsclar jumped the hedge first. - Azul modestly added, in order to save his skin a little, and without taking his eyes off the henchmen of the owner of the house, he took off his hat as a sign of respect. Or accepting the inevitable? -My answer is still the same. It's none of your business, puppies. - the owner of the house snapped and looked at the heads of the young groups with irritation. Well, Crewel was distinguished by titanic patience … from time to time, and when you get a lucky ticket of "patience" no one could predict. Besides Yuu, they were their only favorites among all the people who saw Crewel. Despite his fearsome reputation, Divus didn't even hide it. On the one hand, he could amuse his ego that the Bartender was a unique person who received such a status, on the other hand, it amused. To see how the leaders of young groups and their wards climbed out of their skin and gnawed their nerves, breaking their bones, just to get a grain of attention from Yuu. Cold served attention, which was always not enough for them.

-Does not concern? Crewel with all due respect to you and your work, you have taken away what I have been looking for for so long. And you, among all the others, were the one who constantly told us to give up the search. - Rage boiled in Vil's veins, mercilessly venting his irritation in every word addressed to the not too hospitable "host of the house". His acting nature, although it retained the "outer face", inside he was like a hot devil.

-Yuu. is. not. your. property. - Crewel snapped, again not giving any answers to their silent questions that were hovering in the air like a pack of angry bees. It seems even Divus himself was pretty tired of this topic and wanted to close this box with the discovered treasure as soon as possible and hide the rest from "prying" eyes.

-Not yet. - Leona grinned, not leaving the place where Yuu slept peacefully, their sleep was so deep and strong that it seemed that no rumble or noise could disturb their peace. A hint of a hostage? Which is to be expected from a lion with a lot of hunting experience. At Leona's words, Divus frowned with displeasure. Ah, it seems cheeky grinning dogs should be taught a special lesson. To make them finally realize their position.

Apparently they are not sufficiently aware of their situation.

-Neither of you is competent enough and has a strong enough position for even one freckle on their cheek. - Imperiously snapping his fingers, Crewel pointed to his "sleeping guest", wondering how to resolve the heated situation. There were plenty of options to choose from. As much as he didn't want to just teach these three scoundrels a lesson, the rules of decency had to be observed. In addition, his would not like to arrange a massacre in my own house. -Take the puppy back to the room. And check all the indicators….As for the naughty puppies wandering around where they were not allowed.. All three heads tensely sucked air into their lungs and prepared for a fierce fight. Will they really try to kill them?! Seriously injure to save information about the Bartender? Whatever was out of all the options that were spinning in their head, the script was very crappy. -Let their "blissful ignorance" remain with them further … – Divus smiled smugly, lighting his cigarette from a long mouthpiece with a beautiful engraving in the form of an elegant silver pattern. Two "Dobermans", without any problems or any resistance from the violators, approached the chair with the sleeping Yuu. It was a completely wild picture, people with masks and robes hiding their faces, as if from a single breath of wind, were next to such a fragile life and weakened body.

-We'll take you back to your room. – calmly said one of the Dobermans, untangling the folds in the blanket, and wrapping Yuu like a dozing little child who needs to be taken to bed. It was only necessary for one of them to seat Yuu to intercept them in his arms for a more comfortable position. Yuur immediately gasped for air with their mouth slightly open, from the pain they tucked their legs to themselves and clung to the Doberman uniform as if they were holding on for their lives. Uttering an agonizing prolonged moan of pain for the second time, louder than the others. Almost choking on his own breath.

Silence reigned in the garden again. Crewel stared in amazement at how Leona, Vil and Azul were glaring at his employees, due to the fact that Yuu was hurt. Touched without their "permission" once again in front of their eyes. Moreover, they froze and fell silent as if by mute order. Well Crowley was right, Yuu had the most influence on mafia leaders than anyone else. Yes, not wanting it and avoiding it like cholera.

In tense silence, everyone noticed the Bartender's broken breathing, which gradually leveled the movement of his chest and the work of his lungs. The pain eased its grip on their body, and they could catch their breath a little. -I'll give you some painkillers. – while one was busy patiently waiting for Yuu's acute pain to ease a little, not moving like a marble statue. The second Doberman took out a small bottle from his breast pocket and made sure that the Bartender was really able to drink the medicine. Delicately touching the bottle to their lips, the Doberman tilted Yuu's head slightly so that the liquid filled their mouth. Yuu drank greedily and immediately began to frown and cough from the terrifying aftertaste. They stuck out their tongue and frowned so funny that Azul wanted very much to get out his phone and record it all on video. But he was stopped by the thought that he would grab a bullet in the head faster than he would get to his pocket.

With all the care and accuracy that could only be in human movements, intercepting the weakened body of a sleeping person and carrying away from the curling fights and conflicts of interests of the mafia. If the shrine was a living person, it would be Yuu. What most infuriated those present from the "fans" was that the Bartender was not held by their hands. In such a tender, delicate embrace.

In less than a moment, everyone was waiting for the beginning of the "play". Punishments or the fate that should have fallen on the heads of violators of the rules.

The first to fall to the ground silently like a doll was Azul, as if he was struck by an instant sudden death. Vil was able to fight off at least six more people to at least try to intercept Yuu by the thin lace falling from their faces. What was so treacherously beckoning everyone behind him, fluttering from a light breeze in the garden. It was as if they were abducting a fabulous creature, unthinkable and ephemeral before their eyes.

Leona lasted the longest of all three and felt a sharp prick like a bite from an annoying mosquito in his neck. Poison? A dart? He didn't even notice the attacker, was it a thin needle? More like a tiny annoying itchy splinter. Did he really lose his grip and mind because of lack of sleep from the search? What a shame. Leona vision begins to swim faster than his brains work and process options for his actions.

With steely calm and indifference, watching the startled uninvited guests, Divus approached Leone, who was growling aggressively and trying to get up from the ground and grab the legs of those who were carrying the bartender away with his claws. This man was definitely not going to give up, even when he couldn't stand up and move a single muscle.

-Contact the dogs, get ready to get to the "fangs"… This was the only thing that reached Kingsclar's keen ears before he was thrown into the darkness of an unconscious pool.

A few hours later.

Feeling a sharp pain in his head, trying with great effort to focus his senses on the surroundings, Leona could barely open one eye and distinguish several silhouettes. Was the place safe for him? Abduction? Which sounded, though terribly absurd with his strength and skills, but still a possible option. Gradually, his eyes got used to the light and began to distinguish silhouettes and colors around. He is definitely not at home, not at his "base", or in one of his personal places where he rests his thoughts from the world and everyone around him.

The exquisite interior of the room surrounding him, people with dog masks and Crewel peacefully sipping his drink from an expensive crystal glass, patiently waited and looked at three sluggish attempts to get up from an expensive carpet.

-Are the gentlemen awake yet? - Divus asked with an undisguised grin.

-Mgh… what… what happened? - Azul muttered hoarsely, smoothly sitting down with his hands on the floor, adjusting his lopsided glasses, taking a glass of water from one of the servants, feeling like every cell is filled with unbearable heaviness. -You have stumbled upon one of the dead ends with a trap. As you know, the best caution is a proactive step forward. - Divus replied with casual calmness, as if he was explaining another topic for his inexperienced puppies.

-So-so service and "reception of important guests" - Leona snorted, rubbing his temples with displeasure, feeling like his head was filled with an unimaginable load and thick fog. How did they end up here? This has never happened before.

Well, you yourself are well aware that the best tactic is when there are no "uninvited guests" in your own house.

And he was damn right. No one would want to see familiar faces from mafia groups, police and others at home. No one will be waiting for them with hot tea and pies. -Do you want to say that your "invitation" and the drawing was a lie? - Vil complained with displeasure when he was helped to sit down and he noted with displeasure that there was a trace of the carpet in the form of a small indentation on his cheek. How many hours did he lie like that to stay? -Of course not. It's just that you took the wrong turn, this happens from time to time. When you wander around the same place too much, your consciousness can play a cruel joke on you. - one of the servants handed Crewel an elegant cup of tea, and while Divus was waiting for "his guests" to recover, he enjoyed the drink.

All three of them had a sharp feeling that they had forgotten something extremely important. Some very necessary thought was spinning muffled somewhere in the halls of the mind. She screamed, howled and scratched like a trapped wild animal hungry for freedom.

Or they really exhausted themselves so monstrously by searching that their own brains sent them to deal with another maze puzzle on their own. And Crewel gently hinted to these three, "You are yourself to the state of vegetables that even the last remnants of your mind have evaporated, the fact that you don't look where you're going is your problem, stupid puppies, not mine"

Either Divus outright lies to their face and does not even regret their deplorable condition and they were pumped up with something very strong. Poor Azul, he couldn't even stand on his own and was helped to sit on the nearest chair. Vil and Leona were not in the best condition, they were reeling like on an unsteady bridge in a wild storm. But still they tried to swear, complain and grumble about this event and the service.

When they were no longer able to voice their complaints, the Owner of the house still ordered the servants to serve them tea and snacks. If the puppies have the strength to yap and whine at him, then their condition is not so deplorable and they just get on his nerves as revenge.

Which means he can finally put all the waiting hours on them for the hell of how many hours and take it out on them properly.

Somewhere in one of the corridors of a luxurious mansion, with an exquisite interior, two Dobermans were walking. The sound of their footsteps bounced off the thick walls covered with expensive paint and paintings from different eras and tapestries. They walked in silence, listening to any rustle nearby, or remotely recognizable voices somewhere in one part of the mansion. Holding the already half-asleep man in his arms, the Doberman periodically cast a glance at the "guest" of his master. Waiting for the dream to lift the veil of fog from their consciousness.

-Mhm.. - Very lazily and sleepily opening one eye, Yuu frowned at the light and tried to realize where they were and where they were being carried. There was complete chaos on their heads and Dobermans jokingly called "the haircut of a bitten bush", Maybe they were professional thugs and criminals, their sense of humor was still as sharpened as their nose. -Are you awake? - another man in a Doberman mask noticed, simultaneously checking the state of their health. If at least one scratch remains from the "uninvited guests", their boss will definitely not be happy with this arrangement of cards.

-Mr…. De Soto?Where… I heard voices.. - the bartender whispered listlessly, settling down more comfortably in strong hands. They have already got into the habit of pressing their cheek against someone's muscular chest. In fact, it was terribly uncomfortable, because it seemed that you were being dragged by pieces of stone. But from the realization that they have been carried on their hands for so long that any bride or princess would envy, it became more pleasant.

-Did you hear the voices of the Owner and us, or did you dream? - the Doberman clarified very subtly, trying to make out whether there was a conversation between those young leaders and Yuu. Or their conversation took place only in a joke of reason.

-Mm..not sure..everything is so foggy. Except for Mr. Roscoe's incomparable cologne. Who did you kill… to smell so amazing? - trying to cope with the still heavy and foggy head from sleep, Yuu lightly rubbed the tip of his nose against the chest pocket of the Doberman. Both "Dobermans" snorted and burst into merry laughter, you can hear a lot of funny things from a person on "painkillers". And they didn't have to remember everything, because they weren't even suitable for dirty blackmail. In addition, it killed their boredom from time to time.

-We use the same cologne for all the "chain dogs" so that no one can track down who is who. And in addition, we will be able to smell someone from our own. - De Soto explained, adjusting the blanket on Yuu's neck, checking that the bandages and ointment did not smear on the fabric and was so where it should not be.

-Um-uh..

-Hey. You bark too much and talk about the subtleties of our work. - Roscoe growled, obviously frowning despite the mask hiding his face.

-Don't show your teeth to Roscoe. They already know so much material that they are a walking encyclopedia for police bloodhounds. - Their human security partner replied with a shrug.

-I don't like them..they always come and don't clean their shoes. - complained and mumbled Yuu. Remembering how they had to wash the floors over and over again after the bloodhounds. It was like some kind of incorrigible invasion, repeated over and over again. Until Yuu, for the first time in his life, had a fight with the police department in one week and forced them to wash the bar themselves.

Wounded pride, so living out its last days from the encirclement of mafia clans and alliances around, has seen the best days in their lives. So now they had to obey an ordinary civilian who not only beat up all the policemen armed with a mop and a floor rag. So also to "serve a sentence" for "disrespecting someone else's work"

This was probably the first time in the history of this area and the city that some bartender was not arrested or reprimanded by the police. Moreover, he forced them to correct their habits of cleanliness and neatness that had deepened in their bones. Some wives of policemen were pleasantly touched by the changes of their husbands and sent a few nice gifts for the Bartender, someone made a knitted warm blanket, someone gave a hot lunch. Someone gave a new scratching post for the Grimm.

After hearing about the case with the police station and Yuu. Crewel laughed so loudly that the whole mansion tensed at the thought that nervous tension had overtaken their owner.

-Yeaaah, we've heard a lot about this story. - Roscoe grinned cheerfully, wanting very much to see the expressions on the faces of the police when cleaning the bar. -And we were all wondering why you needed a bucket of antiseptic in the bar.- De Soto asked, half growling, half laughing.

-This is for these assholes who come to the bar in blood and try to give me cash in my hands. As if sanitary standards for them are not prescribed in the mafia charter. Or what do they have, a bloody contract, ritual sacrifices in the form of bullets? - snorting and grumbling like an elderly man, Yuu slightly jerked his uninjured leg as if wanting to kick someone from his memories. Dobermans look at each other and can barely restrain themselves from exploding with laughter. So the three of them walked, laughing and talking as if old friends were looking after a young ward in trouble.

After a few more agonizing weeks of terror and chaos, a meeting of senior heads and Yuu took place at the Crowley Mansion.

It had already become a habit for the bartender to be a "guest" or an "observer" from the outside while the others were doing their dark business. Usually it was Daire office, but this time it was more like a luxurious living room. With large cabinets filled with various books, souvenirs, figurines and weapons. A round table with fragrant tea served filled the whole room with a pleasant herbal smell, and a variety of various snacks and light meals, suggested that the conversation was going to be very long.

But this time the tension and the mood itself was different. Yuu couldn't help but notice it. Lucius was more restless in Trein's arms, Sam looked a little tired, even Vargas, with his superhuman energy and endurance, looked battered. Crewel, despite all his acting mask, looked than everyone else….nervous?Annoyed? As if hanging in the air, no one dared to voice aloud without the permission of the "chief"

-Today we have to discuss the question of whether it is worth opening a Silver Bullet, or Yuu it remains to live with one of us until other options appear.

Ah, that's speeches the devil's business…

In truth, Yuu were already so used to being treated well by Crewel and his chain dogs that they were out of their minds and wanted to get hurt again just not to see the faces of any of the "regular customers" of the bar. Seriously, when else will they get the opportunity of the best care, service and security on the continent, reception for free? The conditions were only that Yuu remain neutral. Everyone knows, everyone hears, but they don't say anything and don't give anything. This town was so exhausted by all the bloody showdowns that a neutral zone, a safe zone from others, was almost equated with a blessing. The privilege that Yuu would have gladly refused and moved away from this … To start everything from scratch and not be persecuted by anyone, was not the most terrible thing. Despite all the difficulties that could arise along the way. But with such "admirers" it was worth thinking about where they could not get to with all their might and strength. And their damn, damn thirst for competition and competition. "Showing whose ass is sitting higher" - as Yuu sometimes called such cases. -Considering that as the youngest demons have completely gone off the rails, if they see Yuu, they will tear it up for souvenirs faster than I will sell everything on Black Friday. - Mr. Sam grinned and complained at the same time, straightening his snow-white glove and immediately reached out to take some treats provided to the "special guests", the choice fell on the canapes and cookies.

-I agree with Sam, the puppies are off the chain and don't even spare themselves, let alone their subordinates, just to get to them. Crewel added with a heavy exhalation. The dogs were a well-knit team, and were distinguished by caring for each other. As if they were more like a pack that would not sacrifice a single one of its fellows.

-Even if you put a guard on them, they will have to walk with her for the rest of their lives. - Vargas mused aloud, which was not particularly typical for him, though. But his "hunting and guarding" regime continued for too long, even for his limits.

Looking at the discussion from the side, the Yuu felt as if they were being squeezed from all sides by metal plates that were getting closer by the minute and squeezing them tighter as if in a vice. They were trapped, unwittingly. Damn it, they did everything just not to make mistakes. Where did they miscalculate so badly? They did not show favorites among customers, did not even give an empty hint. Who knew that these bloodthirsty psychos would need their heart and soul?!Not to mention the body. Yuu felt a chill of horror sweep over their body. No, it's all right. They're in the safest place right now. They just don't need to face any of the younger factions.

-Not to mention the fact that we received some "demands" from the authorities of the continent to settle this and expand the zone of neutrality. - Mozus finally spoke when Lucius began to sit on his lap more calmly.

-I was going to do it, before the attack… preparations have even begun. - justifying himself with facts and rubbing the bridge of his nose with his fingers, Crowley, as it can be seen, was also at a dead end. On the one hand they need Yuu to go back to the bar and Quoting Daire in one of his personal conversations with the Bartender, "To bring these madmen to reason and pour at least a drop of common sense into their heads!!!" On the other hand, the realization that Yuu is now the main target of the whole city. Starting from kidnapping for ransom, ending with extortion and a pretext for the denouement of the massacre. It's like giving a piece of meat to hungry predators.

Their card, their main trump card that needs to be beaten deftly and skillfully enough so that the situation develops in favor of the holder of this card… The End.

[rv0lt]

closed starter | @vilnt

The club is a chaos of smoke and sound, dim lights pulsing red and gold like a warning flare. Bass rattles the floor, the music a guttural growl of rebellion, sharp and electric. The air reeks of sweat, stale beer, and that faint metallic tang of spilled blood lingering from the fight club next door. She threads her way through the throng, shouldering past gyrating bodies and the occasional drunken stumble. Her pulse hasn’t yet settled from the rush of the fight—Vi’s fight. She hadn’t planned to bet much, but one look at the fighter had been enough to change her mind. Those fists had spoken louder than words, but it was the fire in Vi’s eyes that had sealed it. Not just anger—hurt. Pain buried so deep it turned sharp, feral, and lethal. Gert recognized it instantly. It was the kind of pain that could destroy someone—or turn them into a weapon.

She slides onto a barstool beside her target, resting her elbows casually on the sticky surface of the bar. Her eyes flick to the brawler like they’ve been drawn by a magnet. Up close, Vi is even more striking, all sharp edges and tension coiled tight enough to snap. Gert doesn’t shy away from the intensity, though. Instead, she leans into it.

❛ Those were some sick ass moves out there tonight, ❜ Gert says, her voice pitched loud enough to cut through the music. It’s rough, unapologetic, but there’s a hint of warmth tucked beneath the surface, a flicker of admiration she doesn’t bother hiding. A smirk tugs at Gert’s lips—half amusement, half intrigue. She meets Vi’s gaze then, unflinching, her dark brown eyes glinting beneath the club’s erratic lights.

❛ Can I buy you a drink with the money you just won me? ❜ she asks, tilting her head as her smirk deepens into something more mischievous. She doesn’t look away, doesn’t back down, because she’s genuinely curious now. Vi’s got a story, that much is obvious, and Gert’s always had a bad habit of chasing mysteries like they’re promises waiting to be unraveled. That, and Vi is hot. The kind of hot that hits like a sucker punch and leaves you wanting more.

[mistfallengw2]

2, 8 and 17 for Aurelia combat asks? (or anyone more appropriate)

@violentnornography

GW2 OC Questions: Combat Edition ⚔️✨

2 got answered here

-

8. Do they have any visible scarring or lasting injuries from previous combat experiences? How did they get them? How do they feel about them?

Her pre-Mists scars were few and barely evident, as her late mate always took great care of her wounds since they were cubs, to the point she kept treating any visible scar until fur could grow back on it. She wouldn't have minded sporting cool scars like most of the warband did, but Ardea considered any of those as her own failure to keep her bandmates safe, so Aurelia allowed her to do her thing at least on her.

Her revenant powers came with particularly strong self-healing abilities, to the point what was barely visible beforehand was completely cured and gone in a matter of minutes after receiving Glint's facet. With everything Aurelia went through in the Mists, that power lessened a bunch, but it still kept her free of scars (even bad wounds would scar within hours/days, and the subsequent scar would be gone within a week/month).

The only thing that can scar her permanently is strong magic that does enough damage to overcome her self-healing powers, like Balthazar's or the one Eir's longbow was enchanted with. The first left visible scarring on her chest after she was impaled by his sword (she survived due to the facet getting shattered and flooding her with magic, which kept her alive while the self-healing went into overdrive to attempt fixing that disaster, but his fire killed her first) and even being revived couldn't fully undo the damage, while Bangar's arrow kept burning from within (it was powerful enough to hurt the ice dragon, so her enchanted armor was no match, let alone her flesh) and it quickly depleted her magic as it tried to continuously undo and contain the damage, making the Scrying Pool necessary to save her. Aurelia doesn't particularly like to show those scars, but at least she's gotten less self-conscious about them over the years.

Though not a scar, she only has one of her horns left intact. One of the lower ones broke off when she was flung away by the explosion caused by Kralkatorrik's attack that killed Aurene, and she later had both filed down for comfort (later wears some accessories made by Adamas with Aurene's crystals), while the left upper one snapped in half during the airship crash in Cantha (missing half later replaced with Aurene's magic). While she's not happy about them being broken, she likes having something of Aurene with her at all times.

-

18. Can they handle themselves in a fight without using weapons? And without using magic? What would they do if they were in a fight and disarmed/unable to use magic?

Back before her Mists misadventures, when she didn't have any magic, Aurelia was not someone who'd ever back away from a fight. Being as strong and big (if not bigger) than most male charr is an advantage she never avoided using, often charging into enemies using just her armor's spikes as "weapons" and even occasionally picking up smaller foes to throw or hit others with, regardless of whether she was actually disarmed or not. Back then, drunken brawls were one of her favorite off-duty activities, and a norn friend of Daunte once claimed she was a bar brawler worthy of legends and that he was lucky to have always had her on his side.

That said, while those skills came in handy when her magic was unreliable for the first few years of having it, now she doesn't look for occasions to fight like that anymore. If she was in a real fight with no access to magic or weapons, she'd fight only if she had a reason to, otherwise she'd try to escape or deescalate.

[rwac96]

How would Tifa react to Jaune doing his flirting catchphrase to her after Blake advices him try it on the older lady? Is Blake right that it would work on Tifa or was Jaune right that it wouldn't?

"The name's Jaune Arc. It's sweet and rolls off the tongue. Ladies love it."

Sequel to this

The young swordsman took a deep breath, remembering his attempts at flirting with Weiss led to embarrassment and ridicule. Jaune approaches the dark-brunette brawler after she managed to make sure Nora and Yang were pacified. Clearing his throat, he stands close to the busty woman known as Tifa, who turned to the blonde.

"The name's Jaune Arc," he introduced himself, his voice now in that suave baritone he attempted on Weiss long ago. "It's sweet and rolls off the tongue. Ladies love it."

His team and sister team stare at the blonde with a variety of reactions; Pyrrha nearly snaps the dart in two, Weiss simply groaned at this display, Ren lets out an exasperated sigh and Ruby stops playing pinball for a moment, turning to the scene taking place. The drunken Nora and Yang snickered, expecting him to get punched. Blake, however, simply watched, taking a sip of the special drink Tifa made earlier.

"Nice to meet you, Jaune," Tifa says with a giggle, "the name's Tifa Lockhart, memorable, and guys love to shout it~." The ruby-eyed woman winks at the blonde, who was now blushing once more.

As Blake simply chuckled, returning her attention to her book; everyone else stared gobsmacked, while the drunken Huntresses began to sing a raunchy bar tune. As Ren and Weiss attempt to hush their drunken teammates, Tifa walks passed the stunned Huntsman; sneakily placing a piece of paper in his gloved hand.

"Call me," she whispered into Jaune's ear, sauntering back towards the bar counter.

'It worked?' Jaune Arc thought to himself, lifting his hand up to uncurl the paper he was given, seeing what was jotted down was the bartender's number and the apartment she was staying in. 'Sweet brothers! It worked!'

[the-twisted-tales-tavern]

Fucked Stupid 7C: After failing a wager she’d made in a bit of drunken fun, Yang finds herself at the mercy of the orc that she challenged and close to losing her whole self…

In hindsight, perhaps jumping into a drinking game that she only barely knew the rules to wasn’t the best of ideas—but, in Yang’s defense, she was already a bit tipsy when she’d decided to jump in, and it really hadn’t seemed that hard at first. Toss a silver into a mug at the end of the bar, and every time you miss you had to take a shot. Surely it wouldn’t be too difficult—and even if she missed a bunch, she bragged that she’d still drink him under the table.

Thirty minutes later, and a heavily inebriated blonde brawler finally dropped in defeat…and the still mostly sober orc flashed a tusky grin, scooping her up off the bar and carrying her to his room to cash in on her drunken bet.

“You said I could do anything I wanted to you if I won~” he chuckled over the groans of pleasure and lust that tumbled from Yang’s lips. He grinned down at her, his hands clenching and squeezing roughly at her doughy backside as he held her pinned to the bed, his hips bucking and rutting roughly into her as he drilled down into her. “Then I’m going to make you my personal whore, you dumb blonde bimbo~ get used to this being your nightly routine~”

Yang groaned at his words, but it was the only response she could really give. Too drunk to resist when he’d ripped off her clothes the second they’d stepped into the room, and now too aroused to deny it. Every thrust was remolding her in ways she could not recover from—her eyes rolled back as she bit at her lip, whining and groaning with wanton desire. “Ohhh fucking goddd~”

The orc chuckled and gripped her hair tight—coaxing a sudden gasp from her lips as he tugged her head back, and leaned over her pinned and prone form. “There’s no gods in this room, Blondie~ just me~ so if you’re gonna pray to anyone, pray to your new master that he’ll treat you like the good slut you are~”

And with a lustful chuckle, his lips dropped to hers in a breathtaking kiss—Yang moaning more desperately as she leaned back and kissed back harder, melting as she gave in to her new fate.

[zeta-neubourn]

Do you have any fun facts on matchstick?

Oh, Matchstick? :P Yeah, I do! He’s got a lot behind ‘em than I’ve shared, actually. Let’s seeeee......

Matchstick is my first and only character from D&D. I used Misfit as my first ever and played a Aasimar Warlock named Tim for a two session, one-off deal. Matchstick is the first I made based on actual D&D stuff. :P His class is Drunken Master Monk and he’s based on the Grotag Tribe kind of Goblin. (So, fire resistance and animal handling.)

I HAVE considered making a Gremkin counter part for him, though! A used a lot of my Grem species design to make Matchstick. You can kinda see a lowkey reference to that in his eye color.

Matchstick’s tribe is/was a big ol’ group of freelancers. They go out and do oddjobs and bring back like two silver for the week. They promptly spend this on supplies.

His tribe is pretty reckless. They tend to... uh, die... a lot. This is usually from trying to do something really dumb or difficult. Death isn’t really played off as no big deal, but they tend to celebrate it in a wake kind of fashion. It’s considered kind of an honor to go out doing something fun or cool....... That being said, living is far preferable.

Matchstick’s best work is behind the bar, making mixed drink and doin’ all the barkeep stuff. It’s part of the reason why he’s a Drunken Master... the other is his mentor, a pallas cat named Master Bourbon. (Yes, he brews his own stuff.) So, even though he’s a monk, his fighting style is pretty bar brawler style. (Closest I could get to that wasn’t homebrew. :P I figured after homebrewing Misfit all awkward like, it’d be better to stick with the official stuff.)

But yeah! There’s more to his story, like how he got his massive burn and the scar and all that, but that... is spoiler territory. :P That and I think I’ve rambled quite a bit already. |D

[fishrpg]

2024-10-05: Area 05 (Ponderosa Saloon)

Named after the ponderosa pines that grew in the area and provided the sawmill with so much lumber, the Ponderosa Saloon located near the railroad tracks and serves a clientele that even drunk brawlers would describe as "rowdy." It used to have a green door to lean into the pine aesthetic, but it got destroyed in brawls (or shot at) so many times that the door is some unpainted amalgamation of planks with a handle. "Small gunfights" erupt in the saloon so often that the bar got reinforced with sandbags** after the previous barkeeper (Tom Dickson) ended up getting shot in the gut through the bar.

The saloon's current proprietor is Bennie "Buckshot" Harper, a steel-eyed young man who enlisted in the Union army at the young age of 16. When he came back from the war, he was the only one brave enough to take over running the saloon. He keeps a revolver on each hip, a derringer in a boot, and a shotgun behind the bar to keep the drunken gunplay in check, and he's been doing it the last 6 years. Bennie saw enough combat in the war that pulling the trigger and facing death is just another Tuesday for him.

Whiskey is $2 a bottle, shots are 10 cents, and either of them will give you the worst hangover of your life (if it doesn't outright kill you). If you want to do something else besides just drink, there are three tables where shady characters play poker, and a wooden stove near the back wall where cold travelers can warm up. There's also a single chair in the corner closest to the entrance where a musician might play, but Bennie's been having trouble finding anyone brave enough to stay for longer than a song or two.

*In "Saloons of the Old West" by Richard Erdoes, the author describes a real saloon near Yreka, California on the Klamath River (that is coincidentally about 60 miles south from where Bowman would be located) where the bar was sandbagged to stop bullets from hitting the bartender, and he barkeep kept multiple loaded guns on him at all times in order to fight back.

[muutos]

[ DRAG ]  sender physically hauls receiver to safety . ( Donny )

soldier's breath hitches in his throat, as smaller arms tuck themselves beneath his own bulk. a grunt sounds behind him, in what sounds like somewhat of a desperate plea . . . to move the hulking green beret out of the crowd of drunken brawlers, before he got himself in even more trouble . . . -- or god forbid, hurt.

perhaps a bar wasn't a great idea.

his post traumatic stress triggered by sight of young man entering with a small box, and white knuckled fingers had splintered wood beneath fractured mind, lashing out before he knew what was happening. similarly split glass over his brow leaving a trail of crimson behind that dries whilst it drips down his temple. "i'm sorry," he swallows. "donny." he pants. lower tier of his lips twisted slightly in the turn of his head to view the continuing fight. dirty traveler's denim drug against the floor.

monotonous voice continues as the man drags him behind the counter. chest continuing its heave. "i didn't mean to fly off like that."

@avemaria. dire situations.

[fallenaj-2475]

Desmond stared at the recipe book dubiously. He knew it worked, had tried other different combinations already beyond the first two. Having extra stamina was a boon in and of itself. The Spicy Elixirs were especially good during the winter to help with the cold and the poor insulation the windows in his apartment.

The Chilly Elixirs were even better, helping with the muggy heat of New York and making it easier to not sweat buckets on his commute to and from work. Yes, he had a motorcycle now, but those jackets and helmets insulated heat far more than he had expected.

Now, however, he was staring at two new recipes he had yet to get to. Tough and Mighty Elixirs. They were... scarily simple, beetles and then, once again, a monster part.

Desmond had, in the past months, tried not to freak out too badly about his casual cannibalism, and as time wore on it, he had managed to rationalise it somewhat. He had settled on teeth for the most part. As gross as the thought was, the brewing process completely dissolved the teeth he would knock out from muggers or the stray rowdy guest at Bad Weather.

He actually had a small container hidden in his room with the teeth he had from these encounters. Was it creepy? Maybe. Was it wrong? Probably. But perhaps there was a bit of karma at play for those bastards that just thought he was easy pickings.

Now, for the beetles, it described a "Bladed" and "Rugged" rhino beetle. …Were there different types of rhino beetles? Where there any in New York? He didn't know, but it wasn't anything a quick search on his phone couldn't fix.

Apperently, yes, there were a lot of different types, more than he would have guessed. Now it was just a question of finding what a "Bladed" and "Rugged" Rhino Beetle was. Any search for those lead to nothing substantial, so he was reduced to scrolling through each type. It... didn't narrow his search at all, so he decided to just see if there was any rhino beetle in New York.

Now that gave him results. The Hercules Rhino Beetle was native to this part of America. It wouldn't be too difficult to find it, hopefully.

He looked further into the recipes, seeing that for the Tough Elixir, it could also add other ingredients, like a fortified pumpkin or... armoranth herb? Based on the little sketch it looked like an artichoke, but it was purple. A thistle maybe?

He would need to go to a park on his next day off it seems, he'd be able to hopefully collect all he needed to try this new one.

-

Desmond had tried the Tough Elixir on a whim. just to see if it would do anything noticeable. And it had, it had made taking hits from a drunken brawler at the bar less than a non issue. He hardly felt the hits, as though the rowdy man he was now kicking out of the bar was just poking him rather than punching him.

And Desmond knew, logically, that this should hurt, that he should be getting the wind knocked out of him, and yet, there was nothing of the sort. This guy had downed a coworker of his and his manager was frantically calling the police while he dealt with this looser single handedly.

Hmmm... perhaps he should brew this potion again sometime soon. He certainly wouldn't feel bad for taking the tooth he had knocked out of this guy's jaw home, that was for certain.

-

Desmond had put his new tooth into his collection and put it away with his book. He had just been about to undress from his work clothes when he heard scuffling.

This time, it wasn't the lone rober that was disappointed in his scarce apartment, this time it was a full team of heavily armored people, guns in hand, and dressed in kevlar.

They got lucky in hitting him in the back of the head, he had been managing fine, probably only snagging a bruise or two as he fought to get out and get away, the elixir making his skin tougher than it should have been, making the impacts has less of and effect on his body.

But it wasn't enough, and he fell, only to wake in a body that wasn't his own with faceless people running about him, and two voices arguing somewhere nearby, but not in anywhere he could see.

(Came to me as an idea based on the fact that Desmond doesn't look injured at all in game when he wakes up. He had to have done something to keep himself from getting fucked up when getting kidnapped.)

I just thought of something really gruesome.

So, was thinking of botw and totk and how you make tonics. And then thought of Des with Link’s powers. And had the thought. What if Des could make the potions from those games? But wait, that would require monster parts. And then l remembered a lovely line from BDG.

“And we all know the real monster is man. And cannibalism is frowned upon in New York.”

So if we were to say the real monsters are Templars. Well…..they’re not necessarily in New York? And the other ingredients are just things like flowers or bugs? Strength Pot Des anyone?

Cannibalism in this one XD

Desmond could have gotten some kind of ‘recipe book’ while dumpster diving.

He was just looking for stuff he could fix and use or maybe even decoration for his new small apartment.

He though the book looked alright. Didn’t have a name or anything in it and all the pages looked handwritten so he took it with him to read when he was bored.

Oh. And the small cauldron it was in looked good enough to use after some heavy scrubbing.

The first page looked weird.

It only said ‘1 monster part and 1 ~ 4 hightail lizard or hot-footed frog’

Monster part???

He thought of it as maybe just someone writing whatever they wanted, like some kind of story or something.

Until… someone tried to break inside his home.

Now, Desmond wasn’t exactly a pacifist but he was also not a pushover.

And then the thief had the gall to call Desmond’s home a shithole because it didn’t have anything worthwhile to steal and tried to stab him because he thought Desmond might have some cash on him.

During the altercation, Desmond managed to cut the thief’s hand near the kitchen where he was making frog soup using that cauldron (the frogs came from an Asian store with a sweet old lady who told him that they were ‘farm frogs’, her English wasn’t that good, and that they were good to eat in a soup)

The thief ran away, Desmond finished cooking his dinner and ate it…

Realizing he may have eaten the meat of what is absolutely not the skeleton of a frog.

Pretty sure it was a finger.

And that was the day Desmond became an accidental cannibal.

Fuck.

And because he was a slave to capitalist like everyone else, he had to go to work while trying to not freak out over eating a finger.

Maybe two.

Holy shit.

And then he wasn’t… tired at all? Like… he had to work overttime and he was still okay?

For some reason, his mind went straight to that book and about how “a monster part and 1~4 tiredless frogs” would give the drinker a boost on their stamina.

There was no way, right?

Right???

.

A month later, Desmond was mugged in some abandoned alleyway and he kicked the mugger’s ass. Unfortunately, during the altercation, Desmond plucked the mugger’s eye (heat of the moment, Desmond was trained to attack every weak point without mercy) and it was disgusting but then…

What if?

He returned home, dropped the eye in the cauldron and looked for anything he could try (not him, there’s a stray cat outside the apartment, he could just leave the soup out and they’d drink it, no harm, no foul… well, he had a human eye but that was beside the point).

There’s one that is supposed to make one faster and it needed ‘hot-footed frogs’ or ‘hightail lizards’. He went with lizards since he’d seen a few in the apartment just chilling.

He cooked the soup, went downstairs and left it by the dumpster.

He watched as the stray cat smelled it (he made sure that it was cooled before he left it) and began to lick it.

The cat’s licking began to be faster and then… it… It wasn’t like a cat that was zooming everywhere.

The cat was moving as normal.

But it was faster.

Holy shit.

Desmond just got some kind of witch brew book… that counted humans as monsters.

And… well…

There were a lot of bad people in New York and Desmond wasn’t really raised to have a rigid moral code.

[vanathema]

With the steam release of Dwarf Fortress coming, I’ve made a round-up of threads and stories over the years.

In general, most images are broken because some of these are ten, almost fifteen years old. Also worth noting that forum posters tend to refer to all dwarves as male, regardless of gender. This often extends to adventurer mode (even though one can adventure as nearly anything). This gets confusing at times.

———

stories

The Most Interesting Dwarf in the World http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=34933.0 https://www.dwarffortresswiki.org/index.php/Morul Morul Cattenmat, renaissance dorf

The Elf King of Dwarves http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=39897.0 https://www.dwarffortresswiki.org/index.php/Cacame_Awemedinade how DOES an elf get elected king of dwarves, anyway

Cog the Blind Drunk http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=172504.0 the adventure of a drunken bar brawler. also there's mangoes

The Life and Death of Tholtig Cryptbrain http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=42702.0 via legends mode, memorializing the last dwarven queen

The Ballad of Almef Abliemtha http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=162870.0 an adventurer mode newbie stumbles into endgame. "I still don't know what candy is. I've been using goose leather."

Âsax http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=52295.0 “That bird was a saint, embodying two of the many great aspects of dwarven civilization: war and crazy names for garbage items.”

Glitchy body-surfing in adventurer mode http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=75246.0 "...discovered that Elephants can't open doors. All my plans for becoming the first great Elephant general ruined."

"You have found..." http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=80043.0 gently bullying a new player

One Dwarf Against The World http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=15572.0 solo-running a fortress, or, the origin of all dorfs being called Urist

Beware the giant sponge http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=101243.0 sometimes the most fearsome enemies are right on your doorstep, callously murdering your fishers by making them startle and trip into the river to drown, like utter morons

———

fortresses

Archcrystal http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=156319.0 the almost (at time of writing) 500-year old generational fortress (considering encroaching FPS death kills more fortresses than tantrum spirals or invasions, this is as much a technical victory as anything)

Bronzemurder http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=54969.0 the illustrated saga

(note: the Something Awful threads are indicative of edgy internet humour circa 2005-2010, which is to say, a wee bit dated. proceed accordingly.)

SA: Boatmurdered https://lparchive.org/Dwarf-Fortress-Boatmurdered/ the prototypical succession game, from an ancient version of the game that had no z-layers (i.e. it was a 2-dimensional map) now immortalized in the soundtrack as "Koganusân"

SA: Headshoots https://lparchive.org/Dwarf-Fortress-Headshoots/ another succession game whether intentional or a bug, combat skill levels were uncapped for at least two dwarves, which might have been a mistake

SA: Syrupleaf https://lparchive.org/Dwarf-Fortress-Syrupleaf/ the sequel to headshoots set in a world plagued by frost giants and the undead Spawn of Holistic (which is to say, a modded enemy based on one of the fallen heroes of Headshoots)

———

glitches (mostly fixed)

Danger Rooms http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=92907.0 a popular if controversial exploit (now fixed) where the optimal way to train your militia was throwing them in a room full of wooden spear traps hooked up to repeaters, to be stabbed ad infinitum

It was the best embark, it was the worst embark... http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=61507.0 worldgen hiccup causes an impossible adamantine spire

Here lies Wagon: may he rest in peace http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=128593.0 the original image is broken, so to explain: a scuttled wagon may end up being listed as a deceased entity. deceased beings can be memorialized on gravestones, and so...

The Shaft of Enlightenment http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=134512.0 a particularly lucky goblin inspires the blueprints for a new super-soldier training zone

Planepacked: The Fractal Statue http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=28232.0 https://dwarffortresswiki.org/index.php/Planepacked a dwarf in a strange mood amasses far more materials than usual to build an artifact, and produces a statue carved with the history of the world

"Cat cancels Store Item in Stockpile: Too injured" http://dwarffortresswiki.org/index.php/40d:Cat_cancels_Store_Item_in_Stockpile:_Too_injured local cat forgets it doesn't have hands

Parents carrying babies have their movement directed by said children https://www.bay12games.com/dwarves/mantisbt/view.php?id=11231 "Babies simply don't have any idea where they want to steer their mothers. I imagine it probably looks similar to Disney's Ratatouille movie."

———

!!science!!

Chasing the Elusive Mermaid http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=25967.0 infamously caused Toady to immediately nerf the value of bones from sapient creatures, for some reason

On the Farming of Sea Serpents http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=75780.0 the slightly less alarming but no less ambitious sequel to mermaid farming

Dwarven "Child Care" http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=91093.0 http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=140588.0 "It's like regular childcare, except with more dogs, and less care." i don't think anyone actually got this to work, despite generations of inhumane experiments, which is the dorf fort community in a nutshell

The Fountain of Eternal Life http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=101251.0 how to vampirize a fortress (the answer is: ew)

Building a !!Well!! http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=93780.0 "I'm still looking for a way to make a self-cleaning well. This was not the way to do it."

Quantum Stockpiles https://www.dwarffortresswiki.org/index.php/DF2014:Quantum_stockpile technically an exploit, too useful to fix

Dwarven Atom Smasher https://www.dwarffortresswiki.org/index.php/DF2014:Dwarven_atom_smasher also an exploit left unfixed. dorfs invented an atom smasher to use as garbage disposal

Necrobacon http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=113638.0 wherein dead animals raised by necromancy have increased muscle mass, and therefore bigger yields from butchery

the first fully programmable dwarven computer http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=49641.0 https://dwarffortresswiki.org/index.php/User:Jong/Dwarven_Computer turing-complete, apparently

Dwarven Game of Life http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=69307.0 "For the last few months, I've been building a megaproject which is an implementation of Conway's Game of Life in a dwarf fortress mechanical computer."

Dwarven Checkers http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=94140.0 the hit new boardgame

Dwarven Relativity http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=86248.0 a thread roundup of dwarven science, including several threads I haven’t seen before

Dwarven Language Codified http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=173289.0 this isn't shenanigans like the other !!science!! threads, just a fascinating read

———

dorf culture

Stupid dwarf trick https://www.dwarffortresswiki.org/index.php/DF2014:Stupid_dwarf_trick the real spirit of dorf fort

Goblin Christmas http://dwarffortresswiki.org/index.php/Goblin_christmas non-denominational

Unfortunate Accident http://dwarffortresswiki.org/index.php/DF2014:Unfortunate_accident weird how these things happen

Catsplosions http://dwarffortresswiki.org/index.php/DF2014:Catsplosion spay and neuter your pets

[starlight-starwrites]

barfights, buckshot, & bandages

arthur morgan x reader

summary: arthur morgan wanted a quiet night away to drink, to mourn, and most importantly, to forget. when john marston shows up only to start a fight, arthur must deal with the consequences. but of course things go wrong, and of course, you’re there to save their asses. wc: 6.1k warnings: swearing, violence and killing, description of injuries and patching up bullet wounds, drinking, some emotions, vague mentions of eliza & isaac, my attempt at hurt/comfort note: written for the red dead redemption reverse bang 2021 hosted by @rdrbigbang​​​! this fic is inspired by the gorgeous art below from @earthengear-arts​​​ who is nothing but patient, kind, and an absolute delight! this is set before the game, arthur is about 30/31, john about 21, and reader is gender neutral. no explicit romance but arthur and reader are soft for each other. reads from arthur’s pov.

“Sonuva bitch.”

This was not how the evening was supposed to go. Arthur Morgan wanted to be alone, nursing a beer or a whiskey or whatever god-awful concoction this town’s saloon served. It had started out that way too, before it all went to shit.

With a resigned sigh, he knocked back what was left of his drink, paid the bartender what was due, and pushed away from the bar to follow the fight that raged at the front of the establishment. It had been a long twenty-four hours, and if Arthur had learned anything from his years with John Marston, it was looking to be a long twenty-four more.

Between running jobs for the camp and his own problems, Arthur had had enough. The burn of alcohol still lingered in his throat, warming his belly. Maybe a fight was what he needed. He’d promised Hosea he would keep to himself. Avoid trouble.

This time at least he could argue it wasn’t his fault. From where he was, he could already see the scrappy kid in the center of it all, long hair flying around his face as he brandished a broken beer bottle. Arthur wasn’t sure when he got here, but as soon as John sidled up to him at the bar, he’d shared a few choice words. 

Now as he watched his brother attempt to hold his own, he wondered if he was too harsh. John had come to check on him, probably sent by Hosea, and now here he was being held back by two men as a third pulled back an arm to drive a fist through his nose. 

Arthur wrapped his hand around the man’s wrist, twisting his arm so they stood face to face. The scraggly beard did nothing to cover the man’s pocked skin, and before he could open his mouth to speak, Arthur’s fist connected with his jaw. The rush, from his hand and creeping up the length of his arm, settled in Arthur’s chest. Earlier Hosea had warned him of the danger of acting on his anger. He had denied it of course--he wasn’t angry, not at all.

In the front room of the saloon, among the clamor of drunken brawlers, Arthur stood tall as the man dropped to the floor, out in a single hit. 

It wasn’t anger he felt. It was much more than that.

Attention shifted toward him, and John was shoved back and forgotten. It seemed most everyone tonight was just looking for an excuse to fight, men joining in the fray just to get a few good hits in and scram for the door. Arthur wrestled with one man, managing to knock him out just in time to throw his arms up to shield his body from a flying chair. 

He caught sight of John, whaling on another man with a broken piece of furniture. His knuckles had turned white, feet shifted toward his target as he swung. All focus on his action, he failed to notice what his current victim was doing. The flash of a blade was quick, and Arthur’s shout of warning came too late. 

To John’s credit, he didn’t scream, didn’t even stop his swing. He stumbled forward with a single shout, and the wood connected with the man’s head. Arthur grappled with another fighter who tumbled his way, and in the process, caught an elbow in the face that made him see stars. Biting back the pain, he threw off the attacker to see John retreating to one of the few tables that had yet to be overturned.

“Marston!”

Arthur’s shout joined the sounds of beating and breaking, but seeing the kid duck his head and tense his shoulders, he knew he was heard. He continued his retreat, and Arthur dodged the chaos as he followed behind. John was trying to make himself smaller, stumbling across the wooden planks. 

He finally caught up to the younger man, clapping a hand on his shoulder to turn him around. John swung wildly when he did, his club of a fist catching Arthur in the side. It was a weak hit, and when Arthur didn’t move John had to step back to keep his balance. He was cradling his arm to his chest, blood staining the sleeve of his shirt a darker red. 

“Christ, boy, what were you thinkin’?” Arthur’s drawl, low and angry, cut at the knees. 

John braced himself against the table with his good arm. “Good, y’fuh,” he paused to clear his throat, swallow back his words, “finally joined us.”

“Oh dear God. Are you drunk?”

“No.” John’s face morphed into a scowl, an expression Arthur was beginning to become more and more familiar with.

“Cause to me it sure look like--”

When standing among a dozen fighting men, in a room that looks as though it is a bullet and a moment away from turning into a bloodbath, it’s best not to turn your back on the action. Arthur knew this, and yet faced with the idiocy of his fellow gang member, he did just that. 

He didn’t notice the man in green approaching like a rabid animal, steel knife sharp and shining. Not until another figure, in a flash of brown, broke between him and John. The knife slit through the thick fabric before sticking, the figure wrapping the cloth around the man’s wrist in a second. The attacker twists with it, crying out for the sake of his hand, and Arthur doesn’t hesitate to step behind him and wrap his arm around his neck. He flexes, and the knife is forgotten. The man’s limbs thrash, hands going to pull at the bicep that chokes the air from his throat.

It takes a moment more, and Arthur lets him slide to the floor. Then he looks up.

“Where you come from?” 

His voice isn’t accusatory. Not even bothered by what just happened. He’s genuinely confused, and he thinks that’s what makes you smile.

“I came here with John,” you say. Your hands are already tearing up what is left of the shredded brown coat, making a long strip and reaching for John’s injured arm. “I assume it was you two that started this.” 

It’s a statement, not a question. It was actually very offensive.

“I ain’t--!”

“No, it--!”

Arthur and John shouted over each other, stopping when they realized you believed they only looked more guilty.

“It ain’t like that,” Arthur started, nodding in gesture to the brawl that was slowly making its way out the door. The barkeep stood atop his bar, red in the face and shotgun in hand. He’d been screaming for some time now, but without having fired a warning shot, no one had taken him very seriously. “Where the hell were you anyway?”

“I stepped outside for a smoke.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes at you, watching you closely as you leaned to rummage through the pockets of the unconscious man at your feet. “You don’t smoke. Whose coat was that?”

Your eyes followed the accusatory point of Arthur’s finger to the fabric that you hastily tied around John’s knife wound before you shrugged. “Someone left it behind. Along with these,” you opened up your own coat to slip in the snagged silver watch to already-bursting pockets.

Arthur’s attention was pulled away by the shouts of a couple men, likely the friends of the bastards who already slept on the floor. “Kleptomaniac,” he uttered under his breath, “c’mon we out to get outta here b’fore--”

“Oi!”

The voice came from behind where the three of you stood, belonging to a tall man dressed all in black. Two men flanked him, each armed and wearing wicked grins.

John swore. 

“Boy, what did you do?”

“Might’ve…” he fell into mumbling, “said a few things.”

“Must’ve been more than a few things,” Arthur was already moving, grabbing the back of John’s shirt in one hand and your elbow in the other. 

“Front door is closest,” you suggested, just as eager to quit this place as he was.

“You can’t make friends with anyone,” Arthur accused the younger man.

“They’re O’Driscolls!”

He stopped in his tracks.

“Shit.”

Sure enough, a second look was all that was needed to see it was a green vest, not black, that the man wore. Another behind him sported a green bandana around his neck.

The situation just became a lot more complicated. 

Dutch had expected to lie low for the coming weeks, not wanting to draw attention to their new camp. Things had been on the up since their latest loss, and Arthur believed that perhaps Dutch would let the feud settle between him and Colm even after the death of the woman closest to him. At least, he wasn’t out right seeking revenge at the moment. 

But John, impulsive and, well, drunk, had seemed to decide for them all.

Arthur pushed the both of you out the doors first, keeping an eye on the man stalking after him. He exited a second later, stopping between an injured and intoxicated John, and you, with your hands on your hips and a grimace on your face.

“Well,” you breathed out, “this is unfortunate.”

In front of the saloon, maybe half a dozen men were spread out, boots still planted in mud. All of them were wearing green.

The largest man, pot-bellied and standing front and center, stared Arthur down, a hand already resting on the handle of his pistol. Arthur mirrored his stance, fingers brushing the polished wood of his own revolver, and planted his feet on the boardwalk.

On his left, he heard your warning whisper, “John…”

To his right, John sighed. “Fucking he--”

They drew.

Some have said there is an art to a duel, the flash of two guns, the quick spin of fingers. Who clears leather first? Whose aim is true? It’s a moment understood best by gunslingers, something Arthur never intended to be. He’d practiced in his youth, proudly following behind Dutch and Hosea, thinking himself mighty and gallant and out to make the world a better place one well-meaning crime at a time.

He’s older now, and he likes to think he knows better. He’s loved and lost more times than he wants to remember, the very reason for his being at the saloon in the first place. He had yet to kill anyone tonight, but as he lifted his Cattleman, pulled the hammer and pressed the trigger, a .45 caliber flew from the barrel and into the throat of the O’Driscoll in a burst of red spray.

In an instant, their fate is determined. The first shot fired that opens the gates of hell in the streets of the small cattle town. Arthur knows he has to move, but is torn between protecting you or protecting John.

You make the choice for him. By the time the shot is fired and the man falls, you’ve already taken cover, your own custom Colt in hand. John lies on the floor, attempting to hide behind a crate with his own gun in hand, but dammit, too drunk to be very successful. He fires two shots into the man who steps out the saloon door, the tall man dropping dead behind Arthur.

In those few seconds, it became a hailstorm of bullets. 

The O’Driscolls in the street scatter, each finding cover behind wagons and railings. The way they spread only makes it harder for Arthur to find a target, and he lets out a curse. Between shots, he tries to rise to return a few of his own, barely raising his head above the wooden slats. 

The saloon door creaked open, Arthur noticing just in time to throw a discarded bottle at the face that appeared. He needn't have worried, for at that same time, a loud crack sounded beside him followed by a second. Two more O’Driscolls down.

Arthur glanced in the direction of the shots, seeing you peer from beneath the flat brim of your black gambler hat, the long barrel of your revolver resting on your forearm. You had never been a quick shot, but you were accurate, and he said a silent thank you that at least one of his trio could see straight. 

He would have to remember that next time he thought to make fun of the rifle of a revolver you wore on your hip.

He stared a bit too long, distracted over making sure you could hold your own. And if he was being entirely honest, he was beginning to regret having that last drink. 

A glance to his left proved that John was worse off than he was. The cover fire he shot off may give them a slight advantage, but the boy was wasting bullets.

“How in the hell did I get here before you, and you still got drunker than I did?” 

“They had good whisky! And then, well…” John fumbled to reload his gun, crouching down lower. “Found out they was O’Driscolls.”

A bullet whizzed past, splintering the wood of the post just above Arthur’s head.

“Dammit, Marston! Why couldn’t you keep your mouth shut?”

There was only a wooden board between them and the shooters, and a flimsy one at that. If they were going to survive this, they needed to move. Now.

“Would you just leave it?” John’s rough voice was interrupted by a couple of gunshots, and the two of them ducked aside to head for the alley. “This ain’t my fault!”

“To hell this ain’t your fault,” Arthur’s hiss cut through the air. They were tucked behind a crate now, primed to make a dash for it. He glanced down the boardwalk, catching sight of you still hunkered down. You nodded in his direction. Arthur trusted you to make it out of there on your own. You were smarter than the most of them and craftier than anyone realized; he would be surprised if Hosea’s foresight wasn’t your whole reason for being here.

As soon as the volley of bullets slowed, Arthur rose to fire two rounds at the nearest gunman. John, unsteady beside him, managed to fire off a shot before teetering, and Arthur nearly threw the poor boy to the ground in the alleyway. He was still drunk, and though he wouldn’t admit it, Arthur couldn’t claim to be entirely sober either. Tucked between the saloon and the shop next door, they were temporarily protected, but they would be sitting ducks as soon as the men reloaded and worked up the courage to pursue.

Sprawled in the dirt, John groped for his gun. His fingers just barely wrapped around the handle when Arthur’s arm reached for him, hauling him up and already pushing him forward.

“C’mon, Johnny boy,” Arthur’s voice was softer now, deciding to reserve his anger for the O’Driscolls shooting at them. He’d give John an earful when they got out of this mess. 

Shouting carried from the street, footsteps running after them. “Them’s Dutch’s Boys!”

Shit. If they got out of this mess.

John sagged into his side, legs crossing each other as he got to walking. Arthur shouldered him, then propped him up against the back of the shop, hoping the overgrown bush that grew behind it would disguise their presence a while longer. 

Arthur whistled and heard the responding whiny of Boadicea. 

Your figure crashed through the brush, staying low while you glanced over the two of them with wide eyes. “Still alive?”

“For now,” Arthur responded gruffly, wanting nothing more to be safe, alone, and drunk out of his mind.

You holstered your Colt, glancing from him to John. “Oh, Christ.” Your hands fisted the material of his shirt, holding him against the wall. “You need to sober up.”

The slap was quick. Arthur watched as you drew your hand back--front hand, back hand, and then front again.

“I am, I am,” John’s rasp was slurred, but Arthur could see the panic in his wide brown eyes. He raised his hands in defense, cheeks red from your sobering remedy. The flailing of his own hands landed a smack across your cheek. The corner of your lips curved up, and you nodded your satisfaction. 

“If you’re done,” Arthur broke in, “we’ve got a bit of a situation here.”

Hoofbeats thundered towards them, lawmen and O’Driscolls both on horseback, but whether they were hunting each other or hunting them, Arthur couldn’t tell. All he knew was Boadicea was further away than he would like, panicked by the riders and gunfire. Old Boy stood tall beside her, rearing up and startling a deputy in pursuit. 

“Where’s your mustang?”

“Friday’s not as cooperative when he’s being shot at, Arthur,” you retort. You nod at the horses still across the street, skittish from the noise and violence. “We’re going to have to run for it.”

Arthur breathed out a curse. They were running out of time.

With the arrival of the law, the O’Driscolls mounted up, some running off in fear of being caught. Still some stayed, returning fire and shouting to find the bloody bastards from the barroom. You three weren’t safe yet.

“Get John, make a run for it. We’ll split up. You make sure he gets to camp.”

Arthur’s orders are clear, and he’s grateful when you nod without arguing. With another word, he pulls out his dual revolvers, and the three of you are off and running. John is the first to reach his mount; you’re a step behind him with Friday still making his way to you, but Arthur lags behind.

He draws fire, pointing and aiming his guns to take down the riders--O’Driscolls and lawmen alike. John manages to get up on Old Boy with your help, Arthur slowly edging his way to Boadicea. 

Two riders come toward him from around one of the adobe houses, and Arthur tears from the dirt road. His horse is so close, but cornered, he turns and fires. One of the riders falls, the thoroughbred rearing up to dump his body before bolting. The second rider pulls up his weapon atop a beautiful buckskin, letting the horse slow as he aims.

Arthur raises his revolver. It clicks--empty. He swings his second gun around. Pulls back the hammer. Faces the barrel of a shotgun.

The blast makes him stagger, his own cry of pain blending with John screaming his name and your shout laced with terror.

The rider goes down, though Arthur isn’t sure who took the shot. He falls to one knee, hand going to the right side of his body, searching for the source of pain. One of his guns lies next to him on the ground.

You’re at his side in a second, barely checking to see if he still breathed before you hauled him up and ran him to Boadicea. She stood still as he mounted, certain the only reason he got on the horse was the force of you pushing him forward. 

“Arthur you goddamn idiot.” You say it under your breath, and Arthur isn’t sure how to respond. “John! We’re heading North, Hodge Farm. You make sure he doesn’t fall out of his saddle. I’ll catch up.”

His shoulder was on fire, and his cheek too, but Arthur was pretty sure this wasn’t the plan. “I said camp, told you to--”

“You shut the hell up and go, or I’ll finish the job.”

He nodded. You weren’t often prone to anger, and as one of the few people in camp Arthur could admit to genuinely liking, it would be best not to get on your bad side. A sharp smack to Boadicea’s rump, and she took off, forcing Arthur to grip the pommel tighter, fighting to watch where he was going through a grimace. 

He barely remembered what you had said, but John seemed to know where he was going. The ride took longer than he would have liked, and it was in the opposite direction of camp, but soon enough John stopped and dismounted. Arthur felt a wave of relief.

He was still getting down from his horse when you rode up, his one hand gripping tightly to his saddle. The world swayed for a second, and he gasped for breath. You were on your horse, and then in a single blink, you were at his side, leading him gently into an abandoned barn. 

The musty air did little to ease his stomach, and the moon cast shadows through the parted rafters that danced before his eyes. Arthur covered his mouth with his hand.

“You...you gonna be sick?” You sounded unsure of yourself for once, distracted from rummaging through your satchel.

“No,” Arthur sputtered, then groaned. Swallowed. “M’fine.”

Spots bloomed across his vision.

“I wasn’t sure you’d be alive when I got here,” you admitted. 

You looked like you wanted to say something else when John entered. “Horses should be alright, they’re hidden. How is he?”

“Not good.”

“Fine.”

You and Arthur answered at the same time. 

“The usual then?”

Both of you shot John a look. It seemed you found what you were looking for in your bag.

“I need to take a look.” Your voice was soft, and Arthur noticed how tired you looked. Your hands were gentle in pulling away his shirt, but his gaze was set on your face. You seemed shaky.

“You alright?” His whisper carried in the dark, made you pause in your task. 

Your eyes lowered, and you adjusted your coat. “Fine. I’m going to need to cut away your sleeve. It’s...a lot of blood.”

Arthur hadn’t even looked. He just nodded, slumped a little lower against the wall. You set to work, whipping out your knife and cutting away the material, ordering John around to look after his own wound. You were funny, cutting away the pieces of his shirt and laying them into a neat pile. Your tonics were lined up beside them, and you analyzed him with a furrowed brow.

He scanned you over, noticing the tear in your coat, the splatters of blood. He followed the motions of your ungloved fingers as you removed the last of his shirt. It was then he realized something.

“Hey. That was m’favorite shirt.”

You pointed your knife at him. “Then you shouldn’t have gotten fucking shot.” The force of your words seemed to startle the both of you. A little sheepish, you added, “we’ll get you a new one.”

With his blood-soaked shirt no longer sticking to him, Arthur felt the chill of the air and the sharp pain of his wounds. Your face was pinched tight, and he finally risked a glance.

Several bullet holes littered the right side of his body, buckshot embedded in his arm, shoulder, and chest. Blood stained his skin, making it hard to see the extent of the damage. He liked to think he’d know if he were about to die, but sitting here in this moment, it was hard to tell. 

“You’re lucky,” you finally spoke, drawing the attention of John. “If he’d been any closer, you’d already be dead. They’re not too deep but…”

You trailed off. Arthur noticed how drained you looked, the downturn of your mouth and the slump of your shoulders. You looked like you might be sick. He looked at the splatters on your clothes again.

“Whose blood is that.” Arthur took a deep breath, tried to lean forward to pull at your coat. “I asked you a question, whose blood is that?”

“It’s nothing.” You moved to sit back on the floor beside him, and your coat opened. A bright patch of red soaked your side, dripping down to your hip. “It’s just a graze. We need to focus on you.”

Arthur spoke your name in warning, and your eyes darted up to his for the first time since you took on the role of doctor. They were tired and pleading, and it was only due to his own exhaustion he relented. For the second time that night, he realized he trusted you.

You examined the damage the blast had done, counting each bullet hole, every cut and bruise he sustained from the fight. Your hands were soft, another reminder of the very different life you led before you joined them.

“Five. I think. Five pellets still in you. Your arm’s bleedin’ the worst.” You look up to Arthur then over to John. “We’ll need bandages. And water.” 

You were breathing kind of fast. Raised a shaky hand to pull off your hat and toss it to the side before wiping the sweat from your brow. 

“There’s a creek nearby,” John offered, “and I can grab some extra clothes.”

Arthur finally turned away from you to look at his own arm. You were right. His arm was bleeding a lot, and it wasn’t slowing.

“We’re gonna need a fire too.” John nodded at his addition. “That means kindling and dry wood. The longer it’s been dead the better.” John nodded again. “There’s some pine around here, pinecones can--”

“I know how to start a fire.”

“Hey, when you go out there you stay quiet. I don’t want you spotted by anyone, y’hear? Keep a hand on your gun, and don’t--”

John turned his back and was already walking out the door. “Yeah, yeah! Jesus.” His rasp broke the hushed tones you spoke in before. Arthur tensed, watching the boy’s lanky form retreat. 

You spoke up beside him. “Didn’t realize you were his mother.” You were teasing him. Trying to distract yourself with preparing your tonics.

He was quiet for a moment. “I--I jus’, well. I just wanna make sure he knows. That he’ll be okay.” He was somber, earnest in his words. His sincerity must have surprised you by the way you froze. 

“He’ll be okay,” you whispered. Arthur nodded. “Will you be okay?”

“Suppose that depends if you can get this lead outta me,” he smirks.

“That’s not…” you ducked your head, letting the conversation drop. 

Moments later, John walked in, arms full of wood and cloth. “I got some supplies. I only got a cup for water, you think it will be enough?”

“I’ve got a tin cup in my saddle bag,” you added. “You can go and grab that too.”

You sprang into action, moving aside the clean clothes and gathering the wood John brought to start the fire. You were worried, he realized. 

“You ever dig a bullet out before?” Arthur asked.

You looked up from the kindling, your box of matches in hand. “...No.”

Arthur’s hand had been applying pressure to the hole in his arm, but even still, blood seeped through his fingers. “You’re going to need to cauterize it.”

You stared at him, face impassive. 

“You never done that before neither.”

He wasn’t asking. You hadn’t seen many shootouts, and the scrapes you had seen were usually patched up by someone else.

“Have you?” you asked him.

Arthur paused. “Well, no. But I’ve seen it done.”

“Great.” Arthur scowled at your response. “Just...tell me what you need me to do.”

John returned holding two tins of water. While you set to cleaning up his wounds, John took over tending to the fire, running for whatever you needed, and Arthur made sure to refrain from making any comments. He was too distracted by your poking and prodding, stopping his explanation to hiss when you swiped blood away from sensitive skin. 

You frowned, stopping your actions when he cussed. “Whiskey,” you had reached behind you, and held up a nearly full bottle. Arthur took it gratefully, chugging a few swallows. It burned a path in his throat and flushed his skin. 

“Good stuff,” he rasped. 

You nodded. “Okay. You ready?” Arthur nodded back at you. “And I just…” You trailed off, making a motion with your small knife. 

“Just like I told you. Hey, don’t you come at me with shakin’ hands. Here,” he held up your bottle of whiskey. If you were going to do this, you needed it.

You took it from him cautiously, looked at him as if asking for approval. You didn’t wait long enough for him to offer any before you were already downing a swig and stuffing it away.

“Okay.” You raised your hands over his arm, one hand around his bicep, the other hovering the knife over the wound. “Okay,” you looked over your shoulder, “John?”

“Ready.” The kid had his own knife in hand, heating the blade over the fire for the moment you got the shot out.

“Right,” you said.

Arthur sat still, sick and tired of bleeding and waiting. “Oh for Christ’s sake--”

You dug the blade in, twisting and pulling to get out the metal ball. Arthur screamed. Between the pain, the whiskey, and the blood loss, he couldn’t be too sure, but he thought you might have screamed too.

John was quick with his own knife, cauterizing the wound with a grimace as soon as you pulled out the buckshot. The next four were easier. They were visible when you cleaned away the blood, and you thanked the bone in his shoulder for stopping one shallow enough you could pull it out with your fingers.

As soon as the job was done, you took to preparing the bandages, making a poultice like Hosea had probably taught you. John was more than happy to retreat to the fire with a can of beans, pouting over the line of red that bled through the white cloth on his forearm.

You stayed at Arthur’s side, soothing and covering the charred skin. Patience was a rare trait among outlaws, but you seemed to have it in spades. He wanted to thank you for having his and John’s backs out there, but he didn’t know how to say it before you finally spoke up.

“We’ve been worried about you, you know. And I’m not talking about you bein’ shot.” You tied a strip of his old shirt around his shoulder. “Why do you think we were sent after you?”

“I assumed Hosea.”

“Hosea sent John ‘cause he wouldn’t shut up about it. And he didn’t want you getting in trouble again.”

“Then why did you come?”

Finished with his shoulder, you brought a wet cloth to his face. The sting had dulled, already having forgotten the graze on his cheek.

“Hosea sent me to make sure John didn’t get into trouble...”

Arthur cracked a smile.

You matched it. “Can’t remember that last time you smiled,” you said.

He looked up where you hovered, lips tugging into a smirk. “You been keepin’ track?”

“No,” you shot back, “just don’t recognize you lookin’ like that. Careful, you might give people the wrong idea.”

Arthur shook his head, letting the smile fade. “You ain’t got to worry about me none.”

“You always go out drinking or hunting--only you don’t bring anything back, so I have to assume you were just hunting for another drink--” 

“I resent that.”

“You been acting different Arthur.” 

“I go out all the time.” It’s true he knows. He never was consistent in camp, always bouncing from a job or to his own entertainment. Entertainment that as of recent, had morphed into obligation.

“That’s not what I mean. I know how you’d go out.” That made Arthur stop, wonder how much you knew. “It’s different now. You don’t even talk unless you’re yelling.” 

“I ain’t yellin’ now,” he huffed. 

“No, I think you lost too much blood for that.” You pull out a shirt that hadn’t been stripped for parts, tossing it to him to put on. “All I’m saying is...whatever you lost, Arthur, you don’t have to go through it alone. You got people who are here for you.” Arthur snorted. “I’m serious. Me, John. Hosea and Dutch.” When he struggled, you helped him slip his injured arm in the sleeve. Your hands lingered. “There’s a lot of shit that goes on in this world. And I ain’t saying you need to share anything with me. But if the point was to go at everything alone, well. Then I should’ve let you dig out that buckshot on your own.”

He lets your words hang in the air. Trying to process what you mean, how much you might know as you smile sadly and shake your head.

Arthur wasn’t used to such softness, such kindness. Not from you, not from anyone. He didn’t know what to do with it. So often these days he’d said very little if it wasn’t out of anger. But how could he do that to you now? Not when you told him the very thing he’d been needing to hear, not when your hands were gentle over his wounds, patching him up in more ways than you likely knew.

“We should head back to camp at first light.” A change of topic felt safe to him, returning to his gruff manner. He didn’t like having to sit in one place long after a mess like they just went through. 

“No.” Your assuredness in the way you say it makes him look at you fully, and even John looks up from where he was nodding off on the opposite wall of the barn. “We’ll rest now, you need sleep. First light is only an hour or so away. John, you’re certain the horses aren’t visible from the road?”

He nods eagerly.

“Then we leave late morning. We keep heading North, then take the main road East from here and head to camp from that way. As long as you two hooligans can pass for normal people, we should be fine. You look enough like cowboys in these parts. We’ll be back by evening.”

Arthur opened his mouth to protest, but then you rolled out his bedding, pointing for him to rest. It left little room for him to argue, his exhaustion creeping up on him. It would be a long ride tomorrow, and though your path took longer, they would steer clear of the town at least.

He lies down, hears you settle in by the fire. There’s no way he could stay up and chat, but he listens to the quiet conversation you share with John. You fix yourself up, insisting your graze was nothing. He has to trust you on it, not finding the strength to ask from the other side of the campfire. Arthur’s already dozing, lulled to sleep by the low chatter, but something John says wakes him up.

“He listens to you like he listens to Dutch.”

You snort at the comment. “I’m not sure what you mean by that. Or how I’m supposed to take that.”

John groans, shifting where he sits on the ground. “All I’m saying is...Arthur doesn’t listen to just anyone. Never takes orders from anyone but Dutch.” There’s a pause. He assumes you must be considering what the younger man said, trying to reach the meaning John is implying. “Or Hosea, I guess.”

You’re quiet. Are you thinking on it still? Or have you decided to ignore it? He can’t see you from where he lays on the bedroll, but he imagines you whittling like you sometimes do. Wielding your little knife with an artistic skill he occasionally finds himself envying. You probably have already laughed off John’s comment, told him it means nothing like Arthur is telling himself now. 

“Of course he listens to me.” You finally break your silence. Arthur’s heart speeds up, and he stops breathing to hear what you say next. “I’m the only one here with any damn brains.”

The comment halts his wild thoughts, and he smiles for the second time this night. Of course you would say such a thing. Both you and John likely assumed he was asleep, but hearing the two of you speak, teasing each other and casually discussing what happened like old friends, Arthur realizes what he had been missing. He’s been torn between too many things to be fully present.

As he lays there listening to the crackling fire, the chirping of insects, and the hushed whispers of you and John, he thinks of two graves. Of kneeling on newly dug earth of a boy and young woman he never should have cursed. He knows what it's like to fail, to take the good in life for granted. He isn’t meant for the life he once dreamed up; he has no place in this world. But you were right. There were people he still cared about, whether he deserved it or not. This gang was everything he had left. He lost one family. He wasn’t going to lose another.

.

thank you for reading! all my gratitude and love to the incredible @ficsilike-reblogged​ for the beta!

[venuscribble]

up in flames — johnson x reader

a prologue and epilogue to streets - read here!

A/N: hey ho! sorry this took so long, uni once again not letting me rest.. anywho. apologies that the timeline of this fic is so scattered. Just know that the order is prologue, streets, epilogue hehe! pls do enjoy regardless of my poor narrative skills!

TAGS: fluff, established relationship, matty is matty, some gross comments by seedy men, reader is written with they / them pronouns but is assumed to be a girl (hiss)

Prologue.

“God,” Matty groans, slamming his empty glass against the table in disgust. “This stuff never tastes any better.”

Johnson only hums a laugh, his eyes trailing off beyond Matty’s shaking head, settling his own glass down silently. The man beside him becomes a blur as he looks across at the bang-a-rang floor - the bodies littered and constantly moving, the drinks free-flowing, the notes of cash falling - until one wave amongst the crowd piques his interest.

You’re below the raised stage, your shorter frame bobbing up and down amongst the crowd of men which tower above you as you cheer. You’re looking up at the dancer above you with wide eyes and an even wider grin, and Johnson can’t help but feel you should be escorted far away from this place, to safety. Anyone with such joy still remnant in their soul shouldn’t be so engulfed in a room of sin as you are, here at 707. Your petite hands are throwing notes and the dancer upon tonight’s stage is tucking them into her lacy shorts with bubbles of laughter, watching you whistle at her from below as she moves in time to the bass beat.

A painted hand grasps Johnson’s shoulder from behind, red lips begin to whisper into his ear.

“Since when did you have an eye for Jeanie, hmm Johnson?”

“I don’t,” he bluntly states, not casting a single gaze her way.

Meredith slyly smiles, unbelieving and moving to sit beside the two men. “Sure, honey. That’s why you can barely look away from her, right?”

Matty throws his head back as he laughs, like a drunken king to a jester, slapping a hand atop Johnson’s thigh.

“C’mon Meredith, cut him some slack. It’s been too long since ole Johnson had a doll of his own, huh buddy?”

Johnson would have half the mind to shove the hand from his thigh, to grumble that Meredith go find someone else to tease, to do anything but pry his curious eyes away from you, but he simply can’t. You’re almost swallowed by the sea of burly men around you, but he finds you, easy. You’re almost emitting your own light, one only he can see, and it transfixes him for reasons he can’t understand. Jeanie, the dancer above you, is descending from her stage and wrapping you into her arms, your tiptoes leaving the ground as she squeezes you close. Johnson wonders about your relationship with the girl, how you met and why on earth she let such a sweet mouse into the den of lions here tonight at the bang-a-rang. Urges to protect you begin to creep up on him already, they leave him dumbfounded and silent. He’s never felt this way, and he doesn’t even know as much as your name. He knows you’re not a brawler, nor a dancer, or anybody in anyone’s sphere of knowledge tonight as it seems, so who are you?

“Who’s the little one with Jeanie? .. kept jumping up and down..”

“Who, Y/N?” Meredith queries.

Matty follows Johnson’s gaze, finding you under the cobalt lights and making your way to the bar, taking note of how your pants hug your hips and the bashful look on your face, like a deer in headlights.

“What’s a face like that doing here, I wonder.”

Meredith grins, taking a cigarette from her stocking. “You should see them. Fresh as a daisy, it’s so funny. They don’t even smoke.”

All Johnson can do is sip at his brown bottle, assuming his role as the blank canvas of the phoenixes, pretending he isn’t hanging on every word being said by the people before him. He wants to know you, despite his current priorities of work, more work, and avoiding stupid infatuations - yet something about you is so fresh, so untampered with, so fascinating. Before his tipsy brain can even process the turn of events, Meredith is shrieking your name across the room, waving her perfectly polished hand at you.

Johnson watches as the smile blooms across your face, your teeth flashing, your hand waving in the most enthusiastic of ways that it makes his stoic face break into a minuscule smile. Your eyes are wandering across Meredith to the people beside her - to the man with blonde hair and strikingly sharp features who tips his bottle to you in jest - then to the dark pair of eyes that meet your own and turn your blood to ice. A heavy weight pulls at your stomach as you cast a gaze over his face. His curled head of hair complements his eyes beautifully, his jacket fits him to perfection and if you aren’t too drunk on the air of the room and the amaretto shots you’d knocked back, you could have sworn his mouth was curled into the faintest of smiles.

Johnson’s eyes lock with yours, and for him, the music stops. The bodies disappear, the lights dim and fade until it’s only you and him, nobody else left alive. He feels like he’s seeing neon after living his life in monochrome and if it’s his last dying wish, he will know you.

Epilogue.

You pull up to the 707 to find Ethan pacing in circles around the rubble. He shoves his phone into his pocket, taking a long drag of his cigarette as you park and lifting his chin to greet you. Despite the handful of months he’s spent in your presence, in everyone’s presence amongst the Brawlers, Ethan’s dark eyes keep an unshakeable look of fear. You smile at him as you approach, hopefully alleviating his nerves.

“Hey, honey. Is Johnson inside?”

He looks dumbfounded.

“Uh..Johnson?”

“Johnson,” you affirm, tilting your head. “Tall guy. Curly hair. Doesn’t say much.”

Ethan shows you a tired smile, throwing his cigarette to the ground. He looks skeptical, as if you’d asked something out of your boundaries.

“He’s - He’s inside but uh… you wanna see him? Matty said-”

“-Oh, god!” you laugh. “Here we go. Ethan, what is that man telling you about me and Johnson?”

He shifts awkwardly on his feet, scanning your face, wondering what to admit next. You cock your head to invite him past the doors of the bang-a-rang, waiting for his reply eagerly.

“He just said that things between you and him.. they changed?”

You chuckle dryly, pushing the door for both of you and stepping into the desolate hall. In the center of the emptiness sits Matty and Johnson together, smoke billowing away from their table and neon lights cascading down upon them. Matty gives Johnson a rough nudge as he follows your body edging closer to the table. Johnson huffs, looking up and abandoning the cigarette he was in the midst of lighting - yet all the annoyance in his body dissipates as he sees your smaller frame across the hall. He uncrosses his legs, counting the seconds until your body is beside his.

“He’s right,” you sigh as you walk to the table. “Things definitely changed, Ethan..we’re no longer friends, I’ll say that.”

Ethan’s head whips to look at yours in disbelief. You do nothing but grin, having your fun keeping Ethan clueless, like a lost puppy as you advance toward who he assumes has become your enemy. After all, if you’re no longer friends, what else can Ethan assume you’ve become but foes? He wonders if you’ve come to fight, and that he has led you straight to the ring, in front of Johnson. He watches you with curious eyes, clueless on what your next move may be as you stand in front of the man, peering into his eyes which glare straight back into yours.

You pull your best enraged scowl but the facade and the silence can only last so long, until you’re breaking your glare with a playful giggle and Johnson is pulling you in with his hands on your hips, settling you onto his lap with a mumble of “stupid”. Your back is against his chest as you peer up at Ethan, finding him open-mouthed and only slightly less bewildered.

“I suppose this isn’t exactly friendly anymore,” you clarify to Ethan.

“Hm, what is it, then?” Johnson muses behind you, leaning to rest his chin atop your shoulder.

You tilt your head into his - “Romantic, you idiot.”

Ethan pulls up a chair beside Matty as you give Johnson’s forehead a chaste peck, taking the hand resting over your hip bone to lace your fingers amongst his and shuffling - ever so carefully - to a position where you’re balanced and both comfy. He smiles beside you, his eyes swimming with adoration, as if you’d hung the stars in the sky - and it makes Matty green with envy.

“Ah, young love,” the blonde man sings. “How sickening.”

You chuckle, and although Johnson remains silent, he knows everything is in jest. Unbeknownst to you, what Johnson is keenly aware of is the way which having you by his side deflates Matty’s ego tenfold - he had always promised he’d be the brawler to sweep you off your feet, and here you are, sparking Johnson’s zippo lighter for him as a cigarette dangles between his smiling lips.

“I gotta hand it to you Johnson, you couldn’t have picked a better bird.”

Johnson hums around the cigarette in agreement, pulling you closer toward his chest, allowing Matty to continue.

“But, me and Ethan here, we got a lover for ourselves too. She’s… oh, she’s crazy, beautiful, unpredictable,” He stands in full showman style, gesturing with his hands and pointing to Johnson as he speaks. Ethan moves little, save for his eyes, which track Matty’s momentary speech as he performs it.

“Hell, sometimes I feel like leaving her altogether but.. I know that I got nobody else but her. You know her, don’t ya, Johnson? You know her just as well as I do..and the lucky lady is?” He drumrolls his hands, waiting for the big reveal.

“T’s the river,” Johnson deadpans.

Matty claps with glee, drifting to bring another bottle of Jack Daniels to the table.

Johnson rests his raven head of hair against yours, ducking into you, his voice hushed. “What a loner,” he grumbles.

You collapse into the collar of his red paisley shirt, breathing in the scent of his cologne beside the three lines etched into his neck, sending waves of comfort to your thoughts and dizzying you with joy. You could get used to this, this life - sitting on Johnson’s lap, making fun of Matty and driving sweet Ethan near insane, nothing else outside of the bangarang walls finding you. You’re drifting along in your life and only dancing around the idea of finding an occupation, nothing else to preoccupy you, most of your days being spent with the boys and trying to protect your liver from their incessant thirst. Each time you pout and gingerly drive away from him, he replays your sweet voice like a mantra in his head - “I’m so bored,” you had whined, “There’s nothing here for me, Johnny. No jobs, no fun, it’s like groundhog day all the fucking time. Same old applications, rejections, rent.. God, rent.” You had turned to him by this time on the bed you both lay upon, Johnson constantly remembers the fire behind your eyes as you spoke - “I wanna get out. Wherever it is, I.. don't even care anymore. I just want something new - with you.”

Your hand is hooked around his shoulders, keeping you balanced atop his thighs and running your fingers through his curls, ruffling them for good measure when he speaks.

“You talk to Joel much?”

“Joel?” You laugh. “Mm, he’s here whenever I am. First time I met him, he told me to keep clear of Meredith - and I bet you can’t guess who Meredith told me to avoid in return.”

Johnson smiles from the corner of his mouth.

“Good,” he muses.

You stand, giving his thighs some respite from your body weight. Your warmth depletes from Johnson and he sulks in return, watching you with curious eyes, missing you already. You lean into his chair, resting your hands on the handles, pressing your nose against his and being mindful of the newly healed scar you’ve kissed a dozen times or so.

“No warning bout you, though,” You smirk.

He looks confused, genuinely so. “Mmf, I'm low maintenance.”

“Oh, please!” You grin. “You’re horrible to me,” you tease, and his worried gaze shows how he falls for it, hook line and sinker. “Always melting my poor heart, Johnny-”

“-yeahhhhh yeah, hilarious,” he bites, as you lower your head and squeak out breaths between your giggles, patting his shoulder. “Should have seen that one coming.”

You lift your head, biting back another laughing fit and cupping his face gently. The pad of your thumb moves of its own accord against the slight scratch of his stubble growing in, against the smoothness above it over the apples of his cheeks, coming to rest against the dip of his cheekbones. You admire him like a sculptor, feeling out the perfection of his face, true beauty in the flesh and under your touch. You leave your hand to rest as you lean ever so slightly forward to place a sweet kiss against his lips, your thumb stroking ever so slightly over his cheekbone, until his face leans into your hand to almost beg for your touch to stay upon him once you begin to part. You could kiss Johnson until time runs itself empty yet, in front of the Phoenixes, you’d better not indulge yourself any further.

“Just going to the bar, honey,” you whisper. He hums, somewhere between a groan of annoyance and one of acceptance, watching as you squeeze his hand and turn to leave his orbit.

“What’ll it be, Y/N?” Matty, your makeshift bartender queries.

“Just a glass of water, Matt,” you smile.

His eyes light with mischief. “Perfect. One rum and cola, coming right up,” he beams.

An argument stutters its way beyond your lips, but it's already too late, and already in vain. With a disapproving shake of your head, you sigh, and Matty slides the drink across the wooden bar to meet your palm.

“Cmon, junior. You wanna roll with the big boys, gotta get used to this. Can’t be a Phoenix and run on tap water all your life.”

Your head darts up in confusion, only to find Matty’s sickly sweet grin. With a sigh, you take your first gulp.

One week later.

Johnson’s eyes scan over his two cards with a grumble. Smoke billows from his mouth, holding a cigarette kept between his downturned lips.

“Should I even ask?” You tease. Judging by his face, Johnson’s cards are bringing him little luck.

“Gimme one more,” he hums, and you oblige, sliding the card across the table and eagerly awaiting his reaction.

He shrugs, smoke puffing from his mouth as he does so. You waft a hand to dissipate the grey cloud which seems to follow Johnson with a light laugh.

“Hmf, alright, stick.”

You arch an eyebrow, teasing. “You sure?”

He says nothing, only stumps his cigarette into the glass ashtray and lays his three cards on the table.

three of hearts, seven of diamonds, king of spades.

“Twenty,” he muses.

You sigh. “I feel like you beat me at these on purpose.”

Johnson turns his head, giving into the smile which tugs at his lips.

“S’just blackjack, baby. It’s just luck… you haven’t even drawn yet. There’s a, uh, balance of probability..”

“-yeah yeah, like I’m beating twenty, Johnny,” you bite.

He says nothing, only shuffles the deck and slips you two cards.

You leave them sitting in front of you on the table. An idea has filled you, causing your lips to form a deviant smirk and your gaze to lock with Johnson’s deep brown eyes as you speak.

“If I win…I should get some sort of prize. Considering you beat me every time, that is.”

Johnson leans into you, intrigued.

“Shoot.”

“I think,” you begin with an uncontrollably teasing lilt, “if I win, you get to tell me what you were talking to Joel about.”

Your lover’s lips press into a thin line, weighing up the options in his head. He takes a gulp of his drink, the air growing purposefully thick with tension, the way Johnson wants it to be.

“Wonder who told ya that,” he jokes flatly, darting his eyes to a docile Matty, presently puffing rings of smoke from his mouth on the empty stage.

You shake your head in dismissal. “Do we have a deal?”

“Mm-mm. What’s in it for me, if you lose?”

Your mind swarms with possibilities. Some make you laugh, some are almost too mediocre, some have your legs crossing under the circular table.

You hold his gaze, unwavering as you respond - “anything.”

Johnson leans back, grinning smugly. “Anything, hm?”

“Anything. I’ll even let you sing Johnny Cash again on karaoke again.”

He frowns. “You said you loved my Johnny Cash..”

“Draw the cards, Johnson!” You giggle out, and he obliges with a grin of his own.

Your stomach turns into tight knots. Matty had teased you here and there about the meeting between Johnson and Joel, boasting with a smirk about how unordinary it feels for a phoenix to be approached by their higher up - and anything Matty delivers with his signature shit-eating grin is never a good sign. It must be urgent, your mind rings.

Are you coming to close into the ring of their affairs? Perhaps they’ve decided you know too much, that it’s best to douse the flame of your relationship before things get set alight and become too dangerous to control for everyone involved. The thought races through your mind like a headache, straining against your temples. You feel no fear with the Brawlers whatsoever. If anything, you feel safer than you ever have, loved more than you’ve experienced before, embraced as one with no judgement or questioning but sympathetic smiles. In your dazed state, your eyes lock on to Johnson’s slender hands, admiring his delicate skin, the way it grows lighter at the wrist, the rings on his fingers entrancing you as he makes light work of cutting through the deck of cards.

As the cards slide your way, something Matty said in passing echoes in the corners of your busy mind.

“Can’t be a Phoenix and run on tap water all your life”.

So, just what is there for the highest of Brawlers at 707 to discuss with Johnson?

Begrudgingly, you place the cards flat against the table, not even sparing them a second glance as Johnson hunches forward to observe them for himself. There’s no use, you’re sure to lose, and even if you’d managed to win, you’re not sure the truth is something you’re in the mood to hear. In the heaviness of the fog within your head, you can make out the subtle chucking of Johnson. You refuse to look, keeping your eyes on Matty, now starfished on the raised stage. You have no idea why your obvious defeat is so funny.

“Very funny thing, that balance of probabilities,” he begins.

You force your eyes to the cards.

Two of hearts. Eight of clubs. Ace of spades.

A laugh escapes your open mouth, one Johnson would kill to capture and play on repeat, hearing your tone of genuine surprise and delight setting his heart alight. If only you’d stop doubting yourself, he mentally scolds.

It takes all you can muster to gasp out - “Holy shit, my first twenty-one.”

Johnson revels at the moment, your satisfied smile and the way your eyes flick back and forth between his and the cards.

“That is, if you’re counting your ace as eleven and not-”

“Oh, shush, Johnny,” you groan, but the love flows from your eyes and the light laughs you give out at his frankly annoying passion of teasing you.

“Shut up and start talking.”

Johnson swallows down the reply that was waiting on his lips, pressing them into a thin line and tilting his head in mockingly-dramatic shock. He finds your eagerness adorable and a deal is a deal - but he just can’t figure out where to begin.

He remembers the way Joel smiled as he joined him on the wooden porch.

—

“How’s Y/N?” Joel muses.

Johnson takes a second to himself, fishing for the right word. Beautiful? Perfect? Everything’s he’s been waiting to find?

“Just Peachy,” he settles for. “Keepin’ me on my toes, making friends… they’re really settling in, as easy as that, like they’ve always been here. Man, d’you remember when I first came?”

Joel chuckles, deep within his chest, taking a gulp from his bottle. “Yeeep. Looked like a deer caught in headlights. You wouldn’t talk to nobody - except for me, of course,” He adds with a proud smirk.

“-cept for you,” Johnson repeats. “Thank god I did, too.”

“When I saw you, Johnson, I saw a kid that needed me. I knew this was your home, the first step you ever took inside 707. Same with Ethan, he had this...lost look in his eyes, same one you did, all those years back.”

Johnson reflects on his former self with a saddened smile - he remembers the nerves, how completely out of his depth he felt, too shy to even speak, except to the gentle presence of Joel. He remembers his floppy hair and his naivety about the world, his innocence… it leads his thoughts straight back to you.

“I see it again,” Joel continues with a pause. “But Y/N - they’re not lost… they look more at home here than any of us ever have. What you two’ve found, you can’t let that go, not even for a second.”

“That’s the last thing I wanna do,” Johnson affirms.

Joel smiles, almost melancholic. He thinks about his own time as a phoenix, the beauty it granted him, the heartache it left him with. He’ll be a dead man before he allows history to repeat, he decides, and places his bottle down once more.

“Then you keep them by your side, and you show them how to run the river.”

—

2 weeks later.

As you stalk the empty corridors of the bangarang, the emptiness of a space so typically exploding with sound leaves you with an eerie feeling. Heaviness pulls at your gut - being here alone, without the steady presence of Johnson or any of the Phoenixes for that matter, feels completely alien. In these isolated times, you can’t help but feel out of place within the hugeness of your second home

In the uncomfortableness of your echoing footsteps being the only sound, your hands fidget with the lighter in your pocket, rolling the wheel with your thumb over and over again, a bad habit Johnson never fails to notice. You breathe a sigh of relief as you turn a corner and the sound of two brawlers conversing fills the space. You cannot see their faces, only the back of their jackets as they walk ahead, the spider embellished onto the fabric staring you down. Their conversation is incomprehensible as the man on the left laughs a loud, hearty laugh. You pay it no mind, until his next utterance snaps you back into reality -

“So Johnson gets his dick went nd’ just like that, Joel makes his date a brawler?”

His friend laughs in response with a sneer, shoving his shoulder as hot blood rushes to your cheeks.

“I know plenty girls here I’d love to make a brawler, let me tell ya. Wonder what’s so special bout this one.”

“Probably a good pair of tits,” the man spits, falling into more grotesquely loud laughter with his companion.

Your blood is boiling as you focus on making your presence as discrete as possible along the corridor - after all, a peak into how the brawlers really feel about you is a one in a million opportunity, no matter how grotesque.

“Maybe one day I’ll find out for myself. I dunno, man. Took me like a year to become a brawler. You really think she’s that good?”

“I wouldn’t know, dude, I’m not the one fucking her. You gotta ask Johnson.”

“Maybe you should ask me myself,” you bite through their disgruntled laughter.

Their movements slow as the sound of your voice hits the two men, the words sinking in as they each turn to meet your darkened eyes. They each turn almost comically surprised, their jaws hanging low as they scramble for an excuse.

The man to the left clears his throat, patting his broad chest for a box of cigarettes.

“S’just a joke, tuts, you know that right?”

“Y-yeah,” croaks the slender man to the right.

You laugh, thoughtlessly. You feel almost as angry toward yourself as you do toward the men, for interrupting their quaint little discussion. It would have been humbling, hearing just what they assumed won you the trust of Joel. Of course, the truth is less interesting, merely an ounce of love and companionship over your looks or your body. You make sure to clear your throat as you begin your response, your voice as clear as glass with a subtle hint of smugness.

“Oh please, you owe me nothing. I am, after all, a stranger in your space. Quite frankly I’m almost honoured you think my body would be enough to earn my spot here,” you smirk.

The men blink at you blankly.

“It’s not me you owe an apology to, no. Surely you should have more faith in Joel, who he allows to join here? Did either of you use your dick to get into the brawlers?”

“Uhh, well… No, course not,” the tall man mumbles after a beat of silence.

“Didn’t think so,” you quip. “I hope you feel the same for Johnson. I don’t know what he’d quite make of you doubting why I’m allowed to be here..”

“No!” blurts the stockier man to the left. “Look, it was a stupid fuckin’ joke, okay? We didn’t mean nothing by it. I’m sure Joel likes you for good reason, just - just leave Johnson outta this. We can forget it.”

The man to the right nods furiously until his head slows, tracking an unknown figure moving to your side. You’d be slightly concerned just who lingers behind you, if you didn’t know the smell of that familiar musky cologne wafting through the silent air like the back of your hand.

“Forget what?” Johnson drawls as his arm wraps around the back of your waist.

The eyes of both men begin to widen. “Oh, uh, nothin-”

“Well,” you interject, “These gentlemen were just telling me how happy they are to welcome me to the brawlers. Isn’t that so?”

“Yeah!” they each blurt in unison.

“And that’s all?” Johnson grumbles lowly, his eyes sharply fixed on the two brawlers in front of them. He knows them roughly, knows that they’re sleazy and lacklustre at their jobs, and feels pretty certain that Matty once drunkenly punched the stocky man - Ben - for his cheap mouth.

The arm around your waist drops as Johnson takes two measured steps towards them, leaning into the bubble of their personal space, ebbing his nose mere centimetres away from Ben. He almost towers above the stout man, with his sharp shoulders and his sleek figure, it has your face heating once again and your stomach dipping wildly.

Johnson looks angry, and his anger calmly flows out of his low voice as he continues to speak.

“You better hope it is. We all know how you like to talk, Ben. So leave before I hear any more of your shit, hm?”

Ben and his companion waste no time clearing themselves far away from Johnson’s stern gaze. He turns to you with an inquisitive eyebrow arched, keenly expecting your explanation.

“C’mon, not everyone likes the new kid,” you tease.

He sneers in disagreement. “Not loving you..s’like some sort of crime.”

A small giggle flows from your chest, stepping forward to lock your hand on the back of his head and pull his lips against yours, kissing him with a gentle slowness, willing the rage in his body to dissipate within his chest in every movement of your lips together.

Your noses remain touching as you pull away for breath, his eyes fixated on staring into yours, overwhelming his mind with wonderment of how anyone as beautiful as you could be his.

“You’re so pretty,” he whispers. “My pretty love. Those guys are just… jealous. Jealous assholes, at that.”

“Baby, I’m completely fine. I don’t think they’ll be much trouble… they nearly sprinted away from you,” you laugh, and Johnson allows his head to rest against your clavicle, pressing light pecks to the skin there.

“God, you’re really - really hot when you’re mad, Johnny,” you mumble bashfully into his curly head of hair.

“S’that so?” He responds in a heartbeat with a smirk and his voice just a notch deeper, making you swat at his chest.

“No time for that, babe. Poor Matty’s waiting. Good thing you found me - pretty sure I got lost.”

“Guess I’m just drawn to you,” Johnson shrugs as he takes your hand into his own, guiding you around the building and through the heavy doors which open to reveal Matty and Ethan pacing beside their car.

“Oh, good! Thought you had gotten cold feet, junior,” Matty beams.

“Oh please, I can’t wait,” you smile back as Ethan settles into the passenger seat, Johnson being sure to open your own door for you and joining you in the back.

“I’m really glad you’re coming, Y/N,” Ethan’s soft voice lilts from in front of you in the car. You smile as Matty pulls the car away from the bangarang, your journey officially commencing. “It’s nice not to be the newest phoenix anymore.”

“You’re still the baby, don’t worry,” Matty coos.

Johnson’s hand finds yours against the back seats, lacing your fingers into his. The sun beams a warm golden light against your face, watching the mountains pass you by and the clouds following your car from above - you make out the shape of a rabbit out of Johnson’s window, making him smile gently as the sun sets.

In beginning your first mission as a phoenix, the river could never feel more beautiful.

gif creds here :D

[cyborg-franky]

I am here with a request for smoker if u could pls write “I’m too sober for this.” “You don’t even drink.” “Maybe I should start.” with him. I don't know why but I see him as a really big and scary dude who's a baby on the inside. But thanks for your hard work! And I love ur writing.

Aw thanks <3 and I'll give it a shot. Smoker is pretty fun to write. I struggled to come up with a situation so I hope you had something like this in mind.

Smoker x GN Reader Cannon verse SFW TW: Alcohol Word Count: 481

This sort of work was below you both, you’d have never been sent out to deal with a simple bar fight but as marines you had a sense of duty. You couldn’t rightfully walk past the bar that had screaming and shouting that spilled into the street, you had to go and check it out.

Bursting though the swinging doors like they were made of paper, Smoker inhaled before exhaling a large amount of smoke. You popped up beside him and watched the tendrils of grey under the control of the logia user wind in and out of the crowd of drunken people, pulling them apart from each other, pushing the spectators further away and breaking up the brawl on the ground.

“The fuck is everyone’s problem” He muttered when as soon as they were pulled apart they grabbed at each other again. You watched as Smoker walked over to the two men fighting, grabbing them by the collars and lifting them into the air so he could give them a glare.

Both shut up and stopped trying to take swipes at one another as they dangled in the large man’s grip. “Mind telling me what’s going on?” He tried to keep the obvious annoyance out of his voice, but he was never good at hiding how he really felt, his face painting a picture of a man this close to banging the two idiots’ heads together.

“He slept with my wife!” One yelled in outrage “She’s your sister!” the other cried out.

You blinked slowly trying to process what the hell they’d just said, “And why is everyone else fighting?” You asked the bar tender who had been trying to clean up the mess some of the other brawlers had made.

“Oh, ya know, any excuse for a fight around here aye?”

There it was, the eyebrow twitch, the tell-tale sign of Smoker’s jaw clenching. “I’m going to write up a fine and report you to the local law enforcement, that is no reason to start a fight!” well, it was you thought to yourself. Weird.

Smoker dropped the two idiots and you started to take their details. Smoker waited for you outside, leaning against the wall. You finished up with no further issues from the pair. He watched you push past the doors “All done, what a mess” You shook your head, it hadn’t been difficult, but it was still interesting.

“I’m too sober for this.” Smoker rubbed the bridge of his nose, eyes closed and letting out a ragged sigh. “You don’t even drink.” You quipped “Maybe I should start.”

“We are technically off duty right now boss, we could sneak off and have a few drinks?” You nudged him playfully, he barely felt it but glanced down at your beaming face, the grin and awkward wink at him. “I think I’ll take you up on that rookie”

[shadeofazmeinya]

That Golden Spark

Summary: Los Santos was alive most at night. When the artificial lights shine brighter than the sun, when all the real business happens between whispers and concealed hands.Trevor has the unfortunate task of gathering the Fakes for the night. Surely they couldn’t have gotten into too much trouble without him.

A/N: For the @rtwritingcommunity Springfairy fic exchange! This one for @uy8hg! A simple fahc fic that was a lot of fun to write!

Los Santos was alive most at night. When the artificial lights shine brighter than the sun, when all the real business happens between whispers and concealed hands. And the bars were the most lively, the music swirling through the streets, the sounds of people’s yells and laughs bouncing off the buildings. It was no different this night, at a small but no less crowded bar in the Fakes area of the city. A favorite and Trevor knew that this is where everyone will be.

Trevor can only sigh as he walks up to the dive bar, the building vibrating with shouting and crashing. A pair tight in a brawl burst from the door, nearly colliding with Trevor as they fell to the street. Not breaking apart as they roll around and chase each other down. Trevor rolls his eyes, sidestepping as he pulls the door open and heads in.

Inside, fists and feet were flying. It was every definition of a bar brawl, people wrestling. Broken bottles and shattered wood scattered everywhere. Two people locked in arms pass in front of Trevor, collapsing a table that splinters and crashes. He hears all the voices blurring together, some unfortunately familiar. But as Trevor scans the place, it doesn’t take long to find the center.

Gavin sits on a stool at the bar, one arm resting on it as he is facing the crowd. His legs were crossed, with a foot tapping to the barely audible music. He shifts just enough to avoid a brawl slamming besides him, lip pulling into a smirk as he takes a drink from some brightly colored concoction. His sunglasses are on, the scenes of violence reflecting against the gold as he watches like he was enjoying a movie.

Trevor has always known Gavin was a talented fuck. Gavin knows how to wrap people around his finger, get people to do what he wants without them even realizing. Unfortunately, Gavin doesn’t tend to use these powers for good.

“Free,” Trevor huffs, pulling one of the only standing stools over to sit besides him. “Fredo said you got here only 15 minutes ago.”

Gavin laughs. “New record, innit? Barely even had to talk this time. Just a few looks, a few winks. Bloody almost got hit!”

“Gavin,” Trevor says, glaring. “Seriously, I thought I told you to lay low.”

“We are laying low. No one will be able to remember anyone in this. And besides, Michael and Jeremy needed a go-” Gavin points and Trevor dreads looking over but does anyway. Sees Michael and Jeremy laughing as they both are taking on four different guys. It is impressive to watch, the two twirl perfectly around each other, knocking out their drunken opponents. At least Trevor knows their brawlers can handle these bar fights. But there was one more.

“And Alfredo?” Trevor huffs. 

Gavin blinks, mind falling in a sudden realization and looks around. “Bloody hell, where did he go? He was the one that wanted a bar fight!”

Trevor lets out a deep sigh at that, standing back up. He drops a few hundreds onto the counter, nodding to the cowering bartender who stood in the corner. Then he faces the crowd, glaring. He lifts his hand and lets out a piercing whistle.

The bar stills instantly. People pause mid swing, with arms wrapped in headlocks, bottles settling onto the floor. Michael and Jeremy both drop who they were wrestling, exchanging sheepish looks as Trevor speaks.

“I’m sure you’re all having fun here. But I would suggest to anyone I do not know to leave. Now.”

People just stare, frozen in their place. “Now.” Trevor snarls, voice thick with unsaid threats, and finally the crowd kicks into action, scrambling out of the bar.

“Cmon, Trevor,” Jeremy whines as they step over, whipping their bloody knuckles on their shirt. “We were just getting into it!”

“And now you’re done,” Trevor huffs. “Do you two idiots know where Alfredo is?”

“Is everyone gone?” a small voice is heard behind them and they all glance to see a familiar pair of eyes peeking out from under the bar.

Gavin smirks, shaking his head. “Trevor scared everyone off. You’re safe now.”

Alfredo sighs, climbing out and over the bar, sitting on the ledge. “Fuck, that shit got intense.”

Michael smirks, laughing. “That’s what fucking bar brawls are. You’re the one who said you wanted to be in one. Because you’ve never been in a fucking proper fight before.”

Alfredo shrugs. “Well, I can scratch that off my bucket list. Can I go to bed yet? I think I’ve had my experience and I learned it doesn’t need to happen again.”

“You’re all heading home,” Trevor sighs. “We have a heist tomorrow. In case you forgot.”

“We’re all ready,” Michael laughs, leaning over the bar to grab another bottle of beer. But Trevor smacks his hand, swiping the bottle away.

“We can drink more after the heist. So you don’t have hangovers. And can focus.”

“We really didn’t drink that much,” Jeremy assures. “One beer each so far. We know not to be too impaired for a heist.”

“At least one of you is responsible,” Trevor hums. “Fredo, you ok?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he assures, grinning. “Just didn’t expect the fight to involve so many fucking people. Gav can rile a whole crowd in seconds.”

“It’s one of my many talents,” Gavin purrs then laughs, setting his drink aside and standing up. He opens his wallet, slipping out another stack of cash and setting it down. He just winks to the poor bartender who’s still squished into the corner, shaking. “I’m sure this’ll cover the damages, luv. Sorry about all this.”

The bartender just nods, carefully taking the cash, eyes widening as they flip through the hundreds that Trevor and Gavin have both set out. Enough for the damages and more.

The night air chills through all of them, as Trevor leads the way out to the cars. Michael and Jeremy laugh and push each other around, retelling their victories of the night. Alfredo sheepishly adds the hits he got in, earning cheers. Trevor rolls his eyes, but can’t help the fond smile that grows. He knew how much he was inheriting, taking over more of Ramsey’s roles, becoming the boss. And while these idiots certainly don’t make the role easy, he doesn’t regret it at all.