#i like a dry martini as much as the next bloke

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Endlessly amusing when the waiter puts the fluorescent, tooth-rotting cocktail down in front of me and the pint of bitter down In front of him. Eternally Assigned Twink At Pub.

[derelict-ravnrose]

To Press a Point

To draw a cityscape disappearing into the distance, an artist will start with a straight, vertical line; from the top and bottom each, two lines at equal angles away from each other. Drawing along those guides forces the eye to see things as they aren't - distant and tiny, despite being as flat as anything.

The corners of rooms are built with those exact same lines, and just like in an illustration, they force the viewer to look at things differently - simultaneously as they are, and aren't. Perception defines the world, holding it in place, and where perception falters, things can slip through unnoticed.

In the far corner of the taproom in the Honey-Tongued Fox, where the patrons look but don't watch, something - rather, someone - slips through unnoticed.

The shifting shadows there seemed to part like a thin veil, and a dark man stepped trough. Raven-haired, black blazer casually unbuttoned over a bare button up, and matching black slacks that hugged his thin frame with the air of professional attention. With a lazy smile and an easy swagger to his walk, he looked for all the world like a man freshly off the clock.

The quaintly imperfect music of a local group set the room gently asway to the story of man called "the Free Storm." It was an upbeat and exciting span of songs about a roguish, local folk hero. It was still in its infant stage of trial and error, but it showed promise in its growing popularity. He didn't much care for it, though.

The man scanned the room with white-less eyes the color of a new moon's midnight - pupil-less and inscrutable. He marked each person in attendance, keeping a mental ledger of the number, the appearance, and the demeanor of the room at large. This took only a few seconds, and soon, he was back on the prowl.

He wove through the lightly packed room as unobtrusively as a wisp of smoke, never so much as brushing the sleeve cuff of another as he passed.

There was a woman seated at the far end of the bar who had spaced herself three down from her nearest neighbor. She was handsome - square shoulders, wheat-colored hair, and a thin patina of soot on her arms and clothes that  suggested a profession in manual labor. Her ale apparently held a good many stories to tell, as all her attention fell squarely on the half-finished drink. So much so that she didn't notice the darkly dressed man slip into the seat next to her until the woman behind the bar said: "Oh, hello, Mr. Derelict."

The woman beside Derelict nearly leapt out of her chair in surprise at his abrupt appearance. He affected a slight slouch in his posture, and propped an elbow on the counter so that he could rest his chin on his palm. From all seeming, he had been relaxing there for hours already.

Derelict donned a wry smile, white teeth sharp to a point threatening to show at the corner of his lips, but didn't yet acknowledge his skittish neighbor. "'ello, Arleen," he said, the cheer in his tone concealing a razor's edge, "'ow've you been?"

The barmaid returned the smile and drew out a pad of paper and a stub of a pencil, "About as well as one can hope! What'll you be having tonight?" She poised the pencil over the paper expectantly.

"Nothin' much, tonight, luv," he made a dismissive gesture toward the pencil and pad, "Just a dry martini for me - on the rocks, lemon, not lime - and then," he casually motions toward the woman beside him, "Whatever she's 'avin'." He finally tilted his head to turn his too-dark eyes on her, and gave her a small, encouraging smirk.

She stammered on the first few words a moment before collecting herself, and responded in a somewhat husky tone, "Another pint." She pitched the mug against her lips, downing it in a few swallows, then set it back on the counter and slid it toward Arleen, the barmaid. She scooped it up quickly and bustled off toward the bar proper.

Derelict's attention didn't leave the woman at his side as Arleen departed, and for several moments after. Just at the point one would get to "-ble" if speaking "uncomfortable" aloud, he breaks the silence, "So, Dawnin Farcast," he addressed her by name before asking for it, "From what I've been told, you've found yourself in quite the sticky situation, 'aven't you?" His attention roved up and down the woman - though his pupil-less eyes didn't let that show. He watched for any and all movement, especially for the unconscious sort - it was from those subtle twitches that he got his honest answers, not spoken word.

A shiver ran up Dawnin's spine as he spoke her name, as if someone had walked over her grave. She had heard plenty of rumors about this man - "the Shark; the Shadow" - but they didn't prepare her for actually being in his presence. Where others in the man's field of loan sharks, racketeers, and dons kept thickly muscled goons at hand to intimidate, Derelict illicited a sense of creeping anxiety by his presence alone. As if by simply showing up to meet him, one has already made a terrible deal with the devil under uncertain terms.

Dawnin's muscles tightened, and went slack again as she took a deep breath, "Yes. That's true," she answered stiffly, carefully calculating each word before she spoke it, "What have you heard of the situation so far?"

Derelict shook his head slowly, a helpless smile touching his lips, "Why don't you tell me your side, and we'll see 'ow much of it rings a bell to me." His obsidian eyes glinted dangerously in the low-light, "I like to judge me level of involvement on 'ow well stories match up."

The tension in the air tightened around the pair, and her mouth opened and closed several times as she hunted for the right words. "W-we ranch aldagot out Center-wards," She rushed through her summary as if she were ripping off a bandage, "but last week, some rustlers set up camp in one of the far side of our property. There's an old cottage and a lighthouse out there that no one's touched in ages, and they've turned them into a sort of fort!" She finally took a breath, then started again, this time less rushed, "It's like warfare with them - they come out at night, rounding up just a beast or two, then vanish with them. By the time we notice, they're already off to market. Then day comes around and they're holed up behind stone walls." She averted her eyes, staring sidelong at the floor as her voice takes on a melancholy hue, "It's impossible... We'd run them out ourselves, but..."

"But...?" Derelict implored, "But? But?" He had caught the small expression of unease on her when she had looked away, and he latched onto it, prodding the weak spot. Derelict considered comfort to be the foundation of negotiations, so when he found a place to apply pressure, he did so with a sadistic sense of glee. He found it typically sped up the path to the heart of the situation.

Dawnin's  sandy cheeks turned a embarrassed shade of red, "But... we can't exactly just /kill/ them, or even report them for that matter..." She trailed off.

"Because of that somnus you 'ave growin' in that western field." Derelict stated nonchalantly, picking up the trail.

The color drained from the woman's face and her jaw slackened in disbelief, “How did you-” she started, then went quiet, burying her hands in her lap and looking away once again. Her anxiously hopeful expression had soured into a sunken shame. “It’s all we can do to...”

Derelict held up a hand to stop her, "Say no more, luv.” By that point, Derelict had shifted his position to rest his cheek on his fist and elbow on the counter, watching as Dawnin went about her story. He wore the amused smile of someone who knows too much - of a fox who knows the combination for the lock to the hen-house. "Terrible shame - it really is,” he remarked idly, “so what you’re saying is that you need these ‘omewreckers tended to, and you need it done quiet-like. ‘ave I got the jist of it?”

After a moment’s hesitation, she replied with a silent but sure nod.

“Well!” Derelict declared, “Looks like you came to the right unscrupulous gentleman.” His grin widened to its fullest, pulled back to show a wicked slash of too-sharp teeth. That was what he’d been looking for the whole time: a clear description of the terms. He had just needed to allow her to work up close enough to the brass tacks, herself.

He adjusted himself, then sat up straighter in his seat, “Takin’ care of blokes like this isn’t easy, I’ll tell you that. Mean bunch - rowdy bunch. If things were to get too physical, you’d be right to expect it to be a big show.” He holds up a finger to point at his point, “So me solution would be to isolate them, cut off all escape, and, like I said, deal with ‘em quiet-like.” He brings his hand back to scratch his chin contemplatively, “Still makes for a bit of a problem what with it all bein’ on your property. Probable cause is a bitch, and we don’t want them threatenin’ your livelihood. Trust me,” he added, shadows casting a shade darker across his features, “I know ‘ow that is.” He was quiet a moment longer, pretending to contemplate an answer for the woman, though he had already made up his mind on the matter before he had even sat down with her.

“Listen: ‘ere’s what we can do:” he started slowly, but worked speed into it as he went, as if getting caught up in a new idea, “Why don’t you put, say, three acres of that land up for sale - now ‘ear me out, I know that’s family land and you’d rather not part with it, but in the end, it’ll all work out for you. You put up those three - ones at the edge that ‘it the two abandoned places and then leadin’ up to the main road. I’ll ‘ave m'boys snatch it up, and then we’ll take care of them on me own property. Then no-one ‘as a reason to set foot on your property, and whatever ‘appens there is none of your concern.” He spread his arms amiably, “You wouldn’t catch so much as a peep. Besides, that strip along that cliff edge probably isn't great for grazin’ anyway, is it?"

Dawnin chewed her lower lip, her hands fidgeting in her lap, “Not particularly, no," She admitted sheepishly, "He... might make that deal. But that’st just... so much bigger than we had thought, we don’t exactly have the money to be able to pay for something quite so... Big.”

With a flick of his wrist, Derelict brushed the notion aside, “I’ve been runnin’ the numbers in me ‘ead, and I’ve seen the old shack itself." His tone was innocently contemplative, "It's a spot I might 'ave considered pickin’ up anyway if it were up on it's own. Good location, good view, nice and far away from the noise of the city." He was quiet a moment, putting on a show of mulling the decision over. "Nah, I'll offer a fair price - your payment'll be this opportunity for me." He shot her a conspiratorial glance that he noted right away didn't seem to alleviate any of her tension - exactly as he'd hoped, "Not all business is done in coin, luv." He concluded with an oily sort of confidence.

He made a barely perceptible gesture - a flick of his fingers across the bar - and in a span of moments, Arleen hurried back over to them with their drinks in hand. Had he taken his martini with lime, she would have brought it back promptly. But the substitution for lemon gave the cue to not come back till he called for it. Now he wanted that glass in Dawnin's hand. This close to the final decision, her tiniest expressions would speak volumes, and allowing those expressions to play across a glass in her hands would be like printing it in bold text.

Derelict picked up his glass by the stem and gave it an appreciative raise and tip to Arleen, who understood it as "good work, that'll be all" and "it'll be a good tip for you tonight." The barmaid smiled brightly and offered them both a small bow in return before hurrying off again to attend to the other patrons. Derelict always considered it good practice to be good to wait staff. They were some of the best eyes and ears, and good customers got remembered favorably.

He turned his attention back to Dawnin, who had picked up her mug of ale and now held it between both hands. Holding it close, he thought, defensive, considering what would happen if she gives me an answer I don't like. He knew that patch of family land was a serious point for her and her father. He knew this because he had already tried to buy that space through an intermediary, and the old man had adamantly refused to sell. But it was the perfect spot for his purposes, and he was a persistent man.

Derelict let the silence reign for a bit longer - not willing to be the first to talk once the cards were on the table - and soon, Dawnin rested an elbow on the bar and switched the mug into one hand, swishing the liquid inside thoughtfully, then taking a gulp. There it is. Making the commitment to one hand, taking a mouthful and not a shy sip. He allowed himself a small smile, waiting patiently for her to declare the decision he already knew she'd made.

"I think... That my dad should be alright with that. It's not much of the land, after all, and would could use the money to cover the cost of the last aldagoats." He said, hesitant at first, but becoming more confident the more she thought it through.

"Exactly!" Derelict agreed emphatically, "Maybe even a little left over to spruce the joint up, if I've been readin’ the ledgers and askin’ prices right." He pushed more positives in to solidify her decision, and he watched as it all cemented in her expression.

Dawnin nodded hard enough to drop some locks of her sandy golden brown hair over her face, "Right, then. I'll let dad know."

"And I'll 'andle that messy paperwork for you both," Derelict said with a smile, his colorless eyes flashing hungrily, "Don't you worry about that. It'll just take a few scribbles in your end, and you can consider that band of baddies 'andled. Permanently." He added with a dangerous grin.

He would, of course. After acquiring the property, he'd let the thefts happen maybe once or twice over the next week, just to allow a proper tapering off, and them he would call his men back out. They didn't ask for much pay to take up that job for him - they had seemed strangely happy just to be doing it. It was why he was so confident it would all go over well - count on the people who love what they do, but know better than to do it for free. He'd expected to need to push this family more to get them to finally let up - he had dealt with sentimental types before, and usually they waited out till the circumstances were desperate before following his breadcrumb trail back to him for help. So, he was pleased with the results he had gotten after only a week. With the rustlers-for-hire's contract terminated, the "menace" cleared out, and the cottage open and empty, he'd be able to do what he pleased with it.

Enambris did want a seaside wedding, after all.

Derelict raised his glass in Dawnin's direction and gave her a knife-edge smile, like a cat with a mouse, "To good business."

Dawnin raised her mug to match, and though her voice wavered a touch, she agreed, "To good business."

[smallgirlbigpersonality]

Take it Easy | Chapter 1

Source: supremeleaderkylorens

1/15 (Chapter Two) 

Pairing: Clyde Logan x Reader

Word Count: 2,000+

Disclaimer: All copyrighted characters are property of Bleeker Street, Fingerprint Releasing, & Steven Soderbergh.

Warning: Rated PG-13 (Eventual NC-17)  

“Well… I don’t know Clyde, have you ever thought about just droppin’ it?” Mellie suggested as she rolled another curler into the Purple Lady’s hair. She’d been more than happy to give her brother a ride to town today but man~ she hadn’t been prepared for the 20-minute car ride to morph into a three hour lecture. The Logan’s had rotten luck and it wasn’t exactly a secret. Her older brother just seemed to need a reason to explain their ever shrinking family tree family tree. 

“You know poor old Maggie Logan, bless her soul, won the lottery and then the next day she just drop~” 

“Now Beatrice, you know I love ya but he don’t need any encouragement,” Mellie scolded, casting her brother a weary glance. 

The batty old hens at the salon loved nothing more than gossip. They caught wind of every good, bad, lucky, scandalous, and downright unfortunate event that ever happened in their small Podunk county. Clyde hung on their every word too; no doubt taking notes so he could bring his findings to Jimmy their older brother when he finally wandered into town. 

In fact, by the time Clyde left for his shift that night, he had managed to add three more unlucky Logan’s to his list. He manned the bar straight faced and more determined than ever. If he kept his game face on, tonight might be the night he convinced Jimmy that whatever this “thing” was… It was real! 

Although, when Jimmy Logan did finally make an appearance he wasn’t exactly in a talking mood. He marched up to the bar looking madder than a wet hen. His brother could practically see the steam rolling off his shoulders. Clyde knew Jim well enough to know he needed a drink or two before words of any kind could be exchanged.

He made his way across the bar to where the taps were and poured a homegrown West Virginian Porter. That and their old friend Jose Cuervo should’ve been enough to get the evening headed in a better direction. He poured two shots and pushed one towards his brother. The other Clyde picked up the other, idly sloshing it around while he waited to see Jimmy’s next move. 

“I don’t wanna talk until both of these are gone,” Jimmy muttered before grabbing his shot and downing the honey colored liquid. The younger Logan hadn’t even finished his shot before his brother was done with the beer.

“Well, what happened?” Clyde asked, brushing some of the long black hair away from his face. 

“I got fired today.” Oh.

“It might’ve had something to do with this darned curse. I was at the salon with Mellie this mornin’ and we hear about old Aunt Maggie. Beatrice said she won the lott~” 

“Don’t you start with that Logan curse stuff again,” Jimmy snapped, cutting him off. “It’s all folktales anyway!” 

Clyde frowned. To him this was very real and very simple. 

“Then how do you explain you gettin’ fired? Blowing out your knee before the championship game? Or me losing my hand on the way to the dang airport?” 

Jimmy grunted, dragging his hands over his face. “Look, I don’t want to deal with this tonight. Bobbie Jo is moving Sadie out of state too.” 

“I like to think we ain’t that bad of people and for good people we sure do see a lot of bad karma,” he argued. 

“Oh, so it’s karma now? Alright fine, you win! When I get back from my satellite office we’re going to talk about this!” Jim muttered, hobbling off towards the bathroom. 

Cylde seized the opportunity to checkout the bar. He craned his neck to take a quick look around the place. Same old dusy pool tables, empty booths against the back wall, neon beer signs on the right, and a jukebox resting next to the karaoke system on the far wall. Everything was in its place. 

As for the clientele… It was a slow Friday night. He had a few locals hanging around the pool tables; they just ordered a fresh round of beers so he didn’t have to worry about them. You and your friend; however, managed to sneak in during his debate with Jimmy. Lord knows you two had to be some of the prettiest thing this side of the Mason-Dixon line so he wasn’t sure how you’d snuck by. Your friend with the long blonde hair and baby blue eyes seemed like the city type. Those were usually just passing by on their way to Charlotte. You almost looked at home though… 

You had long (y/c/h) hair with a bit of a curl to it and some of the prettiest eyes Clyde’d ever seen. The dark purple flannel, black tank top and jeans weren’t that out of the norm- what gave you away as an out-of-towner were the boots. Nobody that lived in these parts would wear shoes quite that nice; even if they had money. He imagined you were a nice girl with a sweet laugh, and just enough sass to keep things interesting. Reading people was one of the few skills he prided himself in. That and being able to guess what kind of drinks people liked. More often than not, he wasn’t that far off the money. 

When your friend leaned in to whisper something in your ear, he confirmed his suspicions about your laugh. Gosh, you had the cutest smile too. It wasn’t until you’d hopped off your bar stool and started making your way towards him that Clyde realized he’d been staring. 

Oh boy, did that blush rise in his cheeks. 

“I would’ve remembered if you’d ever been to the bar before. Are you and your friend just passing through?” he asked, trying to maintain some dignity. That little smirk you gave him though, sure wasn’t helping with his blush. 

“Oh, my friend’s in town with her… Well I guess you would call him boyfriend,” you wondered out loud, “Anyway, he owns one of the race teams and they’re prepping for the big race. I’m just along for the ride.” 

“What team does he ow~” for the second time tonight the bartend found himself getting cut off. His attention snapped to a new group of gentlemen who’d stumbled in the front door. Tonight’s new guest count jumped from two to five. These men gave him a bad feeling though; that uneasiness crept up through his bones like no other. These men weren’t good people… 

“Oi! Hey (y/nickname), did you order us a round yet? Where’s Alyssa? God, I miss that tight little ass of hers,” Clyde’s eyes widened at the comment; so not a gentleman. 

“Not yet. I was just about to though,” you murmured, turning back to face the bartender. “...Look, I’m sorry in advance…” 

He rolled his shoulders and tried to brace himself for the massive ego that was about to hit him head on. 

“You’re a bit slow for being the smart friend aren’t ya (y/n)? Anyways ol’ bloke just open a tab on this card. Anything these ladies want can go on this,” the man offered as he slid a black piece of plastic across the counter. 

“Right, well what will you have then?” Clyde asked, resting his prosthetic limb against the counter. 

“I’ll have three stoli martinis dry, all with two olives… Oh, oh this is going to be good. Are you sure you can manage all that?” Looks like the bar’s latest guest finally noticed his missing appendage. 

“I think I can manage. What can I get for the ladies?” he asked briefly turning his attention back to you.

“If you’ve got ginger beer, two jacks and gingers would be amazing. Then two of your strongest shots would be greatly appreciated, please!” When Clyde nodded you gave him a silent thanks and watched as he got to work on your drinks first. Although, it didn’t matter much. Alyssa found herself occupied with her boyfriend’s two cronies. 

“Hey! Do you mind if I film a post?” the obnoxious man asked as he whipped out his phone, “It’s not often that ya get to see a one armed bartender.” 

Living in such a small town Clyde was used to people poking fun at his arm. More than half the time though, it was done out of ignorance as opposed to ill intention. Very few people had the guts to mess with Jimmy Logan’s brother. Even if he wasn’t a Logan… He was a war hero of sorts. Between the Logan thing and the veteran thing most people backed off leaving him to his quiet self. For those who didn’t, he did his best to educate them on transradial amputations… 

Blocking them out came with years of therapy and he still wasn’t that good at it. He couldn’t blame people for not being comfortable around him because he still didn’t feel at home in his own skin. 

Clyde started to liken your friend’s date to a shorter, fatter, talentless version of Graham Norton. He kept going on about something called Instagram and how he could make the man famous. Out of all the things Clyde Logan was an idiot sure wasn’t one of them. He knew the man was trying to get a laugh… Now the bartender was trying to figure out if it was worth causing a ruckus over. 

Almost as if he was on cue, Jimmy stepped in to defend him though. His brother didn’t have the chance to open his mouth before words and fists started flying. Jim had been itching for an excuse to get in a fight tonight and this man just served himself up on a silver platter. 

Clyde hear two distinct noises; one sounded like a body hitting the floor and the other sounded like one hitting the bar. He didn’t need to turn around to tell you his brother had been the one to bite the dust. Jim wasn’t the type of man that thought things through. He’d dive head first into a one on three fight and hope for the best. As his brother, it was always up to Clyde to help even out the odds. Turning on his heels he darted to the opposite corner of the bar.

In his experience, fighting smarter always ended up better than going for the most direct offense. Which was exactly inspired the bartender’s next move. Making sure his prosthetic was safe, he grabbed a rag, a bottle of vodka, and headed towards the parking lot. 

“Hey Earl, you got a light?” Clyde asked calm as ever. Earl was a townie about 10 years his senior and a quiet man much like the middle Logan. He’d worked with Jimmy up in Charlotte, but beyond that there wasn’t much to know about the man. 

“Yeah, here ya go.” 

The young bartender then picked up a brick and threw it towards the widow of an expensive looking SUV. The car was plastered with an ugly red wrap. It looked like it was for some off brand energy drink… Just the kind of car the ass currently beating the pulp out of his brother might drive. He then shoved the rag into the vodka bottle and lit his little Molotov cocktail. Within seconds the car had burst into flames. Clyde leaned back against the porch railing, taking a second to admire his handiwork. 

What he missed though, was you watching from the window. Alyssa was appalled but you couldn’t wipe the smile off your face. Anybody who even attempted to put Max in his place was someone you wanted to know. That man had an ego the size of a planet. 

“Handsome and ballsy,” you smiled after taking a sip of your drink. You couldn't help but wonder if your little trip was about to get about a thousand times more interesting.