#something something shooting a gun to keep rent prices down

[luxlightly]

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#something something shooting a gun to keep rent prices down

[ficsforeren]

more mafia eren headcanons pls 🤲

MORE??????? okay if you insist

So uhh this will be a continuation for this scene I wrote earlier

NSFW - DON'T READ IF YOU'RE BELOW 18

Eren tosses your knife to the side, making a clattering sound as it meets the floor. "Any other tricks of yours I should be aware of?" His voice is soothing in your ear but the gun he points to your neck is anything but.

You struggle to break free. "Get your hands off me."

"Fine," he huffs, drawing back from you. "I guess I'll just have to investigate it myself."

He pushes you forward until you're pressed flat against the wall, his gun pointing at the spot between your shoulder blades. "Arms above your head, Sweetheart," he says but his tone is merciless. "One wrong move and I'll shoot a hole through your chest."

Your breathing rags, raising both hands as he asked you to. "Good girl," he coos and it makes you sick. You can feel his hand sliding down your body, following the curve of your ass before it slips behind the high slit of your red maxi dress. He reaches between your legs, making you jolt when his fingers glide over your lingerie. "Such a cute reaction," he chuckles but he presses the point of his gun harder on your skin. "You won't be needing this." Eren rips your lingerie with one hand, casting it aside.

You're scared to your bones. Terrified. "Please stop."

He drags his hand to the front of your stomach, pulling you closer until you can feel his zipper grazing against your behind. "And what if I don't?"

But he stops once he feels you shuddering in fear. He turns you around and lifts your face by pushing his gun to your chin. His eyes find your glassy ones and even when you're glaring with so much hatred in your eyes, you're trying your best not to cry. Even if it means that you have to bite your lip until it bleeds. He smiles, reaching out a hand and you close your eyes in reflex but what he does is frames your cheek gently. "As much as I like seeing my women cry in bed," he says, "I'm not a rapist."

You thought he was going to murder you instead so when he draws his gun away and tucks it back into the pocket of his suit, you nearly weep in relief. "It's been fun, Sweetheart," he bids his goodbye as you slide down to the floor, knees trembling. "I look forward to seeing you again." And he shuts the bathroom door behind him.

He could've killed you, but he didn't. He should've been, knowing you were out there to kill him, but he didn't. And now you owe him your life.

Sick of having that thought for days, you decide to visit him again.

Eren is lying down on a bed of an overly-priced suite with his black suit discarded, his gun lying on the floor and his white shirt unbuttoned to the middle of his chest when you slip through his door.

"Your lady won't be coming back," you tell him, dressed in a red trench coat that perfectly hugs your body. Eren props himself up with his elbows on the bed, his smirk naturally finds its way to his face. His gun is close enough for him to reach. He just decides not to.

Even in the dimness of the room, you can still see the bulge that's concealed by the silk fabric of his pants. There are lipstick stains on his shirt, and some on the side of his neck.

“Well, that’s unfortunate," he says, not surprised in the slightest. "I'd spent a good amount of money to rent her for the night. Heterochromatic eyes. Very rare.”

"You've got a peculiar taste in women."

“Yeah, looks better on camera.” He shifts his weight, sitting on the edge of the bed. His hair is no longer tied, cascading to his shoulders and framing his cheekbones perfectly. “How many of my guards did you take down to get in here?”

“Three. You know, you should’ve considered hiring bodyguards that are stronger than you.”

“Yeah, you couldn’t even lift a finger against me." He chuckles at the memory. "Well I used to have Levi, but he quits for good.” He takes a cigarette from the pocket of his suit. “Did you kill them?”

“No. I didn’t want to leave dead bodies in such a nice hotel like this.”

“How very thoughtful of you.” He tucks the cigar between his teeth, lighting it up.

“I wouldn’t mind if it was yours, though," you add. "If anyone should die tonight, it should be you.”

“But you can’t kill me." His eyes twinkle mischievously as he leans back and takes a long drag. "So, what are you planning to do?”

"Why didn't you kill me?"

"'Cause you're cute." He brings his cigar to his lips, smirking as he continues, "And I kinda like your face. Wouldn't hate to see it again."

"You should've killed me. Now I feel like I owe you my life."

"You do." He flicks the ashes off. "So, I'm guessing you're here to repay me?" You stay mute but your eyes tell him the answer he wants to hear. "What do you have to offer?"

"Let me join your little boyband. I can be useful to you."

He snorts. "You couldn't even put up a fight against me, why would I want you?"

Your jaw clenches. "Then what do you want me to do?"

Something flickers in his eyes at your choice of words. He takes another drag, standing up and makes his way to the balcony. "Come. The moon looks beautiful tonight." You hesitate for a few seconds before you follow his trail.

Eren leans his back against the railing, throwing his head back as he lets the wind caresses his face. He looks... beautiful, as if he didn't belong to that kind of world. His eyelashes are long, probably longer than yours and those lips—

"Strip."

"What?"

"Strip for me," he repeats, dragging his cigar closer to his lips. "Here. Now." You keep your body still, your glare menacing, though your heart starts to thrash wildly inside your chest. "You said you wanted to repay me, right?"

“I thought you said you weren’t a rapist.”

“I’m not." He exhales clouds of smoke into the air. "I’m not forcing you, am I? I’m only asking you. Whether you do it or not is up to you.”

You can't believe you just called him beautiful. He's fucking sick.

“And you also owe me an escort," he grins lightly as he tosses the rest of his cigarette away, "You’re not heterochromatic but you do have pretty eyes.”

You feel your breathing stutter as he makes his way to you. “You want me to sleep with you?”

“No." In a blink of an eye, Eren has his hand on the front of your throat, pushing you against the glassy window until you're standing on your tiptoes. Your hands are clutching tightly against his wrist, nails scratching his skin to push him away but he only smiles that fucking innocent smile of his that always seems out of place. But when he speaks, another persona takes over.

"I want to fuck you," he says the words through gritted teeth, almost like he's growling. You can feel his breath falling on your lips, can sense the aftertaste of the cigarette he just took. “I want to fuck you raw until you cry. I want to fuck you until you can’t say anything, can't think about anything but my cock inside you. I want to fuck you until you beg me to stop and when you do, I'm gonna fuck you even harder."

You're choking, your lungs starting to catch on fire. "C-can't... breathe..."

And instead of letting you go, he smashes his lips against yours, and he's so rough with his teeth and tongue that you won't be surprised if yours start to bleed. You gasp against his mouth, desperate for air and only after he's satisfied, does he let go.

Retracting his hand, Eren brings back his juvenile smile to his face, hand gently frames your cheek as he whispers in your ear. “But again," his lips brush against your skin. "It’s all up to you, Sweetheart.”

#ENJOOOOOYYYYYY YOUR MEAL #eren smut #eren jaeger smut #eren yeager smut #eren jaeger x reader smut #eren yeager x reader smut #eren headcanons

[ship-ambrosia]

“The Balladeer”

Scaramona Week - Day 1: Mafia AU

Lol I’m already late a day… two days technically cuz at the time I’m posting this it’s 14 minutes into Day 3. Go Bree!

CW: suggestive but not too detailed. Scaramouche gets a little extra handsy near the end

Day 1: Starving performer Mona stumbles across a weapons deal gone very, very bad; she should have run, but there’s something about watching a guy around the same age as her gun down a group of people that freezes Mona to the spot. She also unknowingly saves the Fatui Harbingers’ life; despite that, Scaramouche still blames her for the loss of the supplies and forces her into debt with the gang until she can make that sort of money back. But the harbinger is very interested in her; perhaps her situation can be arranged to benefit them both.

Mona was used to a lot of bad luck in her life.

Most of it stemmed from her astrology hobby, which consistently caused her to buy an increasingly large number of expensive supplies. If she could just get popular enough to start making money off that, she would be able to live comfortably. But she didn’t, and her dancing career had hardly picked up, which caused her to be able to just barely afford the cheap, rundown studio apartment that she rented. And really, that brand new telescope she had just gotten was just so much better than rent.

She’s a classically trained ballerina - okay, not fully trained yet, in the middle of training - but despite that she had been unable to land anything more than a few roles in the Favonius Company every time one of their permanent members is unable to perform. Mona knew she had one foot in the door there; all she needed was one more push in order to be comfortable.

But just when her life seemed as though it might be looking up, something always had to happen.

Case in point, she’s made a wrong turn on her way back to her apartment; and Mona found herself by the pier, having stumbled across a bunch of guys with two crates full of wicked looking guns.

One guy in particular jumped out at her immediately - impeccably cut dark blue hair, stunningly handsome, almost like a doll the way he was a little too perfect. He looked about the same age as her; which almost made it more terrifying that he’s wearing a white suit that she can just smell the hefty price tag coming off, and the fact that he has a handgun pointed at the group of men across from him. Mona half expected it to turn on her, but it doesn’t, and she did absolutely nothing but watch as it went off. One of the guys dropped, and Mona felt her her blood freeze.

“You think you can scam the Fatui? Just how stupid are you?” He snapped.

Oh god, the Fatui. Immediately after hearing that name, Mona knew she had to get out of there. It was a terribly-kept secret that the Fatui mafia extended its influence throughout the city, throughout the country, really, and were a group of people who aren’t exactly known for showing mercy to anyone who get in their way. Mona was pretty sure it was just pure fear keeping her from running now, as she watched the other group pull their own guns on Mister Good-looking Fatui; but they’re all down on the ground in the next moment, no screams, no sound, no movement, nothing.

As if she wasn’t already in a bad position, Mona gasped in terror at his display. The young guy from the Fatui visibly stiffened in response to the sound, and then immediately turned on her.

The look he gave her was a mixture of incredulous and furious. She’s struck once more by how handsome he was, now able to clearly see the scarlet eyeliner around his eyes. Mona found herself pleasantly amused that someone from an ambitious, cruel gang would take the time to care about his appearance so much.

And then she remembered she just watched him shoot a bunch of guys dead, and Mona finally unfroze herself. With adrenaline kicking in and all sense of logic going out the window, she did the worst possible thing she can do; she turned and ran.

“Hey!” She heard him yell, but she’s counting on those dancer legs of hers to carry her out of trouble. It’s a futile wish, however, which she learned quickly. Mona made it barely a hundred feet away from where she had been standing before a hand wrapped around her arm, jerking her back into a hard body. She turned and looked up at him, and there was only anger burning in his eyes now.

“You should have run when I didn’t know you were there,” he growled at her.

Mona was so terrified, she doesn’t even know how to respond. All she could do was stare up at him, blankly, and pray that he killed her quickly.

And then the crates he had been standing next to not even a minute ago exploded.

Mona screams, and the two of them were knocked to the ground in the blast. The Fatui cursed under his breath as he flattened himself on top her, almost like he was shielding her but she knew he was probably more likely just trying to get himself as far from danger as he could. She could do nothing but lay still beneath him, terrified of what she had gotten herself into.

The next minute was quiet. One heartbeat, two, three, four… and then she was being yanked to her feet by the guy.

“Damn it,” he growled again, his grip on her arm even harsher than it had already been. “You’re coming with me.”

As he jerked her along, Mona finally found her voice. “W-wh-what was that?! What happened?”

“I thought they were just trying to scam us, but they were trying to kill me,” he said, plainly, like that isn’t the most horrible thing she has ever heard someone say. “Looks like chasing after you saved my life.”

He pushed her into an alleyway as they passed by suddenly, shoving her back against the wall of a nearby building.

“Don’t scream. Don’t do anything. Don’t say anything. Got it?”

She nodded miserably.

“Technically you saved my life so I’m not going to kill you.”

She allowed herself to breathe a sigh of relief. His grip tightened and she zipped up again.

“That doesn’t mean jack shit, sweetheart,” he leaned in toward her, growling in her ear. Mona’s blood ran cold. “You saw something you weren’t supposed to see. You ran from a Fatui Harbinger. And I’m not in a good mood right now, so I’m probably going to pin the loss of those supplies on you, too.”

She almost protested, but bit her tongue to keep from saying anything she would regret. She didn’t know what Harbinger meant, but the sound of it couldn’t be anything good.

“Here’s what you’re gonna do. I’m gonna walk you home, so that I know where you live and there isn’t any chance of you skipping out on me,” he spoke deep, and slow, but it did little to relax her. “You’re going to put on your best getup, you know what I mean? And you’re going to go over to our nightclub Abyss tonight. You’re going to tell the bouncer that Balladeer sent you. And then I’m going to let Tsaritsa herself decide what to do about you.”

He smiled as he pulled away from her, and a chill went down Mona’s spine. She didn’t know who Tsaritsa was, but the word definitely meant queen; was she really going to come face to face with the leader of the Fatui? And after everything that had just happened - a part of her wanted to run. That part of her was very sure she was going to die tonight.

Still, Mona swallowed her pride, silently willed the tears gathering at the corners of her eyes to stop, and nodded.

“Good girl,” The Balladeer replied, and she might’ve been into the praise if this was a guy she picked up at a club; not a gang member who forced her to go to one. He released his grip on her, but commanded her forward. The look in his eyes made her pretty sure there was nothing she could do to get out of this. With her feet like two blocks of lead, Mona led this dangerous stranger right back to her dinky apartment.

~

Mona triple-checked herself in the mirror before the time she was supposed to head to Abyss.

She had done exactly as this “Balladeer” had instructed her; dressed in the “best” club wear she had that he’d picked out himself - a tight, short, dark blue velvet dress - and texted the number he had left in her phone that she was leaving. Her heart was thumping in her chest, completely scared out of her mind. She couldn’t even tell her friends where she was going in case her body was dumped in a ditch; “Balladeer” had promised to go after anyone she told, too. All she could do was hope and pray for the best outcome.

But what WAS the best outcome for her, when she was taking the blame for the mafia losing thousands of dollars merchandise?

Just the idea of how much money that could possibly be - and the thought that she might take that on as a debt of some kind - had Mona quaking in her stiletto heels. Those guns were probably worth more than she had ever had in her life; hell, the Balladeer’s white suit probably cost more money than she’d ever had, and he would probably blame her for getting that dirty when he had shoved her to the ground, too.

The Abyss was a daunting, dark building. Despite the neon lights and the thumping music, all she saw was a gaping hole that was going to swallow her up. Mona was so shell-shocked standing before that door that she hardly realized the bouncer was speaking to her until he started to shoo her away.

“I don’t have time for this-“ he was grumbling, and Mona snapped back to attention.

“Get your hands off me!” She exclaimed. “I am not any more pleased to be here than you are, but I’m here to see a man called The Balladeer.”

At the sound of her speaking his title, the bouncer immediately straightened. “Apologies. The Balladeer never said what you would look like. Only that you’d say he sent you.”

His expression became almost apologetic - no, pitiful - and Mona thought she hated that even more.

“I’d lose the attitude, miss,” he mumbled to her as he ushered her inside. “The Harbingers like their prisoners a little too much when they bite back.”

His words made the shivers go down her spine again, reminding her once again what was potentially waiting for her here. Her entire attitude shifted back to the poor girl being blackmailed by the Fatui, and she forced her knees to stop knocking as the bouncer pointed her in the direction of the back of the club. “Head to the Throne, it’s the room in the back and up the stairs. Just make sure ya keep telling security that The Balladeer sent you.”

Mona did as she was told, attempting to weave her way through the gyrating bodies on the dance floor. She stopped dead when she felt hands on her hips, pulling her back into a hard, masculine body that started grinding against her aggressively.

The man learned down next to her and whispered something in a language she didn’t recognize. Well, now she didn’t have to wonder if it was Balladeer or not.

The guy let out a high-pitched yelp when she dug the stiletto heel of her shoe into his ankle, shoving him off her as she whirled around to face him.

“Honestly! How do you expect to catch a woman like that?”

Once more her pride got the best of her, and Mona momentarily forgot again that she was supposed to meet with the boss of the Fatui mafia.

The guy, looking completely pissed, stood up again and nearly growled as he stomped toward her. Mona realized she had pissed off the wrong guy and looked around for some assistance; but help found her. She felt another hand on her suddenly, around her waist as it jerked her back into another body. This one was as cold and hard as stone.

“You’d be making a mistake if you laid one finger on a girl who belongs to me,” came a familiarly cold voice, and if someone had told Mona she’d ever be happy to hear only a day ago, she wouldn’t have believed them.

She looked up and sure enough there was the Balladeer, with his impeccable dark hair, mesmerizing dark eyes surrounded by scarlet eyeliner. He’d changed his white suit for a purple ensemble that looked like a Inazuman kimono, and suddenly she could see it. He was Inazuman. She found this odd, since the Fatui were based out of Snezhnaya, and they were just outside the city of Mondstadt, where Mona was living.

Her mouth went dry. He looked damn good in that kimono.

As quickly as he had accosted her, the thug shrunk back. The warning of the bouncer’s words jumped back into Mona’s head, but just a heartbeat too late; “When did you decide I belonged to you?” She snapped.

Balladeer gave her a smirk, pulling her a little closer which made her blanch. “The moment you didn’t run, and chose to watch me kill a group of bastards. You’re a fan of the dangerous boys, aren’t you?”

Was he… flirting with her? Mona wanted to scream, throw up, cry… and all he did was smirk and tease her. He was lucky she opted for just an eyeroll.

“I just want to speak to your Tsaritsa,” she attempted a more confident air by angling her face just up slightly. Balladeer was actually very short, so she could almost pretend she was looking down at him. Almost.

He clicked his tongue in disagreement as he led Mona to the back of the club, his damn arm not moving a single way, up or down.

“Nah, you’ve gotta impress the other harbingers before you can meet her. You’ve gotta show you’re worth investment. Money is money, after all.”

She stared at him in shock for a moment. He was basically dragging her to the Throne now. “I’m just some random girl you pulled off the street, how on earth could you be sure I can impress them?”

“You’re a pretty girl off the street, who is going to owe me thousands of dollars,” he corrected with a grin. “I don’t think you have any other choice but to.”

With those words of encouragement, Balladeer directed her inside a darkened room. Mona took a deep breath before allowing herself to look up at the people waiting for her.

There was a breathtakingly beautiful woman sitting on one of the lounge chairs with a drink in hand, blonde hair in long waves, a dress of black and red that showed off exaggerated hourglass curves and lots of skin. She wore a black lace mask over her eyes which somewhat concealed her appearance, and Mona wondered if she was perhaps worried of people recognizing her. The smile she flashed Mona was sickly sweet, predatory, like a lioness waiting for the opportunity to go in for the kill.

Across from her and leaned up against a wall, was another handsome young man; his attractiveness was more boyish and charming, unlike Balladeer who’s beautiful was haunting and almost supernatural. He had a gray suit on with the red shirt beneath unbuttoned low enough to expose his collarbone and the top of his pectoral muscles, something Mona would’ve found extremely hot if she met this guy in a different circumstance. He had a mess of ginger hair and a blood red jewel dangling from one of his ears. Mona saw him turn to look when they arrived, saw him check her out once, and grinned.

The third man had teal hair, and he also wore a mask, though it cover three-quarters of his face. She could clearly see his teeth in his smiling mouth, which had all been sharpened into points; and his eyes, glittered with insanity. He too, looked Mona completely over once, but with a sort of excited hunger in his eyes. She noticed the bag at his side, saw the needle end of a syringe sticking out, and shifted a little closer to Balladeer as a new wave of fear washed over her.

“So this is the problem girl,” the woman said, her voice silky like fine wine.

“She’s pretty,” said the youngest man. “I can work with pretty.”

“Don’t you think you’ve got enough girls you can work with, Childe?” Said the deranged-looking man. “I’ve run out of test subjects.”

“She owes us money,” the woman snapped. “You can’t take her for your fucked up research.”

“You can call them Signora, Childe, and Dottore,” Balladeer told her, as if unfazed by the conversation taking place.

Childe gave her a little bow and a wink. “Pleasure to meet ya, girlie.”

Signora rolled her eyes. “Childe, do you ever turn it off? For heaven’s sake, she’s almost trembling. I don’t think she’s going to fuck you.”

“She could use a friendly face then, don’t you think?”

Balladeer shoved her forward suddenly, and Mona stumbled until she caught her self in the center of the lounge sofa, between Signora and Childe. She looked up to see Dottore had made his way closer. He was the last of the four Harbingers present that she wanted anywhere near her, and so when Childe sat down she moved closer to where she was almost on his lap. When his hands went around her waist, she bit back a scream. He leaned in against her ear.

“Don’t worry I’ll protect you from all the big bad Fatui men,” his tone was half flirting half mocking, and Mona hated it all.

“Can you do anything besides look pretty?” Signora sneered. “Anything to make money a little faster?”

Mona blanched. “Well I’m certainly not about to sell my body for you, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Childe laughed. “That’s what they all say.”

“Get your hands off me,” she growled at him. When Childe did as she asked she was somewhat surprised; Mona found her gaze toward Balladeer again, to see what his reactions to these people were. His dark eyes were trained on her, but unreadable.

“Have any other useful talents for a group of gangsters, and you won’t have to,” Signora replied, like she was bored of this already.

“I have been trying to be accepted full time into the Favonius Dance company, maybe with your influence, you could get me in a permanent position, then I could give you everything that I don’t need for rent-“

“So you’re a ballerina?” Childe said, cutting her off. “Bet you’re very flexible. Lot of people are into that.”

Dottore gave a sigh. “So she’ll be going to Childe, then.”

Hopelessly as the three of them decided her fate, she did the stupidest thing she had done by far tonight; she looked to Balladeer and pleaded with him to give her anything else.

She was even more shocked when he answered. “Ballerinas require a lot of extreme training to even begin trying to get into a company. We could try making her one of the burlesque girls in the VIP lounge, and instead of paying her, put every performance toward her debt. Then you’re dancing and working for us, huh sweetheart?”

“Hmm, not a bad idea,” Childe answered with a pleased purr. “That still makes her my responsibility. You’re like I’m so generous over your mistake.”

Mona saw that same fury from earlier that day when she first met him, flash over Balladeer’s doll-like face. It occurred to her that he really didn’t like Childe. She could use that. He still scared her, but Balladeer had still treated her the best out of all the Harbingers she had met.

Signora got to her feet. “Alright Mr Responsibility, let’s go report this to the Tsaritsa now. She said she wanted a quick resolution to the matter. Balladeer has delivered us one.”

“Someone’s going to have to remain here with the girl,” Dottore said. “I can.”

“No, I will,” Balladeer spoke up, surprising her once again. He shot a look toward Childe. “Is that alright with you?” His question had a bite so harsh to it, and for a moment the air between the two of them crackled with tension.

“Whatever you wanna do,” he shrugged. “She’s becoming one of my girls, so I’m happy.”

When the other three Harbingers left the room, Mona let out a breath she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding. Her heart was pounding. She had been swimming with sharks, and there was definitely blood in the water, but she was safe. For now.

She looked up when the sofa dipped a bit beside her, and found Balladeer had seated himself next to her.

“You were an idiot to snap at Childe like that,” he said. “He might look like just a flirt, but he’s the deadliest Harbinger. I think the only reason he didn’t kill you was because I was there.”

Childe’s amused, pleased tone suddenly took on a whole new meaning to her, and Mona felt a new fear grip her heart. “And now… I belong to him?”

She should be mad at Balladeer - it was he who forced her into this after all. But she can’t find herself to be angry at him anymore; not when he’s looking at her with interest. Like he wants to know more.

“The way you’re scared of the Fatui… but still can tell that piece of shit to step off… I’ve never seen anyone like you before,” he’s close now, closer than anyone had gotten to her all night, and it’s the first time Mona doesn’t immediately want to push them away. “I never asked… what your name was.”

He steals her breath for a moment hen she feels him tug on one of her ponytails, tangling her hair around his fingers. His other hand clasps her chin in a strong grip, as he runs his thumb over her lip, like he’s trying to coax it out of her.

“It’s… Mona…” she answered softly, after finally finding her voice again.

“Mmm… Mona…” Balladeer repeated, and her heart started beating faster as she discovered she really liked the way he said her name. “Let’s make a new deal… one the others don’t need to know about. I’ll keep any of them from hurting you.”

A heat continued to build within her abdomen as his thumb continued to caress the soft skin of her lips. “And what will you ask of me in return?”

He smirked. The next thing she knew, he was pressing her back against the lounge sofa, his hand moving to cup her cheek while the other gripped her ponytail more fiercely. His lips were on her, playing with the skin of her neck. There was a soft gasp of delight; and then the next heartbeat, Mona realized it had come from her own mouth.

“Belong to me,” he growled, and she felt it more than she heard it, the way his voice vibrated on her skin. “Not to Childe. You belong to Balladeer.”

His grip released on her hair. The hand on her cheek moved down to her waist. The other one slithered up her thigh, beyond the bottom of her dress.

“Ah- yes! Yes sir…”

“You want to moan my name, don’t you?” He asked with a smirk, as his fingers slipped into her. Right there, in the Throne room. Where any of the other Harbingers could return at any moment, he had every intention of claiming her as his girl right then and there. “Very well. You can call me Scaramouche.”

Mona felt her face flush, as her senses began to dull at the mercy of his control.

“Scaramouche…”

#original post by bree #Bree writes #genshin fanfiction #scaramona #Scaramouche x Mona #scaramona week #day 1 - mafia au #spicy #😈 #rated 1 spicy level #suggestive

[triptuckers]

New In Town (part one) - Kaz Brekker

Request: nope Pairing: Kaz Brekker x reader Summary: after fleeing ravka, you hope ketterdam can bring you new opportunities Warnings:  mentions of guns, violence, blood, bruises, scars, death oh boy we really are going full in and it's just the first part sjflksdflsj Word count: 2K A/N: new series alert !!!! got this idea a while back and the outline got so long I decided to make it into a series! I think this'll be about seven parts! enjoy reading! PREVIOUS PART | NEXT PART TAG LIST (all grishaverse fics): @ayushmitadutta @mrs-brekker15@dancingwith-sunflowers @thegirlwiththeimpala @parker-natasha@story-scribbler @romanoffstarkovs @daliareads @meiitanoia @itsnotquimey @sanktaesperanza @whymyparentscheckmyphone@aleksanderwh0r3 @ilovemarvelanne1 @marlenaisnthappy @tomridlessecretvampiredemigod TAG LIST (Kaz Brekker): @mufnasa @janesofia7 @stairscortana add yourself to my tag lists here (bold means I couldn't tag you for some reason!)

You liked to live on the edge. Not too much, of course, but you could never say no to a little adrenaline. Your life had always been busy, no time for slowing down.

And how could you slow down, with the skills you have?

All around Ravka, you're known as a highly skilled thief, assassin and spy. Of course, they don't know your true name. You hide your identity and make sure if you're meeting with a client, they never see your face or any other distinctive marks such as scars.

You're always on the move, going from place to place. Going wherever someone was in need your particular skillset. You never questioned their reasons, only did what needed to be done and got your payment. It was part of the job. You get instructions, do the job and don't ask questions.

Over the years, you'd grown rich with knowledge and the secrets of the most powerful men and women of your time. If only they knew how powerful you were, even without your skills. You could bring down a dozen of highly ranked political advisors, generals, counts and more, if you wanted to.

But you never threatened them like that. Not unless it was absolutely necessary. You didn't like to blackmail them. And on top of that, it was bad for business.

Sometimes you weren't very proud of the life you're living. Basically your whole identity is a lie. On some days you think you could forget it all, start a new life somewhere in Novyi Zem or the Ravkan countryside.

You had tried it once. You settled down on a farm. Your new life had lasted a week. Then it was back to business.

Even though no one knows your identity, you're famous among the tales that go around in Ravka. You can't help but to feel pride when you're in a pub and overhear some locals talking about you, having no clue you are sitting right behind them.

You try your best to hide you identity, you have to. Though you are more than capable of handling an ambush, you'd rather not have to run for your life. While your unique skill set is valued, it also made you a target.

Less than a week ago, some men had followed you after a job. You were on your way to the local inn you were staying at, when you noticed someone following you.

You pretended you didn't notice them and kept on walking. Soon after, two more men joined the first one. You could handle them. After all, you had weapons hidden all over your body. And even if they took them, you'd still be able to fight with your body.

As you were walking, making calculations on which escape route you could take, you noticed three more men in the distance. It was a small town, so it was odd for so many of them to linger at this time of night.

The only reason why they would be there, was that they were there for you. You slowly reached a hand to your hip, where two revolvers rest. But before you could even touch them, one of the men had rushed toward you and slammed you against a wall, pinning your hands to the wall next to your body.

But this is what you had trained for. This is what you had been doing all your life.

After a split second, you slammed your knee upward, into the man's stomach. He instantly released go of you as he doubled over. You kicked him again for good measure and finally pulled out your revolver.

So long for staying hidden.

You fired off a shot at the man closest to you and watched as he crumbled to the ground, clutching his chest. You shot the third man, who fell to the floor as well.

Before you could shoot the fourth, he knocked the revolver out of your hand. But you were too quick for him, you pulled out a knife and sunk it deep into his chest.

As you pulled it out of him again, sending blood everywhere, the fifth man approached you. This time, you were too slow. He slammed you into a wall again, your head hitting the stone hard.

You could feel blood slowly leaking down your cheek, and cursed under your breath. Oh, he was going to pay for that. You flung the knife, which you were still holding in your hand, through the air. It hit him in the neck.

You watches as he staggered backwards, eyes shocked as he looked at you. You pulled the knife out of his neck as the life left his eyes.

The sixth man seemed to have changed his mind after witnessing what you had done to his companions. But as he ran away, you sighed and pulled out your revolver. You couldn't leave any witnesses. Muttering a sorry to whichever Saint was listening, you pulled the trigger.

You couldn't stay in Ravka any longer. That incident had been the last in a string of people trying to ambush you. Even though they didn't know any facts about you such as your name or your age, they did know what you looked like.

Staying in Ravka would have been dangerous. You couldn't go to Fjerda, they were searching for you there as well. And you definitely didn't want to go to Shu Han. Novyi Zem seemed like the place people went to if they wanted to settle down. So, Kerch seemed like your best option.

You didn't even stop by the inn to collect your bag, knowing soon people would come to see who had fired a gun in the streets of a small town.

Instead, you went straight for Os Kervo, to get on a ship. Luckily, it wasn't a long journey, and it is still early in the morning when you arrive at the docks.

You walk around, trying to find a ship that is headed for Ketterdam and willing to take you with them, and ignoring the throbbing pain in your head. After trying three captains, the fourth one agrees to take you aboard. But only if you work on your way.

Deciding it is probably the best offer you would get, you accept.

You spend your time at sea scrubbing the floors, cleaning the glasses, fixing things and making sure the crew has enough water to drink. Part of you is a bit disappointed you have to work. You'd only been on a ship once before, and you hoped you could enjoy the sea. But the captain makes sure there are enough chores for you.

The journey takes a couple of days, but eventually you finally make it to Ketterdam, eager to get off the ship and explore the city.

You heard a lot of stories about Ketterdam, mostly hushed conversations in pubs. They were all bad. People claimed the ones that went to Ketterdam only visited the city to have fun. And by have fun they meant drinking, gambling, and visiting the pleasure houses.

But you didn't care about that. You are interested in the gangs. Most of the people who didn't like Ketterdam blamed it on the many gangs that ruled the streets. You knew the city was supposed to be controlled by the Stadwatch, but you also knew how easy it was to bribe someone with money or knowledge.

The more stories you heard about Ketterdam, the more curious you got.

When you get off the ship after thanking the captain, you take a look around you. The docks you arrived on are crawling with people.

Rich people who want to have fun, young kids with dirty faces holding out their hands for money, people waiting for loved ones to get off the ships that are arriving. You're eagerly watching all the kinds of people you pass.

As you're making your way through the crowd, you spot a few people going the opposite way. You watch them closely as they approach the rich tourists, talking about the best places to eat and offering a place to stay.

The tourists seem pleased by all the attention, but you've been taught to look at people a little differently. You see how one of the people talking to the tourists shakes a hand and slips the rich man's watch off of his wrist.

You smile to yourself as you continue walking. Ketterdam seemed like fun to you. It would be ideal for someone like you, with the skills you have and the knowledge you carry with you.

When you're out of the swarm of people on the docks, you pull out your money bag. It wasn't much, but it may be enough for a room. You start walking around the city, looking for a place to sleep that wasn't too expensive.

You try every inn you find, but with the small amount of money you have, you would only be able to rent a room for a couple of nights.

It's getting late when you enter a street with a lot of pubs. Laughter and music pours out into the street through the open doors and windows. You smile as you listen to the sounds of the night, ignoring the ache in your feet and the pain in your head.

You stop at a promising looking pub. As you're about to keep on walking, you notice a sign, telling you they have rooms you can rent. And for a reasonable price. You'd be able to rent a room for at least a couple of weeks.

You step into the pub, ignoring a man who cheerfully invites you to his table. You make for the bar and signal to the bartender.

'I saw you have rooms I can book for a couple of weeks?' you say to him.

He nods at you. 'You're lucky. Only got one left. Right above the entrance. It'll be noisy, but it's good.' he says.

'I'll take it.' you say.

The bartender nods again and reaches for something underneath the bar. Instinctively, you rest a hand on your revolver that's hidden beneath your coat. He doesn't even seem fazed by it. Maybe it's part of being Kerch.

'I'm just reaching for the keys.' he says in a calm voice.

And indeed, when he reaches out his hand, he throws a key on the bar. You let go of your revolver and reach for you money bag instead. You take the keys and hand him the money.

'This should be enough for a couple of weeks.' you say.

'Enjoy your stay.' he says, returning to serving drinks.

You look at the room number, seven. After asking someone for directions, you find the stairs that lead to the rooms.

When you get to the first floor, you see that your room is indeed right above the entrance. You unlock the door and are met by a small room.

There's only room for a bed, a small closet and a tiny desk. The bathroom is not as clean as you hoped it would be, but you'd stayed in worse rooms. And after all, you hadn't expected much from Ketterdam. For now you're just glad you have a place to sleep.

You shrug off your coat and boots, and place all of you weapons on the desk. You step into the small bathroom to wash the dried blood off of your face and comb your hair with your fingers.

After locking the door, you open the window a little. You lay down on the bed and listen to the sounds outside until you fall asleep. You already wondered what Ketterdam could offer you.

A/N: If you want to request something, make sure to read my house rules Here’s the list of characters I write for. Everything that I have written can be found on my masterlist. Please don’t repost my work, as I spend much time and effort on it!! Thank you for reading! Much love, Marit

#new series incoming !!!!! #kaz brekker #shadow and bone #grishaverse #Kaz Brekker x reader #kaz brekker fanfic #Kaz Brekker fanfics #Kaz Brekker fanfiction #Kaz Brekker fic #Kaz Brekker fics #shadow and bone fics #shadow and bone fanfics #shadow and bone fanfic #shadow and bone fanfiction #shadow and bone fic #new in town

[wienerbarnes]

Paige

Pairing: Bucky x Reader (Cheek to Cheek)

Word Count: 1,149

Warnings: not really any just read it lol

A/N: not really any bucky in this, more of a look into readers life before bucky found her again :P enjoy!

MAIN MASTERLIST | CHEEK TO CHEEK MASTERLIST

You know your time in Hydra could’ve been a lot worse than it was. Well, the fact that you’re even alive proves that. But, you know they could’ve experimented on you far worse, you know they could’ve just kept you around as a play toy, probably a lot of other shit that you know you shouldn't think too long about.

A lot of other prisoners you were around - during the short time you were around other prisoners in the facility - were given trials of the serum. The serum. The Winter Soldier Serum, they referred to it as, because they couldn’t quite replicate the Captain America serum the way they wanted to.

So many prisoners died. They couldn’t handle the effects of it. And those that didn’t die, suffered horrible after-effects that rendered them useless to Hydra, leading to their death anyway. There were at least a hundred prisoners at your facility alone; you know there are probably people who survived with the serum. Hydra probably locked them away, keeping them from too much harm once they became important. That’s what they did to you.

Couldn’t kill you because your powers were too much to offer, and couldn’t punish you because everything they would inject you with would sometimes alter your abilities. Sometimes you’d gain a power, sometimes you’d lose one. Sometimes you’d go into cardiac arrest and they’d be extra nice once they’d revived you in order for you to comply with more tests.

Comply. That’s what we’ll go with.

Eventually it became a normal routine. Wake up. Injection. Exercise. Fighting. Another injection. A mission. A punishment or two. Exercise. Fighting. Dinner. Another injection. Sleep.

One thing you missed the most while you were in there was learning. You’d been out of school for a few years before Hydra, but you still went to the library every once in a while, watched television, read the newspaper; you were always reading and learning about something new that was going on or that happened in the past.

So one day, when you’re walking along the neighborhood you’re looking into - one that’s pretty bad, you’ll admit, but the landlady you spoke to is nice and agreed to give you free rent if you clean all twelve floors of the building, lobby and bathrooms included - and you spot a small library, you’re taken back a bit. To better days.

You walk in and the freezing cold air of the building and the smell of books make you crack a small smile.

You spend the whole day there. As if the free rent wasn’t enough to sway you on taking that apartment offer, a library in walking distance was. You meant to leave a little earlier to tell the landlady that you’d be accepting her offer, but it was sooner than you’d realized that a middle aged woman approaches you, telling you it’s time to check out.

“Oh, I won’t be taking any books.” You tell her softly, even though the library is emptied out already.

“Are you sure? You seem to be almost done.” She points out, your finger still slid in between pages  near the end of the book you were reading. A book about computers; technology. All of the advancements and events you’ve missed, because while you’ve missed the first woman vice president and other historical achievements, you’ve also missed about fifty new technological devices and enhancements. Phones that track your heartbeat and robots that can deliver food, drive cars, and can do virtually anything and everything for you; who would’ve fucking imagined.

“I, uh, can’t.” You tell her, knowing she’s right and wanting to take this book with you, but not knowing how to turn her down and leave.

“Oh, sweetheart, all you need is a library card, I’ll set one up for you.” She tells you, getting the book from your hands and leading you to the front desk area.

“I, uh, don’t have any money for one.” You tell her, feeling embarrassed to admit a small part of your situation, besides the whole globally wanted criminal thing.

“Darling, it’s free. Libraries are funded through taxes?” She tells you, looking at you from her computer.

How the fuck were you supposed to know that? You were taught how to shoot a gun and read people's minds before you learned shit about taxes!

“Right, well, uh -” You try, but it doesn’t work on the sweet librarian.

“What’s your address; do you have an ID, honey? I need proof of residency.” She asks.

A pause, realizing the only way you’ll get out of this building is if you tell this lady the truth, or rather, a part of the truth, “I… don’t have one.” You finally say, not meeting her eyes.

You don’t look up, but you feel her staring at you, pitying you. The furrowed eyebrows and the small frown and the silent thoughts of oh, poor girl. It’s humiliating to you.

“Here’s what I’m going to do,” The woman finally says, and you glance up to see her reaching into a cabinet drawer to her right, taking out a wallet, “I’m going to put this book on my library card, and you’re going to bring that book back in thirty days, or less.” A small beep from the scanner after reading the barcode on the back of the card is all that’s heard because you’re left speechless.

“Why?” You can’t help but ask, wondering if perhaps this is some kind of a joke.

“My name is Paige. When you come back to return it or when you want to pick up some new books and you don’t see me, you ask around until you find me, I’m here every single day.” She ignores your question and places your book in a tote bag hanging from the wall, you don’t get to read the price tag that hangs above it before she’s shoving the bag towards you.

“Reading is the most important thing in the world. Now, get on out of here, I need to close up.” She tells you before you can offer any kind of argument, the woman not leaving any room for discussion on the one book you’re taking.

You make your way to the door, unsure of what else to do or say to the woman, telling yourself that you’re going to bring the book back as soon as possible, and in better condition than when you got it.

You pause at the door and look over your shoulder, seeing the woman tug on a coat and collect her things behind the desk.

“Thank you, Paige.” You speak out into the quiet room of the library, she sends you a soft smile and you give her one back before making your way outside.

You’re going to finish your book, you’re going to get your apartment tomorrow, and then you’re going to come back and read every damn book in the library.

For Paige.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes oneshot #bucky barnes series #marvel #she may not know how to drive but at least she knows how to read #reads tech books and cooking books no in between

[poorboypictures]

Major America: Ch. 1

Jordon Wilkinson was seven years old when he first learned of Captain America; he and his siblings were told by their grandfather of the time he fought beside Captain America and Bucky in World War II. All were enthralled, but none more than Jordon himself. Jordon began reading all he could about the Captain’s escapades before and during the war, learning his origin, his identity, and his disappearance; taking the hero to heart, Jordon stood up for those who couldn’t stand for themselves throughout his life, even joining the military after the Twin Towers fell, serving seven years before a hip injury took him out of action permanently. In 2012, Captain America resurfaced and Jordon was thrilled to have him as a moral standard in the country again, only to notice a change in the hero over the years.

***

2021, nine years after Captain America was freed from the ice; Major Jordon Wilkinson sits in a security office picking at his spaghetti and meatball lunch, staring intently in thought. Wally Gertz, his partner, is fidgeting with a Rubik’s Cube keychain with his feet up.

“Something wrong?” Wally asks.

Jordon blinks a few times and looks over at Wally. “Hmm?”

“Lunch ended ten minutes ago and usually you finish in five minutes just to keep watch on the feed.”

“No, I just have a lot on my mind.” Jordon takes a bite of his lunch as Wally puts away the cube.

“We’ve been working the same shift together for three years, Jordon; I would think I can read you well enough.”

Jordon sighs and pushes his lunch away before leaning back in his chair.

“You know the phrase ‘never meet your heroes’?”

Wally takes his feet off of the desk and leans forward. “You met him? You met Captain America?” He asks, eyes wide.

Jordon slowly nods. “The saying is true. At least, it wouldn’t have been if I met him when he came out of the ice. He’s changed and I think society was what did it; a man out of time, trying to keep up with the seventy years he missed, and I believe it corrupted him.”

“Sounds plausible; society is a bit of a mess these days.” He straightens his hat. “It’s a shame someone can’t just grab the shield and say ‘I’m the Captain now’.”

Jordon stops completely, an idea forming.

***

Later that day; Jordon is in his apartment on his computer, looking for a shield.

“The shield is the easy part.” He says to himself. “It’s the costume that will be hard to get; how am I going to get an extra thousand dollars for an accurate costume?”

He pauses as something dawns on him.

“Hang on…”

He gets up, grabs his phone, and calls someone as he sits back down at the computer.

“Hello?” Georgie Berke answers the phone.

“Georgie, it’s me, Jordon.”

“Hey, Jordy! How are you doing? How was your nephew’s birthday?”

“Loud, and disruptive, but I love him, so I didn’t leave. So, hey, I have a question.”

“Shoot.”

“How does one get an accurate costume?”

“Jordy.” She says teasingly. “Are you getting into cosplay?”

“Georgie, I’m 43 years old, I don’t do cosplay.”

“I’m 37, Jordy, what’s your point?”

“My point is-.” He says with a tad of frustration. “I want an accurate costume and I would like to know how to get one for a good price.”

“Weeelll… if you had an extra small fortune to spend on one you could do that.”

“Nope.” Jordon shakes his head. “I have bills to pay.”

“Then you could make a costume with your own twist, I’ve seen plenty of cosplayers use this method to save a buck without having to get a cheaply made costume.”

“That sounds doable. Thanks.”

“May I ask what exactly this is for?”

“… No. Bye.”

He hangs up, opens a new tab, and begins searching for his costume-with-a-twist.

***

One week later; Jordon is in his apartment listening to a police scanner app on his phone as he peals masking tape off of the recently painted heater shield; just as Jordon finishes taking the tape off, dispatch warns of an attempted robbery at a nearby bank.

“That’s a mile from here…” Jordon says to himself as he looks at his partly assembled costume on the couch; he looks at the shield and back to the couch, wondering whether he should go without a complete costume.

Jordon sighs and quickly puts the costume on, wearing the shield on his back like a backpack; he jumps down the fire escape and onto a red 2013 Harley-Davidson Breakout, tearing out of the alley way and down the street.

Literally a minute later, Jordon pulls into the alley next to the bank and walks into the rear entrance to hear two men trying to break into the safety deposit boxes; he sneaks up behind them, pulls out his gun, pistol-whips one crook, knocking him out, and knocks out the other with his shield, only for the resounding “clang!” to catch the attention of the crook standing guard at the other side of the room.

The crook shouts at Jordon. “HEY!”

Before Jordon can turn around and shield himself, the gunman shoots him in the thigh and side; Jordon holds in a scream of pain as the gunman empties his magazine into the shield; as the gunman tries to quickly reload, Jordon sprints forward at full speed and punches the man out cold only to find himself in front of the remaining three robbers ready to fire on him.

“Oh, crap…”

Jordon ducks behind the shield as the three men fire at him, emptying their magazines; they stop to taunt him as they reload.

“You supposed to be Captain America or something, man?” One asks.

“He’s got a round shield, you imbecile!” Another taunts.

Jordon takes a deep breath, blocking out the pain from being shot, and pulls out his gun.

“Come on, just like in the military.” He whispers to himself

He stands up and hits the first two gunmen in the shoulder without effort, but he and the third gunman fire at the same time; Jordon hits the gunman in the shoulder same as before, and the gunman hits Jordon in the bicep. The gunman goes down and Jordon holsters his gun, his breathing shaky; he looks around at the employees and citizens getting up from the floor.

“Is everyone okay?” He asks, trying to keep his voice from shaking.

A man in a suit nods. “Yes, we’re fine, but you need a doctor.”

“I’ve suffered worse, trust me.” Jordon says as he turns to go back the way he came in.

“Wait!” A woman calls. “What do we call you?”

Jordon stops and looks back. “I’m… Major America.”

He heads to the back of the bank to leave.

***

Soon, in Georgie’s apartment, Georgie is watching the news as she sips from a cup of tea; the news anchor is reporting on the bank robbery when the footage of the fight is played on screen. Georgia spews her tea out, coughing.

“JORDY!?”

***

In Jordon’s apartment, Jordon is sitting at his dining table stitching up the wound on his side when his front door bursts open, causing Jordon to jump as Georgie bolts in.

“Why didn’t you tell me!?”

Jordon grabs some gauze and puts pressure on his wound that has begun bleeding again.

“I really need to lock my door more often.” Jordon says, wincing. “Can you pass me that whiskey?”

He points to the bottle on the kitchen counter and Georgie hands it to him, watching as he takes a swig.

“Why are you drinking while stitching yourself up?” Georgie asks. “How do you even know how to stitch a wound?”

Jordon continues stitching.

“Back in Iraq our field medic got hit by a frag grenade along with a couple others; the anesthetic was apparently hit and drained out so we raided the basement of a bombed bar and the medic taught me how to stitch a wound because I had the steadiest hands.” He takes another swig of whiskey. “Sometimes the old ways are the best.”

He finishes stitching the wound and places some gauze over it.

“Can you hold that while I wrap the wound?”

“Fine.” Georgie huffs as she holds the gauze in place. “Just tell me what you were thinking when you decided to do this?”

“What are you? My mother?” Jordon quips as he finishes wrapping his wound. “I’m a grown man who can make his own decisions.”

“Not when they get you nearly killed!”

Jordon stands up and puts his shirt back on.

“I fought for seven years in a country that hated my guts, I can stand to fight a few more in another country that hates my guts. Doesn’t matter what you say, Georgie, I won’t stop what I’ve started.”

Georgie sighs and crosses her arms in a huff.

“No, you’re right; you’re an adult.”

She notices his bloodied costume and picks up the sweater.

“Also, what kind of costume is this? A baby could do better!”

“The gloves and jacket hadn’t arrived yet, they’ll be here in a couple of days.”

Georgie looks at him, cocking an eyebrow.

“Are you… Are you cropping a jacket?”

“… Noooo…” Jordon answers reluctantly.

“What color is the jacket?”

“Blue…”

“The only way you’re going to get the look you want is by cropping the jacket.”

“Fine! Yes, I’m going to crop the jacket!” Jordon winces and holds his side after the defeated outburst bothers his wound. “Okay, back to small talk.” He says, pained.

Georgie picks up Jordon’s helmet and mask and gives it a once over.

“Where did you get this?” She asks.

“The helmet was my grandfathers; quick coat of paint and it was perfect.” He takes a swig of whiskey once again. “The mask I found at an antique shop; the tag said it was an aviator’s mask used in the war, but I’ve never seen one like this before.”

“And the shield?”

“Got that online, bought three and tested two of them on my uncles range to see what guns they could handle; surprisingly a lot. I’m going to have to buy more after a while though, I’ll need to make a budget for that.”

“You really are serious about this, aren’t you?” Georgie asks, pulling a chair up next to Jordon.

“I am.”

“Why, though? What on God’s green Earth would get you to do this?” She asks, genuinely concerned.

“America needs a hero who will truly fight for them, a hero who understands what it means to be the little guy, America needs an underdog; do you think Ironman understands what it’s like to live paycheck-to-paycheck, or if Thor understands what it’s like to get mugged and you can’t pay your rent by the end of the week?”

“Probably not…” Georgie says.

“We rely too much on them; yeah, they’ve saved the world, but we don’t need Black Widow to find a stolen car. I’m going to try to be like that spider guy in Manhattan; he sticks to one area and does it well.”

Georgie stands up and stretches.

“If you’re going to do something stupid, I may as well help: if you find any information you can’t track just call me and I’ll see if I can find anything for you; I’m pretty good with computers, you know.”

“Yeah, I know. I’ll see you Monday.”

Georgie smiles and leaves the apartment.

***

A couple days later; a young man is being mugged by two men in an alley way, getting beaten; someone clears their throat and the muggers stop and turn to look down the alley to see Major America wearing a complete costume.

“Alright, boys, we can do this the easy way or the hard way.” He says.

The muggers look at each other and pull their knives.

“Hard way it is.”

He raises his shield and jumps into the fray.

End.

The Incomplete costume.

The Complete Costume.

Don't judge the art too harshly, I know what I have to work on I don't need people pointing it out.

Also, I suck at writing origins, I'm better at writing stories where the reader is assumed to know exactly who the characters are.

#captain america #america #major america #star spangled man #patriotism #patriot #original character #oc art #oc artwork #oc insert #fanfiction #fan fiction #fanfics #fanfic writing #oc insert au #au #alternate universe #art #artwork

[xtruss]

The Forgotten Tale of the Confederate Spies Who Invaded Vermont

In 1864, Southern soldiers plotted to take tiny St. Albans, rob its banks, and change the course of the Civil War.

— By Michael Tougias | July 16, 2021 | Boston Globe Magazine

Captives, including students from St. Albans Academy, under guard by Confederate raiders. FROM THE VERMONT HISTORICAL SOCIETY

ON OCTOBER 10, 1864, Bennett Young stepped off the train from Canada, and into the train depot at St. Albans, Vermont, 15 miles south of the border. Young, a handsome, clean-shaven 21-year-old divinity student, took a room at the Tremont House on Main Street and spent the next few days familiarizing himself with the town. But Young was not what he seemed. He was a native of Kentucky, not Canada, and a Confederate officer recently escaped from a prisoner-of-war camp. He was here in this bustling railroad center of about 4,000 residents to change the course of the war.

It had been fewer than five days since Young received a message from C.C. Clay Jr., a former US senator from Alabama. Clay, sent to Canada in 1864 by Confederate President Jefferson Davis to build a network of secret agents, had written: “Your suggestion for a raid upon the most accessible towns in Vermont, commencing with St. Albans, is approved, and you are authorized and required to act in conformity with that suggestion.”

Davis himself had approved the bold series of raids. The South was clearly losing the Civil War. Atlanta had fallen to General William T. Sherman a month earlier. General Ulysses S. Grant’s forces were hounding Robert E. Lee’s Army of Virginia. The port of Mobile, Alabama, had been blockaded by Rear Admiral David Farragut. The hope was that several dramatic raids from Canada into the North would at the least force Union troops north to defend the border, easing pressure on Lee. If Union troops chased the raiders into Canada, it might help draw neutral Canada and Great Britain into the war on the side of the Confederates. And if things went really well, it might demoralize Northern voters so much that they would elect a Democrat as president instead of the Republican incumbent, Abraham Lincoln. Plus, the Confederacy needed cash.

Over the next nine days, some 20 more men from Canada arrived in groups of twos and threes. Like Young, they were also Confederate soldiers posing as Canadian civilians in St. Albans for business or relaxation. These men, only two of whom were older than 30, made polite inquiries about horses they could rent and guns they could borrow for a bit of hunting. Some took day trips to nearby towns, to play out the ruse and scout other targets to raid. Others wandered into the town’s banks, striking up conversations with the locals or inquiring about the price of gold. Their real interest was determining how many employees each bank had. Some occasionally met with Young clandestinely at his hotel, to share information and discuss the outlines of their mission.

Young, meanwhile, played his part with flair. He courted a woman staying at his hotel, impressed the villagers with his conspicuous Bible reading, and visited the home of the governor of Vermont, railroad magnate J. Gregory Smith. Smith was in Montpelier at the time, so his wife, Ann Eliza Smith, showed Young around the grounds. She thought Young “a nice mannered man,” not realizing he intended to burn the mansion down as retribution for the burning of Southern governors’ mansions.

Young had determined two potential escape routes for the bold plan, which would turn out to be the northernmost action of the Civil War. But he also saw a threat: Just a couple of blocks west of Main Street was a busy railway station and foundry, employing dozens of men who might leap into action. Still, he was confident — the raiders were going to need 30 minutes, at most, to rob several banks, torch the town with bottles of an incendiary liquid called Greek fire, and run. In the commotion, Young hoped to also set fire to the governor’s mansion, then raid Swanton, another town, on the way back to Canada.

He fixed Wednesday, October 19, as the day of the attack.

A Confederate raider shoots at E.J. Morrison outside Miss Beattie’s Millinery on Main Street in St. Albans.FROM THE VERMONT HISTORICAL SOCIETY

AT 3 P.M. ON THE 19th, St. Albans’ church bells rang to mark the hour. Under leaden skies that threatened rain, Young strolled down Main Street, then climbed a couple of steps onto a hotel porch. Reaching inside his coat, he pulled out his Navy Colt revolver and raised it over his head. “I’m an officer of the Confederate Service,” he shouted. “I am going to take this town and shoot the first person that resists!”

At first, St. Albans residents within earshot thought Young was joking. They stared at him until he pointed his gun at them and other raiders herded them onto the village green. Other Confederates went to get horses, and three groups of them headed to the town’s banks: Franklin County Bank on Main Street, St. Albans Bank at the corner of Main and Kingman, and the First National Bank on Fairfield. They were barely more than a block apart, all near the town common.

Young climbed on a horse and trotted up and down Main Street, overseeing the roundup of prisoners and monitoring his men’s assault on the banks. He knew his two revolvers had only six shots each, and would be difficult to reload while on horseback. So whenever he saw someone emerge from a building, he’d point his gun at them and tell them to get back inside, intimidating them before they made trouble.

Collins Huntington, though, on his way to pick up his children from school, ignored Young’s threats, thinking he was drunk. Young leveled his revolver and shot at him, inflicting a glancing wound along Huntington’s rib cage.

Inside the Franklin County Bank, a cashier saw a neatly dressed man named William Hutchinson approach the counter. Assuming Hutchinson was a customer, the cashier, Marcus Beardsley, asked how he could help. Hutchinson pulled a revolver from his coat. “We are Confederate soldiers,” he said. “We have come to rob your banks and burn your town. There are a hundred of us here. You must keep quiet and hand over all your money.”

A customer nearby made a run for the door but stopped when the raiders threatened to shoot. Two raiders pushed him into the vault, then began filling their haversacks with bills. Hutchinson, meanwhile, told Beardsley to give him the money from the counter, then locked Beardsley in the vault, too. The four raiders left the bank with approximately $70,000, the equivalent of about $1.2 million today.

Down the street in the St. Albans Bank, Cyrus Bishop stood, terrified, as raiders on either side of him pointed revolvers at his head. “If you make any resistance or give any further alarm, we’ll blow your brains out,” one told him. One of the raiders pointed his pistol at an assistant cashier and told him, “Not a word out of you. We are Confederate soldiers, we have come to take your town, we shall have your money.”

Then the raiders took the time to do something unexpected: They made Bishop and the assistant cashier swear allegiance to the Confederate States of America. While three more raiders entered the bank and stuffed as much money as they could fit in their pockets and satchels, one of the Confederates guarding the two bank employees lectured them on the destruction of the South by Generals Sheridan and Sherman.

The cashier was having none of it. He said if the robbery was an act of war, he should be allowed to take an inventory so that the bank could be reimbursed by the federal government. “Damn your government, hold up your hands,” hissed the raider.

At that point, someone knocked on the bank’s front door, which the rebels had locked behind them. One of the raiders opened it. In walked Samuel Breck, a merchant looking to make a deposit. A rebel grabbed him by the collar with one hand, pressed a revolver to his head with the other, and said, “I take deposits.” He took $393 from Breck and shoved him in the room with the two bank employees.

Suddenly, the sounds of gunfire erupted outside the bank, and three of the raiders ran out. The last two raiders left the bank more slowly, walking backward with their guns raised. They had been in St. Albans Bank for 12 minutes.

Inside the St. Albans Bank, a clerk is threatened at gunpoint by a group of Confederate raiders. FROM THE VERMONT HISTORICAL SOCIETY

YOUNG DIDN’T KNOW where the shots were coming from. There was at least one St. Albans local, possibly more, firing at his raiders from buildings on Main Street. No one had been hit, but Young hadn’t planned for armed resistance.

He had already fired his revolvers three times — at Collins Huntington; at stable owner Sylvester Field, who’d objected to the theft of his horses (the ball passed through Field’s hat); and at Leonard Bingham, a local who had tried to charge him when Young was climbing onto a horse. Young had hit Bingham, but the ball had been stopped by Bingham’s heavy silver watch, and Bingham had escaped. Young had only nine bullets left, but he was going to have to do something to regain control of a situation that was spiraling out of control.

Leonard Cross heard the commotion and stepped out of his photography studio. “What are you trying to celebrate here?” he asked Young.

“I’ll let you know,” Young said, and shot at Cross, barely missing his head. Eight bullets left.

It was time, he thought, to start setting the town on fire. His raiders began throwing their bottles of Greek fire at buildings.

An old editorial illustration depicts William H. Blaisdell of St. Albans accost a raider outside of the First National Bank as another Confederate raced toward them. Blaisdell, like others that day, was taken at gunpoint into what today is Taylor Park. The First National sat at the southeast corner of Main and Fairfield streets, across the street from what is now Taylor Park. CREDIT: VERMONT HISTORICAL SOCIETY (these images originally appeared in Frank Leslie's magazine)

Over at the First National Bank, the third group of robbers had gathered $58,000 (nearly $1 million in current dollars). The four of them left the bank, escorting an employee toward the common, where they were going to put him with the other captives. As they were leaving, they saw a local business owner, William Blaisdell, approaching the bank. Blaisdell quickly realized what was happening and grabbed a raider, throwing him down onto the boardwalk. But other raiders pointed their pistols at Blaisdell’s head, forcing him to surrender.

Buildings should have been burning by now, Young must have realized. But they weren’t — the bottles of Greek fire had hit their targets, but they merely smoldered. Nothing was burning.

More townspeople had realized St. Albans was under attack. Nearby, at the governor’s residence, a neighbor’s servant girl rushed in to tell Vermont’s first lady, Ann Smith: “The rebels are in town, robbing the banks, burning the houses and killing the people,” the girl exclaimed. “They are on their way up the hill, intending to burn your house.”

Smith and a Scottish servant girl sprung into action, calmly closing the blinds and shades of the house and bolting the doors. Then, Smith found one of her husband’s pistols. It wasn’t loaded, but she hoped the raiders wouldn’t realize that. She carried the gun to the front steps, to stand and wait. She wished she had raised an American flag, so if they went down it would be with colors flying.

The Confederate raiders set fire to the bridge over Sheldon Creek, but it did not fully burn. FROM THE VERMONT HISTORICAL SOCIETY

BACK IN THE CENTER of town, Erasmus Fuller, a livery owner, grabbed an old six-shooter, pointed it at one of the raiders, and pulled the trigger. Click. Young burst out laughing. “Fetch me some spurs!” he yelled.

Fuller had other ideas. He ducked into Bedard’s Harness Shop and ran to the back door. He started shouting that the town was being attacked, hoping the men who were building a large hotel nearby would come and help him. E.J. Morrison, a Manchester, New Hampshire, man overseeing the hotel’s construction, heard Fuller’s shouts and ran to the stable owner.

Fuller, with Morrison now trailing behind, returned to Main Street. He saw Young, lifted his pistol again, and took aim.

“Look out Cap’n!” shouted one of the raiders. Then he and Young both fired at Fuller. Fuller ducked behind an elm tree, evading their shots.

Not so Morrison, who dropped to the ground, mortally wounded. He would be the raid’s sole fatality, leaving behind a widow and five children. (What the raiders didn’t know is that he was also likely the only man in town sympathetic to the Confederate cause.)

George Conger had heard the gunshots and come running. Young saw him, and asked, “Are you a soldier?”

“I am,” Conger replied. He had been a captain in the Union Army and had been wounded at the Second Battle of Bull Run.

“Then you are my prisoner,” Young said. But Conger dashed into the American House hotel, next to the Franklin County Bank, ran through the back and then down Lake Street toward the foundry, yelling, “There is a regular raid on St. Albans. Bring out your guns and fight!” Workers at the foundry and at the railroad grabbed weapons and followed Conger back to the center of town.

Young realized his plot was quickly unraveling. He began to move his men north, shouting, “Keep cool boys, keep cool!”

An old editorial illustration depicts cashier Marcas W. Beardsley and Jackson Clark, a woodsawyer who happened to be in the Franklin County Bank, being freed from the vault where they had been imprisoned, even though Beardsley had pleaded with the robbers explaining it was airtight. The men, who understood the Confederates planned to burn the town, feared for their lives either by suffocation or fire. J. Russell Armington and Dana R. Bailey heard their shouts and came to their rescue, however. CREDIT: VERMONT HISTORICAL SOCIETY (these images originally appeared in Frank Leslie's magazine)

Conger, gun in hand, tried to shoot at the raiders, but his gun would not fire. The Confederates started firing on him and yelling the rebel yell, but this riled up their horses, which were not used to battle. Over the din, Young was hollering, “There is too great a crowd gathering round here!” He knew they had to get out of town, and quickly.

Spurring his horse around those of his men, he told them to throw their remaining bottles of Greek fire at the closest buildings. Again, they failed to ignite. It was time to go. Once Young was sure his men were all accounted for, they were off at a gallop, occasionally turning to fire pistols behind them.

Conger shouted to all those nearby, “Bring on your horses, men, and arms and we will follow them. If you can’t get arms there is no use, they are going to fight hard!”

On the steps of the governor’s residence, Ann Smith saw a man galloping to her. The hour has come, she thought, the invaders have arrived. But the man on horseback turned out to be her brother-in-law, Stewart Stranahan, who was home on sick leave from the Army of the Potomac. Stranahan told her the raiders had robbed the banks and killed a man, but failed to set St. Albans ablaze. He had come for any weapons he could scrounge.

“Here, take this pistol, it is all I have yet found,” Smith said, feeling rage build inside her. “And, Stewart,” she added, “if you come up with them, kill them! Kill them!”

Soon, Conger and a posse of some 50 men were in pursuit of the raiders, followed quickly by 40 more men led by Stranahan. The Confederate party split up before it reached Canada, to increase the odds of escape. Conger’s militia reached the border and kept going, joining with some Canadian constables. They were able to capture about 13 raiders, including Young, and some of the $208,000 ($3.5 million in today’s money) that was later determined missing.

THE PLAN OF THE St. Albans group was to bring their prisoners back to town to face charges of murder. But as they neared the border, more Canadian authorities arrived at the scene and demanded charge of the rebels. Conger reluctantly agreed. The prisoners were first brought to St. Johns and then transferred to Montreal on October 27. The raiders were well received by a contingent of Canadian Confederate sympathizers, cheered as they were brought to jail.

They gave Young and his men food, clothing, and even liquor. Some of Montreal’s finer restaurants sent over meals and scores of citizens visited them at the jail, where they had been given a large room rather than cells. A relaxed Young wrote to the St. Albans Messenger requesting two copies of the paper be delivered each day. “Your editorials are quite interesting and will furnish considerable amusement to myself and comrades,” he wrote.

Young’s taunting infuriated many Vermonters, and for a short period of time it appeared that the Confederates might succeed in dragging Canada into the war against the Union. The St. Albans Messenger editorial page stated that if the prisoners were not handed over, “The sooner we declare war on our neighbors to the north, the better.” Lincoln’s secretary of war, Edwin Stanton, later called the St. Albans Raid “one of the most important events of the war,” with the potential to draw both Canada and Britain into hostilities.

But over the next few months, a series of contentious court proceedings went against extradition, as Canadian judges ruled that the raid was an act of war, not murder and robbery. All the raiders were eventually freed.

Some of the Confederates in jail in Montreal. Bennett Young is seated at right, William Hutchinson is at left. FROM THE VERMONT HISTORICAL SOCIETY

But Bennett Young’s gambit had failed. Perhaps if the Greek fire had worked and more damage had been done, it would have enraged Vermonters more. Or if there had been follow-up raids on Swanton or other towns. But the St. Albans citizens had forced them to abandon those plans. No Union troops were diverted to the border, Canada and Great Britain did not enter the war, Lincoln was reelected, Sherman reached the sea in late December 1864, and on April 9, 1865, Lee surrendered at Appomattox Court House. The Canadian government even reimbursed the Vermont banks for the amount of money it found on the raiders, approximately $88,000. The other $120,000 was not accounted for.

After the war, Young was specifically excluded from an amnesty for Confederates. He fled to the United Kingdom, where he studied law. He returned to the United States after a full amnesty was granted in1868, becoming a successful lawyer in Louisville, Kentucky, and was regularly applauded at Confederate reunions and parades.

In 1911, when he was 68, Young took his wife on vacation to Montreal. He contacted the people of St. Albans, saying he would like to meet with them. The town sent a four-man delegation to the Ritz-Carlton, where he was staying. Young put on a Confederate uniform for the session, and told his visitors that “the raid was only the reckless escapade of a flaming youth of 21 years, steeped in patriotism for the South.” Perhaps it was something like an apology. The get-together was friendly and lasted well into the night.

— Michael Tougias is the author of more than 30 books for adults, most recently “The Waters Between Us,” and five for middle readers. He is currently working on a book about the St. Albans Raid. Send comments to [email protected]. In addition to reporting and eyewitness accounts from the St. Albans Messenger and other periodicals, significant sources for this story include materials from the St. Albans Historical Society and The St. Albans Raid, Complete and Authentic Report by L.N. Benjamin.

[stilwater-saint]

I have 15 whole followers (WOOOOOO) So im officially giving myself permission to GUSH about my bosses.

This is Grant

He's my main boss and lowkey my main OC. He's a Bisexual man, and kinda part demon? When he was in the comma, he made a deal with a demon. He could come back, protect his sister, rebuild the saints, for the price of his body. All he had to do, was house the demon and its powers. He agreed.

This is his sister, Gia (Aka: Arson)

Arson is the character i play when I just kinda wanna destroy shit. Shes pan a pan woman trying, and succeeding, in holding her own against the boys. She fancys herself the muscle of the operation. She takes next to nothing seriously except her involvement in the saints. As far as shes concerned, they saved her and her brothers life.

Here's a pen doodle of them together

Out of the 2, Grant is more level headed. He didn't used to be, but after the death of Carlos he promised himself he wouldn't loose anyone else, and to do that, he knew he had to start acting like a leader, and not a gang banger.

Grant used to be a chaotic ball of fire. He'd run into things without thinking, shoot first, ask questions later. You'd think the incident with Lin or the boat bombing would have calmed him, but no. All it did was feed the fire. It wasn't until Carlos died that he realized just what he'd gotten himself into.

Arson is the opposite. She's been a wild child her whole life and is more than happy to continue to be so. She thinks Grant thinks too much. Who needs a plan when guns exist?

In reality, shes fucking terrified that is she stops, people will view her as weak, or she'll buckle under the pressure. It's a man's world, and she's well aware of it. To get any respect from the saints, and to get out of her brothers shadow, you gotta make some noise.

BACKSTORY:

(TW: MENTIONS OF S*XUAL ASSULT)

The Twins weren't nessicarly poor growing up, but they weren't rich. They were born Upper middle class thanks to their dad. They were aware of their roll in their fathers socity. Dress nice, stay quite. Set pieces in the so called perfect life.

Until their dad got caught fucking his secretary in his office.

One grueling divorce later, the twins found themselves moving into the Row with their Mother. She was determined to make it on her own without her Exs money, and the kids were determined to have nothing to do with their father. It still made for a very lonely life. When their mother wasn't working, she was trying to find comfort an another creep. A creep that often couldn't keep his hands to himself. Both kids were subjugated to it at least once. Neither spoke up. Neither twin wanted to breath their mothers heart again.

So they started spending more time out of the house. They were in high-school at this point. They spent time at friends houses, couch surfing and coming up with any excuse not to go home. Notably, at this point Grant meets Johnny. Their social circles ran adjacent to eachother, and the two could often be found in the Joint Circle together. Even crashing on Johnny's couch once or twice. But for the most part, Johnny and the twins weren't close at the point.

That doesn't happen until after graduation. Arson got as far away as possible for collage, going to study law of all things. She wanted to be a divorce lawyer. Grant stayed home to take care of his mom, and was an Art major at the local community College. Go Skeeters! He picked up a job, moved to the Dorms, and was content. At least he told himself that.

He was walking home from work when the events of saints row 1 open up. Face to face with death, it sparked something inside him again. What was an art degree going to do for him? He already knew how to draw, but it wasn't going to get him anywhere. He wasn't going to change the world flipping burgers at freckle bitches.

But, maybe he would fighting for the Saints. Julius was right. There was a problem with gangs in the row. He'd noticed it all the way back in 8th grade when he moved to the row. And he wanted to be apart of the solution.

Grant put all of his chips down on the Saints. Going as far as to quit his job and drop out of collage and using his savings on an first month's rent on an apartment. He had a month to make it.

Arson, still Gia at this time, knew none of this. She was busy selling her soul to fit in with the rich kids at college. Trying to prove that she belonged there, not only to the kids that looked down at her for her scholarship, but to herself.

She hated it there. She knew nothing about the saints. She knew Grant had made friends, and reconnected with that Johnny guy. But she thought he was thriving in college, and that he liked his job, though how someone could be happy at freckle bitches shed never know. She wished she could though. She was looking for an excuse to drop. She felt like every second she spend in this brick prison a little more of her died.

That was until one frantic late night call. "LINS DEAD, I COULDNT GET HER OUT, SHES DEAD" He was drunk and frantic. "Whos dead?" She asked, "LIN, LINS DEAD, THEY PUT US IN A TRUNK AND PUSHED US IN THE HARBOR" "Who did?!" "THE ROLLERZ" "THE WHO?!"

Yea, Grant had a lot of explaining to do in the morning. He maybe even over explained. Once Gia realized just how in over his head Grant was, she dropped out to go take care of her brother. When they were kids they always took care of eachother, and now was no different.

When she joined, she didn't really feel comfortable giving her real name though. I mean, this was a gang, they were going to be doing illegal gang shit. So, she gave the first word she could think of as a name. "Arson." And, it stuck. She'd be lying if she said she didn't feel more comfortable with that title anyway. Gia never quit fit.

Together the twins were a powerhouse. If Grant couldn't handle it, Arson could. And if you had to fight them together God help your soul. Grant will tell you he'd be nowhere if it wasn't for his sister, and Arson would agree.

Umm yea thats the "quick" rundown lol. Theyre way more fleshed out than this, I swear. If you have any questions please ask!! My inbox is always open. These are my babies and now I share them with you 💜

#saints row #saints row 2 #saints row 3 #saints row 4 #saints row boss #saints row fanart #saints row the third #sr2 #sr4 #srtt #sr #third street saints #saints row headcannons #boss #boss grant #boss arson #the boss #gatboss #saints row backstory #fanart #my art #Johnny Gat #troy bradshaw #Lin #Saints Row Lin #julius little #carlos mendoza

[detectivedreameater]

Ghost In The Stool|| Jane and Marley

TIMING: Right after Jane received a possessed stool PARTIES: @jane-the-zombie and @detectivedreameater SUMMARY: Two cops versus one stool. Who will win? CONTENT: Gun use

Marley was surprised she only heard one gunshot echo as she approached Jane’s house. Still, she had to take a moment to sigh, rubbing the bridge of her nose as she grabbed the baseball bat she’d managed to find and a net. She was no expert on ghosts or possessed objects, but she hope the tools would prove useful somehow. They had to, right? Ghosts, strangely enough, weren’t something she dealt with a lot. And a possessed stool was definitely out of her wheelhouse. But she supposed she ought to feel some obligation to clean up the mess, considering she’d been the one to submit the pie under Jane’s name in the first place. She appreciated how in stride Jane always took her. She was finally a match for Marley’s strange behaviors, and Marley was relieved to have someone like her around. So, she was here, ready to help, with a bat in one hand and a net in the other. She didn’t bother knocking, opening the door and poking her head inside. “Is it still locked in the bathroom?” she called into the apartment, closing the door behind her. 

Jane shot the stepstool. It was just a test to see what would happen, that’s why she only shot it once. Nothing happened. All it did was dent the fucking thing while the bullet landed somewhere she couldn’t see. Jane scowled, before clicking the safety back on and sitting down in front of the bathroom. The door was swung all the way open, propped open by one of her kitchen table chairs. A rather thick line of salt was in front of the door. She heard the door open and assumed that it was Marley. “I think we're staring at each other  and having a staring contest,” Jane said flatly, just as the stool flew into the bathroom counter. “It completely trashed the bathroom!” Jane complained. No way in hell she was ever getting her security deposit back. Fuck. Jane pushed herself up to her feet and poked her head out to look at Marley. “You think a bat and a net is going to help??”

Marley paused in the middle of the living room, holding her net and bat. Looked between the two, then back to Jane before shrugging. “Hey, I’m not a ghost expert, alright? Once they’re dead they’re outta my wheelhouse,” she stated, coming over to Jane and holding one out to her. “I see your ‘shoot it’ method isn’t working, either, so why not give these a try, right?” She glanced to the line of salt, scowling, subconsciously moving away from it before looking at Jane. “Maybe we can like...put it in a cage? Do you have something to hold it?” she asked, watching it tear around the bathroom, cracking the mirror some more and denting the walls. She winced. “And uh...maybe get a good handyman on call.”

“My landlord is going to shit an entire brick. Do you know how nice that old lady is to give me such a good rent price for a two bedroom apartment?” Jane groaned. She ran a hand down her face, before looking between the bathroom and Marley. “There’s no Mara way to get rid of it, is there?” Probably not. She still didn’t completely understand what Mara were, except that they ate and gave people nightmares and had blue blood. She thought for a moment, before her eyes widened. “Oh! You know what! I do have a cage!” Jane said, putting the gun down on the counter and going to one of the storage closets. “Don’t ask me how my brother’s dog’s crate-thing ended up in my packed stuff, but it did. Probably a good fucking thing too. Uhhh… we’re going to have to put it together though.”

“Nope,” Marley said, shrugging again, “no mara way to get rid of a spirit.” Couldn’t really give visions of fear to something that had nothing left to fear. Or...no eyes. She supposed she could stand inside and distract it, but she wasn’t eager to do that right now. “A dog crate?” Glanced around, then back at Jane. “Why did you rent a two bedroom, anyway?” She followed her away from the bathroom, careful to step around the box of salt sitting there, and came over to Jane digging through the closet. “You’re just full of surprises, Newbie,” she said, shaking her head as she started pulling out pieces of a cage. “Think it’s sturdy enough to hold that?”

“Better kitchen,” Jane replied with a shrug. It was more expensive, but Jane wasn’t exactly concerned about money these days. Probably not a financially stable decision, but one she made anyway. This kitchen had an island and the entire apartment was nice and spacious. The small town Maine-murder vibe also helped with rent. Jane snorted, pulling out the black caged bits. “So what’s the plan? We get it in this thing, and then put a salt circle around it and hope for the best?” Jane frowned. “Do you think we can just chuck it???”

“The ideal plan is to just hope it goes away on its own, but I don’t think that’s happening tonight,” Marley said, looking over at Jane, taking some of the pieces she was pulling out and starting to shove them together in what looked like a coherent cage like outline. “Jane, you can’t just throw away a ghost, I don’t think it works like that.” She frowned, furrowed her brow. “Maybe we can find an exorcist or something. You don’t happen to know any, do you?” she asked, looking back over at her. A loud CRASH! Echoed from the bathroom and the one piece of cage Marley had set up fell over with a wimpy clunk.

“Exorcists are a thing?” Jane responded blandly. That answered that question. “Wait don’t - Ah.” Jane ran a hand down her face as the crash echoed in the bathroom as the cage fell apart. She knelt down, and put it back together. “Alright, I have an idea. What if we trap it in the cage, and then one of us holds it down and then traps it in a salt circle until I can get an …. Exorcist here.” Jane frowned. “Do you think that would work? Because I can absolutely shoot it again.” There was another loud crash from her bathroom. Jane winced. “Or we break it into little pieces.”

“Oh Jane,” Marley sighed, shaking her head as if disappointed in a child. “There’s much for you to learn, young one.” Patted her reassuringly on the shoulder before standing up again, looking around. “Okay, fine, but I’m not going anywhere near, in or around a salt circle. I like you, Jane, I do, but I don’t wanna be literally stuck in your house.” Frowned, furrowing her brow. She hated salt. “Breaking it into little pieces just sounds like torture. Or maybe giving it more ammo. I’d suggest not doing that.”

“I can trap you in a salt circle?” Jane asked, looking at Marley amused. “Maybe I’ll put one around your desk the next time you fall asleep,” she said, grinning. “Alright, you can put me in the salt circle while you hold me in here. Some Morton’s isn’t going to get me down.” Jane stood, rolling her shoulders back. “Alright so here’s the plan, I’ll brace myself here with the cage, and you go let it out of the bathroom. It seems to hate me so it should… uh… come straight to me. We stuff it in the cage and then the salt is up in the cabinet. Kay?”

“We’ve all got our weaknesses, okay?” Marley snapped, going over to the cabinet to dig around for the salt. Uugh. She held it out at arm’s length, feeling the hair on her arms rise and her skin tingle. When she came back, she looked at Jane with a ruffled glance. “You make terrible plans. If it comes at me, I’m going intangible. Sorry, but I’m not getting decked by a stool for you today.” She went over to the bathroom, held the nob. “Ready, Newbie?”

“Does that mean you’ll get decked by a stool for me tomorrow?” Jane asked before she braced herself against the metal cage. If this thing could hold the large yellow fluffy monster of a dog that Steve got, it could hold a possessed stool. In theory. Jane snorted. “I make great plans, come on, where’s the fun if there’s no risk involved, right? Besides, it doesn’t like me anyway, it wants to knock my head off. Let her loose. I’m ready.” 

“Maybe,” Marley replied in jest, a small smirk pulling up one side of her mouth. She shook her head again, salt in one hand, doorknob in the other. “Okay, here goes nothing,” and whipped it open quickly. The stool had made even more of a mess of the room somehow, and the second the door open it whizzed out, crashing into the adjacent wall, before righting itself and doing exactly what Jane had said it would-- beelining for her as if she had insulted its entire family lineage. Marley just watched, already racing over with the salt ready.

And there it came. As Jane predicted, the thing whizzed straight to her. The son of a bitch. What had she ever done to it?! Why did it hate her in particular. Jane was ready, though, and moved straight so the stool crashed into the cage with a loud band. Jane threw herself on top of it at the stool jerked around in the cage. She struggled to slam and latch the door and then used her body weight to keep it down. “Marley!” Jane groaned as it slammed the metal into her hip. “Hurry up!” 

Marley couldn’t help but laugh at the situation, even as she hurriedly poured salt-- uuggh-- around the cage, making sure to keep her hands far, far away from it, scooting around the salt as if it were physically repulsing her. When she finished, she shut the lid and tossed the can onto the couch, stepping back. “You’re good, just don’t smudge it!” she warned, pointing at the line so Jane didn’t mess up her handy work. “C’mon, get outta there before it breaks that thing!”

The cage gave her another hard jolt to the ribs and Jane groaned, hurriedly throwing herself over the salt when Marley said it was good. “Ouch,” Jane muttered, poking her ribs, irritated. “Who the hell gives cursed freaking stools as a prize. This is a bad pie prize!!” Jane said, exasperated. Sure enough, the stool was properly constrained, and it seemed pretty pissed off about it. She ran a hand through her hair, and looked at Marley accusingly. “You owe me, by the way. This is your fault.” She pointed at the stool. “And helping me trap it doesn’t count.”

“A cursed town,” Marley said back with a smile, watching the stool struggling against its physical cage and the barrier the salt created. She glanced sideways at her, rolling her eyes. “Alright, alright, fine. But I’m not apologizing for entering the pie under your name because it was hilarious. You’ve gotta admit at least that, Newbie,” she said, coming over to Jane and looking curiously at where she was holding her ribs. “It didn’t break them, did it?” she asked, reaching out to poke her gently. “Guess I do owe you one, now. But just one.”

“No, because whenever I make pie, my pies are good. Though I’m much more of a cookie person than I am a pie person,” Jane wrinkled her nose. During the Christmas and Holiday season, her cookies were killer. Though she wondered if Bo would get angry if she started making cookies for everyone at work, that was her thing. Marley poked her and Jane rolled her eyes. “Just bruised, don’t worry. I don’t really feel like explaining to the hospital that that a dog cage with a rowdy ‘dog’ broke them anyway.” Jane flopped back onto the couch, kicking her feet on the table as she crossed her arms over her chest. “You’re buying me take out.” Jane demanded. “Thai Tanic.” 

“You make pie?” Marley said, raising a brow. “Why does everyone in this town make pie.” But it wasn’t really a question. She dusted herself off a little, stepping wide around the salt circle and coming to the couch to flop next to Jane. She wondered, for a moment, if it was alright that Jane knew about her weakness to salt. But, Jane was Jane. Her partner. Her colleague. Her-- well. No, because Marley didn’t have friends. They were just...this. “Really?” she finally said, picking up her phone despite. “I give you one entire favor, and you just want food?” Shook her head before dialing. “The usual?” 

#chatzy #chatzy: jane #jane #wickedswriting #ghost in the stool #tw guns

[cats-obsessions]

Mark Your Love in Ink Part 2

A Geraskier soulmates au

Part one - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5

Rating: T

Chapters: 2 of 5? 

Notes: I decided to split this up into 5 parts, but on ao3, I posted parts 2-4 in one chapter. So, if you want to read ahead, read on ao3

It turns out, Geralt can run from ‘fate’ but not Jaskier. Somehow, Jaskier worms his way into his life. Forcefully. And deeply. What he expects to be shared milkshakes and parted ways turns into Jaskier following him to the warehouse, determined to set his eyes on some monsters- lucky for them, the ‘monsters’ weren’t werewolves or noonwraiths like he had expected. Nope, they were elves. Angry elves that captured Geralt and Jaskier, bashed the starving artist’s guitar and kicked them both in the gut. Geralt was able to reason with them, and Jaskier was given a lute for his troubles, but he didn’t get any money for his troubles.

As the sun began to rise over the city, bright lights reflecting off of the buildings, they parted ways. The younger man smiled at Geralt with sunshine in his eyes and said “I’d offer you my number, but I suppose you already have it,” which was true- even if it weren’t on his body, Geralt’s had it memorized for years. He was surprised, though, when the musician added “This was fun. Let’s do it again sometime,” with a genuine warmth that told Geralt he wasn’t lying. He was sure that misadventure would have driven the boy away, but he didn’t seem deterred. If anything, he seemed more interested.

Geralt practically passed out once he got home, eager to sleep rather than focus on the situation. He was more alarmed to find the familiar number texting him once he awoke. How did he even get his number?

It didn’t seem to matter much. The next thing Geralt knows, he’s getting roped into going for coffee or drinks, then just hanging out doing things he’d never bothered spending time on before, like playing video games. Then, Jaskier starts showing up at his apartment whenever he wants. Geralt tried to argue, but Roach, his cat, loves Jaskier almost as much as she loves Geralt, which is odd considering she scratches up most strangers.

Every step of the way, he tries and tries to push back against this odd little human that seems set on getting close to him, and every battle he picks, he finds himself losing. When Jaskier starts following him to jobs, he knows he’s gone too far to turn back.

That he was not fond of, but Jaskier is the most persistent thing he’s ever met- like a weed. At first it was just local jobs, things he knew Jaskier could watch without getting in the way, but then he started following him on longer jobs. And, well it’s kind of nice to have someone to camp with, especially when he can convince the musician to stay at the camp while he hunts. He even proves to be useful once or twice. Six months later, Geralt finds himself with an intrusive friend with blurred lines and a lack of respect for personal space.

But it’s not bad, surprisingly.

Geralt finds himself smiling more. Jaskier is tactile and unafraid to show emotion in a way that’s almost frightening after so many years of being a loner. And Geralt, he puts up with it- at least that’s what he says. In reality, he does his best to keep his emotions from spilling out of ‘friends’ and toward something more.

Because he doesn’t believe in fate or destiny.

A soulmate bond is a social concept made up to explain magical connections that only go skin deep.

That’s all it is.

So, he doesn’t fall for Jaskier as if he could prove how fake Destiny is by refusing to feel.

--

Geralt hums some song that’s been stuck in his head for days- certainly not because the dumb musician had been playing it last time they saw each other. He’s cooking dinner one late evening when he hears his apartment door handle jiggle followed by several knocks. Does he really expect it to be unlocked for him all the time?

As soon as he unlocks the door, it’s being opened by the musician on the other side. He’s a little flushed and his hair is messy as he complains “If you gave me a key, this would be easier.”

“If I gave you a key, you’d never leave me alone.” Geralt rolls his eyes. “Did you bike here in the middle of the night?” he asks, noticing the helmet in one of his hands, a duffle bag in the other, and his lute thrown over his shoulder “and what’s all this?”

“My stuff- for our trip.” Jaskier answers as if it were obvious. He throws his bag down, slips off his shoes, and begins to make himself at home. Geralt watches as Jaskier moves to the living room, stopping to pet Roach on his way. The brown tabby shoves her head into Jaskier’s palm, meowing happily to greet him. Geralt does his best not to smile at the sight.

Their trip. Geralt had tried to convince him to sit this one out to no avail. It will be a week-long trip at the least- granted he can even find the beast. He got reports of a possible griffon terrorizing an isolated town a few days north of them. They’ll have to drive part way, then hike through the forests and camp there for however long it will take to find and defeat it. But Jaskier hasn’t seen a griffon yet, and he’s enamored with them- that’s probably Geralt’s fault, though.

“We don’t leave for two more days, Jaskier.” Geralt reminds him.

“It’s better to be prepared early, isn’t it?”

Geralt lets it go, turning back to his cooking. Jaskier can entertain himself if he’s so set on showing up unannounced. Though, Geralt throws an extra pork cutlet on the pan; the gods know the boy doesn’t eat enough real food.

He can hear the musician talking to Roach in the background. He’s almost surprised Jaskier hasn’t pestered him about his day yet. But, he doesn’t refrain from taking advantage of the momentary silence. With the meat on the pan, crackling and popping while it cooks, there’s nothing to do but wait. So, he pulls out his phone and scrolls mindlessly through the local news. He doesn’t care much for politics, but occasionally things will pop up that point to creatures, monsters, and jobs.

‘Local YouTuber Dies in Attempt to Catch Kikimora’

A dark figure can be seen in the background of what he assumes is a screen shot from the recording. “It’s an Ekimmara, you morons.” Geralt scoffs under his breath. Typical. Mankind has been chasing after monsters since the dawn of time. The widespread use of cameras only made things worse. He scrolls down further, and another headline pops out to him.

‘Local Dive Bar Found to be Drug Front: Shoot Out Between Owners Leaves Renters Evicted’

Also not terribly surprising; humans are always doing these kinds of things. Over his near century of a life, he’s seen more deaths from greed than monsters could ever cause. But, wait… he looks closer, picking up the details of the image provided. Isn’t that-

“Jaskier, what the fuck?” he barks, turning to face the man now sprawled out on his couch.

“What did I do?” he asks innocently, though the cringe he’s trying to hide tells the witcher he knows exactly what he did.

“You didn’t think to start with ‘Penellie’s had a shoot-out.’!?”

“Ah,” Jaskier starts uncomfortably. “Right- well, you know, it didn’t seem like the most important thing.” he looks down to fidget with his nails- a telltale nervous habit.

Geralt bites back his urge to press for more information “Are you okay?” He asks, finding himself out of his comfort zone.

“Of course! I’ve seen a lot worse.” Jaskier shrugs.

“Wait, were you there when it happened?”

“No, no, dear witcher. I was in my apartment. Apparently,” He starts with renewed energy, “the whole building has drugs in the walls! Those possums that were always making racket- Probably thugs shoving drug packets into our shared walls. I guess Penellie and James had a disagreement about how to split the funds. It wasn’t so much as a shoot out as shooting each other in the close confines of their office.” Jaskier makes a gun shape with his hand as he says it, pretending to shoot at Geralt. “Guess renting from your boss isn’t that good of an idea, huh?”

“Who woulda thunk.” Geralt murmurs flatly, remember the exact words ‘don’t rent from your boss’ coming out of his mouth when Jaskier moved to that dump six months ago. Of course, Jaskier was working as a bartender, and Geralt expected him to get fired and evicted in one go rather than an unknowing renter of drug lords. “They didn’t make you ID the bodies or anything, did they?” he pushes. He’s not sure why it matters to him.

“Oh, come on now. It’s very nice of you to think you have to protect my innocence, but like I said- I’ve seen worse. Specifically, I’ve seen you do much worse. You know, most people have never seen the intestines of anything much less helped dig a liver out of a cave troll or pull teeth from a foglet while brain matter is splattered around them. You’re quite lucky I’m so well adjusted.” Jaskier rambles, accentuating his words with wild gestures of his hands. Geralt ignores it, though.

“You’ve never seen me kill a human.”

“Well, you haven’t recently, right?” he says nonchalantly like he wouldn’t be bothered if the answer were yes.

Geralt shakes his head “Not supposed to, though I’m tempted often,” he grumbles, shooting Jaskier a glare. The musician sees the fondness behind it though and chuckles a little. Somehow, he seems to know Geralt’s only so exasperated because he cares- against his best efforts not to, of course.

Geralt finishes up in the kitchen and pops the caps off two beers, handing one to Jaskier along with a plate of food.

“Oh, thanks! You don’t have to, though,” Jaskier smiles, a little blush tinging his cheeks. Geralt pretends he doesn’t notice.

“Had extra,” he murmurs, shoving Jaskier’s feet off the couch so he can sit and eat as well. After a few bites of food and a long drink of beer, he finally asks “What now?”

“Well, the place across the street will probably have a drop in price,” Jaskier smirks.

“Seriously? Should live somewhere safer.”

“I would, but you know I can’t afford that… I suppose I could get a roommate” Jaskier says, biting his lip as he stares at Geralt.

The witcher grunts. He knows exactly what Jaskier is asking even without the words leaving his mouth.

“Come on, Geralt! It’d be fun!” He pesters “You live in a dump, too. Roach deserves better than this! Don’t you, Roachy?” he coos, the cat mewls at him as though she’s agreeing. Traitor. “We could afford something a bit nicer together. And I promise I won’t get in your way more than usual. No jam sessions late at night or early in the morning. I’ll even cook sometimes. Please… Unless, you want me to find some stranger from Craigslist to live with me… But hm, isn’t that how the Craigslist killer found his victims?”

Geralt grimaces. “No- he killed a masseuse he hired through craigslist.” Is Jaskier even old enough to remember when that happened?

“Ah, I thought he asked them on dates,” Jaskier muses.

“No, you’re thinking of the Grindr- no, the Tinder killer.”

“Ah, so Grindr is a safe app to find roommates with then?” Jaskier asks, tilting his head as if it were an innocent question; he bites his fork as if he were thinking- fucker even flutters his long eyelashes. Geralt does his very best not to stare at his over obvious flirting. He knows exactly what Jaskier is doing, yet that doesn’t seem to prevent it from working.

Geralt groans, pinching the bridge of his nose “Mac n’ cheese doesn’t count as cooking. No unannounced guests, and do not touch my swords when I’m gone.”

“Really?!”

“Don’t make me regret this, Pancratz.”

“Yes! You won’t- I promise.” Jaskier beams.

A silence falls over them while they eat before Jaskier pipes up again “Wanna watch the Monster from Brokilon? it’s the one with the Leshen!”

“Witchers don’t even know that much about Leshens; I can only assume what kinds of inaccuracies are in this movie.”

Jaskier smirks, “You can lecture me about it afterwards.”

It has become somewhat of a past time for Jaskier to find various old and horrible horror movies to force Geralt to watch. At first, he was simply curious if there was any truth in them, but once he found Geralt ranting about their atrocious and uneducated portrayals of even the simplest beasts, he seemed determined to put the witcher through more.

For some reason Geralt puts up with it. Jaskier usually ends up talking over it half the time anyways, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy having someone to share his monster facts with. There’s something that lights up in the musician’s eyes whenever they talk about creatures and adventures; he doesn’t shy away from it like other humans.

So, he hums contentedly as Jaskier sets up the movie. When it starts, Geralt rests his arm on the back of the couch as he always does. It’s not his fault if somewhere in the night, Jaskier scoots closer and closer until he’s pressed up against the witcher. He’s just like that. And if he falls asleep, his head drooping to rest on Geralt’s shoulder, the witcher only lets him because Jaskier’s had a rough day.

#geraskier #geralion #geralt x jaskier #geralt x dandelion #soulmates au #tattoo au #oh gosh I hope the read more button works #fic #geraskier fic #fic rec #fluff #modern au #geralt of rivia #jaskier #my stuff #roommates

[365daysofsasuhina]

[ 365 Days of SasuHina || Day Three Hundred Thirty-Six: A Yellow Cloth ] [ Uchiha Sasuke, Hōzuki Suigetsu, Hōzuki Mangetsu ] [ SasuHina, gun, alcohol ] [ Verse: Stockades and Stagecoaches ] [ AO3 Link ]

The rain just starts to pour as he walks in.

Given the weather (and the fact no one wants to be out in it), the saloon is actually fairly full despite it only being early afternoon. Patrons sit at tables and mull about on their feet, several gathered around the bar itself. Despite the glum atmosphere of dreary clouds and downpours, the spirits inside seem rather high. Talk is boisterous, and only emboldened further by drink...which seems to flow rather freely.

Part of Sasuke wants to indulge, but...he wants his wits about him. He’s not here to make merry and put his feet up. No...he’s here to work.

There’s only a slight pause in the room as he steps in. Otherwise, most are quick to get back to their business. He’s rather unremarkable, after all. Just a darkly-dressed man of no real note. He could be anyone: farmhand, ranchhand, cattle rustler, outlaw...but so long as he isn’t here to cause trouble, most people won’t mind what precisely he is. Even citizens who do things a bit outside the box have thirsts, after all.

...which is why Sasuke came here first.

Sasuke isn’t an outlaw himself. Far from it. The son of a man who struck oil on their land, he’s actually set to be rather well off. But as cushy as his life has been since the day they found the so-called ‘black gold’ as those in their industry call it, Sasuke has found it rather...boring. Unrewarding.

So he’s taken up a different means of employment.

He’s a bounty hunter.

Keeping his air mostly unassuming (and yet a touch unapproachable), he does indeed call for a bottle of whiskey...but he’s barely going to sip it. He needs to look like he belongs here. If he’s in any way out of place...they’ll likely bolt.

Of course, that’s assuming that the pair of men he’s after are even here. But the sheriff of the county did his best to offer clues, and suggested that this be the place Sasuke started.

“They’re a pair of slippery devils, but they have the vice of making time for drinks. Wait around long enough, and you’re sure to spot them sooner or later.”

These two - the Hōzuki brothers - are worth a pretty penny...so Sasuke doesn’t mind paying the waiting game. Sure, he doesn’t need the money...but the price upon a man’s head - dead or alive - typically indicates how dangerous he is to go after.

And that is what Sasuke is after. Adventure! Danger! Excitement! Anything but sitting and listening to his father talk about exports and accounts and...whatever other drivel Itachi has been instead soaking up like a sponge.

His brother can do what he wants. But Sasuke can’t tolerate it. After growing up with his comfortable lot in life, he’s eager to dive into the more questionable parts.

So far? He’s done fairly well. But this is his first double contract. Time to see what he’s capable of.

Clearing a shot glass with a yellow cloth, the barkeep eyes him a bit curiously. “Getting an early start, are we?”

“Nothing better to do until the weather clears up,” Sasuke replies blithely, accepting the bottle and cup the man hands him and exchanging it for the proper coin. Retreating to a solitary corner table, he uncorks the bottle and pours his first (and last) cup. Making to nurse it slowly, he barely takes a few drops before roving dark eyes over the crowds.

His initial sweep didn’t reveal anyone of interest. Seems they’re not here...not yet, at any rate. In the meantime, he keeps up his charade. It’s enough to convince anyone who gives him a glance. No one looks close enough to notice his cup never empties...nor does his bottle.

The afternoon crawls by, the weather eventually lightening a bit. Watching the storm lessen to a few trickles of water, Sasuke glances up as a pair of men enter the tavern.

...it’s them.

They immediately make a beeline for the bar, stocking up on several bottles before settling at a table not too far off from his own. Around them, the other patrons seem to hiccup slightly, giving them wary glances. It seems most either know - or at least suspect - who and what they are.

Keeping to his reclusive expression, Sasuke doesn’t make to pay them much mind...but he listens keenly as they speak.

“So how long until we’re gettin’ paid, anyway?”

“When the job’s done!”

“You mean it ain’t?”

“Not yet, little brother.”

“But we got the girl, didn’t we?”

“Yeah, we did. But we ain’t got the ransom yet! The girl isn’t what we’re after, it’s her papa’s money, numbskull!”

“I know that! But what’s the ransom got t’do with us? We’re just the muscle to rob the coach she was on and bring her in to t’boss!”

“We can’t get paid until Kisame arranges the deal. Honestly, Suigetsu...pay attention, would ya? We get a cut of the ransom, which means we can’t leave town until it’s over. I wanna make sure he don’t screw us out of our fair share, after all…”

The younger brother sulks over his beer. “Why couldn’t we just rob a coach with money in it ‘stead of some girl…”

“Her papa owns the biggest herd a’ sheep in the state. What with all them...textiles or whatever, he makes big money. More than they put on any plain ol’ coach. It’s a little extra work for a hell of a lot more cash. That’s why we took this job.”

“Enough to pay off our bounties?”

“And then some.”

“Sorry, gentlemen…”

Glancing up, the pair eye Sasuke as he stands with a cocked hip at their table. “...the hell do you want?”

“Ideally, for the two of you to surrender yourselves to the law quietly and without any fuss. But I’ve been doing this long enough to know that ain’t likely.”

After a beat, they both break out into laughter. “What’re you, some kinda...deputy?” the elder brother scoffs with a grin. “I don’t see no badge, officer.”

Drawing twin pistols and aiming each square at the men’s faces as the tavern goes silent, Sasuke smirks. “Technically I’m known as a bounty hunter. And I don’t make arrests...I bring in bodies. Alive...or dead. Whatever’s easier. Now...you have two options. Make a scene, and I shoot you both. Or you surrender, and I take you in alive. Either way, I get paid. I suppose I’d just rather this go the easy way, if I had a choice. And don’t both with funny business - I’ve got reflexes that’ll see you both dead before you can try to flip any tables or throw any smoke. Least if you cooperate, you’ll get a few more days before they hang you.”

Expressions no longer amused, the brothers exchange a glance. “...what if we offer you a third option, pardner?”

“...and what would that be?”

“Information on a fish a lot bigger than us,” the younger pipes up, clearly catching on. “You ever heard a’ Kisame Hoshigaki?”

Guns still trained on their brows, Sasuke perks his own. “...I have.”

“We just ran a job for him! Kidnapped some bigwig’s daughter for ransom - Hyūga! Listen - you let us tell you where he is, and you’ll get better than our two measly bounties. Kisame’s worth five thousand last I heard! And - and I bet the father’ll reward you real nice for bringing his little girl home! Kisame’s bounty and her reward...we give you the intel, and you let us walk. How ‘bout it?”

Sasuke considers that. Kisame is, indeed, a big name in the bounty world. Several other hunters he’s known have been killed trying to bring him down. But if he had insider info, the element of surprise… “...tell you what. You give me the information...I take you in, and tell the sheriff you assisted the law. Surely they’ll knock your bounties down for your civil service...maybe to something you can afford. I can likely do that much for you. But a paid bounty don’t mean you go rackin’ up another, y’hear?”

“Sounds fair to me, boss,” the elder agrees. “You, uh...mind lowerin’ your gun and shakin’ on it?”

“Does the word of a criminal have any weight to it?”

“I might be a lawbreaker, but that don’t mean I ain’t honorable to my word. Every man’s got a code. I follow mine.”

“...done.” Twirling one pistol back to its holster to free his hand, Sasuke shakes his new companion’s. “Now...you two and me’ll take a stroll to the sheriff’s. They’ll take record of your help, and I’ll go see about this Kisame feller. You can wait there until I confirm you told me the truth. Then we’ll see about getting your bounties paid.”

“Deal.”

Keeping his gun aloft, Sasuke nods them to the door before giving a salute to the bewildered barmen as they take their leave.

The station, thankfully, is just down the street of the small town. Sasuke explains their arrangement, earning a scowl from a deputy.

“We don’t like makin’ deals with criminals.”

“And I don’t like passing up a chance to bring someone far worse to justice and letting two small fry go once their bounties are paid. It’s a fair trade, and you know it.”

“Enough,” the sheriff cuts in wearily with a wave of a hand. “We’ll make the trade...but only once you bring Hoshigaki in. Until then, we’ll keep these fellers right here...where there’s no stagecoaches to hold up.”

“Yes, sir.”

Bringing out a map, the brothers point out Kisame’s location. “He’s holed up here, in this ol’ mine. Got the lady there, and he’s gonna arrange a meetin’ with her father for her ransom. He won’t be expecting trouble until then, and that’s a few days out at least.”

“Anyone with him?”

“Four or five men. Didn’t want to draw attention movin’ as a group. Just stay low and quiet. If you can get your hands on him first, the rest’ll roll over.”

Sasuke eyes the map carefully. “...all right. You two hold tight...I’ll be back in two days. See you sit here and think over your past decisions, hm?”

Looking resigned, they sit in the holding cell and watch as Sasuke makes his way back outside.

The day is aging, and the sky still dark with rainclouds. Best he wait until morning to get started. That way he’ll get there just as night falls...and that’ll give him an advantage. Mind whirling with plans...he rents a room in the local inn, and does his best to get some sleep.

                                                             .oOo.

     This is so darn random, but for some reason it was the only thing I could think of xD The image of the barman popped into my head, and the rest just kinda...happened, lol - I know it's a cliffie, but it's already super long as is for one of these entries, so...another time!      I've only written a western AU once before for another ship, but it's more fun than I thought it would be! I live pretty darn rural myself, so a lot of it's actually pretty familiar x3 And Sasuke as a bounty hunter is a neat idea. And ofc heiress Hinata!      Anywho, I've got lots to do tomorrow, so I better head off for the night~ Thanks for reading!

#sasuhina #uchiha sasuke #hōzuki suigetsu #hōzuki mangetsu #gun // #alcohol // #stockades and stagecoaches [ au ] #365daysofsasuhina

[streetlites]

I walked slowly through the Gozu District, careful to stop and look into a stall or two on my way home – if I bolted straight there, eyes would see; people would know I had something valuable.  So I did my best to appear to drag my feet, even though every stop I made produced a nervous, prickling feeling in my spine.

I haggled a vendor for a lower price on a package of spicy ramyun (would a salvager with a good haul do that?! I don’t think so!) loudly enough that none of the other stall vendors would make eye contact with me for the rest of the torturous march home. They may not even for the next week – though my favorite food at a discount was worth it. Plus, no one would even think about meeting me back at my place to get the first look at what I picked up.

I breathed easier when I slid the bay door of the shop closed behind me, shutting away the clanking noise of the station outside. I pulled my helmet off and took in a deep breath and, even though the air of my living space smelt of oil and grease, it was sweet and cool compared to the recycled air that flowed through my suit. My head jerked up in surprise when I caught a shadow passing across the service window; I was so concerned with getting out of the protective armor that I hadn’t even considered curtaining the front of the shop, too.

“Get it together,” I scolded myself as I jerked the heavy curtain over the barred window. I dragged the bag with all the pistols toward my work table and buried the weapons in drawers where I kept screws, nuts, and bolts to make them harder to find. I’d given the machine guns and most of the vials of red sand to the guys that ferried me to the debris fields; an extremely high payment, but it’d keep me in their good graces for those lean trips.

I paced through the shop; where should I put the sniper rifle? The stock and barrel were too big to hide in my supply bins unlike the pistols. I found myself staring at my bed – sighing, I put the heavy objects under the mattress. I’d have to reach out to my contact with the Blue Suns to sell the weapons off; preferably tonight because I didn’t enjoy sleeping on merchandise.

I stood and cracked my back, a hand wandering to my pocket and palming a small vial of red sand. I didn’t normally like to partake, but it would take the anxiety out of the call I needed to make; I was already on edge as it was. I decided on a small bump, just enough to clear my head and feel good.

Red sand wasn’t like cocaine, it didn’t numb anything. In fact, if it was pure, you’d feel a comfortable warmth spreading through your body – a result of the small amount of biotic power that your nervous system would generate on its own. I waved my fingers, smiling at the sparks and the pleasant drip down the back of my throat. There was no burn at all, a sign that it hadn’t been cut with anything; I’d get a good price on the vials I had kept.

“Well, well, Diamat, seems that our little tenant has finally made her way back home,” came a voice from behind me. I stiffened, I hadn’t heard them enter.

“So she has,” agreed a masculine voice. “I hope, for her sake, she didn’t spend her rent money on that red sand she’s carrying.”

I whirled around, I’d already paid this week, and stood dumbfounded for a second. The two in front of me weren’t from the G-Pack, the gang that had been running the protection racket for the last few years. No, these two didn’t have any sort of identifying clothing and they were more synth than human. The red sand boosted my spirits, I’d talk to them. Tell them about my deal with the G-Pack; they’d understand. “Whoa, whoa,” I protested. “I already paid rent this week to G-Pack –“

“Do we look like we work for those pyjaks?” The man hissed. Honestly, I couldn’t tell who they worked for – there weren’t a lot of groups that would hire so-called ‘transcendentalists’. It was outlawed in most places to merge with synthetics, especially to the degree that these two had, but Omega was a place built around the absence of laws.

“B-but I-“ I sputtered.

“It doesn’t matter who the hell you paid, Terra Libra has Gozu now. Rent is 1000 credits a week. Pay up.” The woman demanded. If she had ever been human at all, you could no longer tell; every part of her body appeared to be mechanical.

I swallowed uneasily, that was 500 more a week than I had been paying. I didn’t even think I could keep up with that amount and eat unless I stayed out in the field. I would need to move soon, as much as I hated the thought. “I don’t have 1000 credits on me right now. Unless you’d like this red sand? I have two full vials, they’re excellent quality! Easily worth-“

The woman laughed, a hollow sound, one that I’d imagine she perfected to show exactly how inhuman she’d become. “What good is red sand to either of us, meat sack?”

I grimaced, I could feel my high starting to drop. The warmth that had flowed so easily before they’d made themselves known now burned through me. “Okay. I guess it’s no good for either of you,” I agreed. “But I’ll have the money tomorrow, if you’ll come by then. All of it.”

“If you can pay it tomorrow, must mean there’s something worth it in here,” the man spoke, looking around my shop. “How about we look through your things, see if we can’t reach a deal that way.”

I couldn’t let them do that – the guns were worth closer to 5000, even with a discount. They’d take them, shoot me, and leave me to die. That’s what the rent amount was meant to do anyway. “No, you can’t. It’s not here and,” I stepped to the side to block the man’s path, “if you take everything, I won’t be able to pay next week either.”

He smiled wickedly at my defiance, cracking his knuckles. The fembot stood with what appeared with nonchalance, slowly sweeping her gaze across the garage. Was she scanning the area? What could she see? I could still feel the power behind my fingertips, a sick feeling creeping over me. This power, it felt like it could be more; as if there were a well and, if I opened myself to it, I could drown them. Both of them. Crushing like thin aluminum. Ripped apart with wires… I closed my eyes and whimpered as pain lanced through my body.

“Look, Delores, she’s about to cry,” the masculine voice mocked. “Little girl, we’re getting paid today. And, if I can speak candidly, I really like it when people cry when I make them pay.”

Reach for it, it called. Whatever ‘it’ was. I hoped it wasn’t just the high from the red sand talking or these two would have an easy time of ripping me apart instead. I grabbed for it wildly and gasped audibly. The power flooding through me couldn’t have come from that bump. It was a torrent – and everything in me screamed; CRUSHRIPDESTROYCRUSHRIPDESTROY.

I took a step forward, giddy. It wouldn’t be me that would disappear tonight. Not now. Not ever. The power told me I could crush these people, I could avenge my mother, I could avenge Boro. I just had to start here. It had to start with them. I raised my hands, let the energy arc dangerously – it wouldn’t hurt me. It is me.

The woman’s servos whined as she opened and shut her mouth in fear, but no screams came from her metal body. She knew what I knew; neither she or her partner would survive me. I released, uncaring if it destroyed the shop - I wouldn’t be able to stay here after tonight anyway – the ball of blue light shot out, large and terrific, grabbing their bodies into the air, twisting them into grotesque shapes, throwing them against the walls and ceiling; grabbing more and more debris into their death spiral.

I don’t know how I knew when they were dead. If it was the power, I’ll never know, but I knew enough to stretch my hand toward the light and reclaim the energy back into my body; the suspended detritus dropping to the floor with a deafening crash. I stared at it mournfully, the high gone from me completely and, with it, the power and confidence I had felt.

With a dawning horror, I realized that I was staring at the wreckage of my life and the only thing I could do now was run.

#ts4 #sims story #Fault Lines #fl: aftershock #fla chrono #violence #drug use #I've been sitting on this thing for weeks #:/ sigh #ts4legacy

[galadrieljones]

Yours, Sadie Adler.

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Sadie Adler | Rating: Mature (Grief/Mourning, Coping, Adult Content) | Length: ~6,000

Summary: Eight years after the fall, Sadie Adler is very good at hiding her pain. But her relationship with Arthur was more complicated than anybody knew, and without him, deep inside, she still struggles every day to reconstruct the pieces of her puzzled heart. So when John shows up, out of the blue, with a relic from their shared history, Sadie finds herself reliving the past, facing the hard realization that she does not have to suffer alone.

Read at AO3

Sometimes Sadie Adler looks back, but not often. When she is making her home in a good town. Blackwater. Valentine. She knows the bartenders who rent her rooms on a discount tab. They make good conversation. She smokes and plays solitaire or else she folds paper into delicate animal shapes like her mother used to show her. Once, many years ago, when he was still alive, she went down to Flat Iron Lake with Arthur, as she had complained of being bored and so he took her out fishing. She put her feet up on a log while he stood out by the water with his rod and reel. She folded up a little elephant and then a polar bear. When he came over to see what she was up to he was taken with the paper animals. The level of detail very much impressed him. She let him have them both and would make many more in the coming months and sometimes surprise him when they were out riding or robbing or shooting or other such unsavory enterprise. The little animals always made him smile, and he was good to her. She thought smiling is something he deserved.

John is back in town.

He comes to meet her in Valentine. They visit for a while at the saloon bar, drinking warm whiskey out of glass cups. He looks older but in a handsome way, the way some men get with age. He has filled out and seems adult in the manner that he is full of problems in the world: his marriage, his property, his money. Abigail has left him, apparently, and she took the boy, and he is in a somber way. She’s never seen him so stressed.

And yet John wears his stress in a simple manner. He seems to meet it like a challenge. He does not let it consume him. He is full of eternal youth, she thinks.

“I found Arthur’s old journal the other day,” he says after a little while. This is a surprise. John is wearing an old pair of fingerless gloves that she thinks she recognizes. He is turning a quarter between his fingers. She wonders how much of Arthur is left behind now, in John, and then she looks away. “Couldn’t bring myself to open it for...years.”

“So, did you?” says Sadie, peering down into her glass.

"Did I what?"

"Finally open it?"

“Not yet,” says John. “But I might.”

He sighs. She drinks. Somewhere in the back of the bar, a scuffle breaks out. They both glance, disinterested, only in momentary fashion.

“Don’t you think it’s...disrespectful?” he says eventually. He is pensive.

She thought they were there to talk about bounties. “What do you mean?” she says.

“I mean, reading a man’s private thoughts. Arthur never meant nobody to see what he wrote, I reckon. He kept his journal a secret his whole life. Even when we was younger.”

“He ain’t here no more,” says Sadie, shrugging. She throws back the remainder of her whiskey. She gestures to the bartender for a refill. “Anyway, he left it to you.”

John nods his head, defeated. He pockets the quarter. “Still feels...wrong."

Sadie says nothing. She taps her fingers on the table.

#

Sadie and John go along and get one of the bounties the very next week. Having John along makes it a lot easier, she thinks. For as brash as she is, there is nothing quite like a trusty van der Linde gun to help speed things up in a pinch. But John is grittier than Arthur, she thinks. With the gun, on the job. Arthur was more like a surgeon. He operated with such technical skill and proficiency. He never made mistakes, was the cleanest, quickest, most accurate and intelligent gunslinger she ever knew. But this meant that jobs with Arthur could take a long time. He liked to plan. He liked things to be just right. Meanwhile, John is somewhat explosive in his demeanor if pressed to the brink. He tries to make plans but when he does this she can see it is like him wearing his big brother's clothes. It is unnatural. Meanwhile, he'll kick your jaw clean off in a temperamental fit if you rile him up enough. She thinks he must still have some unresolved anger inside him that ain't yet simmered.

"You seem rusty," says Sadie on the ride back to Blackwater. "What you been up to these past eight years?"

John sighs. He seemed exasperated. "Odds and ends," says John. "I don't know. Worked on a ranch for a long time. I can't seem to keep my hands clean."

"Is that why Abigail left you?" says Sadie.

John gets quiet, but there is little darkness there. Everything with John is right on top, right on the surface, real bright. "Guess so," he says. "I don't know what she wants me to do. She wants me to...live straight. Live a quiet life. But I don't see how that's possible. I still got a price on my head. People want to see me hang. It's hard to live a...quiet life when there's always something."

Sadie laughs, real calm. "I hear that."

“Anyway,” says John after a little while as they ride. They're trotting side by side, straight into the dusk. "I, uh, I finally did it. I wanted to tell you."

"Did what?"

"I opened Arthur's journal."

Sadie lights a cigarette. "And?"

“And,” says John, “I’ve been reading it, a little, steady every night. It...calms me. I thought it would make me feel guilty but it’s like having him back in a way. It’s been so long, you know? It’s like--it’s like I pushed that whole day so far down, I almost couldn’t feel it no more.”

“Ain’t that what you’d prefer,” says Sadie, flicking the cigarette. When the bounty on the back of her horse starts to bicker, she puts his lights out with the blunt end of her pistol. “Not feeling it no more?”

“I thought so,” says John, scratching at his overgrown beard. “For a long time. But now I don’t know. Maybe I was wrong.”

Sadie nods. She has little to say.

"You wanna see it?" says John. "It's okay. You guys was friends."

"No," says Sadie without delay. "That's okay, John. You hang onto it and...well, it's yours now."

They get back to Beecher’s Hope together in the early night. There are coyotes and cougars screaming in the distance, but she's tired. She will not set foot inside.

“Come on,” says John, elated. “You should come in. We got food, whiskey. There’s a bed for you. Or, it’s more like a pile of blankets on a bunch of hay, but it beats the cold, hard ground.”

“Not tonight,” says Sadie. She hustles up her pretty horse and smiles. “Give Charles my best though, and old Uncle.”

John sighs, salutes her. "Well, we'll be in touch."

"Sounds good." She tips her hat, says she’ll see to it his funds get straight to the bank. As she rides away, she thinks that she sensed a boyish kind of disappointment upon her departure. Maybe he wanted to talk more, about the old days. He seems the sort. For a moment, it warms her heart, but then it’s gone. She rides.

#

Usually, Sadie would make camp or go back to her rented room in Blackwater. But tonight, she doesn't feel like stopping. She rides to Valentine, getting in in the very early morning hours. She realizes she wants to be somewhere familiar, but she has a hard time articulating this to herself. She goes to the saloon where the hall is mostly empty, but the bartender is a veritable night owl. He is still wide awake and serving the passers-through. She orders a bottle of gin, which she intended to share with him. Sometimes, she preferred conversation with strangers, as she could make things up as she went. The bartender is friendly, as usual. His name is Earl, but this all turns out to be a bad idea in the end. She is unable to stomach the company and finds herself being short with him in ways she will later regret. The bartender though, he is simple in his soul and takes it upon himself to compliment her hat.

“What’s that lining you got in there, Miss Sadie?” he says. “You know, I never noticed that before. I never seen a hat with such a delicate lining as that. Is it French?"

Sadie scoffs and pushes off the bar. “Ain’t no miss,” she says. “It’s missus, remember? And the lining of my hat ain’t none of your business.” She gives him a sly look, but it is all an act. He finds her to be humorous, another reason why she likes this place. She then says thank you and rides out of town and camps in that old spot of theirs--Horseshoe Overlook. She has almost forgotten what it was like, but she remembers the trail like it's yesterday. She’s not sure why she’s doing this to herself all of a sudden. She thinks about John and his aimless, boyish sadness and how he seems so alone without Abigail, and yet, he doesn't let it consume him. She sits down to remove her hat. She builds a fire and her tent. She sharpens her knife on a whetstone and cooks up a rabbit. The sound of the meat on the spit quiets her brain for a while. When she is full, she moves on to the bottle of gin. She puts the hat back on and leans against an old tree stump. She feels wistful.

#

“I feel like a boarded up window, Arthur,” she said one day, in St. Denis. Eight years before. Arthur had been up in Wapiti for a while, doing god knows what, but now he had returned and he was full of weariness. He didn’t have much to say about it. They were meeting because she wanted to ask him if he would ride with her to Hanging Dog Ranch. She didn't want to go alone, and there was nobody else she trusted. Nobody else she wanted. They were sitting at a table, by the window, in the saloon. Arthur had not really touched his whiskey. It was late at night.

"How do you mean?" said Arthur.

“I mean, I can’t see nothing in front of me but dark no more. It's maddening.”

Arthur sighed. He clearly had something hidden deep inside of him that she knew was there but she could not see. Tragedy here, tragedy there. Just dustings along the lining of his sad heart. “You’re just grieving,” he said eventually, real straight with her, as he always was.

"I can't still be grieving," she said, full of impatience and heat. "It's been months."

“I know how that goes," said Arthur. "And truth be told, months ain't nothing, Mrs. Adler. It can be years before...anyway, I know it don’t mean nothing right now, but give it time. You’ll see the daylight again.”

He drank, finally. He smiled. He was filled with wisdom, she thought. Always. And yet he had grown so defeated. She wondered how it was he had gotten to this place.

“Will you ride with me?” she said after a little while, sensing something was wrong. Really wrong with him. She placed her hand on his. He seemed a little surprised by her touch. He looked at their hands, touching, if it were all a foreign entity, but he did not pull away.

"I will," he said.

He hesitated after this, seeming tired, but then he placed his other hand on top of hers. His hands felt like canvas, she still remembers. Worked too hard. Stretched and scraped.

#

She decides to stick around New Hanover for a couple more weeks, chasing a curious lead on an outlaw fitting the rank description of Micah Bell. She ends up at the fence in Emerald Station, who says he pulled a stage through on a sale from a man who mentioned running with an old van der Linde gun. She wouldn't have thought twice about this, except for the fact that, according to the fence, there was a dead body in the cabin when he bought it, a woman, stabbed up pretty bad. Stabbed women didn't sound like no van der Linde gun but for Micah Bell.

The fence in Emerald Station is an old friend that Sadie has been relying on for some time. In the mood to visit that day after a bunch of riding alone, Sadie finds herself drinking with him out in the warm sun, sitting on folding chairs next to the cattle yard. They have never discussed her past before, preferring to stick to matters of enterprise, but that day, with mention of the old gang, he becomes sentimental.

"Hey," he says to her after a little while. "You ever hear from that one feller anymore, used to run with your kind? Another van der Linde. Name of Hosea Matthews."

"Hosea?" says Sadie. She smiles and shakes her head. She's slicking up a peach with her knife, eating it piece by piece. "Yeah, I knew Hosea. He's dead though. Been dead for...more than eight years."

"Oh, that's too bad," says the fence, sighing, looking down into his bottle. "He was a real good guy. And a fine thief. He brought a feller around her once, came back a lot with goods for selling, fine coaches. He wasn't much for conversation but seemed decent. He liked to camp in the hills around here. I remember once, he cleared a true-to-life escaped lion out the barn, armed with nothing but his wits and his shiny volcanic."

"A lion?" says Sadie. "What the hell are you on about, mister?"

"It's true!" says the fence, laughing. "Ask anyone. He's a legend around here. Big man. Light hair. Blue eyes. Was always carrying really beautiful guns. Engravings and such, fully customized. Real works of art. He took great care of them guns. I offered to buy a few of them on more than one occasion, but he wouldn't part. I can't remember his name though."

"Arthur Morgan," says Sadie. It is strange to hear him described like this, and he never told her about no lion. She finishes the peach. She is sucking on the pit. "The man you're describing, that's Arthur."

"Arthur," says the fence, reminiscing to himself. "Yes, that was it. Arthur. Whatever happened to Arthur?"

Sadie sighs. She hocks the pit and takes a toothpick out from behind her ear to pick at the loose pulp in her teeth. "He got sick," she says.

"Sick?" says the fence. "What kind of sick?"

"Tuberculosis," says Sadie. She drops the toothpick, stares at the place where it sticks into the dirt. "He died, too. Not long after Hosea."

"Jesus," says the fence. He seems downtrodden by this. He takes a long drink from his flask. "Tuberculosis? Did any of the old van der Lindes survive? Besides you, of course."

"There's a few of us," says Sadie. "Here and there. Though I don't much consort no more with those unseemly in the sight of the law."

The fence waves this off as a joke. "Aw, shit on the law," he says. "Wasn't the law who cleared the damn Murfree Brood out the Roanoke Valley. Wasn't the law who got them vaccinations for the poor Indians up north. Shit on the law. Things is changed, sure. But the law don't do nothing worth remembering. You all, however...nah. I remember you." He drinks more, and then more. "Yeah, I remember."

Before long he tips over, sleeping in his chair. Sadie folds him up a little paper dragon and leaves it sitting on his knee before riding off into the sunset. On that paper dragon, she has written a note:

Thank you for the company, says the note. I will return in a few months, probably. Try not to die. Yours, Sadie Adler.

#

“Buy me a damn drink, Arthur,” she said, exhausted and all fucked up. “I deserve it.”

They were in the old farmhouse of Hanging Dog Ranch, in the dark. They were alone now, their hands and clothes covered proper with O'Driscoll blood. Arthur said that he would buy her ten drinks. "How's that?" She laughed in her sad way as he patted her on the shoulder. She didn't know what the hell she was anymore.

Before they rode away, he helped her clean up her face with a handkerchief from his pocket. He tucked the loose hair behind both her ears and smoothed her hair in the back. He even fixed up her braid. He had a tender touch for an outlaw, she thought. More tender than she could have realized. He gave her his jacket, and they burned hers in the pit out back. Death hung all around them, everywhere, like jungle vines.

It was hard to tell at this point, what level of affection this all was between them. Somewhere between comrade and lover, she thought, and she didn’t know the difference anymore.

She didn’t much care.

#

A long while back, right around when the gang got down to Shady Belle, Sadie finally got the guts to ride her horse back up to the old ranch in Ambarino. She went to try and salvage a few things that had not been lost to the fire, and to take communion with her grief. She told only Arthur what he was doing, and he thought it was a good idea. He offered to ride with her, but she wanted to be alone, and of this, he was always respectful. It was cold up there, but she was used to it, even still. She preferred it to the swamps and the disgusting heat of Lemoyne. The cold made her lungs feel clean and wide open. Among the salvage of the old house was Jake’s wardrobe. It was merely singed, and inside of it, she found many items of zero consequence, but importantly, she found his hat. It is the hat that she continues wearing today, but at the time, the lining had grown thin.  She wore it every day like a testament to her old life and sadness, but after a while, it became near on unwearable.

She showed Arthur, who advised she speak to Abigail. "She's real good with a needle and thread," he said. "She's mended my hats on more than one occasion."

Sadie did as he suggested. But nothing Abigail suggested would do. She then took it to a tailer, and a milliner in St. Denis. But nothing was right. Nothing was soft enough. She retired the hat for a long time, worried all of a sudden that she would lose it or that it would fall to pieces.

When she and Jake were married, it was in June, and she was twenty-four. It was the best night of her whole life. They had drunk beer and danced in the church. But at the end right before they went to sleep she got a bee sting. It was strange. Why was there that bee in the house? How had it got there? Did it fly in through the door after them, or through an open window during the day? There weren't many bees in Ambarino, even in summer, so this was a mystery. Jake removed the stinger for her with a little pair of tweezers and kissed the tender, swollen spot on the inside of her arm. She was hardened in many ways in life, but not to this. Not to him. They made love finally as husband and wife, and they slept in the bed well past sunrise.

She hoped for many years to become pregnant with his child, but it just wouldn't take.

After Arthur was gone, Sadie hid out for a couple weeks all alone, way up north in the Grizzlies. She rode back south to Butcher Creek at some point to see what she could make of the wreckage. This had become a pattern, she realized. Arthur’s tent was rumpled, but sort of like with Jake, he had left a hope chest behind, filled with his belongings. Among his belongings was an old white french dress shirt with a delicate collar. She recognized it, and it still smelled like him still, a little. She folded it up and tucked it into her saddle bag and rode away like hell, leaving everything else behind. She rode out to Big Valley where it was she could be incredibly alone. When she got there, she set up her camp in a huge, vast and never-ending, breathing field of lavender. It was beautiful. It was not far from the ranch at Hanging Dog. She took out her needle and thread, and using tips given to her by Abigail, took Arthur’s old french dress shirt apart seam by seam and sewed it right into the lining of her hat. It worked. Finally she had found something soft enough.

#

They rode a long way that night, after the massacre at Hanging Dog. They stopping in Valentine. She had a hard time admitting to herself that he looked unwell, and that he had for some time, ever since he’d got back to Lakay, but she could not yet find the courage to ask him what was wrong. He was turning a coin in his fingers in the saloon there, wearing fingerless gloves that were unique to him. They drank until they were soft, and they leaned against each other in a booth at the back of the bar.

"Arthur," she said after a little while, her brain filled with an old pain and a new sense of relief.

"Yes, ma'am," he said.

"I know I ain't a lady of frills. I ain't mild."

"What are you talking about?"

"I was just wondering if..." She sat up. She did not finish her question.

"What's wrong?" he said. He cared so genuinely about everything he touched.

She kissed him.

He was taken by complete surprise, but he kissed her back.

The next morning, when she woke up they were in one of the saloon hotel rooms, upstairs. Arthur was already dressed, sitting in a chair across from the bed, writing in his journal.

"What are you writing?" she said, looking around for her hat.

He was quiet when he saw her. He closed the journal. He seemed hesitant. "Sadie," he said. "We oughta talk."

She huffed. "Don't you give me them puppy dog eyes." She got out of bed. She buttoned up her shirt. She went right over to him and grabbed his face with her hands. "That was my choice, last night, Arthur Morgan. You hear?"

"You was vulnerable," he said, shaking his head.

"Well, you was vulnerable, too," she said. "And I don't regret it. It was what I wanted. Is it what you wanted?"

He blinked. He nodded. "Yes," he said. "It was."

She half-smiled. Half-smiles were about as good as it got with Sadie Adler. "Good," she said. She noticed the shirt he was wearing--a white, french dress shirt that she had never seen before. Its delicate nature balanced finely with his otherwise rugged demeanor. “New shirt?” she said.

He looked down at his sleeves as if he had forgotten what he was wearing. “Oh. Yes. I suppose it is.”

"It looks good," she said.

He was pleased. "Thank you, Mrs. Adler."

"Please Arthur," she said, tugging him on the collar, "it's just Sadie."

#

They went on and on like that, in and out for months in the end. It was a whirlwind and a secret. Sadie cried herself to sleep some nights.

The night before the last train, she asked him to ride with her to the coast of the Lanahechee, north of Van Horne, like a punctuation of all they’d been through. It was not a short ride. He was weary and did not ask many questions, and when they got there, he set up their camp in his rote but reliable fashion that made her feel safe.

He didn’t cough a lot when he was with her, not really ever. If ever he did, he walked away. She had never asked him what it was that he suffered from so, but she had guessed by now. She thought she remembered Hosea having a similar affliction and wondered if that was where Arthur had caught it, or if it was something else. Again, she would not ask. For she had loved a man who was doomed without her knowing, and now she was loving a man who was doomed, and she knew it. She began to wonder if it was her. If she was cursed. If she was the reason.

“I just needed to get away,” said Sadie when he asked what they were doing there. She tossed her cigarette into the fire. “I didn’t wanna come alone. I hope that’s okay.”

He seemed surprised, but pleasantly so, like he always did when she just liked being with him, as if the prospect of her simply wanting to spend time with him were foreign. He took a drink of the gin and passed her the bottle. “I am flattered, Mrs. Adler,” he said. He smiled. "And relieved. To be away from there. You know I am."

They looked out at the water. They sat together for a long time. The river was so big and wide you could not see to the other side. It felt like they were looking at the sea. There were fireflies everywhere. She felt like crying. She did not. He was strong beside her, his jaw set. It didn't matter how bad things got, he never complained.

Sometimes, Sadie Adler thought she might tip over in the wide, frustrating world. Even in sickness he held her up. He was like a pillar.

“I am truly grateful,” he said to her at some point, out of nowhere it seemed.

"For what?"

He took a deep breath. It all rattled around in his lungs and she closed her eyes. "You and me," he went on, "we're more ghosts than people. But as a ghost, I am mighty glad for your company, Mrs. Adler.”

This broke her, in the end. She set her head on his shoulder because it was the only thing left to do. “Thanks, Arthur,” she said. He put his heavy arm around her to shield her from the cold. “And it’s just Sadie. For the umpteenth time.”

He laughed, deep in his warm chest.

When she glanced up at him a little later, he had his eyes closed. He looked so tranquil, she thought, his chin pressed to the top of her head, like he was asleep.

It was the last night they’d ever spend before the storm.

#

Now, tonight, camping out at Horseshoe Overlook, she gets very drunk and passes out in the chilly weeds. She dreams of guilt. She dreams of regret. She dreams of eating fresh berries under the wide, warm sun in St. Denis and of Arthur Morgan. Normally, Sadie would kick and scream her way through the pain. She might even take a swing. But just like with Jake, she is realizing that she is not so hard as she thought. She is not so hard, just alone.

When she wakes up, it is morning and she feels stupid, and she feels like hell. She puts on her hat, and she pens a letter to John, letting him know of some more bounties she has learned of in the greater region of New Austin, and the information she has gathered on Micah Bell.

I’ll be riding back your way if you’re interested, in the coming weeks, she writes. You can find me at the saloon in Blackwater if you so please. I rent a room upstairs, and I will be there most days.

Yours, Sadie Adler.

She postmarks the letter in Valentine, and she goes back to the saloon for a quick bite to eat before heading back out to Blackwater.

"Well if it ain't the missus with the gun," says Earl the bartender when she comes through the door. He is shining up a glass and smiling. "What can I pour for you today, my lady?"

#

In the meantime, John finishes reading Arthur’s journal. He stays up late many nights to do so. He grows rapt in the beauty on the pages. Everything Arthur wrote about, John recognizes to some extent, but the way that Arthur saw the world and funneled it through words and pictures--it is truly remarkable. The ending brings surprises that even John could not have foreseen. He tells Abigail all about it one night while they are lying in bed together. She seems pained but happy as she listens. Thinking about Arthur makes her sad.

“Did you know?” she says. "About the two of them?"

“No,” says John. “Arthur was so secretive. I had no idea.”

“Well you gotta show Sadie,” she says eventually. “Didn’t you say you got a letter from her the other day? Saying she'll be in Blackwater?”

“I did,” says John, scratching at the beard on his chin. “And you’re right. She should see this.”

Abigail kisses him, this man who she has chosen. Things aren’t perfect yet, but they’re trying. They are. She asks if she can see the journal then. He gives it over, and she holds it in her hands. It is heavier than it looks. When she opens it up to flip through the pages, a bunch of little paper animals fall out into her lap. They are delicate and fancy, she thinks, and they come in many colors and shapes.

"What are all these?" she says, sifting through them, delighted. "Little animals? They're wonderful. You ever seen Arthur make one of these?"

"No," says John. "But then again, there was a lot I didn't see. It seems like something he would do though."

Abigail asks if she can keep just one. "Of course," John says, putting his arm around her. "Take your pick."

She chooses the little cat with the long tail. She will keep it displayed on her piano, a keepsake.

#

Abigail is not happy about the bounties, but John goes anyway after meeting up with Sadie at the saloon. Together, they ride out to Tall Trees, handle the bounty, and then they ride right back to Rhodes. They run into some trouble, but for a couple of old van der Linde guns, it’s no big deal.

When they are finished, they go to the saloon, which reminds them both of old times, bad and good. John is nervous. He gives Sadie the journal and tells her that he has finished it, read it front to back, and that she ought to do the same.

“I don’t think so,” she says, smoking and drinking and acting real tough. “But thanks for the offer."

John is nursing his whiskey. She drinks him under the table most of the time, and he is man enough to admit it. He sighs. “You might just...want to,” he says. “Or, just flip to the last entry. Just read the last entry. Please. For me. For Arthur. Just do it.”

She takes the journal, even as she seems reluctant to do so. She nods, and she promises she will read the last entry, but another time. They drink, and John makes sure to remind her that she is always welcome at Beecher’s Hope. Then he leaves, and Sadie is alone again.

#

Sadie stays in Rhodes for another two days, drinking and avoiding. In a fit of restlessness and sobriety one night, she gets on her horse, and she rides due south to the swamps where she feels endangered and full of electricity. She finds refuge at an old haunt. Shady Belle, which has been abandoned by all but the gators. She goes upstairs and she sits on a chair on the balcony. It is late. She remembers all the good times. She drinks a little gin and removes her hat. She does not think about how that hat is a composite of the two of them. She thinks she can almost hear Cain barking. She can hear little Jack Marston making his ruckus in the puddles. She takes out Arthur’s journal and thinks about how he was about as closed and tough as it was, with so much sadness and mystery hidden inside. She runs her thumb along the sturdy leather spine. She flips through the pages, finally. She finds all her old paper animals, which make her smile, and she reads the occasional entry, sure, but mostly she finds herself lost in the drawings. She knew he had liked to sketch but he had never shown her. The familiar sights and sounds of the world as rendered by his hand in pencil make her feel like he is here, with her. Alive. Just like John said. When she feels one little piece of warmth unleash into her bitter heart, she becomes emboldened. She vibrates. She turns to the last page, like John told her to do. She takes a sip of gin, and she reads. She is surprised by what she finds there.

#

My Dearest Sadie,

If you are reading this, that means that I am gone, and that John has done me a great favor. I do not have much time, but what little I do have, I will spend writing this, to you:

We will never spend another moment of peace together, Mrs. Adler. It is true. But please know that even though our circumstances meant it never could have worked out between us, and I am certainly a damn fool for even thinking it could, I want you to know that if we had more time, I would try. I ain’t a good man, but you made me feel like one, for a little while.

I will miss you and what poor, little iteration of time we have spent together these past months. I know that you get sad. I know that you have demons that you bottle up and you hide from me and everyone. I know that you are like me in a lot ways, but I hope that you will remember that you do not have go through all of this alone. That is what you showed me, in the end.

At this point, it goes without saying, but even in these final hours, I am yours, Sadie Adler. No woman ever really got me but you. Thank you.

With Love,

Arthur Morgan

#

Sadie Adler cries alone at Shady Belle. She is a haunted woman in a haunted house. Her whole world is ghosts. She thinks of Jake, and how after he was gone, she stopped feeling things for a long time. Then Arthur was there, and he was gone, and she stopped feeling things again. For a long time. She holds the journal to her chest as if she can feel its beating heart.

But she is feeling things now, the full brunt of her entire sad, burnt out existence driving straight into her chest. She cries until her lungs hurt in the swampy heart of Shady Belle. It is daylight when she is finally finished and the whole world is a jungle, mean and pretty. She carefully removes that last entry from Arthur’s journal, tears out the page. She’s gotta let John have it back, because it is his now, but she just wants that last entry. She folds it into a simple square. She puts it away. She mounts her horse then. She doesn't know what to do or where to go, but she decides to head back west, toward Beecher’s Hope, to see the only people left who truly know her. It has been such a long time, but she is not without love in this world. Cursed or not, she never was.

So, Sadie Adler puts on her hat in the early morning sun, and like she is always wont to do, she rides again.

#red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 fanfiction #sadie adler #arthur morgan #john marston #abigail roberts #arthur x sadie #arthur morgan x sadie #arthur morgan x sadie adler #arthur/sadie #arthur morgan/sadie adler #arthur morgan/sadie #;_;

[somethingusefulfromflorida]

Assassin’s Greed: The Story of Charles Guiteau

My favorite historical figure has got to be presidential assassin Charles Guiteau, a person you’ve likely never heard of.  You probably know John Wilkes Booth and Lee Harvey Oswald, but Guiteau (pronounced get-oh) is not a household name.  Where Booth and Oswald shot famous presidents, Guiteau shot James Garfield, who had served for only four months at the time and is best known for having been assassinated.  Guiteau was cartoonishly twisted, with delusions of grandeur and a Type A god complex.  He believed himself to be faultless, guiltless, a renaissance man, a master political advisor, and perhaps even the Third Coming of Christ (yes, third; you’ll see what I mean below).  His life story sounds like something scripted to be as pathetic and conceited as possible, and it would be funny were it not so tragic.

So come with me on an adventure back to the gay old days of the 19th century, so we can delve into the mind of America’s least favorite assassin.  Strap in, cause this is a long one.

Charles Julius Guiteau was born in 1841 to a family of French descent (you may have been able tell because he’s an -eau).  Despite this, it is important to remember that he never learned to speak a word of French.  Keep that in mind.  He flunked out of school because he never felt the need to study for any exams.  He was convinced he already had perfect knowledge on any given subject, “why fix what ain’t broken?”

In 1860, he joined a cult because his dad was friends with the leader.  (Side note: this cult would later dissolve when a tornado destroyed their headquarters, transforming into a company that made spoons.  This has nothing to do with the story, I just thought it was funny). This cult coined the phrase “free love,” which at the time just meant everyone was allowed, nay, encouraged, to bone everyone else; older women were ordered to act as “sexual mentors” for adolescent boys because they were the least likely to conceive. It was messed up.  The cult also thought that Jesus had already come a second time, in 70 AD, so they had free reign on Earth to do whatever they wanted with no consequences.  The end of days had come and gone, so it was smooth sailing from here on out.

Guiteau idolized the cult leader, believing him to be the perfect man in every way.  The cult leader however believed Guiteau was unstable and unfit for the community.  Do you know how messed up you have to be to get kicked out of a cult?  People were so put off by his behavior that they gave him the nickname “Charles Get-Out,” and when he sued the leader for mistreatment his dad wrote a long apology letter saying “I’m sorry my son’s a weirdo, please don’t think less of me for it.”

He became a lawyer by sheer blind luck, barely passing his bar exam because he just so happened to work as a clerk at the Chicago law firm in question.  He lost the one and only case he argued in court, and spent the rest of his career as a corrupt bill collector.  He short-changed all of his clients, overcharging and under-refunding, pocketing the difference before skipping town to avoid the police.  He did this often, hopping from town to town and leaving right before they could run him out on a rail.

In 1872 he endorsed Horace Greeley for president against incumbent Ulysses S. Grant; both men were Republicans, but Greeley caucused with the southern Democrats and became their nominee.  He lost in a landslide, and died less than a month after the election, but again, that’s not important to the story.  What is important is that Guiteau was convinced that had Greeley become president, he would have rewarded Guiteau’s endorsement with a federal appointment.  Guiteau was just some schmuck, a nobody, but he believed that his approval was somehow the most important thing a candidate could receive, and that they would be undyingly grateful for it.

Guiteau believed that he was ordained by God to spread His word, and so concluded that his own word was therefore the word of God.  He tried to start his own cult, plagiarizing the text from the cult leader he idolized, but it never got off the ground.  In 1877 he was on a boat that collided with another; theirs sunk, but his made it back to port, so he was further convinced that his life had been spared for a higher purpose.  If Christ had come again in 70 AD, Guiteau believed he had returned for the Third time this very day.  At this point, his dad thought he was possessed by the devil.

You could say they didn’t exactly see eye to eye.

1880 comes along, he’s been embezzling and stealing even more money from even more cities, avoiding consequences all the while, and decides to once again throw his hat in the ring of politics.  He endorses Grant for a third nonconsecutive term, despite having “campaigned” against him in 1872.  Guitaeu changed his mind with Orwellian confidence, “oh, I always supported Grant, Greeley was destined to lose, I knew it and actually did my best to make sure his campaign floundered, I was always looking out for my main man Ulysses!”

Guiteau handed out leaflets and gave a speech endorsing Grant to basically no one; he may as well have just stood on a street corner shouting his opinion at passersby.  Grant lost the nomination to one Congressman James Garfield, so Guiteau took the leaflets, crossed out Grant’s name, wrote in Garfield’s, and continued passing them out. The rest of the text remained the same though, so it made no sense, praising Garfield for leading the Union Army to victory during the Civil War, and saying he deserved a third term despite this being his first time running.  Garfield won the presidency, and Guiteau was absolutely convinced that it was because of his leaflets.  “What else could it have been?”

March 1881: Being wholly responsible for Garfield’s election, he starts writing him fan letters singing his own praise.  “As you already know, I got you elected (you’re welcome, by the way).  I did this out of the kindness of my heart, and all I ask in return, all I feel I deserve, is an ambassadorship.  France will do nicely, I’ve always wanted to live in Paris!”  As you remember, he can’t speak a word of French, “but I can learn on the job!  I’m the best at learning things, but I’m sure you already know that about me.  I look forward to our partnership. Your biggest fan, Charles.”

No word from the president, but Guiteau doesn’t worry.  He just writes more letters.  “Didn’t hear back from you, don’t know if you read my first letter, but just in case you didn’t, I’ll recap; you won because of me, I’m ready for my federal job whenever you are.  Thanks and you’re welcome.  Your smartest and most qualified fan, Charles.”

Still nothing.  He moved to Washington, DC and became a homeless vagrant.  He went from house to house, spending a night, eating the food, then leaving before rent was due; classic Guiteau!  The White House kept ignoring his letters, so he decided to take matters into his own hands and personally confront the Secretary of State.  “I’m sure you’ve read my correspondences, you know my qualifications, I am ready to go to Paris, just say the word.”

“Oh my God, we’re not giving you a federal job, stop writing us letters, leave the president alone, you’re a total nutjob.”

Guiteau was heartbroken.  He couldn’t understand how Garfield could be such an ingrate!  “I gave everything for that man, I sacrificed so much, and this is how he thanks me? I campaigned for him, I gave speeches, I handed out, like, so many leaflets!”  He felt ignored, he felt BETRAYED.  “How dare he? How DARE he?!?  He owes me! He’s got to be the least considerate person on the planet!  I put him office, I-”  At this, he had a horrible realization.  “Oh my God, I put him in office... He’s only there because of me... It’s all my fault!  I gave this bastard the key to the White House... I gave him the nuclear codes!” [Guiteau was again misinformed, because nuclear weapons wouldn’t be invented for another 64 years]  “I’ve created a monster!  I put him there, and only I can take him out!  I need to assassinate President Garfield.”

And so the pieces begin to fall into place.

He borrows money from his brother-in-law to buy a gun at a pawn shop.  He believed God was telling him to kill the president; either that or he was telling God that the president needed to die and was just giving Him a heads up.  At the pawnshop he specifically chose an expensive revolver with an ivory handle because he thought it would look better in the display case of the museum they would eventually build for him.  He even managed to haggle down the price one whole dollar (about $26 today, so good on him, master deal maker).

July 2, 1881.  President Garfield arrived at a train station in DC, and Guiteau is there waiting for him. He had no body guard because this was the 1880s, and nobody thought someone would be crazy enough to shoot the president in peacetime.  The only government employee present with Garfield was the Secretary of War, a young man by the name of Robert Todd Lincoln.  Yes, that Robert Todd Lincoln, son of Abraham, the first and so far only president to be assassinated.  And he got to witness the second, firsthand.

Guiteau shot Garfield twice, but only wounded him; he fell to the ground, bleeding but very much alive.  Despite this, Guiteau was confident the job was done. “Don’t worry everyone, you don’t need to panic, the tyrant is dead, you can thank me later.”  The police ran at him, “officers, please, take the former president’s body away, it’s bleeding all over the train station. He’s as much a nuisance dead as he was alive, am I right?  Wait, why do you have those batons?”  The tackled him to the ground, as police are wont to do to people who shoot the president.  “Okay, o-ho-ho-kay, I get it, you guys need to put on a show for the crowds. I understand, I shouldn’t have used a gun in public, I should’ve waited until I could had him alone, I get it, you don’t need to be so rough with me. Listen, just talk to President Arthur, he’ll have my back, I just put him in office, he’ll vouch for me, it’s cool.”

Garfield lived for two more months, wasting away in agony from infection because his doctors didn’t even think about washing their hands.  They would poke around his bullet holes with their fingers to fish out fragments, poking organs, tearing muscle, just making it much worse than it needed to be.  Garfield may have survived if they had just left him alone; years later, Teddy Roosevelt would be similarly shot, and survived with the bullet in his chest for seven years.  Garfield died on September 19, 1881, at which point Guiteau was officially charged with murder.

Being a lawyer, he wanted to represent himself in court, but he was appointed a public defender instead.  The defender quit after a week because Guiteau was impossible to work with, so his brother-in-law came on as his new lawyer; he wasn’t a criminal defense lawyer, just another bill collector like Guiteau, he was literally the only person willing to help him out for free.  Guiteau claimed he was not guilty by reason of insanity, that God had possessed him, simply using his body as an avatar and smite Garfield.  “It was divine intervention, nothing could be done to stop it, it was out of my hands.”

He made a mockery of the trial, cursing at everyone from the judge to the jury to his own lawyer to the crowd.  He ignored his lawyer and started asking courtroom spectators for their advice, he wrote his testimony in the form of poems and delivered them to the captive audience.  He reveled in being the center of attention, ignoring the fact that literally everyone hated him for killing the president.  He expected a swift acquittal, and started planning his own campaign for president for 1884, “President Arthur owes me for putting him in office, so I’m sure he’ll step aside and let me run in his place, it’s the least he could do.  Maybe I’ll choose him as my running mate, I haven’t decided yet.”

January 1882, he was found guilty and sentenced to death, to which he responded by calling the jury a bunch of “consummate jackasses” (and yes, that’s the real, actual quote, no joke).  He was dragged out of the court, screaming obscenities at everyone within earshot.  He wasn’t worried though, because he was convinced Arthur would pardon him.

In jail, he composed more poems singing his praise, “Ding dong, the witch is dead!  Which old witch? The Garfield witch! Ding dong, the Garfield witch is dead!”  Arthur didn’t pardon him, so he called him an even worse ingrate than Garfield; Guiteau tried to appeal his case so he could shoot Arthur too, but it was rejected for obvious reasons.

June 30, 1882, he is led to the gallows to be hanged.  For his last words, he delivered yet another poem, this time an epic ballad about how he was now leaving this mortal coil to return to the kingdom of Heaven.  Entitled “I am going to the Lordy,” it had a second or third grade reading level, with lines like “I wonder what I’ll do when I get to the Lordy?” and “I saved the party, glory Hallelujah.”  He wanted to have a full orchestra come and give the piece musical accompaniment, but the jail told him no, again for obvious reasons.  He didn’t even write music for it, he just thought it was so inspiring that the orchestra would know exactly what he intended and improvise something great.

He read the poem out loud to the crowd gathered to see him die, and was so overcome by how good it was that he broke down crying multiple times, “I’m such a genius!”  He may or may not have done a little jig to go along with it, as you do when delivering the world’s greatest poem about the world’s greatest man.

Black hood, noose, trapdoor, neck snap, dead.

The jail refused to turn over his body to his family because they were too poor for a proper burial service (he had wasted all of their money on his defense).  An autopsy showed that he was unable to retract his foreskin, so doctors theorized that was what drove him crazy enough to kill the president.  Gotta love 19th century psychology; Freud has been largely discredited in 2019, but in 1882 he wasn’t even credited yet, he was just some random doctor, not famous for anything.

The warden sold pieces of Guiteau’s noose as souvenirs, and eventually disinterred the corpse to donate to a museum so people could pay money to see the man who shot the president.  They cut out his brain to figure out what was wrong with him; one of its membranes was thicker than normal, possibly syphilitic, and modern medical professionals debate over which topical mental illness he likely had (some say schizophrenia, most agree that Narcissistic Personality Disorder had a huge part to play).  They also spit-polished his skeleton and turned it into a dummy to hang up in the corner of a science class, but for some reason they hid it away in a storage room rather than giving it to a university as intended.

And so ends the story of Charles Julius Guiteau.  He was a man without reason, without honor, without a lick of common sense or self-awareness.  I feel bad for him because despite how horrible a person he was, he was clearly sick and needed help at a time when no such help existed.  His life story is comical and tragic.  He’ll never be as well known as John Wilkes Booth or Lee Harvey Oswald, and that’s probably for the best.  A fitting end for a narcissist, to be mostly forgotten by history.

His gun isn’t even in a museum, the police eventually misplaced it.  And I’m sure THAT is what he’d be most mad about today.

#my stuff #really long post #story time #assassin #assassination #Garfield assassination #James Garfield #POTUS #President #Charles Guiteau #Guiteau #Garfield #1881 #John Wilkes Booth #Abraham Lincoln #Lincoln Assassination #Lee Harvey Oswald #John F Kennedy #Kennedy Assassination #history #true story #well mostly true #I took a few comedic liberties #stranger than fiction #Assassins #President of the United States #sounds fake but okay #that doesn't sound right #but I don't know enough about the Garfield assassination to dispute it

[howtohero]

#226 Mercenaries and Bounty Hunters

As a superhero you’re going to see the worse that mankind has to offer. You’ll find that there is no shortage of people who are willing to do reprehensible things with very little prompting. Many of these people will be, naturally, supervillains. Your demagogues, your megalomaniacs, your would-be conquerors. All the wonderfully odd and colorfully varied characters who have decided that they know what’s best for the world and that everybody would be much better off if they were in charge and all the superheroes were balled up and tossed in the trash. And sure, you might not like those guys, but at least you know what they’re about. Then there are the figures and individuals that these supervillains sometimes turn to in order to get things done. They’re the folks who will do anything, no matter how distasteful or abhorrent, as long as the price as right. They’re mercenaries and bounty hunters, and I recommend watching your back, because they’re definitely after you.

Supervillains turn to mercenaries and bounty hunters when they need something done right, but really really don’t want to do it themselves. Mercenaries are criminals who are good enough at what they do that they don’t need to suffer the indignity of becoming henchmen, but not dramatic enough to become full on supervillains. They’re not interested in infamy or power or being possessed by demons like other supervillains. They just want to show up, do a job quickly and efficiently, and get a huge payout for their troubles. Another reason these hired guns appeal to supervillains is that they are twice as competent as regular henchman while somehow being twice as expendable. You see when a supervillain hires a mercenary they’re basically setting themselves up for a win-win situation: Either the merc succeeds in their mission and the villain gets what they want, win! Or the mercenary fails and gets captured or killed and then the supervillain doesn’t have to pay them, win! So once you become high profile enough and tick off enough people, you can be sure that a bounty is going to be placed on your head.

When you discover that a bounty has been placed on your head it’s important to find out exactly what kind of bounty it is. If it’s a private contract, meaning one thug has been hired to do this job, you simply need to find out who is gunning for you, and then fight them. If you don’t know how to fight off one gunman at this point I don’t know what to tell you. (Ok fine, here’s what you need to do. Bathe in liquid titanium and then spend the night in the freezer, so the metal cools, encasing your body in a bulletproof shell. Then go about your business, but more flamboyantly than usual. Announce your presence with trumpets every time you enter a room. Carry lots of confetti and glitter in your pockets for spontaneous tossing whenever the mood strikes you. Rent a billboard with the words “I’m right over here bozo!” in huge font with arrow pointing downwards and then stand under it. If this mercenary is any good at their job they’ll then find you. Perfect, this is exactly what we were hoping for. If they’re a gun guy they’ll probably shoot you, but ha! Your skin is metal now, bullets can no longer hurt you. If they’re a sword guy they’ll probably try to slice your head right off because if you’re gonna be a sword mercenary that hunts superheroes you really wanna make sure your first swipe is fatal as you may not get another. Fortunately, your neck is encased in solid metal, so swords can no longer hurt you. Boom! All of a sudden thousands of police officers are swarming the area. It was a sting operation. The police have been chasing this Snipey McSkullface for years but they haven’t been able to pin anything on him. Now they’ve got him on attempted beheading, yeah Sniper McSkullface is a sword mercenary now, he thought about changing his name but then realized that that kind of thing costs money. He was hoping to spend his earnings from this job on all that, but now he’s being arrested, and he’s failed. This is his worst day. But it’s your best day, now you’ve got metal skin and one less enemy. Boo yah!) 

If however the price on your head was made public to the entire mercenary and bounty hunter community, you’ve got bigger problems. One of the things that separates bounty hunters and the like from supervillains is that they’re a lot less obvious about being bad guys. They don’t advertise by having metal scorpion tails or tattoos on their forehead that say “damaged- get it? I’m saying I’m craaaaazy. Boy do you not want to mess with me. I am a DAMAGED and CRAZY supervillain.” Look around right now, anybody around you could be a mercenary who is just itching to secure the large bounty that has been placed on your head. Yikes. You need to get out of there, I don’t know why you keep hanging out in the Assault and Pepper Diner, that is clearly a mercenary joint. Not to mention the fact that is this public bounty is high enough, you might even get some regular folks trying their hand at bounty hunting just to earn that sweet sweet payday. If this happens to you, there are a couple of options at your disposal:

Fight every single mercenary in the world, one at a time, until there are none left.

Hide in a panic room until all the mercenaries and bounty hunters kill each other off in pursuit of that huge ol pile of gold. Then, when there’s one left, just fight that guy.

Get that bounty cancelled.

This last one is your best bet, and the only way to really be sure that this threat has been ended. Find out why this bounty was placed on your head, and which of your enemies placed it. With any luck you and your nemesis can hash things out, or, falling short of that, you’ll be able to convince them that the most evil thing to do would be to kill you themselves and that other villains will look down upon them if they farm out the work to someone else. Alternatively you can call off the bounty on your head by simply taking yourself out. If you fake your death, people will stop trying to kill you. Well, usually. The thing about bounty hunters is that they really love money, and they have very few scruples. Some bounty hunters won’t be so easily convinced by a faked death. They’ll really live up that “hunter” part of their name and make sure they collect on that “bounty” part. No, you’re better off just convincing whoever put the bounty on your head that they’re better off keeping you alive for the time being. 

#superhero #superheroes #comics #comedy #humor #funny #hilarious #guide #advice blog #creative writing #bounty hunters #mercenaries #Snipey McSkullface #sting operations #bounties #hitmen #panic rooms #metal skin #tattoos

[thecouriersix99]

A Courier’s Journey

Ch.6

As Courier Six walked the road to Novac listening to Mr. New Vegas making announcements about something or another, something inside her just didn’t feel right. She was tired of being treated like a piece of meat, looked at as if they were free for the taking. All these damn men can’t keep their eyes to themselves. After the way that man in the dog head looked at her, she felt gross. Just thinking about his voice made her skin crawl, and her stomach feel nauseous.

The sun had fully risen as she reached the gates of Novac and everything thing seemed to be looking up. She looked at the tiny town with hope and slight fear, something seemed off about it maybe even a bit eery. As she walked up to the gate she noticed a family shade of blue just behind the town sign. It was Victor. What the hell? Is he following me? She didn’t know what to make of it. She knew she couldn’t trust him but there was no real reason to be rude but she had every reason to be cautious. “Victor?” She approached slowly “Well butter my butt and call me a biscuit, if it ain’t my old friend from Goodsprings!” She raised an eyebrow while crossing her arms “What are you doing in Novac? Are you following me?” He beeped a little and shook his arms “Don’t rightly know. I just got the notion to make my way to New Vegas. Reckon I’ll find out when I get there.” She knew he would avoid the her last question but did he really not know?

She felt a little betrayed. This was the robot that saved her life or what was left of it. Why was he following her? Was he lying this whole time? “Quite a coincidence us meeting like this.” She tapped her foot on the floor a little as she grew more anxious “Seeing as how this is the only road around, I’d be a sight more surprised if we didn’t run into each other from time to time.” She fidgeted with her hands as she looked down at her feet “Its nice to see a friendly face out here I guess.” He beeped again processing her words “Likewise friend! If your ever in New Vegas look your old pal up!” She nodded and headed her way to the front office. Can’t let him catch onto me. Better get inside quick.

As she entered she shut the door behind her. Looking around it seemed pretty simple, small advertising posters from pre-war, filing cabinet, front desk, and a old women sweeping in the middle of if. As soon as she noticed the Courier her eyes lit up but the vibe she gave Six was off. “Well. Welcome to you. You look tired from the road. Why don’t you relax a spell, let this fine town take care of you?” Maybe it was the way she said it but from the moment she walked in she felt on edge. “I’m looking for a man in a checkered coat. Have you seen anyone like that?” The women stopped sweeping and nodded curtly “Well he might have been wearing a fancy outfit, but he wasn’t any kind of gentleman to me.” She patted her broom on the ground in a fit “Had his nose stuck so high in the air, you couldn’t see it above the clouds. City folks, they always think they deserve better then what they got.” She signed and swept a little “Those hoodlums he was with seemed to know Manny for some reason. He’s our daily sniper, up in the dinosaur mouth.” Six nodded “I’d like to rent a room if possible.” The women’s eyes lit up and she smiled brightly “Alrighty! It’s 150 caps, It’ll be the first room on the top floor.” Six handed her the caps in exchange for the key and walked out feeling a bit burned out One step forward two steps back.

Six sighed as she dropped her pack off in her room. She wanted a nap, and some clean clothes, along with a new gun. “This rifle Sunny gave me isn’t going to last much longer.” She set it down near the couch in her new room. Everything had a light layer of dust on it but it was a nice room and at least she didn’t have to block the door with an old bookcase. She plopped down onto the old bed feeling slightly dizzy “Ah one of the many side affects of being shot in the head.” She ran her fingers along the stitches that traced the right side of her skull and then down to her eyelid “Who am I doing this for?” She got up and headed to the bathroom. Looking in the mirror was still a hard thing to face “Who are you?” She placed a hand on the old cracked mirror “Is this the right decision? What will I do once I catch up to him?” We kill him. The voice in her head suddenly sounded so clear and that scared her. “Is revenge really what I’m looking for? Or is it just answers?” Revenge. She probably sounded crazy and hell maybe she was but all she felt when she though of him, the man that shot her, that had thugs beat her, that killed whoever she used to be was anger. She hated him, she wanted to make him hurt the way he hurt her. She wanted him to feel the fear she felt when she was on her knees alone and helpless.

She looked down at her hands and felt the sting of the gash. She was so focused on getting her, on forgetting what happened at Nipton that she completely forgot about her hand. She took out a small pocket med kit she traded for some jet she found on a Powder Ganger. Taking out vodka, a needle, and some thread she cleaned her gash and sewed it back up then wrapped it carefully with a fresh bandage. “Guess I gotta go ask a sniper some questions.” She drank some nuka-cola and headed out to the dinosaur head.

Clif was an over good buy, he sold supplies in the dinosaur. His selection of goods were okay until she saw a specific gun that caught her eye “Excuse me...what kind of gun is that?” It was smaller and heavy but not too heavy. “Oh this is called That Gun. It’s a heavily modified pared down .223 pistol, it shoots 5.56 bullets and does some decent damage.” Her eyes marveled at it “How much?” He chuckled and held it in the air looking at it “Well normally it’s original price is 1000 caps but since you got a room here at the motel I’ll knock upon a hundred caps.” The hope in her eyes faded “Oh uh...I’m sorry I don’t have that much.” She traded some extra supplies she had and headed up.

The man that had his back to her was slightly built, a little taller then her, and seemed to be in deep focus “Uh excuse me?” His shoulders moved slightly and he turned around with a confused on his face “What’s going on man?” He asked crossing his arms “You must me Manny right? The lady at the front desk told me you might know a man I’m looking for. He was wearing a checkered suit.” Manny chuckled and rubbed his face downward “Sure I know him. What do you want with him?” Six sighed in relief a little “Well he...has something of mine.” Manny looked her up and down questioningly “Must be pretty important to be chasing him around like this.” Six nodded ecstatically “Well listen, I can definitely help you find him but I’ve got problems of my own. Maybe we can do a trade. You need my help. There’s something I need too.” She blinked a little but understood what he was saying “Well okay then, what do you need?” He went on to tell her that ghouls have been coming from an old repconn test site and he wanted her to clear it out. She groaned slightly knowing that this was going to be one hell of a job. “Guess I got my work cut out for me tomorrow.”

#fallout new vegas #fallout fic #fallout oc #courier six #novac