#and it's soulglad

[askbloatedbellyblog]

What about Gallagher's placement? C'mon he is a barman, is in touch with fizzy drinks all the time, he must have won and participated in a lot of burping contests haha

I will say that I'm not caught up with the latest patch or pulled for him yet, so this is also a bit of conjecture and going off the wiki.

First off, I will say I don't trust anything going on in Penacony at all. Not that I think you should blame me. When everything is based on dreams, illusions, The Gilded Age, the mob, Batman and more there's a lot that makes it seem like no one is as they seem or if they even exist.

With Gallagher and his history, hell I'm not even sure if he's alive or possibly one of the original settlers of Penacony (therefore old). It does seem that he's made an identify for himself. Plus he's both a cop/detective and a bartender. I'm not sure what the need is for both in Penacony.

I'm also VERY sus on what SoulGlad is to begin with as I think it's the cause of the mass sleep/dream and necessary for everyone to have the same dream and the real Penacony is possibly still the prison.

But let me tell you something stupid.

This, this right here, is stupid. SoulGlad is a carbonated soda, so not only is that soda going to spill and overflow that shaker, he's now made the drink flat. Plus it's dependent on his mood for the new flavor of the drink and with things all not what they seem with him, I'm not sure it's going to be a good taste. Now maybe this is different in Penacony because it's also a dream so anything that is eaten I'm not sure actually happens anyway and even one of the SoulGlad's flavors is only available in the dream.

So that being said, going to burps with him, I still think he's decent at them because yes he still drinks soda even when attacking and he 100% comes off as a sad drunk cop with a dark past so I'm sure that he has let some good burps fly. He probably even does do some contests with his other cops (which are probably much closer to Pinkteron's or mob enforcers than anything) and would still end up being the best belchers there.

However, if you're talking about his job and being in touch with the fizz, I'm not sure he's good at his job. He makes the fizz flat, as a bartender, he's more there to serve drinks and listen to others and stop others from arguing than participating.

So I still think he's a good burper with nice deep brassy belches and capable of them. But I also think he deserves some demerits because he does not know how to handle a soda.

[welcometotheunknownlosers]

i like them a normal amount

[dragaliareferencearchive]

Then Wake to Weep - Honkai: Star Rail (2/2)

[vampkomori]

little fun fact: in a cn video for the dreamjolt holstery event they have aventurine (with the hat and glasses!!) order a drink called Station of Freedom thats clearly designed after him considering the name and the colors matching him perfectly 💛💚

[gemkun]

wait a minute are sampo and ratio holding aven up or are they . . . holding hands ? 🧐

[fortifice]

if you get gepard landau drunk he will climb on the bar and dance and probably take his shirt off and he hopes to god he doesn’t remember it the next day.

[raytm]

the parasites in me want gepard in penacony.

[darkpuck]

Rare Original Post

Me 🫱🏽‍🫲🏼 Trailblazer Weird dreams involving Sampo Koski

Maybe I'm just too hype for Penacony (T O N I G H T) but jesus fuck that sure was a weird dream. I don't usually remember much about my dreams, this morning I was smart and whined about it on Discord almost immediately after waking up.

Thing is, unlike the Trailblazer, Sampo wasn't in my dream like I was hanging out with or fighting him.

Nope, I was Sampo, and I wasn't on Jarilo-IV. I don't know where I was, other than on some kind of train, and I was there to intercept some kind of package. I-that-was-me recognised the package as a Lechonk squishmallow; I-that-was-Sampo did not know what the fuck the little squishy pig was, other than cute.

("But Puck, if you were Sampo how did you know?" you may ask, and it's because I-that-was-me recognised the forearms.)

Anyway, I remember making my way through the train, avoiding some goon named Branya, this blond kid who, while tenacious, certainly had nothing on Bronya. I believe I got him caught up in some kind of folk dance with the locals, who liked me-that-was-Sampo bc we spoke the local language.

It's a dream, okay? Dreams. Weird. There was a pokemon squishmallow.

Eventually the lady Branya was gooning for showed up, very homicidal bc I stole the squishy pig and it was suppose dto help her forget the blood on her hands or something? Anyway she was down for a little more bloodshed and Sampo jumped off the train into... a marsh? Rice paddies? I stopped being Sampo, saw a plop in the water, heard the genocide lady radioing offworld and also yelling at Branya to do a search and woke up going "Did Sampo just die?"

[penaconys-hound]

How many cans of SouGlad do you even drink a day? I mean, even if we’re in a dream, wouldn’t that be bad enough for your body? Despite you looking like a.. fit man.

- 🍸 Anon.

Mhm. Probably around three or four? Maybe five? *He scratches his head for a moment*

And I have a high tolerance for it, not to mention I’m a Bloodhound, so it’s fine.

[ancicntforged]

@fctedivided replied to your post “Sometimes even an idol needs to relax.”:

Trie: I like you.~

And Robin is gulping down even more beer.

"Hello thereee, who might you be?"

[kotaerukoto]

@boomermania replied:

ok- dev drags him by the strings, you're going to space ipc jail

That's definitely something from someone he's going to resist! While thrashing in confusion and surprise, Makoto unluckily(?) slipped on something -- a loose flier, a puddle of SoulGlad, what was it -- and suddenly fell to the side, colliding with the back of a bench. In the tumult, the drawstring of his hoodie had come free from Devona's grasp. Makoto groaned in pain, rubbing his side that had hit the bench.

Th... That was...! Who the hell is this?

" I-I was just checking that billboard, what in the world did you do that for?! "

[honkaisteinrail]

"I dunno if there's any water in golden hour! I got SoulGlad instead though! It's just as good!"

[shrineofprophecy]

@avaere // ask answered

"who's to say i know your poison," there'd be a shrug from the bartender as he remained behind the counter, shaking away on a mixture for a customer, "if you're looking for soulglad, try elsewhere. if you're looking to actually taste the flavor, well, i can give it a go; sweet, sour, bitter or a little bit everything?" a hasty glance was given as hand pulled forth a glass, the mixed drink poured into it before being sent down to the other customer. a shrug, gloved hand tapping on the counter. "what's it gonna be, princess?"

Her arms rested on the counter while her body leaned forward on the stool as she watched the man showcase his mixing skills. It wasn't her first time here and Sparkle knew her options yet she found herself craving a new flavor after her latest rejection. Something to drink away the pain... or whatever people did. It didn't matter.

"Since you're feeling creative, how about something that burns? That will distract anyone from their burdens, don't you think?" Sparkle chuckled, looking up at the man. "Anything that'll wake me up will do. Why don't you surprise me, hm?"

[trappolia]

FINGERS TWISTED BEHIND MY BACK (DON'T LET IT BE YOU I LACK) ── aventurine x gn!reader, 862

aventurine hates fighting with you.

he does not even remember it—not clearly, at least. through the memories mudded by the buzz of soulglad and whatever alcoholic beverages he'd guzzled down the night before, the exact expression of your face when he stumbled back into your hotel room is a blur (a pretty blur, he is quite sure, though no doubt a disappointed one) and the sentences you'd spat out at him were jumbled into words that grate in his eardrums when he tries to recall what exactly was said. aventurine tries to echo it to himself, but even the incoherence sounds bitter on his tongue, and all that comes out an indistinct, asthmatic gasp that he's quite sure is some sort of equivalent of his heart aching. or breaking. somewhere in between, perhaps.

he rolls over in your bed, damp from the shower and tears. aventurine is thankful veritas hasn't stormed in to nag at him; he would not be able to stomach being seen like this by anyone else but you: his sweet safe haven, his little eden. you've gone now, stormed off somewhere to cool off. aventurine leaves you be (even if he spent the first two hours alone relentlessly spamming your phone with messages, pleas to come back and return) but he is still alone.

the thought occurred to him somewhere between hour three and hour five, that you'd never come back. aventurine doesn't let it linger. his stomach roils, mouth tasting of bitter alcohol and sweet dreams where you are still there and he'd never upset you.

the hours he spends there without you are hellish, a parody of a bleak, grief-stricken painting of some woman whose husband has gone out to fight in an intergalactic war—draped over the bed, numb and miserable to everything but the thought of you he has to conjure every now and then to keep himself sane. the air is cold and never seems to adjust, even though the reverie's rooms are specifically designed to tailor to the guest's tastes. they clearly did not consider the factor that is a hopeless, lovesick man suffering from withdrawal.

the door creaks open.

aventurine darts up in his your bed, instantly whipping myself up into such a nervous, edgy frenzy that he almost forgets how to breathe. his lungs shudder, the cogs in his brain turning the wrong way, and nothing is working fast enough, right enough as he stumbles to his feet, nearly tripping over the carpet as he finds you toeing off your shoes at the door, so pretty it hurts.

"welcome home," aventurine manages to choke out, still tripped-out and dizzy, heart pounding loud in his fingertips and ears. he watches you glance up at him, your eyes meeting his own for the first time in hours that feel like centuries, and the burden on his lungs alleviates—just a little bit.

"…aventurine," you sigh in this throaty, broken voice that cuts right at his chest. he winces as if he's been struck, eyes flitting to the dizzying pattern of the carpet in effort to hide the glossiness of his irises.

he hears your feet padding across the room to him, the footfalls soft and slow and not at all violent, though he cannot help but fear. there can always be a finality to the softest, gentlest of mercies. not that aventurine has ever experienced it before, but he knows it is possible with you: you who holds his heart in your hands, and you may very well tear it apart if you so wished.

aventurine will let you, if that is what you want.

but instead he swallows, too loudly; finds his fingers instinctively twisting behind his back. "are you going?"

"i just arrived," you whisper, endlessly gentle, endlessly soft—forgiving.

"i know," his voice breaks, and you reach out to touch him—palm against cheek, thumb brushing over the slope of his cheekbone. something cold and damp trails over the flesh of his face, fair marble streaked with a single rivulet of a tear. he does not tell you why he wants to cry. you know anyway.

aventurine thinks pretending would be easier with you, but here in this room, at the end of the day when everyone else has escaped into their own dreamscape, he is tired of saccharine sweet lies, the twisting webs that he pulls around without even understanding the final result it will conjure. it is easier, he thinks, to let you keep his heart and do with it as you wish—and aventurine can only hope that you will be merciful.

are you going? the second set of three words, that single question that he truly wants to ask is caught in his throat, because you may hold aventurine's heart in your palms, but if you will not use your own bloody fingers to pry it open, he must do it for you—and he can't. not for this, at least.

but you know anyway. of course you do.

will you stay?

"i'm right here," you murmur, sweet and godly against his lips, swallowing the sob that he almost lets out. "i'm staying right here."

© trappolia 2024

[nvuy]

so… about that drink you ordered — boothill

summary. boothill has a pity party at a bar and notices a familiar face that he wants to smash into two.

notes. sort of requested official unofficial sequel sort of to hijacked. you can read this stand alone. not saying you should, though. teehee. this is so uninspired. i just like this concept a lot. i also just like rivals to lovers. i’m also riding on the coattails of the “boothill is largely illiterate.” whether it’s actually canon or not who knows. let me be. he’s still not released LMAOOOO.

warnings. the usual banter, little bit of threatening, but nothing major.

Boothill was at a loss. The mission was a bust, there was no response from La Mancha, and the dreamscape was beginning to grind his gears. So many loud noises, the poster signs were following him around, and this so-called SoulGlad was not as good as it was advertised to be.

This bar sucked, too. The bartender had been giving him the stink eye for the better half of an hour now. It probably wasn’t appropriate to sick him right in the face for it, break his nose, and give him a beating.

The bartender wasn’t scrawny, though. Some big bulk of meat with tired eyes, scruff and mousy brown hair. His chest looked like it was about to pop the buttons of his vest. Dude looks absolutely repressed. Probably works minimum wage.

The bartender abandons a blue inky pen and his notebook that Boothill snoops in. Nothing interesting. Just pages of tabs and tabs of people he doesn’t know, nor care about.

There’s music from the stereos in the corners, though surprisingly, considering it’s not a club—that one is next door. It’s a conjoined building. The only thing seperating the bar and the VIP private rooms of the club is a wall and a locked door. Comforting—and Boothill would have lost his mind already.

It’s also dark. Granted, it’s two in the morning, but the low lights can’t be good for normal people. Not to mention the group of women in the corner that have been hoarding the few slot machines for about thirty minutes now.

Every so often, a chime will go off, and one of them will start busting into tears.

He’s here alone. Not for any particular reason. He’s waiting for a response from somebody, and what better way to pass the time than people watch and pretend he’s not nosy.

Also he feels super important sitting at the counter of the bar.

He almost jumps at a whisper in his ear.

A reddish drink in a ribbed coupe glass is gently dropped onto the counter space beside him. There’s a cucumber slice on the rim, and it also looks like it’s been dusted with sugar.

Boothill turns his nose up. Gross.

The bartender glances at the figure who slots into the seat next to the ranger. “Can I get you something else?”

“Hard whiskey.”

Huh. His eyes snapped to the right. Very familiar. Almost unnervingly so. Just in case, he scoots himself away by an inch, sitting closer to the edge of the barstool.

The bartender blinks, unsure as he pulls a tumbler from the rack. “For you?”

A finger prods the Ranger’s cheek. “For him.”

There’s a zap from the finger, like a small electric shock. Like static charged from the friction of the weird material of the barstools.

“Thanks, Gal.”

“No amount of flirting is gonna make me clear your tab,” Gallagher warned before sliding the whiskey over to the Ranger. Boothill had barely moved, now acutely aware of his own face plastered on a wanted poster behind the bartender’s head. “Try not showin’ up here frequently. Bad for my image if I keep serving crooks.” He points to the Ranger, and then to you. “Both of you.”

The bartender then is called over by a group of women who are giggling at a booth in the corner.

Boothill was sure he was going to lean forward and scrap with you over the counter. He could already feel the terse skin of your neck in his hands.

“You followin’ me?”

“You followed me first,” you say harshly.

The ranger let out a laugh before picking up his drink. “It was only a job. If you got offended, that’s your problem.” He then holds the glass close. “You g’nna do that thing again?”

“‘Thing?’” you repeated.

There was a smug grin on your face. You rested the chin in the palm of your hand.

Oh. He was so going to throw you over the counter and smash a bottle over your head. “Y’know what I’m talkin’ ‘bout. Don’t play stupid.”

You took a sip of your drink.

“Boop.”

Your finger pressed to his chest. You snickered when he stared down at the brief flashing of yellow beneath his joints.

Then, you flit your finger upwards and flick his nose.

He grabs your hand with the intent of pulling it from its socket.

“Now, that’s a dangerous game to play,” you remind him. “I’ve got you in my hands, remember?” Your free hand lets go of your glass, and there’s a small flash of yellow light on the pads of the gloves on your hands. A flicker is all it takes to showcase his entire makeup in your palm. You spin it slowly for good measure.

Then, the image disappears and you snatch your wrist from his hand.

“What do you want?” Boothill mutters. He’s absentmindedly staring into his drink while swishing it around. The ice cubes softly tap against the glass.

“Insight. You’re a Galaxy Ranger, right?” He can’t lie to you anyway. You pretty much know everything about him. Your main profession is definitely stalking and being a thorn in his side. Your fingers held his chin up softly. “Tell me about it.”

He blinks, dazed. “That’s it?”

“No.”

He removes your hand from his chin. He holds his glass protectively. “Then quit pullin’ my leg. Cut to the good bit.”

You sigh. “You’re no fun. Do you come to bars just to mope?” You pull a dramatic frown for good measure.

“Do you come to bars to piss everyone off?” he shoots back. Despite his tone, his fingers are gentle around the glass. Any more firm a hold, and the drink would shatter and spill all over the counter.

You grin.

You tap his nose again. “Just you.” Then, you shake your head. “I’m here ‘cause I got a bar crush.” You then point to a table behind Boothill’s head in the corner. “Blondie with the nice eyes and the rings.”

After a moment's hesitation, the ranger turns and follows your finger.

Sure enough, you’re not convincing him to spin around so you can shove your hand into his sockets. There is a blond man at a table dressed in green, winking at an opponent over a game of… poker? Is that poker? The game with the chips and stuff. And dice, too. They’re thrown over a board, and there’s a couple of people who have tuned in to watch the entire thing unfold.

“His name is Aventurine. Or, that’s a code name, I think. He’s Sigonian. Works for the IPC, incredibly insecure, has a gambling addiction, needs to eat lead…” You stopped short, counting on your fingers as Boothill turns back to you. “Isn’t he dreamy?”

Boothill narrows his eyes at you. “Do you know everything about everyone?”

You shrug. “Pretty much, yeah.” Then, you make a noise. “Eh, I’m lying. Lots of people are boring. I only know the basics ‘bout most of ‘em. It’s the higher ups I’m interested in. Case in point–” You gestured to the blond man again, now scanning over his cards. “–Mister Big Shot. And all his loser coworkers. I don’t like the IPC.”

Boothill quietly sips his drink.

At least you can both agree on something.

He wants to yawn. He doesn’t have the function to do that anymore.

You talk too much.

He cuts you off, and fiddles with a few buttons on his arm. “What can you tell me–” A small image of a woman projects into view from a small lens near his wrist. “–About her?”

You lean closer to the image. Pretty.

She has lovely purple hair and eyes to match. It’s an unassuming photo. She’s not even looking at the camera, not even close to it. She’s standing next to a little boy with sparkling eyes and a uniform that starkly resembles the hotel staff in the waking world of Penacony—oh, the bellboy. You forgot his name.

You hum. “What’s her name?”

“Acheron.” He spits it nastily, as if tasting vitriol on his tongue.

You lean back against the counter. “I’d have to dig deeper. Can’t say I’ve seen her around before.”

“Well, that’s disappointin’,” he huffs before the image shrinks and disappears back into the lens. “Thought you were better than that.”

Your brows knit together.

“Are you trying to rile me up?” It was working. Curse you and your hot-head. It would get you killed one day.

Boothill grins.

Then, he raises his glass to you. “Yep.”

You wanted to pull him apart right there, like a doll.

Instead, you whisper, “tell me about La Mancha.”

Boothill casually sips the whiskey. “What’s in it for me?”

“I’ll dig up whatever I can find about that Acheron girl.”

Boothill then lets out a small giggle. “I already know who she is.” He wasn’t lying either. You could tell by how he grinned. “I was testin’ ya.”

Oh, great. He’s figured you out again. Not that there’s much to decode beneath the layer of self-doubt and hostility.

You could feel your face burning.

He grabs your cheeks before you can turn away.

“You ain’t here ‘cause you got some ‘puppy crush,’” he accused playfully, squishing your skin like it’s clay. “You already told me ya know everything about blondie. Who’re you really here for?”

He’s not stupid.

He’s also twirling a lock of his hair around his finger.

God damnit.

Your fingers curled tightly around the rim of your glass. The cucumber slice has since fallen into the cosmopolitan, and it’s giving the entire drink a strange watery taste.

The bar carries on. There’s a hoot from the table with blondie, who’s now, since the last time you stared daggers into the side of his head, collected some more of his poor opponent’s chips.

You pull your face from his grip. “Nobody.”

“Not even me?” Boothill presses. “You seem to love followin’ me around. In and out the dreamscape.”

You grit your teeth.

“The bartender,” you mutter finally. “I’m here for the bartender.” Currently, Gallagher is half asleep on the other side of the counter, trying to negotiate with some drunkard over the pricing of a scotch.

You eye him warily for a moment.

“There it is.” He pats your head like a dog. “Knew you’d come ‘round, pumpkin.”

You’re trembling with rage. “Kiss my ass, you cyborg scum.” You were considering throwing a punch at his perfect face.

“Rude.” Boothill flicks your nose back and you grunt. “I’m tryin’ to be nice wit’ you. You followed me here.”

You wanted to leave now. He sucks when he knows he has the upper hand, even if he’s well aware you can make his arms tear his own head off.

But you’re not going to do that. You need him. You made that clear.

The sound of a slot machine goes off somewhere to the right. There's cheering from a bunch of women.

You turn back and stare at the wall of liquor behind the bar. Maybe you should just knock yourself out. Whether by downing an entire bottle of bourbon or smashing it over your head. It was a hard choice to make.

You watch him through your peripherals, noticing he’s pinched a napkin from the pile on the counter.

“Lookin’ very pretty tonight, by the way. Hard to keep my eyes off ya.” He was writing something down with the pen from before. “If you were anyone else, I woulda had to take ya home. ‘Specially after ya bought me a drink.”

“Yeah, you’re welcome.” Then, you pause. “Excuse me?”

Boothill folds the napkin into a square and holds it to your lips. “Open.”

“You are not–”

Too late. He’s pushed it to your teeth, and you instinctively clamp down on it.

Oh, this sucks. This sucks bad.

He knows it, too, from the way he’s grinning at you like a shark and snickering.

He presses his warm lips to your cheek. The scent of whiskey faintly wafts in the air.

You stupidly freeze, hands curled around his wrists when his cold hands tilt your head so the tip of his tongue can press to the corner of your lips. You could stop him. You could.

You didn’t.

You smell like strawberry, the same as that other night. You look just as good, too. Shame you haven’t put anything on your lips. He would’ve loved to be stained a nice pink again.

He slides his whiskey next to you.

Then, he finishes what’s left of your drink. Dickhead. “I’ll be ‘round if ya need me.” He taps your nose and stands up. “You know where to find me.”

With a tilt of his hat, he leaves.

You pull the napkin from your teeth. Are you serious?

Face burning with humiliation, you hastily unfold the tissue, fingers shaking around the glass of whiskey. It’s heavy on your tongue; disgusting, bitter, everything you’d use to describe that stupid cowboy and his abomination of a body.

Scrawled in blue ink is a line of numbers. It looked suspiciously like a phone number.

Below it in blocky letters are the words: Keep In touc H. ♡

There’s a crudely drawn horse with a hat in the corner.

[raytm]

ray blog is just gepard landau solo blog with sparkle a few times a week ,,