#get that man his sarsaparilla

[nukaberries]

*holds out hands* spare some preston garvey headcanons, good sir?

Preston is so underrated, I'm so glad he has some fans out there! I personally don't tend to use him unless I'm running a Minutemen playthrough, but he's severely under appreciated. Poor guy just wants to help the Commonwealth. (Accidentally made him hate me in my last playthrough because I was playing around with Nuka World, sorry Preston </3)

//

Preston Garvey Headcanons

Although they met in unfortunate circumstances, Sturges, Mama Murphy and the Longs are the closest thing he's ever had to a real family, as he lost his biological family at a young age and doesn't really remember them.

He expected to rise up the ranks of the Minutemen easily, but actually struggled at first and fell behind his peers a little. It did knock his confidence a lot, but he managed to work his way up, it just took him a bit longer.

Deathclaws just creep him out, more so than any other creatures in the Wasteland, the one in Concord didn't help that.

It's more or less canon that he has a lot of guilt regarding the Quincy Massacre, which is a big reason as to why he's hesitant to help out more settlements. He's worried about not being able to save people a second time around.

He bought Sunset Sarsaparilla from a trader from the Mojave once and no other drink has ever compared to it since, he's often considered heading out West just to get another bottle.

Piper managed to convince him to do an interview for the Publick once, about how the Minutemen had changed since Sole had taken over as the General. It was inevitably scrapped as he stumbled over his words so many times, there wasn't anything coherent that Piper could write about.

Despite most of the Minutemen he used to know being gone, he managed to track down some of the remnants and makes an effort to see them as often as he can. It's somewhat therapeutic to be able to recount old stories with them.

[ghoulfuckersincorporated]

What do you think are Raul Tejadas favorite and least favorite kinks? I think he'd enjoy doing it in his costume 😂

Raul Tejada (New Vegas) NSFW Headcanons

Much like with Cooper Howard, I think that it's been a very, very long time since Raul's been with anyone physically. He's spent a large part of his long life pretty deep in depression and survival mode in a way that I don't think would really lend itself to slinging a ton of dick around the desert, you know? Possible that he may have had a partner or partners when he and his sister were ekeing out a living among the incredibly irradiated remains of Mexico City, but the fact that the place was so overrun with raiders and fiends that Raul felt he had to turn to vigilantism doesn't really seem to lend itself to much romance, either. I think he's rusty and not exactly actively searching for a partner, but love often finds us at the most unexpected times.

Would take a pretty grand gesture of desire, in my opinion, to really convince him that you want that sort of relationship with him. I mean candles, whatever semblance of lingerie you can scrounge up, throwing yourself in his lap and basically begging for him, the whole nine yards. Lay it on thick, tell him how much you want him, how much you care about him, and I think he'll be receptive to getting physical...but he'll be incredulous for a good, long minute first. He's just incredibly beat down after so many hardships throughout the years and his self-confidence is shot full of holes.

I'm not convinced he's a "full-on penetrative sex the first time you two hook up" guy. I think he would like a few encounters to get to know your body and what you enjoy before the two of you get to that point. I think he would let you touch him early on, but over the clothes. Mostly, the early encounters would be about him getting to know your desires and reacquainting himself with his own.

This poor, tired, achy old man would be fairly lazy during sex. Don't get me wrong, he's embarrassed about it, and he's got more than enough strength and energy to make sure you're satisfied, but he's a big fan of laying back and watching you ride him, having sex laying on your sides, letting you bounce on him in reverse cowgirl and control the pace...pretty much any position that takes the stress off of his back and joints is a favorite of his. However, he isn't above pinning you down, or even picking you up to fuck you if you misbehave enough.

Canonically has a sweet tooth, like most old men (fun fact: as people age, their taste buds weaken, and, as a result, many older people have an affinity for sweet and spicy food, as those two flavor profiles remain fairly easy to detect as the ability to taste more complex flavors degrades). I bet he'd like to lick something sweet off of your naked body an awful lot. Granted, things like honey or whipped cream are difficult or impossible to get your hands on in the Wasteland, depending on where you are, so it might not be the easiest thing to pull off. But hey, you never know when you might come across a little bit of chocolate that you can melt, or something similar. Hell, the way the man loves himself a Sunset Sarsaparilla, maybe you could just dribble some of that on yourself and let him go to town.

Due to his insecurities, he loves an enthusiastic partner. He loves to be flirted with, romanced right back, treated like you see him as desirable. Little romantic gestures turn him on a lot. PDA makes him nervous (you never know how people are going to react to the presence of a ghoul, let alone a ghoul claiming to have a human partner), but when you two are alone, he likes to give and receive lots of kisses, affectionate embraces, ass pinches, whatever.

I'm not sure I can see him having sex in the costume (mostly because of the way he internally associates it with the death of his sister), but I can certainly see him still liking to play with certain "vaquero"-type activities. Rope play, for example. I don't think he'd be unopposed to tying your hands up if you misbehave.

Ass man ass man ass man ass man. Dude is checking out what you've got back there every chance he gets. One of his favorite ways to communicate that he's in the mood is to saddle up behind you and slide his erection up and down the cleft of your ass; it makes him even harder.

Because of the things he's seen and experienced, he's not willing to be rough with you. Passionate, sure. He'll fuck you hard, physically, but he isn't interested in violent or rough foreplay/sex. No primal play/dubcon/CNC play with him. BDSM in general isn't really his thing.

He also refuses to have sex with you when you're intoxicated in any way. The idea that there could possibly be any blurred lines when it comes to your consent makes him very uncomfortable.

[cyber-dump-171]

Chapter 2: Do you believe?

The End is Near (Gravity Falls x Reader)

← Chapter 1 | Masterlist | Chapter 3 →

Word count: 5.5k.

WARNING: mentions of violence, blood, injuries, body horror, and animal mutation.

Note: sorry this took so long! had a few rough weeks and I'm nearing the end of my final year in uni, but it's all good! Thank you so much to everyone who left a like, reblog, or comment, it makes me so happy to see you're enjoying this fic!

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Fiddleford's sudden cry stops you dead in your tracks. One foot in the air, covered in the creature's dark blood, hands clenched tightly into fists, unaware that your nails are digging painfully into your palms as you stare directly into the lantern's light like a deer caught in the headlights. 

His mouth moves, but you're too disoriented to pay attention to the worried string of words that leave his tongue. His eyebrows furrow, a hand reaching out in concern, but your vision swims as the adrenaline begins to subside, and your body screams at the injuries scarring your skin and muscles. “Fiddleford… When did you get here?”

Your ears buzz and pop painfully. However, as if a switch had been flipped, the forest around you suddenly returns to life instantly. In the distance, you can hear the rustling of branches, the crunching of leaves, and the hooting of night owls. Even the fog has lifted, allowing you to see beyond the clearing and further into the forest. Did the creature restrict your vision and hearing? No way. That should be impossible, right?

Your legs feel like jelly, the muscles burning in protest as they beg you to sit down. Unfortunately, as you step back from the mangled carcass, you land on your injured ankle, and combined with the sole of your shoe covered in the monster's slippery blood, your entire world is turned upside down as you land painfully on your back, the blades of grass nipping at your exposed skin.

“Sweet sarsaparilla! You alright!?” within seconds, Fiddleford's worried face comes into view, the moon framing his head beautifully, making him look like an angel. When did he get so pretty? You nod weakly and close your eyes, trying to rid yourself of the dizziness that makes it hard to breathe and even harder to swallow.

“M’fine,” your voice sounds so strange, hoarse, like you’ve got the worst cold in history. It sucks to breathe, worse to be alive right now, the pain on your ankle feels like fire, scorching the surrounding skin. ‘But it’ll pass… it always does.’ Lukewarm fingers suddenly but gently intertwine with yours as Fiddleford pulls you to sit up and you open your bleary eyes, dizzily watching the man rifle through his bag with determination.

“Hold steady, Sunflower. I’m gonna push down on ya neck, this might hurt,” he mutters as he slips on a pair of surgical gloves, the latex snapping close to his skin. You perk up when hearing the flower, was that supposed to be a nickname for you? An unfamiliar but not unwelcome heat swirls in your chest and your suspicion is confirmed when Fiddleford stares back, eyes wide at what has left his mouth, and that sweet blush is back on his cheeks.

A small smirk is plastered on your face, and for some strange reason, you feel giddy. “That’s a cute nickname… I quite like it. But, why sunflower?” you cough roughly and put a hand on his shoulder, watching him jump at the sound out of the corner of your eye. He carefully hides his face from you, stuttering as he whispers about you shutting up and “letting him do the medic's work.” You just chuckle in return.

You close your eyes again as you concentrate on listening to the now vibrant surroundings, taking your attention away from the pain. Soon, nimble fingers start poking and prodding at your neck, where you imagine a rather large purple bruise is beginning to form. You suck in a breath as he presses down on a particularly painful spot, and he quietly apologizes, muttering something about your thyroid gland.

“FIDDLEFORD!? WHERE ARE YOU!?” a voice suddenly shouts from beyond the nearby trees. As your eyes open, a flash of white light haphazardly cuts through the branches and foliage. Said man perks up at the mention of his name and leans away from your ear to shout his location, prompting a quizzical look from you in return. “Ah! Remember my college buddy? That’s him right there.”

As if summoned, the nearby bushes rustle harshly when a tall, broad man in a large tan trench coat steps through, leaves and twigs stuck in his fluffy brown hair. Your fingers involuntarily twitch; why do you have this sudden urge to run your hands through it? What is wrong with you today!? You zap the thought away, paying close attention to the new stranger who wipes away at the grime and debris caught in his clothing.

“Ah, there you are! The police are here, they’re asking for the new chief,” he explains rather breathlessly, lifting his head to finally face you both and offering a polite smile at you. “You must be her. I’m Dr. Stanford Pines, a pleasure to meet you,” you mumble your name to him, trying to ease the pain as much as possible.

He seems to understand your predicament, nodding before his attention is immediately enraptured by the beast’s carcass lying still on the ground. “I see, so this is what was causing all that ruckus,” he hums, crouching down near one of its twisted limbs as he digs through his coat pockets, pulling out a large burgundy notebook and fountain pen, and quickly jotting down a variety of notes at the speed of light.

His insatiable curiosity impresses you, especially when his attention is so focused on the macabre scene before him. But remembering Fiddleford's explanation during the car ride, you dismiss his behavior as the burning curiosity most scientists have. “Document all you want, but those notes won't see the light of day until we figure out what’s going on,” you warn, the pain in your throat slowly easing as you speak more clearly.

Stanford doesn't look up from his notes, but you can spot a small grin. “Do not worry; my research and discoveries are for my eyes only,” he pronounces proudly, even slightly puffing out his chest. However, Fiddleford rolls his eyes and scoffs, muttering a playful “unfortunately” as he signals to his pockets, implying a lack of money. You chuckle softly. 

“Well now, looks like your neck’s holdin’ up alright, ‘cept for that bruise and temporary damage to your vocal cords. You feelin’ pain anywhere else ‘sides your ankle?” You’re about to point to the side of your torso, muscles still pulsating where the monster’s arm slammed into you when a loud thought crosses your mind: ‘You’ve bothered them enough, there’s no need to waste any more resources on you.’

You just shake your head, ignoring the searing pain that runs through a good chunk of your torso. This is nothing new, you've dealt with worse and you'll just push through when it gets unbearable, like always. Scanning you one last time for any other superficial injuries he might have missed due to the adrenaline, Fiddleford nods before moving quickly to your ankle, carefully gripping the limb to avoid causing more pain as he pulls your pant leg up to inspect the damage.

At the sight of the angry red marks cutting into your skin and oozing blood that has begun to coagulate, the man draws a rather loud breath, his eyebrows furrowed as he tries to remove the tattered pieces of black leather that stubbornly cling to your calf and once belong to your shoe. 

“Thank the heavens, them cuts don’t seem too deep; no need for stitches. Your boot took most of the hit,” he comforts, rummaging through his bag as he takes out a small bottle of hydrogen peroxide and a few cotton balls. Damn it, you liked those shoes too, you got them in a Christmas sale as a personal gift with your first paycheck. “But I reckon you best not be walkin’ too much, and get a tetanus shot once we’re done.”

Dabbing the cotton, the cold, wet material touches your skin, sending a shiver down your spine as Fiddleford delicately cleans the area around the injury. With a quiet warning, he pours the icy liquid directly onto the cuts, causing you to jerk back slightly as you feel the hydrogen bubbles burn through the edges of your injury. Soon the sizzling stops and the man wipes away the dirty residue with a handkerchief before expertly bandaging the wound and gently patting your knee.

“All done! You took it like a champ. With some rest and painkillers, that pain oughta clear right up,” Fiddleford stumbles to his feet, removing the surgical gloves with a snap! and tossing them haphazardly into his bag before extending a bare hand to you. You thank him under your breath, feeling rather warm inside as your fingers wrap around his palm, and in one strong tug, you stand up but, 

But as the sole of your tattered boot hits the ground, the world spins before your eyes, colors blurring, shapes moving like water as your legs lock, your body feeling like jelly, weak and wobbly, and without warning you stagger forward, your face slamming into the man's chest as your arms wrap limply around his torso, seeking stability. With your skin so close to Fiddleford's, you can feel his heart beating a mile an hour.

He yelps in surprise, his hands flailing around your body, unable to process what's happening or where to put them. “M’sorry, I feel like I have no control of my body,” your raspy voice is muffled, your nose buried deep in his green shirt where you inhale his earthy scent, a soothing yet intense mix of honey, lavender, and rosemary. And though you would like to stay buried there forever, this man is going to have a heart attack if you don't move soon.

And so your trembling palms loosen their grip on his shirt, creeping up to his shoulders before you push against them, lifting your body and coming face to face with reddened cheeks and crooked glasses. “I-It’s all g-good; it’s real… um… n-normal for someone to feel a bit… ah, s-shook up after somethin’ like that,” Fiddleford stumbles with his words, his eyes looking everywhere but at you.

You nod, eyes lidded, as the exhaustion of the night's events finally begins to take its stubborn toll on your body, but you push it away, knowing full well that you won't be able to sleep until the morning, or even the afternoon. Work comes first, and with the two injured boys telling you that a beast brutally murdered their friend, and its carcass lying a few feet away from you, it's going to be rather a fun night.

“Thank you, Fiddleford. You’re very sweet… I owe you a coffee,” you pat him affectionately on the right cheek before walking away, allowing the poor man to catch his breath as he immediately ducks down and hurriedly shoves his materials and trash into his bag, not caring if the products get wrinkled or crushed.

Meanwhile, your attention is drawn to the other man, Stanford, who is so engrossed in his research that he didn't seem to notice the commotion next to him. Or at least turned a blind eye to it. You wobble your way over to him, putting little force on your injury as you crane your neck to look at the yellowed page.

You're impressed by the craftsmanship, watching quietly as skilled and calloused fingers write in cursive, detailing the properties of the creature's skin and bones, adding the worryingly pale appearance of the monster and a burning question: “What even is this thing?”. He then rapidly focuses on the incomplete sketch that takes up a good part of the page, streaks of black ink filling in the blanks of what the monster may have looked like, as you destroyed its face, only leaving a crater with mushed insides.

You crouch down beside him, the movement finally alerting him to your presence. His head immediately jumps up, his eyes widening and his mouth agape as he slams the journal shut, hiding it behind his back under his trenchcoat. His surprise is then replaced by a look of annoyance on his face, and his lips tighten, shoving his hands harshly into his pockets.

“Weren't you ever taught that it's rude to poke around people's personal belongings?” He huffs, lowering his face. You simply shrug your shoulders, undisturbed by his actions and words. “Well, you are documenting my crime scene, so I think I have some right to be nosey,” you fire back.

He scoffs and rolls his eyes, and while you can't detect any malice in his actions, you also don’t get a hint of playfulness either. He's put a barrier between you, and you can't really blame him. But oh well, now that the damage has been done, you're going to add insult to injury by poking your nose into his business. “I get that you're a scientist, but what is it that fascinates you about this thing?” 

You reach out and touch the body lightly; it's cold as ice, and you're even more certain that whatever this thing is resembles a bat. Its skin is soft, wrinkled, and quite elastic, and it's covered in a very thin layer of spiky hair, almost invisible to the eye. Its claws are stained a strong, deep yellow, with dirt, moss, and grime accumulated under the protective plate. 

Closer inspection of the body reveals that it appears to have no exposed reproductive system and, bizarrely, the appearance of the boy it was trying to emulate earlier has now disappeared, leaving behind an eerily milky skin with dark protruding veins. How in God’s name are you going to explain this creature to the families of the victims?

Next to you, Stanford perks up at your words, his body almost vibrating with the emotion of being able to pour out a sea of scientific theories and words to a stranger who may share the same interest. Sudden bright eyes look at you, and he reminds you of an eager child. “Ah! Well, to answer your question, I must ask one back. Tell me, do you believe in the supernatural?”

… Did you hear that right? You turn around, hoping that this is his way of bluffing or breaking the ice, but as you focus on his expression, noticing his furrowed eyebrows and sharp eyes, you realize he’s dead serious. You stare at him back, bewildered. “Huh?” Stanford is about to repeat the question when you lift a hand, cutting him off and your mouth falls slightly open.

Somebody was murdered, two boys were injured and this man is trying to tell you that this monster is a cryptid? What? That this creature falls in the same category as ghosts and vampires? You definitely hit your head too hard when you fell.

Look, it's not an unusual question. Thanks to the rise of horror films and TV shows, your colleagues have dragged you into several conversations about the same subject. And, to be honest, you have a firm opinion on the matter: they don't exist. You believe that aliens are real. Maybe they don't look like gray or green people, but humans can't be the only living organisms in the universe.

But things like ghosts, Mothman, and werewolves? Yeah, that stuff felt more like attention-grabbing ploys that could only provide fantastical stories and a conveniently blurry photo rather than real and concrete evidence of their existence. Besides, so many scientists and experts keep saying and proving that such creatures can't exist, no matter how much “mediums” claim they do.

Fucking hell, you and your close friend and college roommate, Paula, used to get play a game on Halloween, drinking every time a psychic came on TV and did something stupid or ridiculous to prove the existence of ghosts or poltergeists. You would end up blacked out, sprawled on the floor, giggling like idiots as the clock struck midnight.

Stanford gives a quizzical look yet his eyes are still twinkling, his hands shifting impatiently inside his pockets as you’re attempting to formulate a response, that’s not an insult, when the nearby bushes begin to shift. Leaves and twigs crunch under the pressure of someone's shoe, which causes you and Stanford to immediately move away from the sound, scurrying to stand up as you draw the taser that was still attached to your belt.

"Who's there?" your voice is strong, the hoarseness in your tone from the injury still fresh, but the pain is almost gone now, only pulsing slightly. The leaves are shaking violently and you can feel Stanford taking a step back, almost hiding behind you, using you as a shield, but he’s clutching something tightly in his left hand. His legs are slightly apart, his eyebrows furrowed as he assumes a fighting stance. Fiddleford is close behind, but far enough away that if anything dangerous jumps out, he can run away without too much trouble.

Seconds feel like minutes as your stomach twists into knots and your heart pounds against your chest. Sometime during the commotion, the lamp is shut off, plunging your surroundings into complete darkness. You silently pray to yourself that this isn't another one of nature's freaks, avenging its fallen sibling and taking your head back as a trophy. But as the branches clear and a beam of light cuts through, a short, chubby man with curly hair and sunglasses steps forward.

The man whistles a cheerful tune, bobbing his head to the beat as he struts nonchalantly, but stops when he sees the three of you standing in the dark. The four of you stare at each other, your eyes squinting and your bodies frozen in poses of attack or surprise. 

Great, now a complete stranger has stumbled upon this bizarre crime scene; you're already worried about how relaxed and composed both Stanford and Fiddleford were at the sight of the monster’s corpse, and now you’re adding someone else to the mix. But as your eyes adjust to the powerful beam of the flashlight and you take a closer look at the new man, you notice his clothing, a rather plain police uniform and a forest ranger hat.

This must be one of the officers looking for you. Maybe he's a future colleague of yours.

“Ah, Officer Blubs, glad you could find us. " Your suspicions are confirmed as Stanford clears his throat and relaxes his pose. He quickly stores away whatever weapon he was holding inside his trench coat and shoves his hands back into his pockets. Behind you, Fiddleford breathes a sigh of relief as his shoulders slump and the wrinkle that had furrowed his forehead disappears. 

The man, addressed as Blubs, playfully tips his hat to the scientist in a silent greeting, before turning his eyes, hidden behind his sunglasses (an odd fashion choice to wear at night), to focus on your figure. As if a light bulb had gone off in his head, he digs in his pockets and produces a crumpled Polaroid photograph, which he holds up to your face.

The cold air billows harshly as it ruffles your already-tangled hair and while your face doesn’t show it, you’re ready to fall asleep standing up if this man doesn’t hurry it up. An awkward pause placates the air before it’s interrupted by a deep laugh rumbles from within the chest of Blubs. “Well damn! If it isn’t my new boss! You got one hell of a welcome, didn’t ya?” 

He puts a hand on your shoulder, gently squeezing the muscle as a sign of friendship. From the way his grip is rather loose and the playful grin on his mouth, you can tell that there's an easy, almost effortless quality to him as if he's never in a hurry to be anywhere. You hope he'll put his back into his work if he's going to operate alongside you.

Yet you push the thought away as a small smile breaks through your tired expression, an unknown weight that has been plaguing your mind easing away. “You’re damn right… we should start right away if we want to catch some much-needed sleep," you immediately go into work mode, but not before returning his gesture. You give the man your name and he asks you to call him by his first name, Daryl.

You nod, turn to the other two, and quickly point your thumb toward the makeshift exit. “Alright, get back to your house and lock the doors, we’ll phone you later to go to the station and take your statements,” you catch a glimpse of Stanford opening his mouth, probably wanting to stay and continue examining the creature, but he's promptly stopped by Fiddleford, who starts to drag him away.

“Thank ya, Sunflower. Give me a holler if that injury’s still botherin’ ya. We’ll be seein’ ya,” He waves his hand shyly but insistently, giving you a sweet smile before rapidly walking away, a confused scientist following close behind. As the figures of the two men become smaller and smaller, you turn to Blubs, who idly prods the creature's body with his foot, completely unfazed by the abomination.

“Daryl, radio the others and tell them to bring a body bag. The sooner we get this thing down to a lab, the better,” you instruct, letting out a tired sigh, mentally preparing yourself for the piles of paperwork you'll be filling out in the next few hours. The deputy perks up, and a hand shoots up to embarrassingly scratch his neck. Oh God, what now?

“My bad. Forgot to tell you that is just you and me, boss lady.”

… What?

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You want to die. It’s been sixteen hours since you and Daryl somehow managed to drag the creature's body from four miles deep in the woods, stuff it in the tiny trunk of the police car, and drag your ass back to the dinky little station to start delivering bad news, sending the two kids to the hospital and trying to piece together what happened.

You were able to grab your briefcase, a pair of shoes, and a suitcase full of clothes and toiletries from your car so you could at least get a quick makeover and not look like you hadn't been mauled by a bear during interrogations. But as your eyes darted to your own vehicle, neatly parked right in front of the A-shaped house, a pit of shame welled up deep in your stomach for just leaving it there.

“Don't worry, Sunflower. We'll take care of it!” it was Fiddleford, who had just opened one of the windows of the house when observing your worry after passing by. The sweet man even offered to drive it to your house and you were two seconds away from grabbing his collar and kissing him senseless, but hey, have some class, you just met the guy. So, you simply shout a warm gratitude, before scurrying to the passenger’s side.

As the small police car speeds down the dirt road, Daryl fills you in on what happened while you were fighting the monster, but not before making sure the other two teenagers are not paying attention. Fortunately, they were both fast asleep, the exhaustion of the day's events having taken its toll on their minds. 

You felt a pang of sadness as you observed the two of them holding each other tightly, their hands and fingers wrapped tightly around one another, their faces troubled as their dreams are unable to soothe their worries. 

You also commented loudly on Dylan's missing tourniquet, wondering if the device had unraveled on its own, but your new associate noted that as soon as Stanford heard the commotion and opened the door, he immediately took the boy in and properly bandaged his injury.

You make a mental note of thanking the eccentric scientist when you see him next time.

As the car picks up speed and signs of civilization begin to appear, Daryl continues in a grave voice. “The other kid didn’t make it… died about four minutes after his friends called 911. We have at least three other missing cases and the boys at Roadkill County already found the body of Tabitha Roberts,” you sigh, scrubbing furiously at your face to remove some of the dirt stains. If you're getting help from another jurisdiction, the situation is dire.

“What do we tell ’em, boss lady?” is the heavy and burning question that hangs in the air. The uncomfortable one, especially when so many important details are clouded by uncertainty and so little evidence. But as the engine roars louder and a street of quaint suburban homes comes into view, you thank yourself for having gathered enough information about some of the conflicts that plague this sleepy town.

“We hypothesize that the creature that murdered your son was a mutated being,” is what you told everyone who took a seat in your new and bare office. Now clean after a hasty shower at the station, you presented the possible theory behind the inexplicable monster you had fought mere hours before.

You saw a variety of facial expressions after hearing this sentence: shock, confusion, anger, and one man was ready to curse you until you took a thick folder from your briefcase and quickly spread a variety of photographs and papers with graphs or testimonies written on them across the surface of the mahogany desk. You drew the following picture:

In 1963, just outside the small town of Gravity Falls, the Northwest family built a factory to mass-produce mud flaps. Soon after it opened, however, several townspeople began to complain that the river that ran alongside the building was polluted, adding that the water looked greenish or gray, and smelled of rotten food and burnt rubber.

Three years later, more complaints were received, this time about the appearance of deformed animals with two heads, having four eyes, or making strange noises such as screams wandering near the factory. To make matters worse, one of the workers was attacked by a deer with deformed hooves whose skin fell off easily, revealing that its muscles had turned completely white.

Soon after, a group of scientists from West Coast Tech University conducted a series of tests that confirmed the lake was contaminated with mercury and other chemicals that came from the factory. The report added that the mutations in the animals were not instantaneous, but were genetic mutations that came from generations of animals drinking water from the contaminated river.

People petitioned the county and the government to close the factory and clean up the river. However, to this day, the Northwest factory continues to operate and the contamination has spread, so the beast may be the result of generations of mutations.

Many of the victims' family members held onto the papers shakily, staring intently at the pictures of the mutated animals or the numbers showing the percentage of chemicals found in a sample of water taken from the river. You kept reminding them that this was only a hypothesis at the moment, a theory with no proof, but that you and Daryl were working to find out what was going on.

Most of them were upset but convinced by what you had told them. Others were more reluctant to believe, but couldn't refute much because they lacked vital information or were too emotionally drained to argue. They simply told you not to forget their loved ones... you replied, a sliver of emotion breaking through, that they would never be forgotten.

They seemed satisfied with that answer, as you awkwardly returned their hugs... you don't think you'll ever really get used to tokens of affection.

As the people left the precinct, you began to worry. About the panic, the fear-mongering, the speeches about hell, the devil, and divine redemption. Worse still, those idiots who call themselves paranormal hunters, who put themselves in danger by sneaking into the woods late at night, only to have their faces plastered on missing persons posters when they fall off cliffs or are mauled by wild animals.

“Eh, don’t sweat it. The information doesn’t spread too far, hell, this town’s been experiencing so much weird shit since centuries ago yet everyone’s accustomed to it. Believe me, once the eulogies pass and the bodies are buried… they’ll quickly forget about it. They always do… Well, welcome to the team, (Y/N)!”

This was what Roadkill County's Chief of Police, Harlan Farley, told you before he gave you a firm pat on the back and left the station with a few of his deputies. You, on the other hand, were left speechless, his words repeating in your head like a broken record as Daryl forced you to take a break and eat something.

So you find yourself sluggishly seated in a weathered booth at Greasy's Diner, an odd-looking eatery that seems to be a staple of the "Gravity Falls experience", as your co-worker puts it. Your calloused and bruised finger gently circles the rim of the worn ceramic mug, your weary gaze lost in the ripples of the now cold and cheap-tasting coffee, brain empty yet filled with incoherent thoughts.

You desperately need a long, uninterrupted nap.

You shrink further into your coat as you feel the shameless stares of customers and passers-by whispering about the new police chief. You've gotten used to the harsh and rude words thrown your way; it's not just part of your job, it's been a constant in your life for some time. Fortunately, you're far away from them now. But that doesn't mean you enjoy the feeling of being watched like a bacterium under a stethoscope.

Your sharp ears catch the unsavory words of a woman sitting in the booth behind you, commenting that you look sick and unhealthy. Her friends point out the bruises and cuts on your face, the way you wobble slightly when you walk, and stare uncomfortably at the back of your head. You don’t have a single moment of peace, do you?

Too tired to care, you push the mug further into the linoleum table, careful not to spill a drop as you unceremoniously rest your head on the unhygienic and cold surface. Your eyes are drooping, your meal is taking far too long, so you might as well have a quick power nap to regain some energy before eating a hearty, possibly cholesterol-laden meal and heading back to work.

Your muscles begin to relax, the mundane life and casual conversation of those around you acting as a lullaby as unseen hands gently pull you into your dreams. But the momentary relief is snatched away as something light jumps right next to you and... meows?

Your bleary eyes open, and in between the tears of sleep, you find yourself face-to-face with a cat. When did it get in? You didn't see it when you came into the diner. You examine the cat: its thick, fluffy coat is a beautiful shade of butterscotch, with highlights of white and lighter yellow and orange tones. There's a large patch of black fur on the crown of his head, which almost makes it look like he's wearing a hat. What's bizarre about him, though, are his eyes. The irises are completely white, making his black and thin pupils stand out even more. Is it a characteristic of the town that its animals look strange?

Annoyed by your curious yet sleepy gaze, the cat's eyes squint and it raises a paw in anger, clawing at your arm as it meows again. Is he asking you to pet him? No, it's actually demanding that you do it. You slowly reach out, afraid the cat will strike and claw at your skin, but when your palm lands on its head and it doesn't move, you breathe a sigh of relief.

“Hello, buddy. What are you doing here?” you coo softly, fingers gently scratching the cat's skull in a circular motion. As if in response, the feline meows back, head tilted to the side as if searching for your fingers, imploring you to scratch a particular spot. You laugh softly, obeying the cat's wishes as your nails rake through the fur, which is covered with a very thin layer of dirt and dust.

It almost feels like therapy, the stress of the earlier hours melting away as you hear his purr from deep within his chest as he closes his eyes and relaxes. It's so cute, you think, wondering why your mother never really wanted a pet. You would have loved to have one around the house, maybe now that you're independent you could adopt one. Although, with how busy you are at work, you feel bad about leaving it alone for most of the day.

The cat's head suddenly leaves your hand and a pang of disappointment runs through your body, hoping that the creature will return so that you can continue to chase that feeling of softness. But you're surprised when the cat slips into your lap and begins to walk awkwardly in circles, its body bumping against the table before settling comfortably on your thighs, its tail curled inwards and its head tucked neatly against your belt. 

The cat lets out a deep sigh from his small and pink nose as if releasing all the stress that has built up over the week, and seconds later his eerie yet adorable eyes close, the warmth of your body and your pets lulling him into a deep sleep.

You chuckle, finding his position and actions adorable.

“What’s so funny?”

It was Stanford.

══════════════════

Tag list:

@rotknox @devotee-of-bill @some-beans @dummybunnby

[zmediaoutlet]

"Dean, this is stupid—" Sam starts, but he shuts right up when Dean grabs his head down and kisses him, and he also kisses back so clearly it ain't that stupid, is it. Grabs Dean's waist on automatic and his tongue's, yeah, hot and there, ready, even as he mumbles some crap against Dean's mouth about how there's no time and there's a job to do and, yeah, like Dean doesn't know that? But—

"You aren't ruining this for me," Dean says. Even if it's looking like there's a good chance of it. He drops down onto his bootheels and Sam raises his eyebrows with this face like Dean's the dumbest person he knows and even if that's maybe true a lot of the time it's not true this time. Dean's—almost positive. "C'mon, man. We're in the actual wild west, here. There's gonna be a posse. Are you kidding? This is the best day ever."

Dark as hell in the 1800s but there's enough moonlight that Dean can see Sam's expression complicating into some new, more elaborate version of the you're stupid face. "Dude, we have—like, no time. Cas is gonna come pick us up at noon, no matter what."

Dean tips his hat back, slides his hand down to cup the front of Sam's jeans. Grins at what he finds, especially when Sam's eyelids flicker. "We're experienced cowpokes, here. Give me ten minutes."

"Never say cowpoke in this context," Sam says. Not exactly soft, that big familiar bulge filling Dean's palm just like it always has. He glances toward the street, down through the muddy alley, sweeps his own hat off his head, holding it out and to the side almost like he's trying to hide how Dean's going for his belt, zip, permission not exactly stated aloud but Dean was being honest about the experience, he knows permission when he's got it.

God—yeah. Crisp hair and the thick root getting thicker. Dean smiles up with his tongue between his teeth and in the moonlight it's hard to tell but he bets Sam's cheeks are red.

"You're an idiot," Sam breathes. Oh, yeah. Red-faced. His chest heaving. "We get caught we're gonna get hanged, man."

Dean lifts a shoulder, crowding in closer. Sam's hand slides to his ass, squeezes. "Sheriff's busy," he says. He nudges his nose under Sam's jaw and grips his dick at the same time. "Anyway. Boy, they said you was hung—"

Burst of laughter that Sam muffles against Dean's shoulder—Dean grins, even if Sam knocks his hat askew—and Sam drops fully back against the rough-board siding, spreads his boots so Dean can crush in close. Dean opens up his own jeans, quick, kissing Sam's jaw and picturing it—when they're back in the world with modern plumbing and beds and whiskey that doesn't taste like the ass-end of a Ford Pinto—getting Sam into the clothes Dean bought and getting that hat back on his head and really getting his share of schnitzengruben—but god, it's fun now too, in the mud with their boots knocking together and Sam's hand plunging in to grip him whole-handed, hot. Goddamn, cowboy.

"They was right," Sam says, quiet, and only Dean could hear but he laughs too, sniggering up against Sam's throat. Okay, so this is stupid, but Sam's hand is on his dick and they've got—less than ten minutes. Dean braces his boots better in the mud and slides his hand up under Sam's shirt, feels the hair on his belly. His gut warm and knowing the world's teetering in the balance but when isn't it, damn. He gets ten minutes, goofing around with his brother.

"First one to shoot owes the other a sarsaparilla," Dean says, and Sam groans and crams his hat back on his own head, says, "Shut up," but he grips Dean by the neck and kisses him and grips Dean by the nuts and then drags his fingers up the root and tugs up the shaft and slides his thumb sweet, sweet, right there, where it counts—okay, so maybe Dean spoke too soon about the sarsaparilla.

(Later—much later—at a motel after they clear out of Bobby's house and  Cas is sent on his way and Dean's not looking forward, at all, to stripping out of his awesome sheriff's outfit, and thinking about whether he could keep it at the storage locker in Black Rock without Sam somehow finding out—Sam says, you're the worst, and Dean says why this time, hardly paying attention, and Sam says, you got any idea how awful it is to ride a horse with your shorts all caked in jizz? and then, while Dean's bent over whooping with laughter, Sam stripping miserably out of his jeans, Sam says, you still owe me that sarsaparilla, and Dean has to sit on the floor, shoulders shaking, before he says, yeah, Sammy, eyes streaming, yeah, I'll get right on that, and Sam says you better but when Dean wipes his face he sees that Sam's looking at him that way Sam sometimes does when things are good, so. Dean was right, wasn't he. Best day ever.)

[deliciouskeys]

This fic has been entirely inspired by @vanshoundd's Butchlander cowboy AU art. I went feral after I saw it and wrote 3k words as soon as my work week was over. The art didn't need fic, but... um... now you have it.

(thank you for keeping the Butchlander tag alive with your pretty art, Vans)

Frontier Justice. Butchlander.

Billy had just ordered his third glass of whiskey when a blond stranger strolled in through the swinging doors of the bar. The man decided to situate himself on the stool right beside him even though there were plenty of empty seats at the bar at this early evening hour. Billy glanced over as the man took off his bright white leather hat and set it on the stool beside him, wiped the sweat off his brow and took out an actual comb to rearrange his matted hair. He looked so very familiar and Billy was trying to place him. When the barman came over to ask the stranger ‘what’ll it be?’ and he ordered a sarsaparilla, Billy couldn’t hold it in any longer.

“You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me.”

“Bout what?” the man asked nonchalantly, even as popped the metal cap off the glass bottle the barman took out from underneath the bar.

Billy realized it was odd to be irritated by another man’s beverage choice, but this was ridiculous. “Enjoyin’ that?”

“Yeah?” the other man answered in an equally querying tone.

Looking at him carefully, Billy suddenly pieced together why the man looked familiar. “Say, aren’t you that Jack Lander fellow?”

“Indeed,” Jack answered, taking another long sip from the long bottle neck. “You a fan?”

“Just didn’t recognize you without all ‘em rhinestones and garish boots.”

Jack Lander was a notorious figure in the area. He gained his fame by traveling around with the Wild West Show that went around the bigger towns. He was an incredible natural talent, probably the best marksman this side of the Mississippi, and an expert with the lasso, although Billy always thought it was mostly showy tricks than good old-fashioned useful skills. Jack used to wow audiences with all sort of ridiculous feats like standing up on a galloping horse and managing to shoot glass bottle targets on the run. Billy attended twice before the show shut down, the first time dragged against his will by Hughie, a young ranchhand who was eager to see the show. The next year when the show came around, Billy went into town on his own, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t like seeing Jack Lander’s gaudy button shirt with rhinestone highlights across the chest and shoulders, catching the afternoon light seductively. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t notice how pretty Jack’s ass was in those newfangled denim dungarees you couldn’t get at most supply stores, stretched drum-tight around his hips and legs, a pretty blue color. And he’d be lying if he said he didn’t rub one out in his tent that night, remembering the way Jack looked doing all his fancy trick roping.

Jack hmphed into his bottle of root beer. “What was wrong with my boots?”

“Other than the fact they were scarlet red and the spurs were painted to look like gold? Nothing at all.” Billy chuckled.

“Those were for the ladies in the audience,” Jack said flatly.

Jack Lander was certainly a ladykiller, but the reality was there were still not many as many ladies out here as fellows, and Billy couldn’t believe this man didn’t enjoy at least some attention from men on the side. “Didn’t realize it was exclusively for the ladies,” he said, winking, taking the last sip of his whiskey, gauging Jack’s reaction out of the corner of his eye.

Far from rebuffing the flirtation, Jack finally turned and looked at him, and smiled amiably. He made to clink bottle to glass before noticing Billy had finished his whiskey, and motioned the bartender over to ask for a refill for his ‘friend.’

“I’ll be paying for it,” Billy reassured the bartender who looked at the two of them skeptically. “It’ll be my fourth and the sun ain’t even set yet...” Billy warned Jack as he raised the refilled glass.

“Should have ordered sarsaparilla,” Jack said in sing-song, winking, clinking bottle to glass.

“Why are ya drinkin that vile kid stuff?”

“Because I’m thirsty?” Jack paused before adding. “And I like my hand steady and my wits about me.”

“Wits, huh. Well you might enjoy the conversation with me a bit more if ya didn’t have so many wits about you.”

Jack laughed, flashing his miraculously perfect white teeth, none of them crooked, broken, or worn down.

Billy glanced down to see he had not one but two holsters at each hip. What the hell did he need four revolvers and such a steady hand for? All Billy knew about Jack after the Wild West Show shut down a few years ago was that he started making his living bounty hunting. Sometimes it was runaway criminals, awful men. A lot of the time it was Apaches and Comanches that he’d shoot on sight, which was against the law, strictly speaking, not that there was anyone around here who would ever enforce it. It was a risky and cruel profession compared to driving herds across the plains like Billy was usually hired to do. It was a wonder that not only was Jack still alive, but that he looked not at all worse for the wear, even though his days of sleeping in a comfortable wagon trailer and getting glammed up for shows were over. His outfit was more practical, certainly-- baggier, brown trousers and coat with grime on the lower hems, a wide brim hat with no embellishments, unless one counted the visible salt fronts from head sweat. But he still had a small red bandana tied around his collar, and the shirt peeking out from underneath his coat was still a crisp white cotton number from what Billy could see of it. Billy was surprised at how tempting it was to peel Jack out of his layers and see if he was still a dandy at heart, and if his shirt was tailored to be form-fitting.

They both finished off their drinks, eyeing each other. They got up and Billy paid both of their tabs.

As soon as they walked out of the bar, Jack pulled Billy into the narrow shady alley between the bar and the next building—an inn of ill-repute of some sort.

“Can you really afford to be paying for other people’s drinks, William?” Jack asked in a hushed tone. Billy’s body was responding swiftly to being in close quarters with this man, but he soon felt the end of a revolver pressed into his chest. “From what I’ve heard of you, all you’ve done is rustled some cattle for someone else every now and then. Truth be told, I don’t even know why there’s a large bounty on your head when you haven’t held up a train or robbed a bank or been in any sort of bandit gang.”

Billy smiled wryly. He had his long rifle slung over his shoulder, but there was no way he could defend himself with it now. “Should’ve figured they’d put a bounty on me. Reckon it might’ve been the sheriff I shot over in Bitter Creek.”

“Ah, that’d do it,” Jack grinned, and his perfect white teeth looked more menacing in the shade of the alley. “Why the hell would you do that, William Butcher.”

“You can call me Billy if you’re going to end me. The sheriff was a piece of work, I got on the wrong side of him and it was going to be him or me. I didn’t run afoul of anything, he just took it into his mind that he didn’t like me. He hanged eight innocent people in the span of a few months working at that godforsaken little outpost. Mad with power. But I guess someone like you wouldn’t be judging a man for that.”

Jack smiled, more friendly this time without the rowful of teeth. There wasn’t really anything to lose. Billy leaned forward, despite the barrel of the Colt digging into his flesh, flicked the hat off Jack’s head and full-on kissed his would-be judge and executioner.

Jack inhaled in surprise, but returned the kiss full force, the faint taste of whiskey and the soft drink still on their lips intermingling. Jack eased the gun away, fumbling to put it back in the holster, breathing a quiet muffled moan into the kiss.

“Fuck-“ he said as he tore away. “Jesus Christ.”

“I would like the honor of fucking you. Just once. Before you bring my head in or whatever it is you do for proof of your kills.”

Jack was staring at him, pupils blown wide, still breathing hard.

“Take off your fucking coat. Let me look at ya,” Billy said, surprising himself with how imperious he sounded when he was in pretty dire straits.

Jack obeyed him wordlessly. Took off his coat, but didn’t give Billy much of a chance to admire him-- launched himself right back into the kiss, as if he were parched and Billy’s mouth was water. Jack’s figure hadn’t changed much since the show years, nice tapered waist that Billy instinctively grasped. Jack was a couple of inches shorter than him, and light enough that Billy simply lifted him off his feet, planting him on one of the water barrels stored in the alley. Jack didn’t protest, only pulled Billy in closer, pulling his hat out of the way before kissing him again.

They came apart again. Billy was out of breath too. “I’ll be honest, if you tease me like that I’m liable to just fuck you in the alley. Rather do it somewhere else. Unless you’re in a real rush to get to your next target.”

“Can’t say I am,” Jack said, still catching his breath.

“I don’t have a room at the inn. I sleep in a tent outside of town until there’s another cattle run.”

“Fine by me.” Jack shrugged. “I’ll fuck you under the stars. Inn here’s nothing to write home about-- got lice the one time I stayed the night coming through here before.”

Billy smiled wistfully. They rode out of town, the sun already low near the horizon, and the air quickly shifting from stifling to pleasantly cool to chilly. Jack was following behind him, having taken Billy’s rifle too. Billy thought about how maybe this was all a strange ploy to just kill him outside of the town line. Jack could shoot him from behind, and knowing his aim, he wouldn’t have any trouble dispatching him with one shot to the head, before Billy knew what hit him. But when Billy dared look behind him, Jack would smile, looking eager for what they had planned. No fear that Billy could lead him into an ambush of some sort. Pure unadulterated confidence. Billy found his tent site, and took a few minutes to build a small fire in the stone ring he’d made before. Maybe he was just stalling, knowing that once they did the deed, he was probably not long for this world. He saw Jack’s black boots come into his view once the fire was going strong.

“You wanna get on with it?” Jack said, and there was a note of whininess in his tone.

“Put the guns away, at least,” Billy muttered. “So I can peel you out of that outfit.”

His tent really wasn’t made for fucking—too narrow and low for anything but sleeping. The air wasn’t too cold yet. Billy lay out as many thick blankets as he could on the ground and Jack seemed to have no reservations, starting to strip himself down.

“You a seasoned rider?” Billy asked tugged off his brown pants.

Jack pulled a face. “Ridden my share. Tame, wild, you name it. Just so long as I like the look of it, I’ll ride it.”

This was a fantasy come true. That irritating pretty rodeo cowboy he was so taken with years ago was lying underneath him, ripe for the taking, admitting to wanting it. Billy opened his shirt carefully, not wanting to ruin the fancy tailoring or ivory buttons. The shirt wasn’t pristine white—there were pitstains and a bit of yellowness around the back of the collar. Jack wasn’t as perfect up close as he was in the rodeo ring. He smelled like horses, hay, and gunpowder.

“Reckon I’ll spare you if you’re real sweet to me,” Jack said, a smug smile on his face.

“And what if I’m rough?” Billy asked. He was almost reluctant to do it but reached into his boot and pulled out a sizeable knife that he pressed against Jack’s throat. Jack’s breath hitched, but he didn’t look too unnerved. This sick son-of-a-bitch looked like he was getting a thrill out of it.

“What if I’m rough with ya and take what I want then just slit your throat and leave you here in the desert for the crows?”

Jack was still smiling. “You won’t want to.”

“Why? Cause you’re such a good fuck?”

“Cause I like your style and you don’t seem like the kind.” Jack leaned forward, so that Billy instinctively moved the knife away from his throat before remembering himself.

Billy shoved him down into the blankets, holding him there because Jack kept trying to get up and resume kissing, or maybe intent on getting away and getting to the guns he’d discarded a few yards away. “Soft enough for you? Warm enough?”

Jack nodded. As Billy pulled Jack’s pants off his legs, his cock sprang out of its confines, raring to go. You’d never know they were negotiating who was going to murder whom. Jack Lander was a pretty little thing alright. A deadly, dangerous, unscrupulous little thing with a terrible profession, but Billy didn’t mind.

Billy didn’t want to have the knife in his hand. He wanted to take his time and enjoy this. As long as he kept this self-satisfied little strumpet of a man underneath him, he could probably hold him down with his weight. He threw the knife out of reach and picked up Jack’s legs over his own shoulders. He spat a gob of spit into his palm, quickly preparing himself, testing the body in front of him out with two probing fingers.

Jack squirmed but looked receptive, but when Billy pushed himself inside, there was a grunt of discomfort.

“Don’t have oil on me,” Billy muttered, kneading his hand against the soft flesh of Jack’s ass.

“Didn’t think you would,” Jack shot back, laughing.

Billy spat more into his hand, pulling out just enough to add a bit more to the mix.

“You gonna fuck me or what?” Jack said, sneering, moving his knees so Billy’s neck was squeezed tight between his calves. What Billy thought was a vulnerable position for Jack now let him choke Billy with relative ease. Billy shoved his legs down but Jack just wrapped his legs around Billy’s waist, digging his heels into him out of habit, as if even without spurs the motion could cause things to move along faster.

“Don’t you worry, I’ll fuck ya,” Billy gritted out through his teeth and set up a fast pace. He still couldn’t believe his fortune, both good and bad. He never thought anyone would bother looking for him—he hadn’t even shot that sheriff fatally, but he left town to be on the safe side and heard through hearsay that the bastard died of blood infection anyway. But if there was ever a good way to get hunted down this was probably it. If Jack Lander still managed to kill him, at least he got to fuck him first.

It was growing dark and the campfire cast flickering light along Jack’s pale skin, and their shadows against the tent looked elongated and distorted. Their two horses watched them from the post they’re tied to. Jack turned out to be quite a screamer, shouting and cursing into the empty desert when he came, hands going from tight fists to falling completely limp by his side. Billy pushed in quickly, relentlessly, satisfied that he made the other man mewl first. It wasn’t long before he came too. He slumped down on Jack, as much out of physical tiredness as growing mentally weary when he thought about how he’d probably have to kill Jack. At the very least, he’d have to take all the guns and both horses if he didn’t want Jack to follow him to the next town.

“You plottin’ what to do about me?” Jack asked, as if reading his mind. “I’m not gonna kill ya. I’m not gonna turn you in. I don’t need the money. I do this for my own pleasure.”

Billy relented and shifted his body weight off of him, courteously offering Jack the side closer to the campfire, but saying nothing.

Jack moved closer, pressing his body into Billy’s and looking sleepy. Neither was probably planning on it, but they fell asleep in the open air, only waking up when the fire died down and the air had gotten nippy. They shuffled into the tent, Jack falling asleep before Billy, squeezed close, arms in a loose embrace around him.

The next morning Jack was sitting there, watching Billy build another campfire. He looked half-asleep, shivering, wrapped in one of the blankets, with only his head showing and his hair mussed.

“I don’t have any more wood. We’re gonna have to resort to prairie coal this morning.”

“You think I’m so soft? That I never slept outdoors or made do with what’s out here?”

“You don’t look like you have.”

“Well you’re mistaken.” Jack looked away towards the horses before turning back. “I was meaning to ask you... if you were interested in my line of work at all?”

Billy only laughed in response.

“It’s not the most glamorous of jobs, I’ll give you that, but it’s better than doing cattle drives for other people. You might be good at catchin’ these villains.”

“Catching? Thought the point was to kill them. Dead or alive usually just means dead.”

Jack sighed.

“Why’re you so eager to get more competitors in your territory in any case?” Billy asked, finally stepping back from the fire to admire his handiwork, before putting a pot of morning coffee on.

“I was thinking more along the lines of a partnership. I do well enough on my own, but everyone needs a backup now and then. And it gets lonely out on the trail.”

Billy laughed. “Nah, you and I? We ain’t got anything in common. I never wanted to kill people as a profession.”

“Well, I know we’ve got an interest in the same type of night entertainment at least,” Jack muttered under his breath.

Billy stopped himself short when he caught himself imagining that kind of life. It was insane to even consider it.

“You don’t think Lander & Butcher has a certain ring to it?” Jack asked, smiling, unwrapping himself from the blanket and moving closer to the fire, stretching out his hands towards the flames. “We could bring some real frontier justice to these parts.”

[maddymoreau]

I LOVE that we ended up having the same favorite companion, Raul is the best!!

YESSSSSSS 🤝!!!!! RAUL REALLY IS THE BEST!!!!!! I LOVE HIM AND HIS STORY SO MUCH!!!!!!!!

His line before the Second Battle of Hoover Dam made me AN EMOTIONAL MESS ( ᵒ̴̶̷̥́ _ᵒ̴̶̷̣̥̀ )!!!!!!

I’M HIJACKING THIS ASK TO RAMBLE ABOUT MY HEADCANONS INVOLVING RAUL!!!

• He’s AroAce

• When upgrading the Presidential Suite in the Lucky 38, Madison (Courier Six) gets the Sunset Sarsaparilla Vending Machine just for Raul. While it comes out of her pay Mr. House restocks it regularly.

• Raul and her both LOVE and bond over sweets. In the beginning Raul would play the 😔 “At my age this might be my last chance to enjoy something sweet” card. It worked every-time on her.

• When Raul gets bubble gum he gives her the temporary tattoo it comes with. Madison hands them out to kids she encounters on her travels (Freeside, The Boomers ETC.)

• She indulges Raul’s sweet tooth to the point he has to go see Dr. Usanagi to get a bad cavity fixed and a few teeth implants.

• Raul teaches her about basic weapon repair. However not enough that she doesn’t need him.

• Together they collect the Star Sunset Sarsaparilla Caps. While not surprised they're both disappointed by the reward. Raul keeps the Pew Pew gun while Madison gives the toy deputy badges to kids.

Afterwards they continue to collect the Star Sunset Sarsaparilla Caps. Inside the Lucky 38 there’s a jar filled with them.

• Out of all the human companions, Raul is the one Madison trusts the most. She will privately discuss Mr. House's plans and what he wants her to do. Madison loves all her companions but knows not everyone would support the actions Mr. House deems necessary. Madison believes once they see the results, they’ll understand. Which obviously isn't the case.

Other companions are uncertain, but Raul is completely aware how loyal Madison is to Mr. House.

Arcade is the best example saying, “I have to say I don't understand where you're going with Mr. House. The man's been manipulating the locals for as long as anyone can remember. If you help him kick the NCR and Legion out, he's going to keep right on doing it. The people in Freeside will be just as bad off as they ever were. If you can find a way to push Mr. House out of the picture as well, I think everyone will be better off."

• Before Raul leaves for his own journey post game, Madison gives him a custom medal. She designed it but commissioned Michael Angelo to make it. It’s something Raul always wears.

• Although Raul becomes the Ghost-Vaquero who hunts down those who prey on the weak. Raul still makes it a point to visit her from time to time. He knows she’d miss his beautiful face.

• While unintentional when Raul visits they ALWAYS end up taking a nap together. They’ll be sitting on one of the couches talking then BOOM knocked out. Old habits die hard.

• Since Madison’s medicine skill is really high she’ll massage Raul and try to help him with his pain.

• Speaking of which after the Second Battle of Hoover Dam Madison’s first luxury purchase is renting out the ENTIRE Ultra-Luxe Casino’s bathhouse.

I imagine they don't typically allow Ghouls in there so she uses this chance to try and help Raul.

Since soaking in salt water has a lot of benefits for your health like easing muscle cramps, relieving stiffness in joints, back pain ETC. She wants to show Raul her appreciation for everything he’s done for her. Also they’re both extremely sore after that huge battle.

I’m not sure if the saltwater used in the Ultra-Luxe Casino is sterile but if it is it’d also be good for any open wounds Raul might have as a Ghoul.

• Madison offers to cover the entire cost for Raul to be put in a chamber similar to Mr. House’s. However he rejects her offer. When Raul eventually dies she broadcasts a recording of a mariachi band through every radio. She doesn't announce his death wanting the legend of the Ghost-Vaquero to live on forever.

This exchange perfectly describes their bond:

Madison: "Come, Raul, adventure awaits!"

Raul: "Sorry boss, but as much as I'd like to risk getting killed by your side, you seem to already have some help." or "Words cannot contain my excitement at the chance to throw myself headlong into danger with you again, boss."

[renoxvated]

Roy's Companion-Verse Information! His quest starts when you investigate into the other Courier's who have died, hearing that one other did in fact survive, Courier Four; The Fuzzy Dice Courier. Hoping to find answers and a kindred spirit you look to Courier Four's last known location-- Tiki Tonga Apartments, wallowing in his anger and misery you find Roy Sullivan. Roy's quest revolves around finding out who tired to kill him and why, similar to your own; unlike your own it wasn't Benny who shot him and left him for dead. It was his BROTHER, a ghost of a man he long thought dead, now working with the Great Khans. Courier Six has two choices.

The first one (Dog Eat Dog Perk) ends in Roy killing his own brother and getting his revenge, never coming to terms however with his childhood trauma and the death of his niece-- that drove his brother to his own revenge. The cycle continues and Roy becomes the wolfish man that bites away at him under the surface. In this ending he wanders the wasteland a lone wolf, presumably and eventually getting into a fight he just can't win. The other (Man's Best Friend Perk) has them settling things on a rocky but hopeful path to the future. He forgives his brother with the help of The Courier, understanding that they both SURVIVED and experienced a cycle of violence that doesn't have to define them. Roy shows his brother where the mans daughter is buried and they both morn the loss of both a child they loved and a childhood they never had. The cycle is broken and eventually Roy's inner wolf fades away and is replaced by a sense of newfound loyalty and will to protect those around him. The lone wolf dies, but now? His pack SURVIVES.

Inventory; Apparel: Roy's Outfit (A unique black leather jacket, black tank top, blue jeans w/ big dirty dusty looking black work boots, he's got a red bandana in his back pocket hanging out.) Weapon: Boxing Tape, Sunsetter ( A Variation of the Nuka-Break weapon, with a Sunset Sarsaparilla sign instead) Other Items: Roy's Note (A folded up piece of paper that's a Bible page ripped out, with the passage of  Luke 6:31 reading 'Do to others as you would have them do to you.' It was from his father's old Bible before Roy burned all but that page.), Amelia's Hairclip, Med-X, Sunset Sarsaparilla. Companion Perks;

Underdog: (Affinity Perk) The player characters deals (+20%) more damage when outnumbered (1v5), when Roy is your active companion.

Dog Eat Dog: (Bad Ending Perk) After blocking a melee attack, your next melee attack will have a chance of dealing (25%) more damage. (25%) Chance of knocking enemy characters down with Unarmed or Melee Weapon.

Man's Best Friend: (Good Ending Perk) Your damage resistance is greatly increased (25% less damage) for you and your companions. (15%) Chance of disarming your enemy from an Unarmed or Melee attack.

[vampiiric]

Hi can I hear fun facts about ur Courier 6 Saint Sebastian please 👉👈

YAY yes ofc :3

he gave himself his name bc as a child his family was attacked by raiders and he survived by hiding behind a partially-destroyed mural of saint sebastian in a church.

he describes himself as a "vagrant, a vagabond, and a general neer-do-well"

his favorite thing in the world is sunset sarsaparilla. he managed to get the bottle caps and go to the factory without even realizing there was a hunt for something. he just really liked the sarsaparilla. (this is because i was just like "oo i love sarsaparilla i miss homebrewing it :)" and turns out i completed a quest)

he hates people who hurt kids, it's on SIGHT. however because he's big and wearing a partial power armor suit kids are scared of him most times. this makes him sad but hes learned to live with it

he has selective mutism and so gets mistaken for the "strong and silent type". however he is just nervous.

he also wears a gas mask on his lower face (nonfunctional) bc hes kinda shy and it helps. however this does mean that he just looks really scary because he has a serious case of RBF

he thinks benny is a silly little man and respects his dedication to cowardice.

he's the type of guy to need a teddy bear to sleep well + to doodle smiley faces in the dust when he's bored

[dailyjimmybuffett]

God's Own Drunk

Well, like I explained to you all before I ain't no drinking man I tried it once and it got me highly irregular And I swore I'd never do it again But I promised my brother in-law that I'd go up and watch his still While he went in to town to vote It was right up on the mountain Where the map said it would be Friends, let me tell you one thing Though it wasn't no ordinary still It stood up on that mountainside Like a hugh golden opal

God's yeller moon shining on the cool clear evening God's little lanterns twinkling on and off in the heavens Like I explained to you once before, I ain't no drinking' man But temptation got the best of me And I took a slash That yella whiskey running down my throat Like honey dew vine water

And I took another slash Took another 'n another 'n another 'n For you knew I'd downed one whole jug of that shit And commenced to getting hot flashes Goose pimples was running up and down my body And a feeling came over me Like something I'd never experienced before It was like, like I was in love In love for the first time, with anything that moved Animate, inanimate it didn't matter It's like there's a great neon sign flashing on n off in my brain saying "Jimmy Buffett, there's a great day a coming!" 'Cause I was drunk I wasn't knee crawling, slip sliding, Reggie Youngin Commode hugging drunk

I was God's own drunk and a fearless man And that's when I first saw the bear He was a Kodiak-looking fella 'bout nineteen-feet tall He rambled up over the hill Expecting me to do one of two things Flip or fly, I didn't do either one It hung him up

He started sniffing around my body trying to smell fear But he ain't gonna smell no fear 'Cause I'm God's own drunk and a fearless man It hung him up He looked right in my eyes, and my eyes Was a lot redder than his was It hung him up

So I approached him, I said, "Mr. Bear I love every hair on your twenty-seven acre body I know you got a lot a friends over there On the other side of the hill There's ole Rare Bear, Tall Bear, Freddy Bear, Kelly Bear Really Bear, Smelly the Bear, Smokey the Bear, Pokey the Bear I want you to go back over there tonight And tell them I'm feeling right You tell them I love each and everyone of them Like a brother and a sister. But if they give me any trouble tonight I'm gonna run every goddamn one of them off the hill!"

He took two steps backwards and didn't know what to think Neither did I but being charitable and cautious Well hell, I approached him again I said, "Mr. Bear, you know in the eyes of the Lord We're both beasts when it comes right down to it"

"So I want you to be my buddy, Buddy Bear" So I took ole Buddy Bear by his island size paw And I led him over to the still He's a sniffing around that thing 'Cause he's smelling something good I gave him one of them jugs of honey dew vine water He downed it up right Looked like one of them damn bears in the circus

Sipping sarsaparilla in the moonlight I gave him another 'n another 'n another 'n For I knew it he downed eight of them And commenced to doing the bear dance Two snips, a snort, a fly turn, and a grunt It was so simple, like the jitter bug It plum evaded me

We worked ourselves into a tumultuous uproar And I was awful tired and went over to the hillside And I laid down and went to sleep Slept for four hours and dreamt me some tremulous dreams When I woke up, there was God's yeller moon Shining on the clear cool evening

God's little lanterns twinkling on and off in the heavens My buddy the bear was a-missing Want to know something else friends and neighbors? So was that still

[davespriteedits]

*Slides in*

Hi, I know I’m so late to be finding your blog especially when I think it’s been like two years since the last post but if you still are active on it I just wanted to say—

Hate is so undeserved for you man.

I can barely google Dave Strider or Dirk Strider without finding stridercest content. It is NOT niche. Way more of the fandom is into it than they wanna admit. And don’t even get me started on ao3.

So yeah I just wanted to toss that out there and hope you’re doing alright <3 /gen

im so bad at keeping projects going i knew i would stop updating this blog at some point when i started it. it was fun but getting a lot of requests for OCs and shit and not character edits was getting tiring.

thanks though. i am active elsewhere, if you want to see how im doing you can check out @citrus-sarsaparilla which is my strider(cest) focused blog that i actually use, and occasionally post original homestuck art.

ive always been saying theres more of us than they think. when you get into stridercest circles you can meet artists who are popular and stealth about it. its an old fandom ship. its just being pushed into the "niche" because purity culture is getting more and more popular. everything is sanitized for advertisers and i feel like consumers are getting used to that being the moral standard. i joke about being a freak sometimes but i genuinely dont think im a freak for shipping incest or age gaps. its literally not real.

thank you anon

[davidkarofskyindie]

willyoustilllovemeifimbroken (Rex/Kyle)

@willyoustilllovemeifimbroken continued from (x)

Kyle had moved back home from college a couple months ago and all his time was spent with since. The man who owned the book store in his town. The one he’s had a crush on for years. And who he finally kissed in senior year and even took to prom. Now they could be together with no judgements. He decided to surprise him with BBQ from a local place. “Oh I don’t really drink that stuff. Even after going to college and trying sip when I felt more comfortable to do so it just wasn’t for me. It’s why I got something better. Some sarsaparilla. I got you some too with some food if you want some later.”

Rex smiled a little brighter seeing Kyle and happily put his drink down "A college man who doesn't drink? Now I really have seen everything" he exclaimed with a bright grin as he walked over to Kyle, slipping around to hug the man gently from behind and nuzzle him "You spoil me sometimes, the food smells really good... second best-smelling thing in this place" he said, patting Kyle's chest playfully before moving back "How about we set the food up at the table and get all comfy, cos if we don't eat it now then I'll have to reheat it later and... well, lots of time apart, lots of catching up to do"

[running-on-co2]

About Muse

Name: Sarsaparilla Effervescence Nicknames: Effer, Effy, Sars, Bubbles, Fizz Age: 45 FC: Hugh Laurie Species: Robot / Root Beer 

Backstory:  Effer was a project made by a group of scientists to make a soda that would never go flat. However what they ended up doing instead was made a soda that had a mind of it’s own and hated man kind and wanted to see it destroyed after seeing how they treated his kind. He therefore became the worlds greatest assassin and made himself a suit to stop himself from ever dying (going flat) however this failed. He now searches more than anything for a way to become immortal and to stop himself from dying, while also trying to continue his job as an assassin taking out those who he deems threats, and trying to conquer the world as the new species. 

Personality:  Effer while a heartless robot can at times be very childish and careless, getting very distracted easily and doing things without thinking at times due to him basically being fueled by carbonation.

He does not understand humans very well or their feelings and emotions and as such has a very hard time dealing with children as he does not know what they want half the time or why they act the way they do seeing them as far to innocent for their own good. 

He hates most humans and also scientist after what they did to him. He also hates people who abuse or harm others for no reason other than they are weaker or lesser than they are. 

Appearance:  He has dark brown hair and matching brown eyes, pale white skin and is almost always wearing a suit with a device on his wrist that acts both as a scanner for targets and also as the device to keep his body functions and energy levels in tact. 

Powers / Weakness / Fears.  His major fear is dying (going flat) and he stops at nothing to make sure he finds a way to fix that even at the cost of making deals with people who are far from trust worthy. He is very naïve at times on this front as he trusts people to want to help him as long as they give him immortality. 

As a robot he has immense strength and is very knowledgeable when it comes to weapons and which ones to use during situations. He also however has a weakness of the fact that he is a robot and therefor is very easy to malfunction or break as his suit is his only main life force and keeps him functioning and from going flat. 

He has to maintain a constant watch on his life force levels even if this entails  taking medication that while it helps to give him some powers back when low it also makes him extremely ill in the process. 

[animalecapsules2004]

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https://www.linkedin.com/in/animalecapsules/

[cold-steel-eyes]

[ @lotuskissed​​​ ]

Out of every establishment on The Strip to spend your evening and lose your money in the notorious den of vice and sin, Gomorrah was not the type of place that you would expect to see the soft-hearted, and mostly modest, courier six to currently be residing at. Arcade had planned to meet up with him here around 10 pm after he got done with some Follower business. They’ve been hearing a lot of rumors floating around recently about how some of the workers here were being mistreated and both of them had wanted to investigate it themselves, in hopes of stopping whatever corruption that may be going on behind closed doors. 

Buck had gotten all spiffed-up for the evening. Wearing a black three-piece suit with a matching black tie, provided generously by Mr. House. He had bathed in heated water and scrubbed his body, face, and hair with various pre-war soaps that only the Lucky 38 had to offer, while the lotions helped to moisturize his skin. His once tangled mat of hair was now brushed and styled in a half-up half-down bun, and he even got to use one of his recipes of applying a combination of minerals, herbs, and oils to make it lustrous and soft. 

He had been expecting a few offers from some of the sex workers, with tempting faces and batting eyes, but he politely declined each time, assuring them that they were very attractive, but he wasn’t interested in that kind of thing. He still thanked them anyway for offering with a blushing face and a cracked voice. 

It actually made him feel a bit uneasy, something he wasn’t really used to feeling, sitting at a lone barstool in the Brimstone section, away from the growing hubbub and nursing a cold sarsaparilla in place of the usual hard whiskey or scotch that they were usually known for. Watching aimlessly as tourists of men and women in expensive attire alike enjoyed the entertainment, but made sure to also stay vigilant in case he caught any signs of abuse going on with any of the workers. Only taking occasional glances at his pip-boy as he watched as time simpered on.

The crowd continued to let out crude whistles and cheers at the beautiful woman with blonde curls performing on stage, while Frank Sinatra’s “The Lady Is A Tramp” played faintly in the background. 

The cigarette smoke from the patrons had hung heavy in the air, sticking to the already peeling wallpaper and making his head feel heavier than usual. The dark-haired man could already feel himself sweating underneath the collar of his suit, making him more uncomfortable than what he would like to be. 

After a bit of thought, he decided to step outside for a few minutes and get some fresh air in hopes of clearing the fog in his head, thanking the barkeep before paying generously with a tip.

As he was about to follow the signs that lead him out into the courtyard, excusing himself as he makes his way through the large crowd, a random woman came stumbling into him and made whatever alcoholic beverage that she was carrying, it smelled like champagne, to stain his once immaculate clothes. 

It only took them a moment to realize what had happened, as the young woman reacted with equal shock. 

“O-Oh! I’m so sorry, Ma’am!” Completely forgetting about his ruined suit and tense mood, Buck’s only thought right now was to help her. “Here! Let me buy you a new one!”

[scribblertown]

Fates of the Fateless Ch. 3: But Second Impressions are What Really Matter

How’s about a proper hello without a pistol in the face.

ao3

wattpad

“Remind me of yer name again deary?” Asked Bessie, the sweet older blonde woman.  

 Your response is utterly pathetic and small, exhaustion was evident in your voice.

 “Oh of course! What a lovely name it is. Suits such a pretty young woman such as you.” The two of you wound up sharing a wagon alongside her mutually charming husband Hosea. Both incredibly chatty and total jokesters. The second you set foot on their wagon she swooped in to chat you up. “Believe me, I’m the one named after a Heifer! Ahahah!” she had such a strong and jovial chuckle she’d let out at her wise cracks, slapping her leg and throwing her head back every time she did.  

 “Well, I’ve never seen a bovine as lovely as you Bess.” Hosea piped up to the left of his wife, both seated on the wooden stage in front leading the line of wagons to what Dutch had called a semi-permanent residence. “In fact, your appetite for alfalfa is what made me fall for ya.” he grabbed her hand and brought it to his lips before grinning up at her.

 “Well, I fell in love with yer money.” She brought his hand to her lips this time. “And you ain’t all that ugly to look at either.” She gave him a dazzling smile that reached her eyes. Holding each other’s gazes with a fit of giggles before a kiss was shared between the couple.

 “You got a sweetheart dear?” Bessie called back to you, eyes forward and hand interlocked with Hosea’s.

 Your eyes roll before you can think not to. “No…”

 “Really?!” she turned to look at you, her eyes wide and eyebrows raised considerably. “Lovely thing like you should have suitors lined up for miles!” she had longer lashes on her top lids compared to her bottom ones, fanning out at the ends extending the length of her eye.

 “How long until we get to… Where was it again?” diverging the conversation to anything other than dating. Especially the same damn conversation you’ve already had with every old woman you’ve encountered trying to save their grandsons love life.

 “Surssparilla peak. Nice little patch of rock overlooking the local town. Got a good water source too.” Your pretty sure Hosea meant to say sarsaparilla, “should be there by tomorrow afternoon. Morning if we’re lucky.” You guessed by the time everyone had packed up and set out after your little fiasco it was well into the afternoon that you actually departed.

 “Gonna be a long ride then…” you rested your chin on your arms that in turn rested on your knees. Gaze wandering out the back toward the wagon following you while Bessie and Hosea got caught up in their own little conversation.  You recognized the two drivers as the same men you had stowed away with on your escape. The dirty blonde had the reins while the dark-haired kid sat appearing to be ranting about something. His face a scowl, hunched over with one hand on his right thigh while his left took to emphasizing whatever he was saying every once and a while. He looked pretty young, if you had to guess he must have been 18-19 years old. His hair was greasy looking and long, reaching to his shoulders. You imagined if you touched it your fingers would come away with oil. He was a lanky kid, skinny and small. At least compared to his companion.

Your eyes then drifted to the absolute beast of a man that sat next to him. He was intimidating, even when just sitting. You could make out two little scars on his chin, in contrast with the darker stubble that was just long enough to be considered a beard. Your eyes traveled the expanse of his face the best you could from 15 feet away, another scar over his nose. Slowing coming to meet his eyes, shaded by his hat. You felt yourself stiffen. Thick eyebrows furrowed slightly; his gaze focused on you. Still just as intense. Studying you in such a way you began to feel self-conscious, only managing to hold his stare for so long before you broke, switching your attention to the surrounding desert terrain that passed slowly.

  You’re pretty sure his eyes are blue.

 -------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Over here is where you’ll be sleeping along with me and the other girls. Claim your spot and don’t move from it.” Susan Grimshaw, or Miss Grimshaw to you as she so eagerly corrected, began showing you around the camp the group managed to set up in the early hours of morning you all managed to arrive. One you embarrassingly slept through, but Bessie insisted you needed the rest. It was set on the same red colored sandstone the majority of this country seemed to be made out of. Shaded by an array of very old and big Juniper trees that seemed to flourish here. Probably because of the nearby creek that brought an array of green to such a desolate land. Beyond the hills edge a town could be seen settled at the base.

“Over there is Pearson’s kitchen, you’ll be given your share of food in the mornings, evenings, and nights. But don’t get greedy, we all have to eat. Here Strauss is the doc of the camp, try and keep injuries to a minimum. We only got so much supplies.” She walked at such a rate that you could barely take in what you were seeing trying to keep up with her. You almost didn’t return the wave Pearson casually made in your direction.

“You’ll be expected to carry your own weight around here, there are always chores to be done, especially the cookin’ and laundry.” She had made a full circle around the little set up they’d made, briefly pointing out the difference in the water for drinking and washing before you found your attention drifting.

 Some of the men had built a little firepit where they’d made themselves comfortable, sipping at coffee just outside of their own sleeping area. Including Dutch and Hosea who were chatting happily with the rest of the boys. Mr. blue eyes and lanky kid of course were there, and then the other two men you had yet to really encounter. A dark-haired man who seemed transfixed on his cup. Next to him sat Uncle. His name is just Uncle as far as you knew, laughing his ass off at whatever Dutch had said. Face red and plump. He reminded you of a hobo Santa clause.

 The ring of your name quickly pulled you from your head finding Dutch smiling warmly, waving you over.

 “Come meet the boys!” Hosea piped up next to him.  

 You turned your sights back to Grimshaw who simply waved you off.

 “Off you go. Put you to work when yer formalities are done.” Leaving your side to join the other women. You approached the campfire at a brisk walk, not too fast but not too slow. Their eyes all transfixed on you. Hosea reached for your hand as you soon as you were close enough, giving it a squeeze and a reassuring look.

 “How are ya today my dear?” gentle and calm, like he was afraid of spooking you if he was too loud.

 You gave a slow shrug, eyes focused on where your hands met. “Better I suppose…” Another pause before you spoke again, “Thank you for asking.” You brought your eyes to his, they were filled with pity.

 “Good to hear, now how’s about we all get better acquainted, hm?” he stood from his seat hand now on your shoulder to gently turn you to the other men. “The dandy in the fancy pants is Dutch Van der Linde, he’s my business partner and long-time friend of many years.”

 “Hello my dear, just know if you need anything you can come to us two old coots.” His hand found yours in a brief handshake, his grip strong and the cold metal of his rings pressed into your palm. “I apologize for the distasteful greeting you received on our first meeting.”

 “No worries Mr. Van der Linde. Can’t say I wouldn’t have done the same.”

 “This troublemaker,” Hosea wound his way behind the next fella, hands gripping his shoulders in a playful manner. “Is little John Marston.”

 “Hey! Quit it!” John’s distinct gravelly voice confirmed you’re suspicions in his place as the other driver. “I ain’t a kid no more!” he shoved off Hosea’s grip with a scowl and a red face. He briefly gave you a look before looking away. “Hi…” was all you got out of him.

 Before Hosea could speak up for him, blue eyes stood and removed his hat from his head. “Arthur Morgan, nice to meet you ma’am.” He gave a slight bow of his head. His eyes were indeed blue, complimented by green.

 “Arthur is the muscle ‘round here, so if anyone gives you trouble, he’ll knock some sense into ‘em.” Hosea gave him a good smack on the arm. “Yeah, he may look scary, but he’s a real soft-hearted fella.” You didn’t quite believe that. “So much so I have to wonder what lovely poems you write in that little journal of yours. Will we ever get to hear you recite just how much a romantic you are?”

 “Hosea please…” Arthur rolled his eyes, only slightly annoyed by Hosea’s teasing. They must do this to him a lot.

 “Only teasin’ Arthur. You make it too easy for me!”

 “The mopey fellow there is William O’brien. Don’t let him talk your ear off.” Dutch spoke in a sarcastic manner, clearly pokin’ fun at his quiet demeanor.

 “Ain’t much ta say. Got a ragin’ headache.” His hair was dark and short, a matching beard that covered just the lower half of his face leaving his upper cheeks and lip clean shaven. His eyes brows were unruly and wild. Eyes hazel in color and framed by hooded eyelids. The right one a drift slightly. “Nice ta have a new skirt around. Tired’a lookin’ at dese fairies.” He gestured to the rest of the men.

 “Well ya’ll are such charmers aren’t ya?” Uncle stood next “Don’t know how to act in the company of such a fine lady.” He brushed his shirt off before going for your hand. “The names uncle madame.” he attempted to bring his lips to the back of your hand before you quickly snatched it back.

 “No no no! A simple hello is FINE.” He was caught in his pre hand kissing position for a moment before he just shrugged and he returned to his seat.

 “Don’t listen to anything this bum has to say. It’s usually to free load off ya.” Dutch clearly amused at the little scene. “Oh! That reminds me.” He dug into his vest pocket before pulling out some money. “I believe this belongs to you.”

 You ponder taking it for a moment, “Keep it, not like it’s all that much anyway.”

 Dutch made a double take at you, shocked and somewhat amused. “Not much? Well, we must have quite the aristocrat in our midst!” He chuckled.

 “I-I don’t want to be a burden to you all, so if it’ll help you out, it’s yours.” You rubbed the back of your neck slightly debating whether or not to confess the origins of the cash. “It’s.. not exactly mine to begin with…”

 “Stolen money hm? And pray tell where it came from?” He sounded interested, intrigued. But not angry.

 “The sheriff. Back in Redrock where I stumbled upon you lot.” You met Dutch’s gaze. “It was an impulsive action, a-and I feel awful about it…” To your surprise Dutch gripped your shoulder, giving it a tender squeeze.

 “My dear, we have a saying around here.” He looked like he was relieved to hear your confession, as if he’d had a weight lifted off his own shoulders. “Shoot fellas as need shootin,” you stiffened at such an utterance. “save fellas as need savin’ and feed ‘em as need feedin’.” His voice was gentle and eerily calm. “I believe you took this money ‘cause it was what you needed.”

 “And last we saw the sheriff; he was doin’ fine.” Hosea chimed in, giving you a similar look of relief. “If anybody had done him harm, it was those O’driscoll boys.”

 You remained quiet for a moment before breathing out a long sigh of air. Partially from relief, partially from the guilt pressing down on your chest. Taking the bills in your hand you pulled out just the one. $10, the smallest amount donning the face of a man you didn’t recognize, returning the two $20’s back to Dutch. “You keep the rest.” You didn’t wait for him to argue, simply turned to return to Grimshaw.

 “If she doesn’t want it, can I have it?”

 “Shut it Uncle!”

[nightingaelic]

Arcade, Veronica and Cass react to a Courier who was born in Arroyo and is the child of Fallout 2's Chosen One.

I haven't played Fallout 2, roast me in the notes

"You were born in Arroyo?"

The courier sighed and leaned back against the bar. "Yeah, Arroyo. I don't know, it was a fine place to grow up in, I guess. We definitely had more than most do. But I had to get out. Never been one to stay put somewhere, even when I was small. I think I might've gotten that itch to move around from my mom, but she outgrew hers. Settled down and started a family, after all that crazy stuff with the oil rig and the Enclave, and having to rescue everyone in town... well, it's a long story."

Arcade Gannon: "Hold it, hold it." Arcade waved his hands frantically. "You were born in Arroyo... your mom is also from Arroyo... and she rescued everyone in Arroyo from an Enclave oil rig?"

"Mm-hmm." The courier popped the cap off the Sunset Sarsaparilla the bartender had left for them and examined the underside. When no blue star revealed itself, they shrugged and stowed the cap away in their pack. "Bit of a celebrity. Her fame died down by the time she had me, but she was still the tribal elder. She used to get all types dropping in, thanking her for her courage, her skill, the good work she did for Tandi... probably still does. For me, though, it was a huge shadow to grow up in."

"Six. Six. Look at me." Arcade was beyond flustered. "You're saying that your mother... is a descendant of Vault 13, and is responsible for the downfall of the Enclave on the West Coast. Your mother is the capital 'C', capital 'o', Chosen One."

The courier rolled their eyes. "Don't start."

"Oh, well okay then." Arcade laughed, a semi-frenzied sound that drew a few pairs of eyes to the two of them. "Yeah, no big deal. Just... just wandering around the desert with the offspring of the woman who defined most of my... yeah, this is fine."

Rose of Sharon Cassidy: Cass' eyes narrowed. "Never got a visit from an old man, about yea-high, with a whole mess of scars and a metal plate in his head, did you?"

The courier grimaced. "We got visits from super mutants. The men who came around didn't stick out much, next to them."

"Ah, it's just as well." Cass turned back to the bar and pushed her glass forward for a refill. "Always said I'm not one for mourning, and now's no time to start. Dad and his legacy are alive in me, and I'm not slowing down for that nonsense."

The courier nodded, then grew thoughtful for a moment. "That necklace you got from him... I recognize it."

Cass let the confession sit there until the bartender had poured her a new drink. She brought the whiskey up to her lips, swallowed hard. "You do?"

"An old woman in Arroyo makes them to sell to visitors. She gave my mom one, once."

"Huh." Cass tilted her glass around and smiled. "Funny. Guess it's a little piece of your past, too, Six."

Veronica Santangelo: "Well you know me." Veronica batted her eyelashes flirtatiously. "I'm a sucker for a long story. Especially those involving the downfall of the Brotherhood's greatest enemy."

The courier made a face. "I thought the Brotherhood's greatest enemy was itself."

"Second-greatest enemy, then." Veronica scooted her barstool closer. "Come on. There have to be some bits and pieces about your mom's story that don't make you feel like you're letting down a long legacy of excellence by running away from home and becoming a Mojave Express courier."

"Fine." The courier let their head fall to the side in exasperated defeat. "Let's see... well, after Arroyo merged with the NCR, democracy came to town. Most everyone voted for mom in the first election, of course, because she was best suited for the job and had already been doing it for ages. But before that, I would've been expected to become the next elder and lead, and some of my early life was dedicated to that destiny. Mom let that stuff slide after the NCR change, though."

"On purpose?"

"I don't know. I always thought she got too busy to bother, but now I think she might've been trying to give me that freedom I wanted."

"Awwww." Veronica beamed.