#the lonesome drifter

[caelan0d]

Sparkle On! Don't forget to be yourself!

Commission for @gaydeliverydriverunion

My Commission are open!

[scopebite]

boy the mojave wasteland is just a fascinating place isn't it?

[maddymoreau]

Videos of the performances:

Hadrian the Ghoul:

Billy Knight:

Rad Pack Revue:

Bruce Isaac:

The Lonesome Drifter:

[bellonathedragonborn]

Met this cool dude today. Nice guitar to.

Also Vulpes made Adrien a heart over at Nipton.

[thefalloutwiki]

✍️ Behind the Scenes✍️

Joshua Sawyer once stated that he wished they had time to program the Mysterious Stranger turning on the Courier if they attempted to kill the Lonesome Drifter.

[sitting-on-me-bum]

“Lonesome Drifter”

“We frequently witness the vertical migration of small creatures that travel and feed on highly attractive lights in water that is approximately 200+ meters deep in blackwater. While I was exploring the area, I came across a pyrosome (an unusual tubular planktonic animal) that was 10cm (4 inches) long. As I examined it carefully, I discovered that an animal was hiding inside it. The creature was floating in mid-water and moving randomly. Luckily, I managed to capture a few shots of it before it drifted away into deeper waters.”

by Dennis Corpuz.

2024 Underwater Photographer of the Year competition

[undeadcourier]

so i never actually did the talent pool quest where you recruit performers for the tops until now, and the last person i'm supposed to recruit is the lonesome drifter. no problem, except... i stole his guitar when i first met him... oops lmao

[fnvminorcharacterpoll]

FNV Minor Character Poll - Round 3-B, Day 2

Left: Beatrix Russell, hired guard at the Old Mormon Fort and potential sex worker at the Atomic Wrangler. —"Longing makes the heart grow fonder, but I've always been a fan of hog-tying my lovers to make sure they can't escape."

Beatrix Russell's designated cheerleader is @shockvalue! shes got it all!!! shes a ghoul. shes a cowboy. shes a strange little freak. shes the guy with the gun. i love her.

Right: The Lonesome Drifter, a traveling musician. —"Well, I was born in a little town out Montana way. Me and Ma didn't have much, ever since my pa up and left."

The Lonesome Drifter's designated cheerleader is @lledxela! Cheering for the Lonesome Drifter since he is like the only Montana Rep in fallout. Respect for my fellow Montanan.

[Bracket | Info & FAQs | Become a Designated Cheerleader]

[analogbreakdown]

The tale of the Lonesome Drifter

If you've been around the wasteland like me, you may have heard the tale of the Lonesome Drifter. Accounts of his appearance vary from person to person, but one thing shared between all oral reports describe the drifter as being tall in stature and having a signature handlebar mustache. Of course, that is not the most recognizable part of him. No. That would be the acoustic guitar that is never seen without him; charred black across the rest of its wooden body, touched with a warm, orange fire at its center.

Legends say that the Lonesome Drifter presided among many great battles that have occurred throughout the desolate wasteland, with some sightings being as recent as the Second Battle of Hoover Dam. Reports of him range as far north as Utah, stretching all the way back west to California. Some say that the music he played could determine the victor of a conflict. Whether you think he's alive and real is up to you, but I know one things for certain. Along with his guitar is his trusted .44, always holstered upon his hip. I've seen some of the bodies after battles he was supposedly sighted at, some filled to the brim with six bullet holes, patterned as if it were some sort of symbol. I'll let you be the judge.

- Written by me, Analog :)

[redsnerdden]

Red’s Comic and Manga Picks of the Week: March 11, 2025 #ComicBooks #Manga #GraphicNovels #NCBD #Books

[wimples-sr]

MAN COURIER SAYS THE THINKS HE HAD A KID SOMEWHERE IN MONTANA WHILE TALKING TO LONSEOME DRIFTER?? WHYYYY THE COURIER IS SO STUPID

[yanderedrabbles]

Imagine being a lady out in the Wild West, mayor's daughter, preacher's niece, something good and proper. All tight laced and demure on Sundays, sweet and pretty all week 'round.

You got plenty of admirers. Cowpokes drifting through your small town who promise themselves that the second they've got more than dirt to their name, they're coming back to marry you. Traders and tradesman who see you in your Sunday best and think how sweet it would be to have you waiting at home for them. And others too. Men with too sharp eyes and hats kept low. They think about you too, but always at night. Always with one hand slick.

You've got plenty of folk with eyes on you, but no real suitors. Whoever your guardian is, they've got high standards. Maybe your father is hoping for a good political match, or your uncle is looking for a God fearing man. Either way, you're untouchable. Untouched.

Well, until you ain't.

Maybe the man who takes you is one of those hard eyed drifters, with a mean mustang and an even meaner right hook. A crook in everything but name. Maybe he doesn't work alone, and it's a whole pack of them who grab you straight out of your backyard, hands pressed against your mouth so hard they leave bruises on your cheeks.

Either way, they've got just about one thing on their mind. And they don't want to be interrupted.

They take you out to the desert, or out into the deep woods, or far into the canyons. Somewhere lonesome. Somewhere they can take their time with you.

Maybe they succeed. Get to keep you all to themselves. A prize too sweet for men like them, a little missy who would always be out of reach if they didn't take matters into their own hands. Their hands are rough with labour - wrangling and gunslinging and digging graves for folk that wouldn't otherwise need them. And rough with you, too. Skimming up your thighs, prying them apart...

That's what folk would call a bad ending. Would shake their heads over and secretly pray that it never happens to one of their girls.

Maybe they succeed. Or maybe, just maybe... they don't.

See, the sheriff of your town is a hard man. White hat always clean, badge always shiny, but his gun is nicked with use, his spurs dull with hard riding. And when he hears what happened, it ain't long before he's on your trail. Pushing his stallion until it's frothing under the saddle. Hoping to get to you before night time. Before the sun goes down and the lust comes out.

He finds you easy enough, but it's just him against a gang and that ain't no easy win. He watches them from a distance, from up on the canyon maybe, or from between the thick trees. Sees you sitting at their campfire, hands and feet tied, pretty white dress stained with mud.

He sees that and thinks how he'd rather eat lead than see them stain the rest of you so dirty.

It ain't easy. It takes planning, skill. He lures them out one at a time and picks them off. Knife between the ribs, arrow straight through the neck, a wire pulled taught and tight around their throat. Until it's just him and the leader left - the man who chose to take you, the one who'd have gotten the prime cuts when it came to butchering your innocence.

It could go either way at this point. The sheriff ain't no slouch but the gunslinger is younger, hungrier. Folk would say the good guy should win, that justice ought to come out on top, and that you deserve your happy ending. But the truth is that they're both rotten to the core.

'Cause it ain't duty that made the sheriff ride his horse lame trying to get to you. No. It's love, of the kind just as perverse as the outlaw's. Only difference is that the sheriff has a whole society of rules and laws and expectations to keep him in check. And out here? Well, they just don't apply.

If the outlaw wins, the story ends pretty simple. He keeps you, has his way with you. Ruins you. Tucks you away in his hideout for only him to enjoy.

But I don't think that's what happens. The sheriff might not have the other man's speed, but he's got experience, age, years of watching cocksure young men giving themselves away when they go for their guns too early. He puts a bullet right in the other man's heart and steps over his body to get to you.

You're shaking, crying so hard that your gag is soaked through. Looking up at him so thankful that he wants to fuck you right then and there.

He cuts through your ropes and you hug him, not caring one bit that it ain't something a proper lady would do. He kneels on one leg and let's you cry into his shirt, voice all weak and sweet as you thank him.

"They was gonna do such awful things sheriff. Kept tellin' me how good it would be for me, but they kept touching me. Sheriff, I was so scared."

If he could, he'd kill them all over again. Instead he just holds you. Ignores the age gap between you, ignores how it ain't the proper thing to do.

"I'm here darlin'. And ain't no one gonna lay a finger on you again, you hear?"

You nuzzle into his neck, hiccuping. And God, it feels good to hold you. He's too old for you - hair going grey at the temples despite him still being lean with muscle. He's too jaded and mean for you - how can he be a good match for such an innocent thing when his hands are soaked in blood? He knows, but he just doesn't care.

Just scoops you up in his arms and carries you to his horse.

If there's one thing you ain't realised, it's that the sheriff is about as sly as he is mean. When he takes you home, he'll probably take your guardian aside for a quiet word. Lie straight through his teeth and tell them he was too late, that you were ruined before he got there.

He'll watch them go pale, watch the cogs turning. Who will want you now? And when he sees that awful realisation on their face, that's when he goes in for the kill.

Puts his hat over his heart and says he's so ashamed that he wasn't faster. That he couldn't save your innocence and your life both. That if your pa would give his blessing, he'd be more than happy to take you as his wife.

It's not the match they wanted for you. He's not a great political ally and he sure as hell ain't a God fearing man. But who else will have you once the rumours start flying?

And when they tell you, you're too shaken to object. Too indebted to the law man to wonder what he said to make them suddenly so amenable.

It's a nasty trick to pull. A theft almost as bad as your kidnapper's. You're too good for a dog like him, but he'll be damned 'fore he let's you get away. Rabid dogs sink their teeth in and never let go, didn't nobody ever tell you that sweetheart?

And on your wedding night, when he claims his reward from between your thighs, you slowly start to realise that honour isn't as easily found as you once thought, that a badge doesn't make a man good. He'll probably look up at you from between your legs, his lips and stubble shiny with your wetness. Smirking like a wolf who got locked in the pen with the whole helpless flock.

In the end, you only have yourself to blame. I tried to tell you he was rotten.

[littledeadling]

Lonesome cowboy who would do anything for his town X lonesome drifter who would do anything for his son

[an-android-in-a-tutu]

Romancing the Exit Sign

Art: @nickelkeep

Writing: @an-android-in-a-tutu

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 125k

Tags: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Alternate Universe, Eldritch, Cults, Gore, Suicidal Thoughts, Mystery, Case Fic, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Canonical Character Death, Romance

Summary: A teenage boy is left to die in a shallow grave and something slithers into his bones. Devotees of an ancient god work to bring Her into the world, as with equivalent fanaticism, a man on a mission picks them off one by one. A lonesome drifter crosses paths with a mysterious stranger and finds himself inexorably drawn into the middle of it all.

Dean Winchester is adrift. All he has is his car, the next hunt, and a conversation he doesn’t want to have waiting for him in California. Then a case involving mangled bodies washing up on shore in an idyllic lakeside community puts him on the trail of a man calling himself Castiel, and the dangerous web he’s entangled in. Dean is used to living in a world of monsters, but the End of Days is a little out of his wheelhouse. Especially when his only ally is determined to keep his secrets behind his teeth, even as they draw closer together. Still, he intends to see things through, no matter how dark the path ahead gets.

It’s either that, or call his brother.

It's here! My @deancashorrorfest fic is officially live, stream it now if you dare delve into the deep dark unknown...

I'm very excited for people to see this one, I've never written a multichapter fic anymore, so thank you to the horrorfest for providing me with the time pressure, and thank you nickelkeep for your amazing art and prompt!

Read it on Ao3

Check out the art post

Explore the other contributions

[scatteredthoughts2]

The Homecoming.

The train pulls into Mullingar,

And I wipe away a tear,

It's my first time home in many years,

And no one knows I'm here.

The station looks the same,

But it's still a lonesome place:

It brings back a stab of pain,

Of when I last kissed your sweet face.

I walk up to the Green Bridge,

And look up towards Patrick Street,

I see Clarke's Bar on the left,

Where our family used to meet.

I look down on Dominick Street,

Through the blowing, swirling snow,

And though I know the town so well,

I don't know which way to go.

I go into Days Bazaar,

For a coffee and a scone,

It was the book shop that I loved,

The last time I was home.

And from my table by the window,

I watch the crowds go by,

Searching every face,

Hoping some will catch my eye.

But who's that in the Market Square?

With microphone in hand,

Joe Dolan sings out loud,

With his ghostly Drifters Band.

The Greville Arms I enter,

And my heart lifts up with joy,

For the first one there to greet me,

Is my old friend " Nodger Boyle ".

Nodger fills me in on the lost years,

When last I was at home,

We share a laugh and we share some tears,

And, when he leaves , I'm all alone.

All alone with just my thoughts,

All alone; there's only me,

All that's left for me are ghosts;

All my loved ones in the cemetery.

I leave and walk back to the station,

Wondering why I came back home,

Was I dreaming someone would be waiting,

That I would not be on my own.

The train pulls in and I take a seat,

And I leave Mullingar behind,

It was only ghosts that I came to meet;

Only ghosts that I could find.

@Ambrose Harte

@Scattered Thoughts

[cnsys]

more honeycomb... i think he used to work on a farm until he got TIRED of lonesome flatts' morose nature. till a drifter came into town and showed him theres OTHER music to enjoy

now he's early 40s and loves ALL music. but he still has a soft spot for country