#Frontiersmen

[vnynv]

MEET THE DISPATCHER

The Dispatcher is the RED Team's 10th mercenary who exists outside the boundaries of being an offense/defense/support class. Real name "Naima Les" (lit: Nameless) and uses she/he/they pronouns. His main stock item is a briefcase, giving him a topographic map and her teammate's locations, who she can aid through missile strikes, traps, or air supply drops.

Used to bureaucratic jungles, tax write-offs, and the occasional contract killing for a shady yet powerful firm, Dispatcher has to swallow their arrogance and learn how to fight alongside the team after a sudden transfer.

(more art and weapon ideas below! warning. p long.)

Dispatcher's stock kit (125 HP, 93% speed, weapon and PDA keybinds similar to Spy/Engineer's):

(PDA) Briefcase:

-  Includes topographic map/sensors of teammates (coordinate interaction), touch-tone phone to communicate (Scout’s headset now has a reason to exist). Connected to TF Industries satellite, has automated air support, and [SPOILERS].

- Takes medium set-up time and hauling open briefcase slows speed to 85%.

Air strike (Offense)

- Calls upon a drone from the air to strike general location of enemy based on teammate’s vision (think spectating when waiting to respawn). Not suited for high speed fights; missile has timer to land. Functions similarly to Soldier’s/Demo’s explosions. Low ammo count.

Stock Missile: A ballistic missile. The missile knows where it is at all times. Base: 90 / Crit: 270. Sugar Glider: Free-fall bomb. Always Mini-crits, but less precise - easier to damage teammates. Artillery Battery: Smaller missiles rain down in a group. Splash damage, faster reload/higher ammo count. Precision-Guided Munition: Guaranteed to not hit teammates. -50% damage and no crits.

Stun traps (Defense)

- Drops stun traps to slow enemies down in hot spots (think Control Points/Payload). Functions similar to Primary taser. Can be changed for caltrops (bleeding damage) or something else, I dunno.

Air supply (Support)

- Basically interpretation of med kits/ammo on the ground. Canon cool down and wait to replenish teammate’s health/ammo/metal from afar - no biggie. 

(Primary) Modified taser gun:

- Stuns enemy on impact, needs numerous shots to kill. Base: 40 damage.

2. (Secondary) Med kit: (veterinarian) (for animals) (dogs. mutts)

- Lore wise, meant for animals. Not as good as air supply health kit, but no drop time. Functions similarly to Heavy’s Sandvich.

(Melee) Swiss Army Knife / Knife of All Trades (KOAT):

- Weak in itself (30 damage) but can cause bleeding damage. If hitting teammate, temporarily buffs their primary weapon.

just some potential weapons for him! i'm more of a visual concept designer so their kit might be pretty op or underpowered, but the general basis is nerfed speed (in everything) and attack for whole-map range tradeoff. potentially a similar playstyle as engie (with a whole chilling in a lawn chair taunt), though in an alternate universe there could be a loadout for a battle!patches. i GUESS in actuality she would be counted as support, but i didn't want to ruin the 3x3 style.

anyways. she's the star of a canon/oc fic i have. tootles now.

[wctruitt]

They were literally backwoodsmen, who had always resided on the frontiers, forming the connecting link between civilized and savage men; and who did not, in their emigration to the west, form any new acquaintance with the perils of the wilderness. They had been inhabitants of the long line of frontier lying east of the Alleghany mountains; were the descendants of men, whose lives had been spent in fierce contests with the Indians; and were themselves accustomed from infancy, to the vicissitudes of hunting and border warfare. A few of them came from Pennsylvania and Maryland, but the great body from Virginia and North Carolina.

Strictly speaking, they were not farmers; for, although they engaged in agriculture, they depended chiefly on their guns for subsistence; and were allured to the west, rather by the glories of the boundless forest and the abundance of game, than by the fertility of the new lands and the ample resources of the country. They came singly or in small parties, careless of protection and fearless of consequences.

Their first residence was a camp; a frail shelter formed of poles and bark, carefully concealed in some retired spot, in which they hid the spoils of the chase, and to which they sometimes crept for repose at night, or slept away the long inclement days, when the hunter and his prey were alike driven by the storm to seek the shelter of their coverts. At other times, they roamed abroad, either engaged in hunting, or in making long journies of exploration; sleeping in the open air, and feeding upon the fruits of the forest and the flesh of wild animals, without bread or condiment.

Excerpt from SKETCHES OF HISTORY, LIFE, AND MANNERS INTHE FAR WEST; by James Hall (1834)

[artcreature326]

My dad likes Gordon too :) (purple one)

[zachfett]

Natural Selection 2 (2012, Unknown Worlds Entertainment)

These screenshots are from 2014, hence the low resolution. It's a shame only a few hundred play this now, it was such a fun multiplayer experience back in it's prime.

Thankfully the few hundred still playing are all very dedicated to the game, and there's modders releasing community balance mods to this day.

Here's hoping at some point the devs do a Natural Selection 3, but I know they're busy with a Subnautica sequel at the moment.

[arlenschumer]

My portrait of DANIEL BOONE--born on this day in 1734--who was NOT who you THOUGHT he was! arlenschumer.com #danielboone #arlenschumer #americanhistory #frontiersmen #mountainmen #illustrator #illustrationartists #illustrations #portrait #portraitdrawing @dgareps @adamschumer @richardsyrettstrangeplanet https://www.instagram.com/p/CkdnLkgLM-d/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[shamrockqueen]

Country Roads

Pairing : Dark frontiersman Bucky x runaway reader

Warnings : Noncon, Sex in a Wagon, Squirting, Fingering, Smut, Vaginal Sex

Word count : 4341

AO3 Link

You’d walked what felt like too damn long. Your boots scuffed the dirt as your sore feet failed to lift high enough off the ground. Shuffling the best you could, you thought you could have made it farther before sundown, but you just didn’t have it in you.

Lookin back, you probably shouldn’t have walked away from the homestead and into the dusty brown yonder thinkin you’d find your place in the world. You were young, kinda dumb, and had just about run out of steam to go on.

Every step of this journey had been done on a whim. Dreams of walking away from it all to a better place had plagued you since you were knee high, and you told yourself that one day you’d get up and never look back.

Now, as your feet ached with each step, you wished you could remember the way home, or at least had something worth going home to. It was a small farm with about five too many mouths to feed. Nothing good ever grew out there, so there wasn’t any point in staying. But, with nowhere to go, was it worth leaving?

Through the pain you just kept trudging down the old wagon trail. It hadn’t had much use in a long while, but you thought there’d be at least one cart to cross your path. Someone kind that’ll let’cha hitch a ride.

No such luck, at least you thought as much. It was then when a speck in the distance began moving closer to you.

The steer came into focus alongside the wagon they were pullin, and you started waving your arms wildly in the air to catch its attention. You hoped it would see you and stop in time so as to not run you over. When it came to a full stop, your legs finally gave out. Now that salvation had come, they were done holding your weight. The driver nearly leapt from his seat as he saw you hit the dirt.

The wooden wheels stood tall, and the hand that reached out towards you was like the hand of God pulling you to heaven. It was only the right hand of the driver helping you off the ground, but it felt like a miracle. You amble to your feet rather unsteadily as this total stranger grappled you by your shoulders to lift you back up.

You reached for his shirt to pull yourself forward as he tried to stand you back up.

In a flash he slipped his arm under your legs and hoisted you to his chest, having grown tired with your dance of fatigue. The heat had made you delirious, and as the sun shone overhead it darkened the features of your would-be savior. You could almost hear him murmur to himself as he slipped you into the back of his wagon.

Like picking up a starving dog from the side of the road, he loaded you up among his cargo without question. It was then that the tiredness felt along your whole body took hold of you, and the white cloth of the wagon roof blurred to black.

Whatever amount of rest God had graced you with soon ceased as the moon light poured into the small space within the back of the wagon. It wasn’t moving anymore and as you tried to get up your weight made the old wood of the floorboards creak.

You got to your knees and crawled towards the opening at the back, and shuffled through the hole to stumbled onto the ground below.

There was a faint glow on the other side, so you wandered towards it, and were greeted by him as he sat by his fire.

He had pulled off of the road and set up his camp for the night after finding you and having to stow you away in his cart. As you rounded closer he stood up to greet you with a “look who’s finally awake.”

Without the sun blurring out the image of your ‘savior’ you have a chance to actually get a good look at him.

He was tall, with a shaggy head of short brown hair hidden under his hat. A few stray pieces stuck out from underneath but weren't too noticeable. He had a nicely built frame that was shaped by the clothes still clinging to his arms and midsection. He was also sweaty, and looked as if he’d been riding around for a good many days.

But, what stuck out the most were the dark shimmer of blue in his eyes that got more profound the closer he came to you.

The way the light of the fire sparkled over them like an island oasis. It drew you in like a curious little moth.

You didn’t think you’d been staring too long until he asked if you’d heard him. You must have missed his question and he caught on to that real quick. Yet, real gentleman-like; he just asked you again “Are you alright?”

You shake your head to cut your vision loose from his face. Maybe then you could think properly. “Y-yes. How long have I been sleeping?”

“Long enough, I thought you might not wake up.”

You were glad to have not been roasted like a plump chicken under that heat. All thanks to this kind stranger before you.

“T-thank you for helping me.” You found your tongue knotting up as you tried to speak to him, but he deserved the gratitude for having scooped you up into safety.

He nodded along and mustered up a smile before returning to his seat by the fire. He motioned to it, figuring you came out to enjoy its heat.

You shuffled closer and sat about a foot from him. You absorbed the warmth from the flames almost immediately, and it brought new life to your aching body. Yet, there remained a chill running along your spine as you sat near this complete stranger who had taken you into his care for the time being.

He turned to you and asked “So..What were you doin out on the road by yourself?”

You could imagine he had a fair amount of unanswered questions, seeing as his cargo had been out cold for the better part of the day.

But, the issue at hand was that you didn’t have a very good reason to give him. You didn’t want to just blurt out that you’d run away from home when nobody was looking.

“I just didn’t have anyone to come with me.” It was the best answer you could come up with, and it technically wasn’t a lie. Still, he raised an eyebrow at your response.

“Where were ya headed? He asked as he poked at the fire.

If you’d chosen to be truthful, you would have said you didn’t have a damn idea where you were headed. Yet, it seemed better not to show off the poor choices you’d made just by leaving home and going west.

“Silverton” the name just slipped off of your tongue without much thought as you tried to get comfortable.

“Silverton?”

You didn’t even bother to nod, surrendering to the preposterousness of your answer. Silverton was miles away from home, and you would have sooner perished than even dream of reaching it just by walking. He knew this, and just continued talking through your silence. “You’re headed to Silverton? On foot? With no supplies?”

“I guess I didn’t think things out very well.” It was, and understatement, but true nonetheless.

It was at this moment he’d finally started connecting the dots around your situation.

“Hm. What’s waiting for you there?” He asked.

“Planning to head west to seek some fortune of my own for a change.” You nearly mumbled every word, growing less excited about the prospect of continuing this doomed journey.

“No one is waiting for you back home? A young thing like you oughta be missed by somebody.” He’d seen right through you. Runaways aren’t often found and only shortly mourned for in these times. You had been determined to walk away from home and never turn back. Now you don’t know where to go from this point.

“Not a soul.” Was all you gave him.

He pursed his lips. The look he was giving you was most likely one of pity. You almost pitied yourself at this point.

“I don’t think I caught your name.” The statement was a well-needed change of pace, and he cocked a small smile as he spoke. It was nice being able to smile back. “I guess I haven’t been in much of a state to give it to you.”

“I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

You could help the chuckle that escaped your chest. This finally gave you the opportunity to change the conversation to something less serious.

“You first.” You spoke as your weak smile got stronger. Just for a moment at least. “James, but everyone calls me Bucky.”

You give him your name and he tries it out. It slips off his tongue with ease, and he says it suits you.

You wonder to yourself, who might’ve given him a nickname like that. It was a sweet encounter, and come morning he asked if you needed a lift to the next town at least. You agreed, not wanting to turn back and not wanting to leave his presence.

He snapped the reins to get the cattle moving, and the cart bumped and shook along the uneven road. The wood of the shotgun seat creaked beneath you.

For a moment the only sounds between you were small rocks getting kicked up by the steer, getting knocked among the wheels. You’d just hopped onto the first buggy that came your way and were seated right next to a complete stranger. You had to at least talk to him.

“So..Where are you headed?”

“Home.” Wasn’t a very descriptive answer. Still you persisted. “Home…where?”

This time he was quicker to speak up “White oaks, a little farther south than your intended destination.”

“I see. I suppose then you’ll be cuttin me loose on one leg of the journey?”

“Suppose I might, but then I might not. Best not worry your little head too hard about it.”

He was a man of few words and great contemplation. Every mile passed seemed to drag on longer and longer. When the sun finally started to set, he turned the steer off of the road into a clearing. He stopped the rig there and hopped off. When he turned to you this time his tone and character twisted somewhat harshly.

He was a man of the frontier, often gruff and maybe rude without realizing it. So, when you hear him shout “I’m stoppin off here for tonight. If you wanna keep moving, you can walk from here.” You didn’t hold too much of it against him.

It was his way of giving you an out, but you didn’t take it. You were not gonna be walkin in the dark and so you just asked to share his camp again. He obliged with a pat to your shoulder, and sent you off to find some dry wood for a simple fire as he tethered the steer to a nearby tree.

When your hands were filled with enough branches and wispy sticks, you came scuttling back to the little encampment he’d set up. He handed him the kindling and sat back on a small blanket he’d set out for you.

Evening turns at night and soon the small fire flowed brighter underneath a blackened sky. You sat across from him as you were petting one of the steer.

He’d cooked some rabbit he caught hopping too close to the wagon. He’d said it would be better to eat fresher meat than to use up all the dried stuff. Made for a mighty good meal.

Any conversation was far and few until he starts to dig at the story you’d made up on the ride over. “You’re certain you wanna go all the way to Silverton?”

You let out a weak laugh before answering “I don’t know anymore.” You look down at the hem of your dress and purse your lips into a pout. “Everyone else gets to leave; why can’t I?”

“So you walked away with nothing?”

“Wasn’t anything there to take.”

He scoffs “kinda dumb of you to do that. Something really bad could’ve happened.”

You don’t think too much into his lecturing, and move the conversation into another direction.

“Anything at home waiting for you?” You mirrored one of his previous questions in a different light in an effort to know more about this man named Bucky.

“Not really. Just the farm.”

“What do you grow?” Meager conversation seemed better than silence, but now you weren’t so sure.

He sighed before answering with “Not much at the moment. It was a recent purchase.”

“Really? What made you decide to buy a farm?”

“I was once a soldier, and some new land was what I received as payment for my service.”

“You were a soldier?” He just nods back at my question.

There wasn’t much light to make out very many of his features, but when he leaned in closer to the fire it helped show the finer details of old scars hidden past the collar of his shirt.

It wasn’t unusual for military types to have been cut up in the line of duty. There was a particularly large one beginning at his wrist, only to hide under his sleeve, but possibly peek back out at his shoulder.

This became another moment where he caught you staring, only this time his other hand covers the visible portion of the scar. “I’ve seen better days,” he said. “War often makes good men into something ugly..”

You're quick to cut him off “Mister, there ain’t no artist in this world that could make anything half as lovely as God made you. You AIN’T ugly”

A small smile breaks out on his face. The scruff of his beard curled up along with it.

You miss the glint of something darker that hides behind that smile as you turn back to scratch the top of the steer’s fuzzy head as he payed beside the both of you.

When the night grew heavier, he let you crawl up into the wagon to sleep. He said he’d stay by the fire, and you believed him as you curled up into an old blanket he’d kept stashed in his supplies.

In truth he had no intention of staying outside; and when he heard your breathing deepen with the call of slumber, he got up from his spot beside the fire. He walked over to check the tether on the steer to make sure no noise would send them running off into the night.

Then he approached the closed flap of the covered wagon. Slowly he undid the ties holding the fabric closed before pushing it aside.

He doesn’t bother to tie them back up; you won’t be getting away. You were so small, so naive, and so vulnerable. He wanted to take his time, just to get a second to taste you properly.

He leaned in near your face to get a better view of your calm features as you slept. Someone had to have missed you somewhere. He certainly would have.

Bucky leaned in closer until his lips just barely brushed yours. Your nose flinched from the contact, but nothing more. He then pressed farther to let the tip of his tongue trace your bottom lip, and this time the corner of your mouth twitched.

His hands had hovered over your clothed thighs this whole time, as he tried to keep himself from engulfing you completely. This wouldn’t last long as his patience finally wore out.

His lips pressed into yours so as to lock you into him, and his fingers slipped in under the hem of your dress to feel the delicate part of you that was hidden underneath.

His palms were warm over your cool skin as he forced your head back against the wooden slats of the floorboards.

He was right to be weary of you stirring from his touch. You woke up almost immediately after his lips covered yours and his tongue swept over your teeth. He couldn’t help but get closer, covering your body with his like a thick weighted blanket.

Your body jolted under the harsh hold he had you under simply by instinct, and you began to squirm and even try to scream. No matter what, every move was hindered by his wandering limbs and every decibel choked up in the back of your throat as his mouth melted into yours.

Sweat built up on your forehead and likewise under his cotton shirt as his chest pressed into yours. Your skin was soft under the rough palms as he scrambled to feel as much as he could grab.

He didn’t even pull away as he pushed the skirt of your dress towards the top of your stomach to get it out of his way.

His knees had to pin your legs open for him as you were barely able to kick free. Your limbs were abnormally heavy as he had you pinned beneath him. You wanted to kick; you wanted to scratch at him and scream. Just as you wanted to walk away from everything, eventually your legs went limp and your spirit faded. Until he found you. Even now, as the light in your heart went dim, a new warmth spread through your body, spreading up your spine and pulling in hidden places.

The thin cotton that still covered you was almost no barrier as he slipped his fingers beneath it and pulled it aside. In the dark wagon your flower was barely visible as his fingers sought after its core.

“To think, you walked away from home and right into my arms” his was a deep purr against your lips. Each word was said between single locking kisses, giving you enough time to breathe but nothing else.

“You were doomed to wander until I found you.” He squeezed his body closer to yours as one of his fingers found their destination.

“Sto..p" the word got caught too hard in your throat, as he had pushed past the little opening to curl said finger inside to widen you better for him.

Your body clamped and twitched in protest as a slick substance began to form around his intruding digit.

“Don’t worry. You’ll change your tune when I find your sweet spot.” It wasn’t long before another finger pushed its way inside to spread you farther apart. The stretch made your insides burn a little more with each pull and tug.

You reached a hand up to him in an effort to push him away, but it only clung onto his sleeve as his fingers twisted inside you. When your muffled sounds of protest had turned into a soft whimper, his lips slipped from yours to trail down your throat. Your insides flexed around his fingers as he continued to work them back and forth.

“That feel good darling? I bet it does. I can feel your fighting around my fingers.”

Your flower was wet and open for him as he began strumming at a different tune, and a new sensation could be felt tickling along your inner walls. You surprise even him with the little noises that escape your throat.

He smiles warmly against your skin as he coaxes this new feeling to its peak.

Your whole body is shaking and joints at your knees twitch and jerk with each drag of his fingers. It feels like your body is alite, spreading warmth from your ears to the tips of your fingers and blossoming out of your overworked pussy.

It was all too much, and as your body let go of him as a small jet of liquid shot forth past your folds to splatter onto the wood.

You struggled to catch your breath when he finally let you go. You hadn’t realized you’d been holding it, and now you felt as if you couldn’t suck in enough air to keep conscious. It even took you a moment too long to realize he was no longer on top of you as he’d sat up. The blue of his eyes glittered with the little bit of moonlight that had shown through the open flap of the wagon. He was admiring you, all of you.

“Beautiful.” He gritted out as he dug his fingers into your thighs. You would have winced in pain had you any sense to do so. The next moment his hands slipped from you to his trousers. In the dark you could hear the clicking of his belt as he pulled at his clothes.

This was your moment, you were completely unhindered, and yet you stayed laying on that harsh wooden floor. You could've hopped up and made another run for it; it hadn’t stopped you before.

No food, no horse, not even a change of clothes, and you still walked away from everything. But, now, with all that would be looming over you again, you didn’t move to run. The window of freedom opened and closed as he returned to hover above you.

“It may hurt, but I’ll go easy on you.” You didn’t register much of what he said and couldn’t see him aligning himself to your abused core until you felt him spread your lower lips and prod at the open area with his member.

The intrusion aggravates your sore points and brings sharp new rivulets of pain. It finally shot some adrenaline into your muscles and your hands grappled at his shoulders. Will real effort this time you tried to shove him off. Heat was spreading through your joints and in your chest as you tried in vain to fight off the pain from your body stretching over its limit.

It's like a white hot flame burning up your lower body and it has thick tears brimming in your eyes. The sounds that came from your throat had the steer jumping at the noise, and he pushed himself to the hilt.

The pain simmered and melted as he moved inside of you. His cocked dragged against a deep untouched part of you that had chills running through your nerves. Your hands still clenched around his biceps and this time you held on for dear life. No more did you push him away as his pace had gotten harder and your body instead fluttered around him.

The wheels swayed and the floorboards creaked in protest to his movement as he shook your body with his.

Your head was swimming, and the wood began to spin in with the cloth of the wagon cover. His thrusts grew more desperate and even sloppy, but you could barely tell. Your mind melted and your body was burning so hot you felt like you’d suffocate.

Your body quacked and twitched around him as all the heat in the lower body finally erupted. You could feel the tears roll down your burning cheeks, as well as the air rushing into your lungs.

He stilled with a final rough thrust, and fell upon you like a thick blanket. Your little hands were locked into fists around the fabric of his shirt as it clung to his sides.

Your breathing was still too thin and a pang of pain rocked deep in your head before you dropped back down to the floor of the wagon. Just as you first found your ladle in his care only one night prior, your surroundings twisted and blurred together. Only instead of seeing light, the world went black. It wouldn’t stay that way for long.

It’s awfully strange they way things seemed to repeat, and this time when the walls of the wagon spun into view, you felt as if you were spinning with it. It nearly made you sick and instead of sitting up you curled into a ball as the wagon shook and jumped to life.

Your companion Bucky called back to you from the open area at the front where he was directing the steer along the road. In a single night he had packed up camp and driven away, with you tucked up in the back like precious cargo.

You lifted up onto the back of your elbows. More so to roll over into your knees, as opposed to actually standing in the moving cart.

From the small opening at the front you saw the back of Bucky’s shirt still clinging to his broad shoulders, and the loose bits of hair that stuck out of the back of his brimmed hat.

There was no way to turn back anymore, even if you truly wanted to, and any attempts to move in a direction separate from your now captured might be hindered by that same man. Even if he let you run away, there was still the obvious question of whether or not you’d survive on your own. This was what kept you in the cart, still seated there on the floor.

You didn’t question what he’d done, nor did you lunge at him or scream. Oddly enough, the only words you tossed in his direction were “where are we going?”

He spared you a glance over his shoulder and answered “Home”

You stayed silent after that, just letting the cart hopefully rock back to sleep. Short visions of your mother and even some of your siblings flashed under your eyelids as you shut them tight to hold in the offending tears that threatened to spill.

You’d known you’d be leaving them all behind when you left the house, and even when you grew painfully tired, you never once turned around.

So as you curled back into a ball on the now warm wood, and tried to accept your fate.

Want more Bucky? Then check out Bucky’s masterlist!

[hoplite-miniatures]

Some future projects I already have mapped out are

definitely fishing my tau sept

Starting my gaurd/marine fleet concept

And dabbling in an imperial navy squadron to keep things mixed up

[nunchler]

every time i see trad gender roles people being weird about fibercraft i wanna tell them

-medieval and early modern knitting guilds were full of men learning and perfecting fancy knitting techniques to impress rich clients

-in cold, wet climates like the scottish highlands knitting was done by the whole family, in fact it was the perfect activity to do while a man was out on a fishing boat or in the pasture with his sheep and cattle

-men who were away from women for a long time had to know how to knit and sew at least well enough to mend their own clothes. soldiers knitted. sailors knitted. cowboys and frontiersmen knitted. vikings probably knitted (actually they would have been doing a kind of proto knitting called nalbinding, but that's beside the point). all those guys the far right love to treat as ultra masculine heroes were sitting around their barracks and campfires at night darning their socks and knitting themselves little hats

[silentangell95]

Филми и сериали: Ноември

[den-ai-d]

The Frontiersmen🤠

Starting the year strong with these two of course 😌

Lynn's side under the cut

[vnynv]

a fear you can't shake off

[beefrobeefcal]

Catfish to BigFish feat. Dark!Frankie Morales

Summary: Boston. The Frontiersmen is a crime syndicate that deals in drugs, arms, and anything else they can to keep themselves on top. But how did Frankie 'Catfish' Morales, the coke-addicted, lanky mess of a man become its leader? And where did the moniker 'BigFish' come from?

Rating: Explicit 18+ (MDNI) | Word Count: 2,283 | 3+/- years before OTWF begins

Content Warning: threats of violence, crime, violence, betrayal, Big Fish is a bad man in the making, character death, allusions to drug use, swearing, choking, punching, eating, comments on body, weight gain, friendship but at what cost?, Tom is a bag of smashed assholes

Author's Notes: this is a prequel showing us the how, what, why, and where roughly three years before Honey comes into the picture in Chapter One: Signed and Sealed. The biggest, juiciest, wettest thank you to @neverwheremoonchild for brainstorming this with me and to @strang3lov3 and @noxturnalpascal for their love and eyes. Pour one out for @xdaddysprincessxx - she will need all the hydration she can get.

On the Waterfront Masterlist

“If it were anyone else…”, Tom warned. 

“Yeah, we know. But it’s not. It’s Fish. He’s one of us.”

Pope sat back and watched Will do something none of them thought they’d have to do – convince Tom to give a shit.

“He’s a fuckin’ coke head! Snortin’ our own shit and lyin’ about it!”, Tom boomed, standing over Will. “You ran the fuckin’ numbers, you can see how much money we lost up his fuckin’ nose! And now you wanna spend more money tryin’ to get that fucker clean again?”

Will didn’t bend. He didn’t shrink and he didn’t back down. “It’s Frankie. Catfish. Our Catfish. And he needs help.”

Tom huffed harshly enough in Will’s face that his hair moved, then turned his ire to Pope. 

“You think Fish’s worth it? Already cost us a shit load of money and Will wants to blow more on that fuckhead.”

Pope slipped into his smooth and nonchalant voice and crossed his arms. He’d hoped this would give Tom the impression that he was just as unnerved and steadfast as Will.

“You know he’d do the same thing for any of us.”

“Fuckin’ altruistic bullshit!”, Tom barked, slamming his fist on the table. 

Pope felt his blood heating up and his jaw tightening. Will looked over at him quickly, his blue eyes ice cold and angry, and then back to Tom. 

“I disagree. He’s just as much my brother as Benny is. Or you, or Santi. He’s family and I’ll get’m help as many times as possible. And you know what you’re sayin’s bullshit-“

“Fuck you and your fuckin’ family values dog shit! You and I both know that he’s gonna get clean, last a week or two, then shit’s gonna start goin’ missing again and he’s gonna be right back to bein’ the fuckin’ crypt keeper he looks like now! He’s not gonna change. We need to cut him loose and let him kill himself. He made his choice, Will! Admit it - Fish ain’t worth it!”

Will stood up and moved close to Tom, almost nose to nose. Yeah, Tom was bigger, stronger even, but Will was precise and skilled in a way that seeing him square up like that scared Pope. He unfolded his arms and stepped forward. 

“Hey! Hold up! We’re not gonna do th-“

“You’re supposed to be our leader – our fuckin’ captain.”, Will seethed lowly. “I’m not gonna take orders from some mother fucker who decides to ‘cut loose’ one of our own. Fish needs our help and fuck you for turnin’ your back on’ im.”

Tom glared at Will. “Fine.”, he spat, then dug his index finger in Will’s chest. “But when he he fuckin’ OD’s, it’s on you!”

*****

It felt like more than 90 days when Pope rolled up in front of the rehab centre to pick up Frankie, and when he saw him standing outside, waiting for him, he frowned. Not because he wasn’t glad to see him looking better and fuller, but because this was the third time he had picked Frankie up from a stint in rehab. 

Frankie pulled open the passenger door and slid in, not daring to look up. 

“Fish…”, Pope broke the silence as he put the car in drive. “You look good - ”

“How mad is he this time?”, Frankie interjected.

Pope sighed, knowing exactly how mad Tom was that the Frontiersmen funded another one of Frankie’s stays in an expensive treatment centre. The fact that Tom could be mad at Frankie for this used to baffle him, but by this time - the third time – he could at least see where Tom was coming from. It didn’t sway his growing dislike of their leader though. 

“You keep clean, and he won’t have a reason to be pissed.”

“Fuck… Santi… I try, and – “

“Just shut the fuck up and keep clean, Frank.” Pope snapped, cutting Frankie off in turn. “Besides, I have something in mind to keep you motivated.”

All Frankie could do was nod, despite not knowing what Pope could offer as motivation. He never wanted to relapse, but the call was too sweet, too enticing, for him to stay away too long. He’d said this the day before while he was going through the exit procedure and the facilitator just shrugged and said, “Find something else to get high on then.” 

*****

Less than two months after Frankie came back to the compound, Tom was dead. 

Pope had walked down the hallway to the office where Will waited, and he pushed open the door. Will had looked up, expecting to see Tom, and when he saw Pope instead, blood on his hands and splattered on his body and face, and wide eyed, he stood up, confusion etched on his face.

“Santiago… what the fuck is goin’-“

“He’s dead.”

Will dropped the file folder he held precariously and moved quickly to Pope’s side as he sat heavily in one of the armchairs. He wiped his hand over his face, smudging the semi-dried blood, and he sighed.

“Who’s dea- “

“Tom… Tom’s dead. He’s fuckin’ dead, Will.”

“Santi.”, Will said in a low, controlled voice that just barely masked the panic writhing below. “What happened?”

“I… I was… I didn’t…”, Pope paused, trying to find a way to confess. Instead, his conscience was silenced by his ego, and he found himself lying without even really thinking. “He was… taken out by… by the Gutierrez gang… those fuckers… they ambushed him, Will.”

Pope looked up at Will, daring to see if what he said even sounded feasible. To Will, Pope’s wide, frightened eyes convinced him to ignore the itch at the back of his brain, needling him to probe further.

“I was… I was with him when he… I found him before he died. He was fuckin’ babbling some shit… who was supposed to take over…”

Will’s eyes narrowed subtly, but enough for Pope to register. He knew he couldn’t say he was the one Tom wanted; it would be too suspicious. And he couldn’t say Will because that would give him full control - something Pope truly believed would be his own downfall. 

“He wanted Fish…”

*****

Frankie was a half a year sober – actually, really, fully, no-word-of-a-lie sober – and had been the head of the Frontiersmen for just shy of four months. He’d spent the last six months trying to find a new vice that wouldn’t render him a liability and bankrupt the organization. He was just barely making an impact as the new leader; no one took him seriously. He was skinny and quiet. Only his inner circle knew how violent and dangerous he could be, but even then, they knew he really had to be provoked to get him to that point.

Pope decided he had to do something. His plan to put Frankie in the captain’s chair was failing miserably, and he knew if he couldn’t land this, he would be sussed out. 

“Fish… come on… we’re going out for dinner.”, he said, slapping Frankie’s back.

He looked up at Pope, tired and miserable. “Why?”

“Because you need to eat. You’re skin and bones and no one wants to be led by a corpse.”

Frankie’s expression turned from confused to hurt as his shoulders dropped, feeling the weight of everyone’s expectations gnaw at his sobriety. He carried this somber aura all the way to the restaurant. 

*****

The dingy little Italian restaurant had a name – Marcello’s - and it became Frankie’s haven. It was nowhere near as festive or amazing as Benny had indicated. The way he raved about the place, Pope thought he was taking Frankie to a pasta titty bar paradise, and instead he found them in a mid-century dive with carpet and wood paneling on the walls. 

It wasn’t until the hostess came out from the bar to greet them that Pope understood exactly why Benny loved this place, and he understood it even more when they had their food served.  It had started out as once a week, then turned into almost every night. The effects of pasta, heavy cream sauces, and garlic bread we’re beginning to show on Frankie. Gone were the feeling of his ribs when Pope patted him on his back and gone were his sunken cheeks. Frankie had filled out and he was glad to see his friend looking better. 

That was, until he noticed something. Yeah, Frankie was clean from coke, but he seemed to have turned that same veracity that he’d once carried for the narcotic on to food. It used to be that Frankie could barely finish a frozen TV dinner, being able to stretch one over two meals. As Pope sat across from him at Marcello’s one Tuesday evening, he watched his friend plow through two whole plates of pasta in one sitting. Pope noticed that while Frankie ate, he seemed almost tranquil, serene.

He’d found something else to get high on.

There was a notable change in Frankie as he gained weight. The soft spoken, always amenable Frankie was slowly being enveloped by a bigger, meaner, and more vicious version of him. 

When he was thinner, Frankie could get lucky with women if he tried, but he wasn’t the most confident and rarely put himself out there. But as he grew, so did his self-esteem. He no longer sat back and accepted things as they were said to him – he questioned and even demanded answers, using his newfound size to intimidate if need be. If he saw something he liked, be it clothing, electronics, cars, he took it and gave no one a chance to say otherwise.

The legacy Tom left behind began to fade within the Frontiersmen as Frankie’s violence took centre stage. His quick temper and fists built a reputation; he was still quiet, but the silence he offered was no longer one of contemplation, it was one of simmering rage, liable to explode into violence at any moment. But this was within their group alone. No one outside of their crew took him seriously enough to even warrant giving him a foot in the door.

All of that changed one evening and Pope got a front seat to watch his plan to hide behind Frankie finally bear fruit. Catfish’s temper finally exploded on the right person to get the message out. 

Chuck, the leader of another group called the Golden Kings, had sat across from Frankie at a roundtable, hosted by one of the other gangs to broker agreements and territories. Chuck had taken every opportunity to remind everyone that Frankie was a junkie who used to pilfer his group’s own product to get high. When he stopped getting the reaction he wanted, Chuck moved onto Frankie’s weight, which had pretty well doubled since Tom’s death. 

Will, seated on the other side of Frankie, quietly said, “Let it go, Catfish.”

“Catfish?”, Chuck laughed cruelly. “Fuckin’ Catfish? Really? Fatfish is more like it. What happened, Morales? You eat your feelings ‘cause you can’t get high no more?”

Pope caught a glance at Frankie’s face which only could be described as dark and malevolent as a thunderclap. It unnerved him to see Frankie looking so dangerous around other people. It was one thing for him to beat one of their own for being a dipshit, but this was someone who wasn't below Frankie – he was ranks above him. Frankie sat, glaring across the table at Chuck, his elbows on the armrests and his hands tensely tenting his fingers.

It seemed that the rest of the men at the table could sense the electric tension between Frankie and Chuck. Dan Connor, leader of the Dead Rabbits and host for the evening, motioned to Frankie with a head nod. 

“Get it out, Morales. Can’t move on with you having a bitchfit at some name callin’.”

Pope knew none of these men took his friend seriously and it was either going to be Frankie using his keen negotiation tactics or Frankie showing off his newfound rage. 

The latter won. Frankie sat in silence as Chuck beat his mouth off at him, trying to get Frankie to react, to no avail. He didn’t speak; he just watched, letting Chuck keep talking, letting him fuel his violent rage even more, until it reached a tipping point. 

“You may be a big fish now, you fuckin’ goof, but you’re still a rat-faced junkie.”

It happened quickly. Frankie stood up and grabbed Chuck from across the table by his suit jacket lapel and pulled him to his side as his fist began beating into the man’s face over and over.

Chuck’s men stood up, but Dan Connor’s hand came out, motioning for them to sit. His own men waited for their cue to remove Frankie from Chuck, but Dan just watched in reverence.

The punching stopped and Chuck gurgled in pain, and Frankie wrapped his huge hands around Chuck’s throat and squeezed. 

“I am Big Fish, you fuckin’ cunt.”, he growled in a calm and low tone, then he spat on Chuck’s face.

Will looked at Frankie horrified, and Pope couldn’t help the grin that forced its way to his face. Dan finally motioned for his men to intervene, and it took all four to pry Frankie’s hands off the bloody, gasping mess that was Chuck. 

Chuck’s men moved to get their boss away from Frankie as he sat back in his chair, and nodded at Dan, signaling for him to continue. The room remained silent, save for the pathetic whining of Chuck in the hallway. Dan looked at Frankie, eyes narrowed, then finally he started laughing – hard.

“Fuckin’ BigFish Morales! Welcome to the table, asshole.”

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[zal-cryptid]

How does the outside world react to the disapperances of these people? Or does Krampus take those where it wouldn't be an issue?

Do you know how many people go missing every year? Crazy thing is that Fae kidnappings only make up a small portion of that. The Archivists of the Arcane Frontier (or simply the Arcane Frontiersmen) do try and document these otherworldly disappearances the best they can. They're...not so much a SCP Foundation equivalent as they're more like Parawatch, or the Magnus Institute, or Cafe and Diner.

[ahkmenraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa]

These three would be AMAZING friends. All three were pioneers, frontiersmen, LITERAL TRAILBLAZERS.

He would have an absolute field day with their journals, and they would share their stories.

JUST IMAGINE IT.

[callme-cursed]

You moved into your grandfather's cabin out in the deep frozen wilderness. Sure your closest neighbor was a good forty mile trek through snow and wolf territory, but you were never a social person. Besides you quite liked the snow.

Not right now of course, stuck in the middle of a blizzard. You had gone out to check your snares for rabbits and were on your way back when you heard the howl. It's something your used to out here, an occasional wolf might get desperate enough to take down a frontiersmen in the winter. But this isn't wolf territory. It's bear country, and they won't run from a meal.

The blizzards started coming in and now you can't see through the forest's shadows to see where it's coming from. You take the risk and raise your rifle in the direction you heard it last. You hold your breath and wait for it to enter your view.

That thing wasn't a bear.

You don't know what it is to tall to be a bear, to fast to be wolf. Part of you understands it as human the other only sees a threat. You can't fight it. So you run from it. Three steps is as far as you get before it slams into the ground next to you. Fear forcing you to drop onto your back staring up at this monsters eyes.

[disco-elysium-via-polls]

2. "Thanks, I'll pass. I'd just go wild."

CALL ME MAÑANA - "And then we might go wild together, which sounds fun. But I guess I have a strike to watch."

"So, anything else you wanted to discuss, boiadeiro?"

5. "Good talking to you. Gotta run." [Leave.]

BOIADEIRO

Research time: 6h 30m Temporary research bonus: -1 Physical Instrument: Astra country

It has been brought to your attention that there are men who live by the law of the land and the strength of their arms. Sunburnt, rugged, smoking men who explored the great rivery veins of upper-Magritte and tamed the Mundi wilds. Frontiersmen, cow-herders, philosophers -- the *boiadeiros*... with a gun in one hand and an unfiltered cigarette between their lips, these men made their own rules. What would it take for you to become one too?

🎵 Martinaise, Terminal B

CARGO CONTAINER DOOR - You're back before the cargo container. Its draw has not lessened since you were last here. If anything, it seems to have grown slightly.

3. [Rhetoric - Impossible 18] Persuade the door to open.

+1 Erratic, yet thorough. +1 Been in the world for two days. +1 Been in this world for many days. +1 Precarious world. +1 One more door. +1 Icosahedral Dice Set "Sirens"

RHETORIC [Impossible: Success] - Despite the dirt that surrounds and trails you, a beacon of light emerges from deep within you.

"Hello, is there anybody in there?"

CARGO CONTAINER DOOR - The door stands silent.

KIM KITSURAGI - "Satisfied, detective?" A wry smile crosses the lieutenant's face.

RHETORIC - Try again.

"If there's someone in there, I'd like to talk to you."

CARGO CONTAINER DOOR - Just like that, you hear a click. Then a rattle. Some mechanism unlocks itself inside the door.

MEGA RICH LIGHT-BENDING GUY - From deep within the container, a voice: "Ahoy! Come on in!"

+5 XP

KIM KITSURAGI - The smile disappears. "You can't be serious."

As we approach the centre of the container.... the amount of real we have increases?

MEGA RICH LIGHT-BENDING GUY - The man stands at the far end of the shipping container. It's hard to say anything more about him. You cannot make out any of his details, but you do feel the overwhelming presence of... capital.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT [Trivial: Success] - The feeling causes all the hairs on your body to stand at attention like soldiers preparing for review.

Squint.

Cover your eyes…

MEGA RICH LIGHT-BENDING GUY - Something's amiss. The light beams bend around his face and scatter in a thousand directions. It seems the laws of physics do not apply here. They are suspended, distorted, an echo.

VISUAL CALCULUS [Impossible: Failure] - Trying to visualize the physics at play is liable to give you an aneurysm. Don't think about it too hard!

MEGA RICH LIGHT-BENDING GUY - In the general stillness, only your tongue moves, flickering as you utter...

"Hello!"

"What's going on in here?"

"Wow."

MEGA RICH LIGHT-BENDING GUY - "Welcome, welcome! Not too much, actually, just pleasantly surprised to have company today."

PERCEPTION (HEARING) [Trivial: Success] - You can't *hear* him, exactly, yet you're able to understand every word he says. It is very strange. An overwhelming hum covers everything -- voice doesn't escape from him.

MEGA RICH LIGHT-BENDING GUY - "Now." He claps his hands together. "What can I do for you gentlemen?" What you can see of his body appears composed. In a sharp summer suit. And yacht shoes.

"Who are you?"

"We should get back to our investigation. Thanks for your time." [Leave.]

MEGA RICH LIGHT-BENDING GUY - "Who *am* I? Oh, I haven't been asked that question for such a long time." There's genuine surprise in his voice. "I don't meet a lot of people outside my circle these days..."

"Anyhow, my name is Roustame Diodore -- investor, licence holder, and extremely high-net-worth individual. And you are?"

+5 XP

KIM KITSURAGI - "Mr. Diodore, I am Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi of the RCM, and this is my partner..."

"Harrier Du Bois."

"The name's Raphaël Ambrosius Costeau. Most likely."

MEGA RICH LIGHT-BENDING GUY - "Pleasure to meet you, Harrier Du Bois," he says warmly. "I must admit, the name suits you very well."

"Who are you?"

"How did you become so rich?"

"What are you doing in this container?"

"You're a rich investor, right? Can I have some money?"

"We should get back to our investigation. Thanks for your time." [Leave.]

KIM KITSURAGI - "Oh, lord, not this again."

"What's the matter, Kim?"

Ignore him.

KIM KITSURAGI - "Oh, nothing. It's just that we've got this *murder* to solve, and yet you go around asking everyone about *money*. And every time I ask, 'Are you sure this is related to the case?', you say, 'Sure, Kim. I think it is'..."

"And yet it never seems to get us any closer to solving the case."

MEGA RICH LIGHT-BENDING GUY - The man chuckles. "It's quite alright. I'm used to the question by now. To be blunt, I inherited my fortune from my grandmother, who, herself, was an extremely high-net-worth individual back in Graad..."

"All I did was take her fortune and invest it prudently. Believe it or not, it takes more than a bit of skill not to blow a vast fortune on sailing boats, bad choices, and *unsupervised* state policy."

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Medium: Success] - And blow.

"What's it like being an extremely high-net-worth individual?"

"Cool. But I want to ask you about something else."

MEGA RICH LIGHT-BENDING GUY - The man exhales with a whistle. "I gotta tell you, at first, being rich is a lot of work. You've got to work hard because everything's so darn expensive. You know, prices increase exponentially at this income level..."

"But then, once you've reached my position, it's nearly impossible for me *not* to make money. My assets are so diversified that I'm bound to come out ahead no matter what..."

"Some of my lower-net-worth friends say to me, 'But doesn't that take all the fun out of it?' and I tell them, 'Not really.'"