⁄(⁄ ⁄•⁄ω⁄•⁄ ⁄)⁄ I um… Yup. So maybe I like Damien Bloodmarch. So what…? Maybe I like him enough to have done art and now a make-up test for him. That’s perfectly fine–right? Happy to play and support Game Grumps nonetheless!
I’ve been criticizing you ever since you rejected me.
But I was wrong all the damn time.
I forgot that it was because of you that I took a stand for myself, my happiness, for the very first time, the moment I kneeled down to propose you.
I remember how I spent every minute of the night just before the day I was going to confess my feelings.
That night was all about me awkwardly smiling and nervously walking to and fro in my room and then as dawn came close, I rehearsed infront of the mirror with a bottle as my rose like an ameture actor before his first play.
Those 10 seconds before and after the I LOVE YOU were the best 10 seconds of my life, chills run through my spine as I bring that memory back from the realms of my past while I write this to you.
For every fraction of that moment my mind bore no thoughts no worries, be it due assignments or getting a job or my jeans being zipped or not or if I was wearing my underpants or not, it was blank and mute for just one perfect moment.
I now realise, It was never your fault nor it was mine, you’ll always be my beloved and I’ll love and respect you evermore.
Everything changes with a change in a point of view.
I actually hate that “drinking game” scene in the extended edition because come on Legolas is from Mirkwood and his dad is Middle-Earth’s original Wine Mom™ that boy knows how to get drunk!!! show me a drinking game between Legolas and Gimli where they both get absolutely shitfaced, p l e a s e
CAT and her BFF Butch are usually referred to as “those asshole kids from the vault” and, honestly, the description sounds about right to them. When it came time, they stepped up and fought on the side of the Brotherhood, but neither one is truly a fan of authority figures. Since the defeat of the Enclave, they mostly just lounge around Megaton, getting drunk and fist fighting over hair products.
Despite a bullet to the head slowing SIX down and scrambling her memory, the Courier dusted herself off and set out on a mission of vengeance aided by her friend Veronica. Once she’d taken care of the man responsible for putting her in the ground, she lent her skills to the nice folks at the NCR during the second battle at Hoover Dam, registering with them under the name of a close friend: Santangelo.
When ACE woke up after the war, she found some leather armor, but stubbornly refused to stop wearing pre-war dresses and heels as she tore through the Wasteland on a mission to find her nephew Shaun. After she did what she needed to at the Institute, she chose to wander the wastes with a patriotic ghoul and a merc she had to make a swear jar for, doing whatever they could to survive and make their cap stash a little bigger.
Kuzupeko with azalea and kingcups for the flower prompts, please!
azaleas: fragile and ephemeral passion
kingcups: youth, innocence, dawn
(Leave a character/pairing + flower(s) in my inbox and I’ll write you a thing!)
When they are seven, he reaches out to clasp her hand on their way to the gardens. (He is too young to know better, and she is only a month and a half older.) She doesn’t know what to do, so she ends up somewhere in between: not pulling away but not clasping back, either. It leaves her fingers loose in his grip, like a fish.
He looks back at her, confused.
Peko understands that she’s made a mistake, but she doesn’t know which mistake it is. Should she have pulled her hand away, to keep her distance? Or should she have held his, the way he obviously wanted her to?
He shakes her arm. “What?” he demands. “What’s that face? What?”
She’s upset him. She’s already doing this wrong. “I’m sorry,” she says. She curls her fingers in, just enough to keep her palm loose against his. “We can hold hands if you want to.”
His fingers wiggle. She’s too-aware of them in a way she’s never been before, warm and soft and a little clammy. She’s too-aware of hers, too, and how they don’t quite fit correctly with his anymore, like her hand is a jigsaw piece someone spilled water on.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he says. “What’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing.” She’ll get better. She’ll be what he needs her to be. “We should go. We’ll be late.”
She starts to walk again, but he doesn’t follow her. He stays where he is until she’s far enough away to be tugging on his arm, and even then he only stares, his whole face pinched in toward the middle.
She does tug, gently. She feels her teeth on her bottom lip, old habit, and then she corrects herself, the way she practiced: “Young master.”
His hand goes flat. Her own fingers are still too loose, and he slips away from her without him having to pull at all. He folds his arms over his chest, his hands in his armpits.
“I don’t want to anymore,” he tells her. “Hand holding is for babies anyway.”
He brushes past her, his shoulders hunched. Her palm feels cold, now. She catches herself rubbing it with the thumb of her other hand.
She says, “Yes, young master,” to his retreating back.