why are people still writing that trope where no one in junkertown or ow thinks mako’s hot except jamie? like my guy. mako rutledge is 25 years older than me, a wanted criminal, and fictional, and i’m literally in love with him. i’m pretty sure there are other people in the ow universe who think he’s hot
Boys of your choice finally working up the courage to talk to their crush, but their crush just became 1000% more intimidating to talk to bc they're wearing something a bit more revealing or cute today. (Not naughty or anything when I say revealing, maybe they run into them on their way to the pool and it's the first time seeing them in a swimsuit or something)
(For this one, I went with Junkrat, Roadhog, and Zenyatta)
The year is 2097, BioWare makes another game. The protagonist still looks like they style their hair with crazy glue, and so do the other 648589 NPCs with the same hairstyle.
The trees, however, strut down runways. Space and distant starts emit heat through TV/PC screens. VR Romances now available. Intimacy still remains awkward and fades to black.
Hair still looks like glue. The protagonist continues to violently chug their alcoholic beverage before slamming the glass down onto the table, and shaking their head violently. Afterwards, they vaguely jerk their whole hand in the direction behind them. “I should go,” they say, and walk away with their legs widely apart. Their conversation partner rubs the back of their neck awkwardly.
was sitting next to Roadhog out on the half-collapsed porch of the
safehouse, what was left of her hair pulled back into a scraggly
ponytail and covered with the pig motif headscarf. Her treasured
snowflake pin lay inside with what little remained of her belongings,
but she no longer had enough hair to warrant its use. The scarf at least
covered up the damage, and even that small comfort was desperately
needed. She felt better after eating, though it brought with it its own
unique bout of nausea and made her wonder how the junkers could ever
become used to such a thing.
If Junkrat even felt the effects of
his red zone radiation poisoning on top of his usual radiation
poisoning, he was remarkably adept at hiding it. He was up on the roof
of the safehouse and trying to reach the roof of one of the little sheds
nearby, hanging upside down with his knees locked around a power cable
as he positioned some sort of contraption he had rigged up that morning.
Mei could recognize a dessicated oil drum he’d scavenged from a burn
barrel out in the backyard, lined with tin foil, set up over an
extremely ancient satellite dish with more tin foil, a mass of wires and
rods and what she could swear was the spatula that Roadhog had been
using to make pancakes, and parts of Mei’s broken phone and other
assorted junk pieces.
Mei sat with her legs dangling and swinging
off the least broken part of the sagging porch as Roadhog sat fanning
himself with an old magazine, both of them watching the high-strung
Junkrat chatter to himself as he seemed to randomly tape pieces of junk
together and equally randomly rip pieces of junk apart. Occasionally
he’d pull out a wrench and just bang loudly on something nearby, and Mei
couldn’t seem to figure out why. Roadhog at least seemed confidently
unconcerned, so she tried to match his attitude, even as Junkrat ripped
off another length of aluminum foil and started tying it around the
innards of an old microwave.
“Do you think this will work?” she asked Roadhog idly, shielding her eyes from the bright noonday sun.
“He makes things work,” the larger junker replied. “Somehow.”