tremendousdefendortragedy

[tremendousdefendortragedy]

3.5🌸

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(via Instagram)

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Cuban Mojo Pork

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Fire Emblem Fates: Conquest (2015)

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Call me Her the way I Him

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You will die for him, won't you?

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They agreed on "Frostball".

I'd pay for a DLC that's just more noblestalk memories for everyone.

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Adoption is fun.

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The dark urge and young lady Orin

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Please, just let me stay by your side a little longer.

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Owlbear Cub: “You smell very delicious, but I will not bite you, because you are my friend :>”

My good Durge, crying: “He’s just like me fr. He’s everything I strive to be.”

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some of the stuff i know i never shared here

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Durge gets homeschooled.

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"Was I sweet once?"

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thinking, thinking about this so hard im going to throw up:

Prospector Saloon, so quiet so dim; Courier Six seated at the bar, flipping through a magazine, Trudy cleaning wine glasses, both complaining about the weather. Courier Six with his hand-me-down boots, holding a Varmint rifle, an old gift from an old friend, hunting geckos and coyotes. Courier Six, watching windmills spin in the distance, sitting on his own grave, smoking over it like that checkered-coated man did years ago. In his fuzzy daydreams, in his restless nights sometimes he sees him: in dusty memories so distant, so ancient now.

Courier Six, touching the small scar on his forehead, smiling with a mouth full of yellowed teeth.

Courier Six, who has only heard of the Legion in campfire stories, Courier Six who changes stations when the news sing about that antebellum giant held in Legion hands. Old World far away, unknown and redundant; Hoover Dam painted in crimson, so what?

Courier Six who does not know, who does not care about the bones of the Republic displayed on crosses, the martyrs buried in the sand, all that was lost, all that could have been- Courier Six who does not know because Trudy's beer is cold enough, the water is clean enough, home comfortable enough. Doc Mitchell holds ice over his bruises after a long day and his bed is warm in the afternoon. He watches from his window, his fate asleep, nothing but lone and level sand to be seen, streching for miles and miles, the wasteland resting soundlessly under the lazy autumn sun.

Courier Six in Goodsprings, small and familiar world, hunting geckos and coyotes. Courier Six in Goodsprings, holding an old friend's gift.

He, the nomad who has finally come home. He, who have doomed Mojave with his passivity, his absence. He, growing old in ignorance.

Sometimes, a familiar voice crackles through the saloon's radio, telling tales of a dam bathed in crimson hues, of a war long lost. Tales of twelve-year-old desert boys wearing uniforms too big for them, of bloodstains on the walls of Californian clinics, of red-clad soldiers dying in their twenties for a man who has burned their futures so that his own torch could blaze over New Vegas.

But Courier Six in his little hut, his little town... A simple life of a simple man closing his eyes under a starless sky and into a dreamless night.