tobias’s room in the ship (finished version)
tobias’s room in the ship (finished version)
My crack fanon headcanon is that Stardew Valley exists in the world of Cyberpunk 2077 (don’t take this seriously. I’m not aiming for realism here, folks).
Pelican Town is the only haven free from corporate greed, pollution, and apathy. Here the air is clean, the people are friendly, plants grow, and animals once thought to be extinct thrive. After Mikoshi, Vera sells everything she owns to buy a farm that she lovingly names Silverhand and is happier for it. She becomes a prosperous farmer and builds a life in Pelican Town with her cat Nibbles.
kickstarter for emil to open a cat cafe & book store
@fancyfanstuff it defo lowkey is :D sometimes a family is an anxious detective, a child prodigy and their dead sister's ghost, two former killers-for-hire, a mute shuttle pilot, and a pyromaniac deergirl :)
Seeing reddit takes about the Huston run again so I’m gonna rip someone off a little. I think the best way to summarize the ableism in the Huston is like, hey Charlie, why were you so obsessed with tearing down the mentally ill man trying his best? Why was it so important that Marc Spector specifically is now a abusive horrible person were not meant to like? Bastard?
Me: *slaps the roof of my oc azarra* this person can fit so much trauma into her
L. Feit (V) /Goro Takemura
“A walking talking yin yang made of ex-arasaka gentleman and corporate bitch, both falling from the very top to bottom in matter of seconds, losing everything but not a thirst for revenge. At least that was the first reason that wired the connection between the two once the ex bodyguard Takemura tracked relentless killer mercenary shaped in a woman slim body accompanied by a long braid swinging like a decorative curtain from almost top of her head, revealing tattoos scattered around her neck - with thorns and roses, raising up the the sides, forming a knife on the right and golden diamond on left.
Even if most people were calling her by merc work “V”, deep in her trusted social circle she was going by her real surname - Feit and only very few special ones knew her real name. After being pushed back by the corporation, down face to the cold, rough concrete streets she took it all in, even moving away from her old apartment to leave the past behind and breath deeply in her lungs the cheap perfume and booze stench of Jig-Jig street, her new home, beside the good old Wakako appreciated her talents and slightly evil nature to the point she got her new nest rent free and Tiger Claws “security assurance”, not like she was having any trouble finding the same language with them. As long as eddies and reputation behind the red curtain of blood was flowing all was good. The only weakness she had was her strong urge of following orders, having a boss to strike her out with a knife towards next target. Feit drew deep feeling of satisfaction from making her fixer proud, same like it was with Jenkins. Afraid of failing again, ending up alone and useless was still her biggest fear, especially now that she is alone, surrounded only by the Wakako’s gang from time to time.
Booze was her most trusted companion after the hours, at the usual bar nearby strip club, barman already knew when she comes and where she sits, just bringing her usual without any questions as she patted the table with the palm of her hand. But that evening her routine got disrupted by the figure of a mature man with black hair greyed on edges pulled back into a bun, a pair of bright lenses shining from the shadows with curiosity, wearing a long black coat and white perfectly shaped shirt under, calling her name in a gentle manner and apologizing for disturbance.
Takemura could hardly believe that someone like her was the “best bloodthirsty merc that cheated the death itself” barely making any difference from the colorful crowd of “local” girls but not like he had any other choice and tracking her down took him a good while since their phoneline was hanging long enough after first meeting. She wasn’t the brightest gal but noticing smallest details was automated in her routine, standing up abruptly from her chair once the corner of her amber eye tracked his neck cybernetics and blinking arasaka sign on it. Her mouth opened to almost deliver a solid “fuck you” but reminding herself how their last meeting went she calmed down. Being assured by his manners and explanation that he only means biz, very serious one this round also helped to not end up with a fist in his throat. He saved her from that stinky ass garbage, the sights of his gaze, looking down upon her when she was gathering her strength back. It was enough to stop her hand from pulling up a knife. Trust wasn’t something she allowed to slip easily in her line of work, neither life for this moment, losing too much already. She sighted deeply and bowed, offering him a sit. Even if her nature was impulsive and was throwing words on wind along with swears, with a figure like him her respect and manners still remained, at the very least on basic level. He deserved it, especially for all the mocking he had to endure as they sat next to each other on bar stools, eyes of the others leaning towards them.
She silenced him, raising the palm of her hand, reveling a tiger claws tattoo implant. Finishing her last shot and brushing away the very last remains of the golden sparkling lipstick as she ran her fingers through the lips to slip away a booze droplets. He looked away, couching softly. Talking back about Konpeki Plaza events and the fact the Takemura was a fairly wanted man right now didn’t make the bar a best place to continue this discussion. He nodded in agreement and followed her deep into one of streets where they could continue without additional pairs of ears trying to sneak on them. The golden coat of hers was reflecting the neons, almost blinding him as it sparkled occasionally. Some of her corpo class still reflected in her clothing, reveling a pair of office expensive black long pants and heeled wedges, black as well, supporting her feet onto the golden modern platforms and making them both even in terms of height. Something also pointed a bitch part about her, was it the way she strutted and leaned against the wall, bending her knee upwards, crossing her arms on the black ornamental bustier and giving him an inpatient look, wanting to skip a tiny details for this moment and just hit her with what he wants and expects from her. He brushed his hands and looked to the side, pausing but coming shortly back to her with his bright eyes and thirst screaming readiness.
“Revenge” - plain and simple.
Thinking about Dimitri's obsession with the blood on his own hands and hey bud? I'm pretty sure Byleth has killed more people than you
[ by: une.coffee ]
hm. lowkey thinking about a side blog for christophes mother... ......
Also executive decision I’m just gonna tie this bastards apex and titanfall universes together bc I really like the idea of Bastard Grandma running around at 60 y/o and still being lowkey petty and as bastardous as she was at 30
(Long snip because I hate to break the scene. Everyone meet Aranea’s mom Satyrinae and her dad Pelops. For short term OCs, I really like them, they make a nice pair. :D)
Satyrinae was used to seeing strange folk get blown into her store by the desert winds. Good folk, bad folk, wild hunters almost as feral as the beasts they hunted, and snobby nobles who looked like they would rather die than deign to talk to her. She was also used to dealing the strange people blown in on the desert winds as either customers, passersby, or thieves. Most thieves didn’t last long. She might run a store now, but she was far from a tame civilian, and her Quicksilver model revolver still shot just as true as it ever had when she was out killing monsters for coin. Any thief that tried to steal from her store had one chance to put the stolen goods down and make up for the attempt. If they didn’t … well.
Satyrinae was very well liked by the hunters and wilderness guides whose families lived in town, and there was a lot of wilderness a person could take a shovel to.
So when the hairs on the back of her neck prickled in the middle of washing dishes, several hours after the close of her store and only an hour left at most before sunset, Satyrinae didn’t doubt her instincts. She just picked up her Quicksilver from where she had put it on the counter within easy reach and padded downstairs, ready to find another troublemaker.
She slipped in through the well-oiled door of the back room, padded out to the entrance that came out behind the counter and paused, scanning for signs of trouble. Her first check was the perishable aisles. Most of the thieves that came in here were looking for supplies of food and water to carry them out into the desert again. Her next glance lingered on the camping and medical supplies for the same reasons. Nothing. No sign of disturbance. So what was making her instincts sit up? It wasn’t an obvious sound, or smell, or sight. But she’d survived a grueling mercenary career for fifteen years of her life before settling down with a gentle, civilian husband —who was currently upstairs putting their daughter to bed, not even aware Satyrinae had slipped downstairs—. She trusted her instincts over her senses. It had saved her life before.
Then, before she could reach for the light switch and reveal her presence to whoever was hiding in her store, she heard the faintest rustle-thump of something being pulled in bulk from her shelves. She honed in on the noise, thumb on the hammer of her Quicksilver but not pulling it back yet as she identified where the noise came from —no sense making a loud clicking sound and tipping off the thief just yet—. She paused when she realized it was coming from the very small but well stocked baby aisle. The one she kept for traveling couples and local parents.
Why would a thief be in the baby aisle?
With a sudden sinking feeling, she flicked on the light and clicked back the hammer of Quicksilver with more drama than strictly necessary, “I have a clear line of sight to all the doors and windows,” she announced firmly, “and I’m a faster shot then you can a run or a fight.” Deathly silence, no movement. Satyrinae raised her voice a little, pushing all the brusque authority of a former mercenary commander and current mother in her voice, “Now, I don’t like blood on my floor, and I don’t like wasting bullets. You come out nice and slow, hands where I can see them, and we can talk this out. You try to fight or run and I’ll be wasting a bullet putting a hole in your head and spending the rest of my evening scrubbing blood out of the floor. Pretty sure neither of us want that, so get out here. Slowly.”
Finally, she heard the rustle of fabric, the sound of someone slowly standing up, “How do I know you won’t shoot the moment I’m visible?” Asked a deep, masculine voice from the cover of the shelves.
“You don’t,” she retorted coldly, “Guess you just gotta trust that I hate being on my knees scrubbing floorboards more than I hate thieves.”
A long pause, then a low, “I’m coming out.” A gesture, a single, empty hand coming into view. She heard a soft, shaky curse and then, “I have a child with me. Don’t. Shoot.”
Very, very slowly, the man inched out into her view, his every movement cautious, ready to dive behind the nearest cover. Only one hand was in the air, away from the katana she could see belted at his waist, the other was visible and supporting a large bulge in his jacket. She was ready to call out his lie —hiding stolen goods in a jacket and pretending it was a child or a puppy or something was an old trick—, then there was the unmistakable sound of a baby’s coo and a tiny face peered over the edge of the jacket, revealing bright gold hair and wide blue eyes. The hand supporting the child flexed slightly, gripping more tightly out of fear. Icy blue eyes watched her every move, ready react in defense of the baby at any moment.
Satyrinae swore softly and lowered the pistol away from the child, but didn’t relax her guard just yet, “That yours? Or you a baby thief as well as a burglar?”
The man’s face pinched and there was a hint of fresh fury and despair on his face, “I’m all he’s got.” The man said instead of a straight answer and she raised an eyebrow at him. The man eyed her, clearly sizing up his options, and Satyrinae’s hackles rose a little higher. This man was a soldier of some kind. He wasn’t a Niflheim trooper, not if he was stealing, not the way he was dressed. He was either a mercenary, a deserter…
Or a Lucian spy.
“What happened to his last keepers?” She asked and there, in the careful way he measured his breathing and the flicker of fury, she saw a story she didn’t think he’d ever tell her.
“I don’t know,” he said and that part seemed honest, “I found him. I couldn’t just … leave him there and let the-.” He cut himself off, glanced down at the wide-eyed child for a fraction of a second, looked back up at her, “I couldn’t let the animals tear him apart.”
Somehow, she mused as she assessed the man, I don’t think you mean the four-legged or even the daemonic kind of animal. Fair enough, she’d seen a lot of abuse survivors in her time. The question was whether or not the man was actually a rescuer, or if he was an abuser who had stolen someone’s child for kicks and gil. The scuff of boots on wood interrupted her thoughts and she almost rolled her eyes at the gentle bass of her husband’s voice coming from behind her, “Satyr?”
“Not now, Love.”
She could hear him move to stand just behind and to the side, saw the thief’s eyes flick from him then back to her with the predatory practice of a soldier sizing up the opposition. No, not even a soldier. He was more feral than that. Something about that observation and the faint accent in the thief’s voice niggled at her, but her concentration was disrupted by her husband murmuring, “Oh. Oh dear. She’s so small. Is she yours?”
The man’s gaze didn’t leave Satyrinae, but there was something oddly raw and honest —helpless, desperate— in the way he answered, “Him. He’s … I’m all he’s got.”
She could hear more and more concern leak into her husband’s voice, “Astrals, he’s so young. You came here to steal supplies for him?”
The man’s jaw worked, “I don’t have any money. Or monster parts to trade. I’ve been-. I can’t hunt like this.”
“I can imagine.” Pelops said and Satyrinae inwardly groaned because she knew that tone, she knew what came next, “How far are you going? You’re going to need more supplies than just what you can carry with your bare hands, you know.”
“Love…” She growled.
“Satyr mine,” retorted Pelops in that tone that meant he would not be moved, “he’s not a bad man. He’s got a good soul.”
If there was one thing that Deadeye was getting used to, it was Earth weather. After being in the icy cold emptiness of space, the heat of a yellow star in an open desert was shocking; and if he was honest with himself, a slice of heaven.
He had chosen the empty deserts as his home base due to the lack of human interaction, and the heat that warmed him to his core. He had chosen his rusted pick-up truck alt mode to blend in with the occasional trip to nearby junkyards or even to the closest welcoming cybertronian for supplies. Being an ex-Decepticon, now freelance merc made some Autobots leery, but Deadeye was fine being a loner.
When his scanners around his base went off, though, he frowned and stood from where he was laying on top of a mesa plateau sunning himself to see who it was that was entering unannounced.
It has all my favorites and their companions inserted into Fallout. Various areas, mostly the commonwealth because thats what I’m familiar with.
Varian/Kayleigh Khadgar/Alison Kale and his son, Nyota Hanzo/Kaylynn and now Shaw/Tess and Flynn/Olivia! :D
@blupyrc / "oh fuck! they are all dead." - for Junkrat (since he seems more active for ya) [ hunt down the freeman starters ]
❝ ‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒ Yeah, every bloody one of ’em. ❞ Junkrat’s shaking a little bit, not with any fear or distress ( he is a man unsettlingly desensitized to death, to the point that he gives too little thought to killing whenever it strikes him to do so !! ), but with exertion. Accordingly he’s breathing hard, a slightly more unfocused look to his amber eyes even than is usual. There’s blood on his temple, & he looks far more serious than suits the crazed ex — Junker.
❝ Y’know wot life in the Outback was like ? Ya gotta fight for every scrap ya get & then other people try ta take it away from ya !! All these guys were doin’ th’ same thing here. Ain’t there any place that’s any different ? Oi’ve pulled off heists ya couldn’t even dream of. But there’s always somebody thinks they can OUTDO ME !! ❞ He’s gesturing grandly with both his hands as he speaks, looking to the mercenary, a little erratic. It can’t really be helped.
Read on AO3: https://ift.tt/3aZAAhu
"Nadine Ross was upside down. The moment she understood the situation she was in, the ex mercenary knew she had to be quick. But first, like the many times before, she needed to make sure her partner was okay."
This is my first fic, and I have a feeling y'all are gonna be able to tell. So bear with me and enjoy a Chlodine adventure.
Words: 1194, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English
Fandoms: Uncharted (Video Games)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Characters: Chloe Frazer, Nadine Ross
Relationships: Chloe Frazer/Nadine Ross
Additional Tags: Car Accidents, Post-Canon, Canon-Typical Violence, First Kiss, Hospitals, How Do I Tag, I Tried, Fluff and Angst, Banter, No Lesbians Die
Read on AO3: https://ift.tt/3aZAAhu
#𝐕𝐈𝐆𝐈𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐒𝐇 : ind. marvel oc. as shot by CAMERON. 18+ only. 22, he / they.
— find my current doc here. — find my most recent promo here. — find all in - character interactions here. — find my most recent starter call here.
VERGIL GRAY, a.k.a VIGIL. ex - mercenary turned vigilante. kind of.
Boyfriend, to Daddy Dearest: thank you for sending my mercenary ex after me btw. I really needed that