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Another private friend commission, this time for Ophelia and Amleth from the mobile rpg Memento Mori!
A shared, celebratory tea party~ Many birthday wishes to the queen and her beloved 💕
Do Not Upload, Repost, Edit, or Use. Thank you!
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I personally don't care, but #mmori wanted me to post this 🐾
I was trying to write a song, you know? But Trump had to do something. Things are about to get darker 1st vid of mmori 🐾
“Soulmate?” she asked.
Bright blue eyes and lips like cherry-bombs were the weapons that Jennifer DuBois had at her disposal. She was no assassin, however; rather, a rogue, and a rakish one at that. But Agatha had dropped a cherry bomb of her own, and all Jenny could do was stare.
“You really mean it?”
They’d been playing games - dangerous ones, at that - for a month now. In a moment of reticence, Jenny downed the rest of her drink. But not to be rude; mostly, to chase away the taste of cottonmouth.
“I’ve never thought about it myself - a soulmate, wow,” she said, gushing and beaming. Really and truthfully it sounded like a whole lot of work. Though with Agatha, wasn’t everything?
Samson was named for that prick from the Bible; she remembers asking him about it once, on his sheets that always scratched her thighs. She also remembers how he called her ‘princess’ when she’d had the gall to bitch about said sheets, and even though it’s cold and stormy in Alphabet City, she thinks of him and wonders if merely envisioning him will be enough to bring him back. It’s something she has wondered too many times.
Glory reaches instinctively for a cigarette, remembering just in time that she won’t be able to get a light.
“Shit,” she says softly.
Her last client had been from Texas, which had sort of made her want to take the cigarette he’d been nursing. Only she wouldn’t have smoked it; instead she would have stubbed it out on her thigh. (Undressed on his bed; she felt like a corpse. Hearing this stranger call her baby was like trying to open a door with the handle all slathered in Vaseline. It’d made her confused and, also, a little sick.)
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His limbs feel like lead when he gets out of bed.
The sun, of course, does not shine; he can’t remember when it went out, and he lacks both the patience to count up the tally marks as well as the fortitude to keep the tally marks updated every single day.
Not that there’s really such a thing as a day anymore, but even so; something about it just doesn’t sit right in his stomach.
Despite the fact that the hole in the sky continues to smolder, and despite the fact that black smoke continues to billow out from the place where the sun used to be, Kyle Sarte feels like he has a sort of obligation to the world around him.
Well, that’s all fine and good. Until he tries standing up.
His mouth tastes like iron and his head had waited to start throbbing, it seems, until he’d gotten up. Momentarily he forgets the name of the person he’d gotten drunk with, whose fault all of this is. (Whose apartment this is. Whose boxers those are. Whose idea it had been to kiss first, ask questions later.)
And then he remembers. It burns going down, in exactly the same way tequila might. Rafael, and it’s almost enough to make the sun come back.
Kyle wears guilt like a blanket as he heads to the kitchen.
After we both recuperated from Africa. Well I wouldn't call it a party, but there were a few drinks had together. Less of a celebration of putting Wesker down-- it was more like we were drinking to our survival and that closure.
Can't see me with a tattoo? Haha, when I was younger I really wanted to get one with a rock and roll theme, but I can't really picture myself getting one nowadays, either. The one I had in that "samurai" costume was done by a makeup artist, who picked the design... took a few days to completely wash off, a bit embarrassing to explain at the gym.
I don't think I'd ever voluntarily wear it in public. Not a fan of that kinda attention.
Capcom's put me in much worse though, honestly
