#ncrgrunt

the bobby fiasco immediately comes to mind and there’s a little twitch of her nose reflexively before she brushes the memory aside. “diamond city pretends it’s above that sort of thing, most of the time, anyway. you’ll have better luck in goodneighbor.” 

He doesn’t put up a fight as she holds up two flowers, one red and one white, to his head, her tongue in the corner of her mouth as she considers. The rain this season has been considerable, plant life flourishing as a testament. The vermilion Desert Indian Paintbrush, reminiscent of his beret, is the perfect choice. Her tongue does not leave its thoughtful spot, concentration evident in her precise gaze. Fingers working deftly with experience, the flowers carefully wound around around around a thing flexible strip of metal tied together at both ends. Once the crown is overflowing with the flowers she has collected, she ignores any sort of protest his face might hold, half expecting his hand to slap her away, yet there he sits unmoving. Placed on his head, Marcie’s hands raise in surprise as if she didn’t cause this situation. “Wait.” Something is off, and she plucks Craig’s sunglasses off, quickly pulling her hand back and hanging his shades off the collar of her shirt. “There. Beautiful.” Her hands clap together in front of her face, lips pulling into a smile full of glee. They are seated on the floor at the foot of her hotel bed, he with his legs crossed, her knees touching his from when she sat on her haunches to inaugurate him king of... whatever. Doesn’t matter, not important. “His Royal Majesty, King Craig Boone.” He grunts, not meeting her gaze as her childish game continues and she pushes her luck before any more silence ends the charade. Her hands reach for his crown again, no pause when her thumbs cover his eyes, lids shut. Her fingers curl behind his ears, immaculate nails scratching gently at the edges of his cropped hair. He feels her face coming closer, warm exhales ghosting over his skin, eyes twitching under her thumbs that leave his eyes to graze over his cheeks. When her lips press to his forehead, he does not open his eyes, breathing even. When she pulls away, stands up, leaves him, the moment over - he does not open his eyes. 

❝There’s a lot “off” with me, I imagine.❞  She muttered, staring out and away from him. ❝Hope I prove ya wrong too, tho, I guess.❞

I’m OBSESSED.

It was a slaughter.