F ᴏ ʀ T ʜ ᴇ R ᴇ ᴘ ᴜ ʙ ʟ ɪ ᴄ

“If you promise to stay alive just a little bit longer I promise that we are going to make this world a place worth living in by any means necessary. I ain’t giving up. I swear.” 

Send me one for what kind of ship you want our muses to have

♥ - Friends with benefits

❣ - Friends with benefits who want to be more than friends but won’t admit it

❤ - Longtime sweethearts just as in love as the first date

💘 - Enemies who only hate each other because of sexual/romantic tension

♡ - A loveless relationship/relationship of convenience (not necessarily bad)

💔 - A genuine and deep hatred for each other

❥ - Enemies/rivals who don’t remember how their rivalry started or why, but keep it up just because they feel like they should

💚 - Familial relationship/friends who are just like family

💓 - In love with each other, but too shy to say so

💗 - Deep platonic love hiding deeper romantic love

💜 - Love at first sight that cools into a friendship

💙 - Love at first sight that turns into long-lasting romance

💛 - One night stand that turned awkward afterwards

Mother is aware of all things that happen along her borders. This is no exception.

The first thing that gets her attention are the footsteps. Seismic vibrations are what awoke her to begin with; even now, four years after McGrath, she’s still sensitive to them. Two groups of humans retreat and advance, respectively, across her flesh. One group is wearing raggedy shoes and boots of fur; the other is wearing boots of Brahmin leather, all with the same mass-printed soles. Soldiers. They’re heavy– although not too heavy– and pulled down by the weight of their gear.

That’s when the gunfire starts. Little staccato thumps, channeled through the shooters, down through their feet and into her skin. Even with so little information, Mother can make some educated guesses. The soldiers are firing carefully, in single shots and calculated bursts of fire. The other group is not so careful. Their shots are wild, unmeasured. None of them have automatic weapons.

She feels a glass shatter against her flesh, and then tastes her own milk upon her flesh. Cultists. Of course. She bristles at the thought of them– meddlers, interlopers, who took what was a limited supply of something not meant for them. She’s not concerned about them; it’s the soldiers that worry her. Judging from the soles of their boots, they are not megacorp enforcers, and they are far too uniform to be Dead Hand. If there is another armed force operating on her border, she wants to evaluate it.

A tendril worms its way beneath the hard, packed earth. Tipped with claws of bone, it cuts through the dirt like an orkut in the water. It singles out one of the booted men, crouched on the periphery of his group. With the firefight making things hectic, Mother knows that he won’t notice the stirring beneath his feet. Until it’s too late.

He struggled to disentangle himself from the bone-like mass as he was pulled from the surface and into the warmer, denser open air of a larger cavern buried beneath. He had never been exceptionally susceptible to panic, having been exposed to the harsh reality of life in the wasteland from an early age- he had always been practical about his survival, and fairly confident in his ability to avoid or defend from hostile interactions, but this.. There was nothing to prepare him for it. 

As he was deposited without ceremony before the immense being occupying this grotesque chamber of living flesh, a deep sense of foreboding had already consumed him- he felt a visceral desire to flee, to put as much distance as possible between himself and the monstrous demigod looking down on him with a pale, impassive gaze. His better judgement, however, warned against caving to instinct and he chose instead to push himself slowly from the ground, crouching there tensely.