wastewalking - Tumblr blog

[wastewalking]

“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.” 

Spotted in Clackamas, Oregon

[wastewalking]

[wastewalking]

[wastewalking]

Very specific types of ship meme

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

💝 - One-sided love (specify which side)

[wastewalking]

send “you okay?” to find my muse sitting alone on a roof at night.

[wastewalking]

Hey, if you’re a Fallout RP blog, or an RP blog with a Fallout AU, do me a favor and like or reblog this? I’m in the process of building a masterlist. 

As a small note though, I won’t be including personal blogs. Hub blogs are fine, just reblog and tag with the urls of the sideblogs you’d like included.

[wastewalking]

#2019 , Matthieu Venot

[wastewalking]

Dangerous but fun.

[wastewalking]

courier six in the ultra-luxe casino

[wastewalking]

mojave, mo’problems. ain’t that right folks? [1/∞]

[wastewalking]

[wastewalking]

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[wastewalking]

CHARACTER AESTHETICS: OC EDITION.

bold what applies.

I. THE FAIRY.  chipped nail polish.  glitter highlight.  tall trees with smooth bark.  tangled hair. the taste of cinnamon sugar.  talking too loud and too fast.  overgrown flowers in your hair. crumbling buildings reclaimed by nature.  flirting.  walking home at 3am with no coat.  platonic hand-holding. blowing smoke out of your nose.  dragonfly wings.  chaotic good. freckles.  fairy rings.  secret meetings.  gender nonconformity.  leather.  smudged eyeliner. forbidden fruit.

II. THE REAPER.  computer errors.  a shiver down your spine.  haunting beauty.  hard liquor. crowns of thorns.  shadowed alleyways.  decaying plant matter.  shattered mirrors and broken glass.  corrupted memories.  stopped clocks.  the scent of stale cigarettes.  tattered black hoodies.  walking your friends home.  the crescent moon.  the sea.  a graveyard on a foggy day.  cold rings on cold fingers.  absolution.  looking out the window of an airplane.  soft kisses.

III. THE WITCH.  graffiti.  pretending to know what you’re doing.  worn paperback books. growing up too fast.  parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme.  lace and combat boots.  moth wings.  candles on every surface.  a weathered deck of cards.  turning the music up.  fireflies in jars.  calloused fingers.  drawing on your skin.  sunlight filtering through clouds.  petrichor.  a dying rose in a jar.  wearing a crystal pendant.  illusions and spells.  black cats.  mint gum. chapped lips.  dirt under your fingernails. the cycle of life and death.

IV. THE WOLF.  murders of crows.  frost-bitten leaves.  wolves howling at midnight.  knocking on your door.  leaving food out for stray animals.  the twang of an acoustic guitar.  honey.  tiny red buds on trees.  claw marks on the walls.  golden eyes.  slightly too long stubble.  sharp canines.  soft, thick fur.  hunger.  a small cottage in the middle of the woods.  knitted fingerless gloves.  sleeping on the forest floor.  always finding your way back home.

tagged by: @broodmotherdearest

tagging: @mojavedevil, @iinxsearchofxisolde, @daggersandsparks, @lyinglantern

[wastewalking]

if you would be so kind as to reblog this if you feel insecure about your writing skills.

[wastewalking]

Send me a “Hello Handsome/Beautiful” if your muse thinks my muse is attractive

[wastewalking]

Roger registered the alarmed shouting of his companions only dimly as the ground suddenly gave beneath him and he was dragged down, dropping his rifle to clutch at the snow covered ground briefly before it disappeared.

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.

This creature- though far removed from any semblance of humanity, it--she?--appeared remarkably humanoid.. And could have just as easily killed as captured him, though in itself, that wasn’t much of a comfort. He was well aware of the various powers in the wastes that operated purely on the desire to take and twist the DNA of human subjects into any number of grim and impossible distortions. But it did leave open the idea that peaceable communication of some kind was yet possible.

@wastewalking

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.

When the time is right, Mother flexes her claws; they jut up from beneath the snow, closing over the man, a twisted cage that will support his journey to her. With that, she retracts, pulling the stranger down into her depths. Miles and miles of flesh, blood and gristle pass by him in an instant as she drags him– willingly or not– to her grand chamber. She wants to look at this trooper with her own eyes.