Owl of My Love

sunspeared:

Rose’s mom is chill as fuck.

The grown-up version swung through LOHAC real quick once, dropped a few nasty little nak-naking crocodiles on her way, blew you a kiss, and moved on; this one’s a god tier Rogue with a big-ass rifle slung over her shoulder. Void swag, nullifying bullets, hells yeah, she told you when you met, and then she shot a giant imp over your shoulder without blinking. One-hit K.O., thing straight-up shuttered out of existence with nothing to mark its passing but a metric fuckload of grist.

She split the grist with you, and made you do a shot of whiskey with her to celebrate. 

She’s tiny, and she’s got enormous stones, and she punches the young douchebag edition of your bro in the shoulder and waves you over, massive grin on her face. ”Hey,” she says, “hey! Davey-boy, c’mere, me and Dick Rider here have a score to settle, you’re gonna be our tiebreaker.” 

“Dick Rider.” Your bro looks like he wants to crawl into a hole and die, which, okay, his cool is getting nasty harshed: a fine Lalonde tradition. You’d be sympathetic if you could see around the wood you’re sprouting. “Really, Roxy, you couldn’t—”

“Quit asking for it and I’ll quit giving it to you! —Dirk, you know I love you like I love pie; Davey-boy, I don’t have all day.” 

You haven’t got a single smooth thing to say except, “Yes, ma’am, right away, ma’am.” 

The salute is probably unnecessary. Rose’s smirk looks like it’s about to leap right off and start up a chorus line to the tune of My, what an interesting talk we’re going to have later. You can live with that. 

(via megaparsecs)