Sam: Hello, all! The fabulous Sam Nishimura here, with my ever faithful companion, the has-the-cutest-butt-in-the-known-universe, most brilliant archeologist Lara Croft here!
Lara: Sam...don't submit that.
Sam: But Laraaaa, your butt deserves media attention!
Lara:...If anyone has any inquiries, send them this way.
Lara/Sam, drunken snog whilst backpacking
I’m kind of glad whiskey makes Lara have pretty crazy blackouts. I mean, it kinda scares her, so she’ll never, ever drink whiskey in public, but when it’s just us and she’s had a rough time it’s the first liquor she reaches for. I think I might by one of the only people she trusts; it’s a shame she makes me so, so weak when I’m drunk.
Sam’s teasing gets kicked into high gear.
Something is different tonight. Sam seems…I’m not sure how to describe it.
“You’re gonna fall apart one of these days, girl,” she says with a light tinge in her voice. Her fingers twist my cut hand over as her other hand wraps the white gauze gingerly between my thumb and forefinger. It wasn’t so deep; I managed to remove the glass quick enough to avoid serious damage. But it was long, from the base of my first finger to the heel of my palm.
Hello! I really really like your art and I was wondering if you have any advice for drawing emotions? Maybe like an exercise or tutorial or something?
Try this out! I made it fast so I’m sorry for the sloppiness ;u;
Lara’s getting real tired of her fancy outings getting interrupted by lunatics trying to kidnap her date.
Tomb Raider now and then. Labeled archetypes for your convenience. It’s kind of amazing that no one else noticed this.
I see your protective Lara and raise you an over-protective Sam with separation anxiety.
Familiar places. White rooms. White lights. Sealed windows. I know she hates these places. I know they drive her crazy. She’d rather rot than be trapped in a place that takes your clothes and prods you with needles and dumbs you with drugs. She refuses them, most times. If she is slow, she will die. At least, that’s the way it is in her head.
"Get me out of here, Sam," she mutters through her hazy stupor. A nurse taps a syringe full of a tawny liquid and slides it into the piggyback port on her IV. It oozes into the wire like a watery slug, crawling into her veins.
trapped, lara/ sam
Five years after Sam’s possessed, Lara engages in a casual ritual with a Solarii.
Moves and moves. After many weeks, she had finally gotten a handle on his playing style. Always the Bishops first, and always three pawns. It was his starting position, which was strange but somehow conquering. A white Knight disappears from the tabletop.
“Damn,” he mutters softly, puling at the twine of his glove hem. The queen emerges silently from sleep, sliding into the depths of her own troop. Her own dies.
“Dangerous,” she smirks. It’s the first word she’s spoken since the beginning of the game. Predatorily, she circles her last bishop around the piece and pushes her bangs out of her eyes.
“Hair’s getting matted,” he mentions. “You should let me take you to the springs.”