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red-doll-face · 2 days ago

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Snow Angel 11

Chapter 11: fevered Series Masterlist

low - medium honor Arthur Morgan x fem. Reader

Arthur has been living by himself, laying low (for real this time) somewhere in the Pacific Northwest. After the whole Pinkerton and Micah debacle, he has been hiding away, waiting for it all to blow over, occasionally getting letters from the people who still know that he’s alive. He’s been alone awhile and at first, he thought he could handle a little loneliness. He has been wrong before. Lucky for him, you look like the perfect thing to break up the monotony.

Warnings: dubious consent, arthur’s mental health is kind of not so good…VERY low honor Arthur, darkish fic, a bit of naive reader. Reader has dated and period typical ideals, not very good ideas about men and marriage… if you want reader to be strong and a fighter… this is not for you sorry. suggestive themes. Huge HUGe Voyeurism bit, arthur being a perv 🤨👀 huge weirdo energy LMAO small mention of wanting death, WC: 7780 Hello snow angels : ) here is chapter 11!!! this chapter will be from arthurs perspective so very exciting 😳 i had a ton of fun just getting nasty with him and writing his fucked up little thoughts 😈 arthur inner monologue was a bit weird at first but im sure ill get better at it by actually attempting to do it LMAO i hope you guys enjoy and pls let me know what you think!!! i wanna thank everyone who has left replies and asks about this series, all of you have been so supportive and amazing, couldnt do it without you guys 🥹🥹💖💖💖 also this ended up way too long so sorry Tags: lots of angst todayyy, no TB, weird but not that toxic relationship, Arthur being a menace.Arthur being rude as always just… low honor arthur as a warning lol - What does it matter if the man who saved your life is a little strange?

It must be dusk falling too soon. Slow deprivation of heat and light; does things to his head, as if that wasn’t half screwed off already. Arthur’s fingers clutch the dusty curtain in front of one of two main windows at the front of his cabin; his eyes swear they can see…something out in the treeline. At first he thought of Pinkertons; to collect that bounty they were on about. Why they would follow him to the ends of the earth for that would be beyond him but Arthur had been known to do stupid things for a big payout. And of course, he hadn’t lived this long without a healthy amount of paranoia. Or what he called caution. Or perhaps Charles should have left his ass at the nearest asylum.

But he can sense that he’s wrong when nothing comes of it. No gunshots, no desperate shoot out for his life. Just the quiet again. In a minute, he’ll look out the window and watch the figure disappear. And he’ll shake his head, rub his calloused fingers over his tired eyes. He drops the curtain, pouring another cup of coffee at the silver percolator in the kitchen. He is not losing his grip; he isn’t. He’d leave that to Dutch.

It’s gotten worse with the winter; those strange things he sees from time to time. They make him feel more out of place than he already does. As if there’s something wrong with him, wrong with this moment. The frost grows over the windows like mold.

The summer sun kept the darkness from slipping in and leaking into his vision. But that’s long gone, been gone for a month. Shit weather up here, long dragging winters. Summers that were too short for his liking and an autumn that was beautiful but also short lived. The winter is too heavy now to do much of anything but loop out to the stable and back. Not much sightseeing to do, the same shock white landscape to see everyday.

In spite of how beautiful the mountain is; with its sprawling forest, creeks like liquid glass, the fresh winter air… Arthur finds it arduous to see it. Closing himself inside his cabin is easier. He could go and hunt something, draw the scenery. But was that any better than the fireplace? The comfort and simultaneous unease of staying inside the confines of his new home drag him in opposite directions. And even if his paranoid visions are just residue from another time in his life; he knows there are people who could be still searching, who might remember his face. Bad things had a way of following Arthur wherever he went.

Even more loathsome is the lack of sunlight. The sun disappears around 4 or 5 and it feels like it was midnight by 6. The windows of his wooden cabin blacken like soot, leaving him tired and groggy.

Arthur tries to keep himself going with bitterness like always. Coffee, cigarettes, and alcohol. He thinks the lack of light plays with his head. It’s easy to mistake shadows for ghosts, trusting himself was hard as it was.

Damn snow, cuts to the bone.

The stunning silence surprises him still at these odd moments in the day. Arthur thought that maybe the peace would do him some good. But there was a need that scratched incessantly at the front of his skull. Over and over and over.

He spent a long time being needed by other people. Dutch made him feel needed at the very least. Like he was part of something that symbolized how free a man could be. And he had devoted every shred of himself to the vision that Dutch had for the world. It was all that mattered to Arthur. His fealty was really all he had to give and so he gave it.

God, had he felt the fool on the last day he saw him, when Dutch walked away, as if everything Arthur had ever done was nothing to him. Twenty goddamn years of his life. If he was being honest, he knew that his loyalty was wasted before that day but he had waited to see if the man he knew would emerge. If he could kill that gutless rat and show Dutch the truth but he refused, leaving Arthur with nothing to show for it. Helping John, Abigail and Jack to safety was barely a comfort when he thought of all that he wasted. All he did was hand another man a chance at the life that he wanted.

But it was too late. As always with Arthur. (Everything was always too little; too late) Providing for others was embedded deeply in his being. It was something he had done for years, especially when he decided to get his shit together. He might have dallied, thoroughly enjoying his youth. But he learned (through several extremely painful lessons) why it was important that he pick up the slack. Loyalty isn’t represented by inaction. He hadn’t been all too kind to people but he had kept his comfort that in some part, his work was what kept that camp running. And when that fell apart; he really did try to help the less fortunate.

Really, he was making up for his failures to the people he cared about most. Arthur questioned if he had cared enough. If he did, maybe things would have ended differently between him and the people he harmed by being selfish.

Maybe Dutch put some modicum of power in his hands and Arthur had wielded it badly, went around acting like the cesspool he felt like most of the time. But at the end of the day, the camp ate because of him, they had medicine because of him, hell, they even drank because it was him that brought back more money than anyone else.

There is no one who needs him now. Arthur scrubs his hand over his face then down to rub over his shoulders. Leans his head back. At first it was nice. The independence. No more debt collecting for Strauss, no more worrying if there’s enough food for Pearson, no more looking out for O’Driscolls. He thought he would like only having one person to worry about; he had been lying to himself. Although he still had other things missing from him. They’re like phantom limbs. He can feel where they were supposed to be but when he looks down they’re gone. Hosea’s guidance was missing from him. Even if he was terrible at following it. The sound of the girl’s giggling and gossiping. Even Uncle and Swanson ambling around, drunker than he thought was possible. Dutch looming, watching through his haze of maduro sweetened smoke. He keeps looking down but they’re gone.

The fire crackles and the wind howls; picks up the silence. Sometimes the wind from the flue sounds like the breeze over Flat Iron Lake. The fire doesn’t sound any different than it did when it crackled warmly around a circle of a mismatched band of criminals singing songs together, alongside the chatter and the drunken crooning. When it was the background noise to thick Irish blabbering. The poor kid. He was going places, as most of the younger ones were, he and Lenny would have run that gang when they got past their growing pains. He could have told them that when they were living, that sentiment would have meant something then.

It’s been a year or two, the days sort of connect like train cars and chug along, not because he wants them to but because that’s how life goes. It’s an endless drag, an endless struggle. He can’t see how this is much better than being dead. Arthur Morgan is one of the few people who knows how precious life can be, he spent a lifetime taking it away from people as he pleased.

He tries to savor this peace (as if he knows how to). Tries to remember what it was like, not having any time to himself, always at Dutch’s beck and call. Barely any time to take a piss, let alone really rest, really give himself room to be anything but what others wanted. How he loathes those memories. The years he spent dedicating himself to another man's dreams. Watched all those years slip away, ashes in a smoke stack, rising forever upwards until they’re forgotten.

Arthur refuses to recall how many things he gave up for that life; down to the simple pleasures. Love, privacy, a family. He convinced himself that anything else wasn’t living, that he couldn’t ever be tied down. That old life was just… what he had. There was nowhere else to go and when he was old enough to go his own way, there were kids like him with nothing left; nothing to return to, no one to look after them. He might not have been anyone to look up to. Maybe he was a shining example of what not to be. It was Arthur who was there to keep people in line, to show them how to be killers for Dutch’s aspirations. He’s sure he ruined lives more than he taught them anything useful.

Nothing about that life was rooted in anything real, substantial to the world. Pipe dreams. Vague imaginings of living free in the west or some such tropical paradise. What a waste. Just the thought of a secluded island with palm trees on it summons a bitter laugh.

He sits and watches the fire. Tries to ignore the shadow in the corner. It's thin and wavering. Today, it looks a bit too much like Hosea for his taste. Especially when the log on the hearth cracks, it sounds like that ominous cough that followed the graying conniver everywhere he went.

Arthur lights another cigarette. He’s been making (quite frankly, just awful) attempts at rationing and this is his allotted second cigarette of the day. He’s two for five. He curses himself every time he forgets to take the drags and it crumbles to ash too quickly, landing on the rug beneath his boots. He hisses, a singe on his fingers snaps him back to the present moment. It burns his fingers when he forgets that he’s holding one entirely, too busy drilling holes in the walls with his eyes. He can’t stand it but he doesn’t have another choice. The silence has the mysterious property of making Arthur lose track of himself. He should have listened but he never learns.

This deep into winter, not too far from the base of Mt. Pàtu, he can’t just head out on the road and get more cigarettes. The nearest town is a six or seven hour ride and that isn’t happening, not in this weather. He might take Currant out for a light trot so he can get some exercise but he can tell something big is coming soon. The bellows of air from the west have him readying for storm weather. Best to get a move on now if he were to be going out.

It’s dinner now. He’s not sure where the time went but he doesn’t mind too much. He’s got coffee and he’s got hot food. Salt pork with potatoes, boiled in the salt water from soaking the corns of salt off the meat. He’s gotten better at cooking at least. Arthur scoffs at the thought of the slop he used to be eating. He takes a glass out and sets it on the counter, along with his fifth bottle of Kentucky bourbon. He’s allowed 6 bottles a month. By anyone else’s standards it might be a lot but where he spent most of his time; around other drunkards and degenerates, it’s not enough.

The storm hits full force now, there’s gonna be snow all the way up to the porch by tomorrow morning. But the air inside of his cabin is still and smoky. From the window, he checks the stable to see if the doors stay closed. It’s well insulated so Currant should be fine. The storm will have scared most of the game into hiding away, he contemplates when he’ll head back out for hunting. He takes a seat at his plain dining table, spends a while on the same glass of bourbon. The smell of cedar and salt is nice. So is the warmth of his cabin but it’s all lost to him. His sense for how fortunate he is to be here and not dead in a ditch is dull. Only he could be the man to crave chaos and blood and the sound of gunshots while sitting on his ass all day, sipping bourbon.

He thinks he’ll read a boring book or pretend to keep busy by stoking the fire. Arthur listens to the silence, waiting to hear something but the crackling and the draft from a small crack in the wall. But there’s nothing. He should have listened to Charles. But he insisted that he would be fine. He can’t go back on that now, he’s always been fine by himself. He’ll just wear the groove into his leather chair even further like the sorry bastard he is, trying to ignore how small and stiflingly warm the room feels.

The blizzard gets louder and louder. Dozing off on the sofa or in his chair sounds like as good a time as any. But he isn’t exhausted, just annoyingly groggy. Bouncing his knee does not count as activity. Neither does all the fidgeting he does, twitching his fingers, putting his legs up and bringing them back down. He tries to pace a little but wearing treads on the floorboards isn’t doing any good either. He puts his hands on his hips.

He grabs his journal but he doesn’t have much to write. What would he write about? Surely, the exciting things he experiences everyday. Waking up feeling like hot shit on a platter after having too much whiskey was not the kind of thing worth memorializing in his journal anymore. He’s a little past the shame now too, the embarrassment. He lets his fingers feel the blank page, the tooth of the paper.

He lets his hand form images of spring, the point of his pencil worn into a dull tip, recollected as best as possible. It’s nothing but a pale comparison.

There’s a pat on the door. It’s soft and weak. And just as softly, there’s a voice pleading for help, asking if anyone is inside. A light shining in through the cracks of his world.

He pushes himself up. He knows he hasn’t had that much to drink tonight. The worst possible outcomes play in his head. A ruse from bounty hunters, a local gang taking advantage (not a whole lot better than he would have done only 3 years ago), or another ghost from his past (the ones that play at the corner of his eye). His chest gets a little tight but he’s been good at keeping unease from holding him back. Arthur shakes his hand out, placing the book on the mantle of the fireplace.

“Who’s out there?” It’s an oddity. To hear another voice. One that isn’t his own. It’s a beautiful noise, a pleasing beckon. But he’s no fool. He doesn’t even particularly want to be here, why would anyone be here if they didn’t have to be? He grabs his revolver from the small table next to the entrance, one of the only loaded guns in the house. “Please, sir, I promise it’s just me,” and the earnestness in that voice, he has to believe that promise is true. He has to open the door. With a deep sigh, he stuffs the gun away after a second thought.

The figure is much too bundled up to gather any immediate details. She’s not very much, standing there out in the cold icy fluff. It isn’t until he nods his head to direct her does she realize she should probably come in. He peeks out at the tracks, just one long line of horse tracks in the process of getting blown over by the harsh wind and the lashing ice. Her struggle up to the porch marked in snow. Arthur scans the tree line for any of those dark silhouettes but they’ve blown away in the wind, they’re pushed from his mind when he turns back and closes the door shut behind the both of them.

He turns to her, he doesn’t mind the way she shrinks away from his body, skittish and slight. Such a small girl, alone in a snowstorm. He can’t think of a single good reason why she would be going it alone and what she could possibly need more than a night in. She should be warming her hands next to a fire. He could do it for her, could gather them and breathe on them. He tosses that behind him like an empty tin can. He has other things to focus on, mostly trying to get a better look at her and prying an answer out of her as to why she’s out here like this.

He’s more rude than he intended to be but a little rudeness is nothing new to him. “What the hell were you doin’ out there?” He has been described as coarse. Intentionally and unintentionally. He’s a little bit like a puffed up rooster when he catches her looking him over, marveling at the size of him. But he lets that fall away, surely she needed no old man assuming things on her part. He knows he ain’t much to look at. At his gruff tone, she has no response. The poor thing is so cold, her teeth chatter, whatever she mustered up to yell at him over the storm has run out. Arthur feels a little of his hard veneer chip away.

He thinks to take her coat, covered in frost and not nearly as insulated as he had hoped, it’s damp with melting ice now that she’s inside. But he feels like he’s dreaming again, peeling her coat off and hanging it on the rack, a faux gentleman. He doesn't know why he’s trying to impress but there’s a chance that she’d like a man like that. So he plays, pretends. He’s surely done that before.

When her coat is shed, all of those visions he’s been having must have caught up to him.

Jesus, Morgan. You’ve really lost it now.

This disease of loneliness he’s been given has surely destroyed the vestiges of his sanity. He must be imagining some young soft handed girl with warm bright eyes and vibrant, shiny hair. Face of an angel, looking hopeful; grateful. Her eyes on him burn like hellfire. He feels strange, watching much too close at how her tongue wets her lips; chapped from the cold. Beautiful; she must be someone’s girl, he hopes for a widow who had lost her husband to the winter frost. He’d gladly pick up where the fucker left off. Pry her from his cold hands. Could just be the loneliness talking. He can’t bring himself to care all that much about it.

Arthur can feel shame eating away at him, like ants at the corners of a scrap fallen off the table. He could have found himself sick to his stomach not too short a time ago. A girl as young as her and he, an old dog with even older tricks have no business together. He knows it too. But he was done with that crushing feeling of dread that ate away at his very soul some days. He had enough of his life to feel awful about. Blood on the floorboards, forgotten promises, disregarded words of affection. Just these moments, where he can hoard the vision that is this girl to himself after so long of giving pieces of himself away.

What has that shame ever done but made you worse?

If there isn’t the will to keep his eyes off the girl then there’s the give in him. Like a levy, it cracks a little, breaks into a million pieces of splintered wood for her. It’s been too long since he’s seen something so pretty. All flesh and blood. No graphite on paper; recollections of the women from his past, no Gem of Beauty cigarette card. She carries the smell of soap and perfumed cotton. He thinks it's geranium scented or another delicate flower crushed to pieces to make her smell like she came from heaven too. It’s a weakness he hadn’t culled.

This girl of his; she must be something quite real. His wishful daydream would have diverted to more intimate topics by now, and he’d probably imagine a woman he’s at least met before. Deciding if he’d prefer her to be real or a misty figment of his imagination; he can’t make heads nor tails of it. Arthur knows he’d probably end up disappointing a real person more than he could offend a figure cooked up in his mind. He sighs. He turns to the iron stove beside the dining table. There’s still coffee and he can distract himself from his ridiculous train of thought by clumsily pouring it out for her.

Hopeful bastard.

“You mute, girl? Asked you a question.” He knows she isn't but he wants to hear her talk some more. And maybe if she hears what a brute he makes himself out to be most of the time, she’ll turn her nose up at him the way she’s supposed to. Lots of women have, she wouldn’t be the first warned away by his attitude like a bad smell. He could almost let that temptation win. To change who he is at this moment. If only for the selfish purpose of luring her further into his home. However, he’s too impulsive and his tongue is too practiced at offending. He has words that are about as gentle as a fist to the nose.

He sets her cup down on the table. Arthur doesn’t wait for her to figure herself out, grabbing another cigarette, swiping them off of the coffee table in front of the fireplace. To hell with the rations. It was a special day after all, a goddamned holiday. He strikes the match on the table, lighting it as she tentatively steps forward. Nearly singes his finger on the match he forgot to put out, wincing and waving it out to put out the flame.

She’s a pearl, surrounded by the ugly oyster that is the less than stellar home he keeps. Carefully, she steps into his space. Suddenly, he’s hyper aware of every thing she could find awful or garish; his hunting trophies or the weapons or the wall. Or the mess of papers on the desk in the corner. It has him gripping his cigarette a bit too tight. Her face hardly moves in any particular reaction, as if used to him already. A simple neutrality is what takes her as she looks at some of the things over the mantle, then her eyes track over the small hallway, leading to the bedroom and some storage. She’s quick to bring her attention back to him, a soft smile that stuns him graces her face, kicking up some long buried hope of his.

If there was a woman who should be a lady, it’s her. She sets herself down on the sofa, neatly keeping her hands to herself, reaching for the cup he set out for her. But first checking to see if it wasn’t for him with a nervous flick of her eyes up to his own. He can hardly ignore how it pulls at him. She holds the blue speckled cup on her thigh.

“No, I…was getting something for my granny…” She explains she couldn’t make it to the doctor in the almost fatal weather outside. He has a humorless laugh. How could anyone send her out for the sake of some old hag; already knocking on death's door? Selfless girl but stupid. Defenseless. Her own mother, too. He supposes he can relate. The man he regarded as his father had been the one to let him down the most.

It’s always the ones you trust.

He makes his opinion known to her, maybe he can talk some sense into her.

“I can imagine. What kinda mother sends a pretty thing like you on a fool's errand? You really thought you was gonna bring your ol’ granny a doctor in this?” He reprimands her, she might need it.

Little girl gone out by herself. Needs you, don’t she?

What she probably needs is someone to keep her from doing things that risk her life for nothing at all. Doesn’t have to be him but he won’t turn the thought away. Breaking her open on her marriage bed. Such a pretty thing, a distracted smile into her cup of coffee. Lost in a snow drift because no one cared enough to keep her inside.

And she does nip back. Trying to give a rebuttal but he won’t have it. He knows he’s right, giving his idea of a light hearted joke, his particular brand of poking humor. Heavy handed as always.

“Your granny probably already kicked the bucket while you were out here, damn near gettin’ yourself killed.”

Perhaps insinuating her grandmother was already dead wasn’t the best attempt at familiarizing her with himself, her face tinges with an expression he’s used to seeing. Dutch said he had a sharper tongue than people thought. Hosea said it was too blunt.

“And if it weren’t for me, well…” she’d be dead. Forgotten somewhere in the snow with a dead horse for company. Such an image should hopefully be sobering for her. It’s a harsh reality but one he would prevent from happening. His hand comes up to scratch at his brambly jaw. She probably thought his slightly overgrown beard was ugly and unkempt. His fingers raise the delicate rolled cigarette to his lips. A nice calming drag helps his nerves calm down, they quit jumping under his skin every time her eyes pull over him, over his scarred face and his crooked nose and his gnarled hands. She looks like she holds something back. Her tongue, he thinks. He wished she would have just come out and said it.

But she’s a polite little thing, stifling herself with another drink of the coffee. The satisfaction on her face and the small droop in her shoulders now that she’s warm makes him smile.

She speaks up with a tremor stuck to her words. “I’m sorry mister,” her nose scrunches a little, doesn’t even know how darling he finds it. “but I don’t think you gave me your name…”

In a well practiced motion, he leans and ashes his cigarette. It took him a while to remember that he can’t just ash them on the ground anymore. He had floors and a permanent roof now. He tends to get the hang of things at some point. He kicks his legs up on the table, gently so as to not frighten the girl on his sofa, warming herself by his fire, and drinking his coffee. The thoughts tickle that provider’s instinct so deeply embedded in his being. His name, he almost forgets all about that, looking into her pretty eyes, blinking curiously. Right.

“Arthur. You married?” He never liked small talk too much. Never one for the surface level bullshit people put on. He watches each of her features form into something like a smile but not. Too nerve-y, falls into something else when she presses her lips together, her brows twitch as they pull together and her fingers scrunch in her gloves.

As if she’d marry you, ain’t exactly the pick of the litter, are ya?

His fingers twitch, squeeze his short nails into the give of his palm. Then why does she call him? So enticing, then, looking at him with soft eyes, her legs pressed together and slanted. A real proper girl. Cute thing. Naive enough not to recognize someone like him at first glance. He’s something to be avoided. He wishes he could see a ring glittering on her finger, to ward away the seething heat in his head and his gut. Like a prayer muttered in the presence of evil but he doubted it’d be strong enough.

“No, I’m afraid not,” her voice is like velvet, the rub of a rose petal between his fingers. Her eyes flick away and her teeth press gently into her bottom lip, sweet looking. No man to look after her besides her worthless father, left her out here to freeze. Alone, really. Or she might as well be. The world has been known to be cruel to women. To his mother, to a woman whose life he had ruined, to Mary even, to Susan and Molly. Well, most every woman he knew. It wasn’t fair but many things in their lives were disparagingly slanted away from them, scales always uneven.

“Young lady like you, unwed and caring for your Ma, Pa, all by yourself?” Arthur scoffs, even as he points out her tragedy. “Now that’s just sad, is what it is,” His fingers push his cigarette into the ash tray a bit too hard, twisting it. And he looks at her blouse, drawing the outline of her with his eyes. He’d put it to paper later. She has a small nod for him. A shining opportunity. But he has to introduce his own dingy reality. The one where he was probably old enough to have been able to hold her when she had just been born.

“You are… a sight, for an old ugly bastard like me is all,” Honest words slip from him, too loose for him to keep them behind his teeth. The bashful look crosses over her face makes his lip curl up just a little. She deserved to have someone tell her how pretty she is, who wouldn’t ever let her forget for a second how lovely she looked. Where all of these sappy things come from is beyond him. They ooze into his mind anyway.

Delicately, she sets the cup down on the table littered with other cups he had forgotten to put away and empty packages of cigarettes. He rolls his eyes at himself, of course he doesn’t clean up the day he has company.

“I left my horse in the stable out front, I hope you don’t mind,” her hands pet at her thighs, he can see where the fabric is damp. Immediately, his mind clicks into place, thinking on how he can fix it. That’s what the fairer sex truly craved, wasn’t it? Not some puffed up egomaniac. A fixer. A solution. His hands itch to move. To pick up the pieces of her problems and push them back into the shape of something whole. “Ain’t no trouble,” the relieved sag in her shoulders tells him that she actually worried about it.

So Arthur does, he’s nothing if not a man of action. “Why don’t I get you somethin’ dry to wear? Should be turnin’ in soon. Gettin’ late.” He’s up before he can hear a protest. But she doesn’t give much of one. In his bedroom, his hands swipe his hair backwards. The small mirror he usually keeps around strictly for shaving catches the light of the small oil lamp.

God, his best years are way behind him. So say the lines at the corners of his eyes, the gouges of his age on his forehead and the delicate webbing of wrinkles under his eyes. All of the evidence of his lifestyle glares back at him. There’s a ruddiness over the higher planes of his cheekbones from burning them under the sun. Some of the fist and knife fights from his youth have left permanent evidence of his misgivings on his face. Mostly in the form of scars and his odd nose.

You disgust her, don’t go kidding yourself.

If he ever told her the truth of himself, he’s sure a girl like her would go running, suddenly not minding the cold. He never was good at keeping beautiful things by his side. They rotted or wilted, or blew away with the wind. His rough fingers rub at the back of his neck. He stares deep into his own eyes. Trying to force some normalcy, some sense into himself but it’s all in vain. He grunts, paying mind to other things.

He opens his cabinet, all of the simple clothes he keeps. Something new and not so weathered, or dirty, something clean. Like her. Some nice cotton knit union suit, something he bought when he was preparing for winter. He grips them tight and hesitates at the door.

Just go n’ give it to her, and try not to be an idiot; for god’s sake.

And the sweet smile he sees knocks whatever sense he had gathered out of him, he can hardly form a word. He just holds the fabric out to her like an oaf. And she rises, as to keep things comfortable, good at reading his brutish signaling, taking them gently and skirting around him. And then she’s in his bedroom. With a mental cuss, he realizes that he forgot to clean the room before he left.

Ah, she’ll find out how pathetic you are at some point. Just a matter a’ when…

All those empty bottles and habits he’s formed from living alone. Dirty clothes piled somewhere and sheets that probably smelled a bit too much like sweat. Christ. He sighs, pinching his nose. He’s not sure why he’s putting so much thought into this. He doesn’t care. Not a care at all. Right…sure.

At first, he distracts himself with preparing food, his leftovers, hopefully enough for her. Doing this is an action which is perhaps a bit selfish. He wants to make it clear that he can give her things she needs. He could figure out wants later.. Typically, he hadn’t thought too much of what women wanted but with her he makes lists, takes out the fine brandy. Sometimes he took after Dutch more than he would like to admit, the man was all too good at forgetting about a woman’s wants and needs.

The food hasn’t gone too cold. His hands look for things to do, stirring unnecessarily. Fumbling the dish he places it on. However, the little comfort he gains from activity fades. He can only grip the counter like a vice while staring out the window above his sink for so long. The shades of brown and orange that make up his cabin blur into nothing, the wood grain isn’t as grounding as he wants it to be.

But then his legs drift in the opposite direction, He can hear a soft sigh and the rustle of clothing behind the door. He wets his dry throat. Arthur shouldn’t salivate. He does anyway.

You’re a creep. Something in his head laughs at him.

Been too long since you had a woman this close to your bed and she ain’t even in it with ya…c’mon. C’mon, just open the damn door.

His heart is about to pound his ribs into dust. He’s among the worst of the worst but this… pushes boundaries. Lines drawn in the sand. Peeping on women wasn’t something he was raised to do. And if he saw something he wasn’t supposed to see, it was an accident.

You ain’t that bad.

He’s used to letting the tide wash those out so he can draw new ones. And here is a new one. When his fingers push at the door and he can see the sliver where she bares her own flesh. Rubs her hands up her thighs, stepping out of her clothes. His throat goes dry, his teeth bite bluntly at the tip of his tongue as his jaw gets tense.

His eyes follow the natural plush curve of her body, pale yellow lamp light glancing off of her. He’d kill a man to touch her and he’d kill a man for touching her. Devouring every inch, his eyes soak it all up, dedicating her to memory.

And then she’s stepping into the creamy cotton of his clothes. Doing up the buttons at her front. Unbidden by him, his cock fills out, half hard, pressing uncomfortably at just the sight of her. The perfection of her hips, her hair brushing over her back.

The guilt is chewing a hole in his conscience. It’s like there are termites gnawing away at the foundation of whatever restraint he had. He’s felt less disgusting after killing a man, making him choke on his own blood as it fills his lungs. But the reward had never been so delightful. A sweet girl, so trusting, putting her hand to her chest and smiling as she realizes he’s there. It doesn’t feel good at all, the realization that he’s drooling over her like a mutt. All she has given him is reluctance, nervous glances. She doesn’t touch him or leave her hand to linger. A sweet-as-cream smile is all he has, enough to tide him over. He wants her anyway, needs her to stay. Letting her walk out after this will be next to impossible.

“You scared me, Mister…” Mister. So polite, an angel delivered unto him. He can feel how his body is tense, tight like a spring. How she doesn’t notice the evidence of his wrongdoing, pressing at the front of his pants is luck or her naivety. His expression must be dazed, a foolish look because all he can do is stare, unable to stop himself. Observing the way his clothes drape over her, exaggerating how much smaller she is in comparison. How stunning she’d look, sprawled over his bed sheets. Precious girl; struggling not to cry when she gets all stretched out on something wholly too big for her. In his mind's eye, she mouths his name, looks at him like all she wants is him inside of her. Right. His name again.

He dips back into his own ease in which he controls all of himself with. He is self assured and well handled. And he certainly doesn’t curl in on himself. Lets her see how big he is, slips back into old habits with the ease that comes with capability. “Morgan, Arthur Morgan,” his real name, no Kilgore’s or Calahan’s. She should know it anyhow, if he has any real intention in giving it to her.

It’s dangerous and it’s like she can feel it, somewhere in her body is that base instinct. One she was born with to protect herself from people with bad intentions. But she has another instinct, bares her neck to him. Arthur has always been good at suppressing his hunger, desire for soft pretty things. Settling like sediment on them was the control he had, buried them and buried them and buried them. She's a rainstorm, flooding his mind, washing out his carefully maintained resistance. Leaves his want raw and exposed and actionable. He wants her too much, wants her more than he has any right to.

He feels what little control he has over his urges begin to slip with that thought. Usually, he let them take over. Let whatever pain and anguish in him manifest into pure rage, cold and unadulterated. At first, it revolted him, his actions. And the reputation he built to go along with them. But they began to grow over him like a second skin until they encased whatever hope he had for a better life completely. His self induced hatred hid whatever pieces of him weren't supposed to be his to have and to share. The things he had to hide from himself even to feel like a whole person at any given moment. And he let himself be that awful thing people thought he was. Arthur Morgan. A force of nature.

But he deserved it, didn't he? Everyone should keep their distance anyway. He has a habit of making things worse than when he found them. But all he wanted was for her to be close. Sure, he could play the vulnerable man who could pine after his sweetheart, go out riding after her, guide her home where she would forget all about him. Just a kind man out to help the world.

That's not what he wanted. He wanted her to stay here. Can’t bear the thought of being a good man, sending her away when the storm blows over. In sickness and in health, til’ death do us part. That’s what he sees when he closes his eyes. She’s standing in the kitchen, turning the spoils of his hunts into dinner. With that easy smile. His too empty house just wouldn’t feel like a home without her in it. He’s sick, he knows; but he’s sure she can cure him.

Arthur Morgan has always wanted more than he could have. He chews on the thought like tobacco. Bitter but eventually he begins to need the taste, to crave it.

“Put somethin’ on the stove for ya, man can’t leave no woman hungry…” God, his tongue feels too thick in his mouth and his jaw aches from gritting his teeth too hard. And of course, he lays all his cards on the table. Man can’t leave his woman hungry.

Every little gesture she makes, wrapping her arms shyly around herself, the gentle tilt of her head and the small affirmative gesture she makes is in no way unordinary. But they’re all dripping with her appeal. How can she smile at him like he doesn't look the way he does? Like he hasn't made the world worse just by existing in it?

He soils her just by laying greedy eyes on her neck, on her nipples which he can make out through the fabric of his union suit. And when she opens her mouth, he knows he’ll end up calling her what she is. Sweet and syrupy, soothing on his throat.

“Thank you, Mr. Morgan. I really appreciate your kindness,” Arthur is convinced he heard her wrong. But her honesty is in those radiant eyes, in her easy posture. It must be meant to be, it’s not every day a woman talked to him like that. Or talked to him at all. He was perhaps too busy making sure they knew what they would be getting into; dealing with him.

It may just be the respectful manners instilled in her. He supposed her parents had given her that; mannerisms that made her quite the catch. Utter perfection. But really, even that was a disservice. They damned her to him. Makes him see glimpses of a life he could have. Hundreds of conversations, every iteration of the precious babe they'd have together with his hair and her eyes, a son or a daughter. Two of each perhaps. Hours and hours of her gentle, refined voice taking up the empty room. He bows his head as if he can keep his disbelief and joy under the brim of his hat, currently hanging by his front door.

She comes nearer. He can smell her cotton scent, can see the way the light casts around her hair, feathering over her, turning it into gold. His body moves to make the smallest space for her. Hoping she’ll nudge against him. He doesn’t even realize the way he’s formed himself to keep her here for just a moment. So close, Arthur nearly loses track of what he was supposed to be doing.

“Been a long time since somebody called me a kind man, usually it was the opposite,” apprehension floods her body, her features. Her eyes focus on him, waiting for something terrible to happen. Arthur sees how she bristles. He only meant to be honest but she’s already read between his lines. Smart girl.

He shows her just what he means. Even when he knows better, even if he’s never been this far. It’s like he has to touch though. No where uncomfortable, just to be sure she isn’t a sign that he’s truly gone from this world.

“Please, I-”

Her plea goes down his spine. It rakes its teeth over the parts of him that are wrong. That weren’t formed with gentleness, aren’t intricate. Just instinct that he’s indulged.

He may not be a good man. But he can behave well enough to keep her. Now that he has the room for her. He doesn’t live in a drafty tent. He’s not a dog chained to the hand that fed him too many years ago. He would never treat her like an object to display or a mistake made in a drunken night of pleasure. He wouldn’t throw this away, this one chance at having something real. Wouldn’t lay waste to this opportunity to fill a hole in him that yawned empty for what felt like eternity. She’d be his wife and he; her man. A husband. Mister and Missus Arthur Morgan. A crock of shit, he would have said a month ago.

That ain’t the hand you been dealt and you know it. You’ve made a mess of things enough.

But now… it's a dreamy reality. It hasn’t quite taken shape but he can get it there. Determination starts to crystallize over the idea. She’s something good; doesn’t need him. He could try to make something better too, could make the best of a situation, try to show her the best in him. But he knows it’d never be enough for her. He always throws these good things away, always ruins it somehow. But he grips and shakes like a mutt at this idea, gnaws it until it's raw. He can just take what he wants. Done that before, hasn’t he?

Just leave’er alone. God, you never learn, goddamned fool…

His fingers graze over the skin on her neck, uncovered by the collar of the union suit he lent her. Here in the dark of the small hallway, he can swear there’s something in the way she breathes, shudders. “I think you need a man to take care of you, honey, need a man to keep you inside- wouldn’t let you go out alone like this if you was my woman… Lemme show you how a man looks after a girl like you,” He’s aware that he sounds like a right bastard but he’s only telling the truth. His hand settles at her back, like it’s supposed to be there. They’re meant to be, all he has to do is show her.

ok yall how we feeling LMAO i think his perspective was interesting and fun for me to write but idk if its any good, but i hope with practice ill get more confident 🥹🥹 bro is a freak sooo yeah it was fun to write him as a freak he is very conflicted about everything and he is super weird but also sexy sooo😳 i hope you guys enjoyed this lil backstory on why arthur is a weirdo 😊😊😭😭 lmk what you guys think !!

#❄️ snow angel #red writes #arthur morgan x reader #rdr2 x reader #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan #low honor arthur morgan x reader #red dead redemption 2 x reader #tw dark content #tw dark fic #tw dubcon #red dead redemption 2 #red dead fandom #red dead redemption two #red dead redemption #arthur morgan x female reader #low honor arthur morgan

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ppnuggiexxx · 12 hours ago

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-> CHAPTER ONE | CHAPTER TWO

•| was it truly worth taking his word for it? how does one even enter hell, or was this all some strange cosplayer’s roleplay you happened to get roped in?

•| taglist :: @z4rph1m ,, @theultimatewaffle

"fine!" as crazy as the whole situation was, you accepted his invitation. how else do you tell the supposed king of wrath no? not to mention the guys name is satan. honestly, if youre lucky these guys might be cosplayers. but the whole situation seemed surreal, the angel seemed too real.

"follow me," he smiled and grabbed your hand before leading you away. "where are we going?" you questioned. he led you off the mainroad and into a forest, soon getting lost and turned around with the repeated trees. going into a forest you dont know or aren't acquainted with feels like youre in there for eternity. "the first gate of hell is where we're going." he stated.

gate? what did he by the first gate? how many are there? "what do you mean?" you asked him, not caring that he still gripped your hand in his. his red eyes looked back at you before looking ahead of him again. "hell is gated off into different sections. there are nine gates in total; three of stone, three of brass, then three of iron." he explained.

"it's to ensure utmost secrecy and security between the worlds. heaven has nine gates as well. though if you were to gaze upon them there would be nothing. its impossible for a human to see the gates unless theyre an angel. its what makes heaven quite hard to find."

the deeper in he led you, the darker and colder the forest became. your hands went to your forearms and rubbed against them, your body hunching over to try and maintain as much body heat as you could. it almost felt like it was winter despite it being spring.

ahead a dark cavern appeared into the side of a mountainside. you didnt even know there were mountains in the area. "who's that?" you pointed to a figure waiting around the cavern.

"chaos. they usually guard outside of the gates. its to ensure any soul taken to hell doesn't attempt to escape." satan explained, saying a brief hello to chaos before entering the cave. "it does get dark and wet fast, so watch out where you step. ill lead the way though so stay close behind me."

you nodded and glanced at chaos. they were a creature of unknown nature, they werent humanoid in any way yet didnt look like an animal. it was as though they were a clumb of skin, a few eyes sticking out and having a singular hand at the top. bones and blood stuck out from it. its hard to describe a being that made you feel like puking your insides out upon first glance. you turned your head away from chaos quite fast. you didnt want to look at them if you didnt have to.

"can you tell me more about hell?" you asked and followed after satan, noting how dark it got. your hands stuck out in front of you, catious with your steps in case you run into a wall.

"what do you want to know?" he asked, walking swiftly down the tunnel.

"like, about the inside. where in hell are you taking me? is there cities? or is it like how biblical books say it is, a rampant city filled with torture and death?" you asked, curious as to what you would see. its not every day you take a trip to hell after all.

"well, we're going to gehenna. thats where i rule in hell. there are seven different nations, and to get to them you have to go through the gates. gehenna is protected by the first stone gate." he said before stopping in his tracks. "the further down you go, the colder it becomes. the more of a wasteland hell is until you reach abbadon at the bottom. abbadon is hotter than anywhere in hell, its the core of it. under abbadon? im not sure what lies there." he said.

"now, we wont be able to continue walking through. you'll have to crawl. its wet though, so be careful." he warned before taking off his jacket and holding it out to you. you raised an eyebrow at him before taking it and putting it on. "is there water?" you asked. he simply nodded before dropping to his knees and hands, crawling into a small hole. it was hard to see anything but the area itself closed off abruptly into a small crawl space.

who knew hell would be tricky to get to? you soon got on your knees and hands, the stone beneath you slick and cold. maybe you shouldve asked if he had gloves. feeling around for the hole, you had a small idea of how big it was, which wasnt that big at all. you had to keep your head down so you wouldnt hit it on the top of the crawl space.

crawling through felt weird, at random points it felt warm, then cold again. it was a repeated process, and sometimes it felt like something was touching you at certain parts. hopefully it was just the rock and nothing else.

"be careful up here, it gets smaller. you'll have to crawl on your stomach here." satan warned from ahead of you. it was like how people described entering hell to be. being forced to crawl on their stomachs, wriggling like serpents to trespass into hell.

it was hard to move through. your breathing quickening as you wriggled around in the tunnel. just how long was this going to take? how far down is hell? were you even going down, or was it straight? how was minhyeok? it had to of been morning by now, and he would be worried. maybe you shouldn't have came along, maybe you shouldve gone back to minhyeok?

it was too late to turn around now, incapable of moving backwards without knowing where you were going exactly. there had been a few turns through the tunnel. and you couldnt turn your body around, it was too cramped to do so.

"stop...." what was that? you couldnt see where the voice came from, but it sounded right on top of you. "hello?" you called out.

"stop....moving." it almost sounded as though it was struggling to talk, like their words were forced between harsh breaths. you squinted your eyes and looked around as best as you could, desperate to find where it came from.

"ignore it." satan called from ahead of you. why? what was it? some sort of mythical creature meant to drag you to temptation? you didnt want to find out, truthfully.

the tunnel beneath you got slimier, sticking to your hand the further you crawled in. it felt like the stone turned to mush, almost equivalent to fat in a way. you heard a pained groan that didnt come from you or satan. your head tried to look around you, but the tunnel was too narrow. why did the ground beneath you feel oddly like skin?

_______________________________

birds chirped and flew across the sky, city almost a direct copy to any on earth. tall buildings and shops spread around, citizens walking about with their days. the only difference is that they were devils, horns big and visible as satan's. though some had little horns, so little you'd have to squint your eyes to see.

"welcome to gehenna." satan smiled at your expression of awe and wonder. "and welcome to hell." he grabbed your hand again and took you through the streets. it was almost like walking on the red carpet with a celebrity; citizens immediately noticed their king and you beside him. their faces held curiosity yet no ill intent.

he led you towards the largest building in the center of the city. it looked almost similar to a cathedral; stained glass windows covered the outside. it was larger than any you'd seen too. "my nobels and i live here." he explained as though he could read your mind.

"what are they like?" you asked, a little nervous. you were still wary of the whole 'devil' thing, especially seeing as this seemed as legitimate as it could get. what weirdo shows up randomly to just lead you through a gross and disgusting tunnel into another city? how could a random crackhead explain what chaos was, or the things you saw? not to mention all the devils around you, eyes piercing into the back of your skull. was this just a surreal lucid dream? you didnt even know you could lucid dream.

_______________________________

loud yells came from inside the room, the sound of complaints and cursing clear as day. satan grinned, waiting a moment before leaning his head against the door. "it seems theyre in an argument," his eyes widened and lit up. he waited another moment before busting the door open, any and all conversation taking place before was stopped.

"your majesty satan!" a blue haired devil announced. he had one horn on the side of his head and eyes similar to satan's, yet his were pink with blue saint peter's crosses. these devils sure like that cross, despite it not being demonic in any way.

there were six devils in the room altogether, not including satan. one red one, small and squishy with small horns and wings. they had a dopey look on their face. another stood next to the blue haired one, long bangs covered their eyes. their horns were smaller than the others, yet a small red creature sat upon them.

then a tanned devil with white horns curled over their head, with long white hair and blue eyes. two devils stood the farthest away; one with short hair and a long singular horn. next to him was a devil with three horns, all different colors, long, blonde hair and decked out with the color pink.

all the devils in the room stood up from their chairs and kneeled before their king. "sitri," satan said to the blue haired devil. he looked up at him, eyes only focused on him. none of the devils bothered to look at you, eyes closed and heads pointed towards to floor.

"ive found solomon's descendant."

#📼.whb #whb #whb x reader #📼.inferno

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labyrinthofsphinx · 2 days ago

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Hello! This might be a silly question, but I was curious if you have any future Hazbin/Helluva fics or ideas planned once transmissions is completed? Whether it be Drift or Vox & Al centric or otherwise? Absolutely no pressure of course, you do whatever makes you happy at your own time, I know you’ve sorta elaborated a little on it in other asks before but I wasn’t completely sure lol (everyone btw please go read these fics and give them traction! They are so so good!)

Awww, Anon <3 You got me all blushy now! Really though, glad you like my fics! Was actually in the middle of writing up the next Transmission chapter too, coincidentally <33

But yeah, actually I have a list of different ideas for more helluva/hazbin shenanigans, mostly taking place in the same verse! Haven't decided which to actually start penning yet, and maybe you guys could let me know what interests you the most! Here's a short synopsizes of the ones I had sorta outlined:

For those of you that have read Statistical Outliers, you might remember Vox mentioning an event called the Grand Exhibition, an annual ball that's thrown by overlords for overlords. You might also recall that there's a party that originally inspired that one, a goetia party which even Vox described as 'beyond exclusive'. Well, our media man himself warrants an invitation to this exclusive event, the first overlord personally invited since the one that started the overlord ball! But there's both pluses and minuses to be one of the only Sinners among an echelon of demons who, um, have their own agendas. I say one of because now that's Lucifer is back and trying to spread his wings more, his daughter convinces him to take some of the guests from the hotel as a plus one, or two, or six. Which may include, the the ire of the devil himself, our favorite radio host. Sad as it is to say, Vox might just be safer dancing with Alastor than rubbing elbows with this crowd.

That's the short synopsis but it's kinda a celebration of the hellverse as a whole. You might see some appearances from characters you might not suspect, like Drift, the Sins, famous goetia, and potentially a dysfunctional work family of imps ;)

Another idea actually branches off an initiative that Charlie comes up with, with the assistance of Emily, hoping to help bridge the gap between sinners and winners. And what better way to do that than a friendly interview where Sinners can apologize to the Winners that they may have been sent upstairs before their time. That's the pitch, anyways. In reality? Vox, master of television, is brought on board to help make this whole thing run smooth. And of course he plans on bending it all to his own benefit. Everything kinda gets derailed when the first interview ends up being Drift, meeting the man he hit on accident. And you know? The victim here might not act the way you'd think for an angel.

Aside from some more Drift and Vox interactions, this one was going to go into the kid's backstory in more detail, and kinda comment on the disbalance between judgement of Winners and Sinners. What separates one from the other? Sometimes, all it takes is one bad day. Or being at the wrong place at the wrong time. And Vox is over here looking to make this whole thing turn to his advantage.

On the more Helluva boss centered side of things, I do have a fic regarding Striker and his backstory. Written from the perspective of Striker's childhood best friend, its a story about the wilds of Wrath, where rugged childhood adventures turn to gritty adult drama. Its a rollercoaster, meant to show off how exactly Striker got to be who he was and introducing another character who is going to feature here and there throughout the intertwined webs of stories, my helluva oc, Wyld. This one is already written out quite a bit, nearly 200,000 words at this point, just never published. Wasn't sure there'd be much interest in it. Fair warning, this one gets dark in places because it's very much inspired by gritty realistic westerns, like Eastwood's Unforgiven.

Those are the ones on the docket right now, mostly because those are the ones I've outlined so far, but I'm always adding to it. For anyone interested in my fics, the first one is Statistical Outliers, which is where the main man of television meets a scrawny hairball by the name of Drift and takes it upon himself to, uh, rehome him. And why does it seem like Alastor's sticky fingers are involved in this somehow? The sequel, currently ongoing, is called Transmission Not Received , which is a mystery that forces a reluctant Alastor and Vox to work together to figure out who's running across Pentagram City and nabbing kids from right under their parents' noses in the dead of night.

Hoping to get the next chapter of Transmission up soonish and, boy, is it a doozey!

Either way, let me know what you guys think, maybe check out the fics if ya see something that interests you, and a special shout out back to Anon for making my day! <3

Thanks for the ask! <33

#hazbin hotel #ask reply #ask #reply #hazbin hotel fic #hazbin hotel fanfic #hazbin hotel fanfiction #hazbin hotel au #vox #alastor #drift #hazbin hotel oc #helluva boss oc #striker

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a-hazbin-spider · 14 hours ago

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Had Alastor had a hankering for pork, hellhog even, it might be all fine and dandy, just so long as his own is kept from the sharp and frequently terrifying maw to be met at the end of. But. As far as fear goes, Angel’s thoughts don’t even tread close to those lines. He never feels dread upon looking at his teeth or witnessing any feats of his strength. Most fear comes from the thought of losing this… thing they had. While Angel may be quick to label it as friendly, he isn’t entirely sure just how much of it would be particularly matched.

Odd, for being someone that specializes in reading others and putting their feelings and urges in the spotlight, this isn’t like those times. In fact, he was notoriously losing his touch when it came to good intentions. Or maybe he never had it at all- maybe it was just hoping in all its naive glory.

Either way. He still enjoys whatever it is, it brings him the gist of a childish descriptor of normalcy and at the very least positive companionship. One that can stick around and enjoy cooking together. It really does make his smile feel less like a tool when the other is around. Ironic, given just how well the other is quite proud of keeping that face regardless. Even without that, Angel can feel pride at least in his work, as it got the stamp of approval, which he sees is genuine from the other after their shared time.

“I appreciate you lettin’ me.” Speaking of shared time, he can with full honesty respond with his own remark. Maybe Alastor could tell his old love of cooking even from this little snippet of time. Simple as it is, Angel already looks forward to having it again. Maybe even like this.

“I’d do it again. Anytime you need a hand in th’ kitchen. I got a few.”

Maybe the time from before- wasn’t something he could connect to this moment. Despite this, Angel would be glad to spend more time there too. Even if the night of his injuries had been off to a shakier start, no regret could be harbored from any of the time he was allowed to spend. He might need to be careful before he catches himself longing for the company enough to get annoying or clingy. That’d need to be a thought for later though it seems.

A side eye can be met with a couple of his own facing any scrutiny head on. He wonders briefly what he must look like, many situations bring him to the vain thought. Curious as well as compulsive- fingers twitching to rid any blemish or unseemly marking over his person. But it dies down, much as he doesn’t always take to being told what to do very well. He could let this one slide. If anything, the other just offered him something beneficial.

“High expectations, I see.” He jokes before conceding, “I’ll give it a shot, I guess you’d know pretty well about needin’ it. I won’t say no to an excuse neither. I appreciate that. Hope you c’n find a lil rest too.”

Alastor has a few places to look for Angel should he need to destress like last time too. Who knows, it might serve to convince his body to grant itself sleep that is restful for once. Hoping for that is so little an act. And yet, he’s slowly starting to rethink its use a bit.

“Hm, even for a pig, he ain’t a squealer. And I guess he ain’t one for words neither. Either way his Daddy ain’t raised no snitch! He likes to steal snacks though, I gotta make sure he has a supply, or things would go missin’!”

Angel chuckles softly, ease working its way through him as he feels the welcome warmth of what had to be… a form of camaraderie, friendliness that made it a little easier to breathe with him. And perhaps that might be the delectable smell of the meal they’d cooked together. But, you know what they say, the way to a man’s heart is said to be through the stomach! Even if that statement is in no way anatomically correct… There is something magical about sharing a meal, he can’t deny.

That- it is something he can say for certain. He often lacks suitable time or energy, quite familiar with the situation of being needed in one place or another, or being busy. Often he finds that if he isn’t here before the others rise, then the time for this is usually passed.

He’d felt lighter already. Well, in that area of his chest and shoulders at least. He’s still a bit sluggish, feeling heavy. But he is sure the nice meal before him will make him feel better. The fried egg giving a pleasantly fresh smell with the pepper and spice used.

He’s a little cautious, in a way that he’s making sure the plate is secure when it’s held. When it is offered to him, it’s taken gratefully, the warmth and smell savored just a moment but he doesn’t exactly wait for anything to cool, he’s convinced he needed a big bite right away. Yeah it’s hot, sure, but also he’s gratified by it being delicious. He’s not overzealous about it, but he does certainly show appreciation for the flavor.

“Fabulous..!” He feels a little silly, and perhaps a little like a stereotype, but it brought a good mood about him, it had been a good while since he had something nice and filling such as this. Of course he can appreciate it in its entirety.

“I don’t think I’ve had em cooked this way b’fore. I’ve used hotsauce, or soysauce but, this is definitely better. An’ it’s perfect texture too.” He has no choice, he’s gotta praise where he sees fit! He won’t praise something that’s not deserving, but he is in no way shy to give credit where it’s due. Especially seeing that it’d made him a bit giddy.

Hm. He’d definitely need to remember to approach their agreement with some form of caution and respect. Though in the mean time, this should give good insight. After all, he had been serious as to bring offerings for Alastor to eat should he really need some place else to feel security.

#((woof that was a bit long oops gdksgk))#((awww ;; thank you! i’m sure i’ll get better soon! and the flareup is settling i think yayyy O:#the ball rolled back!: reply #angel dust; y’know from tv?#alastor: my dear deer friend #radioiaci #mmm coffee in nighttime nummy

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penumbralwoods · 4 days ago

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i think people need to get a little more creative with trans gabriel if i can be honest

#its an ANGEL you can do SO MUCH with that #as much as i love the top scars and shit i think theres a lot of potential for an actual exploration of what gender means to angels #especially with the lore of he/him pronouns being a sign of status/authority. have we considered a gender crisis alongside the sexuality #its not That easy to just stop believing in the things you've been taught when you realize they're wrong you know?? what we call Unlearning #god fucking [opens google doc] gotta do everything myself around here cant have shit in heresy /ref #blasphemy against the holy spirit

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lucabyte · 3 months ago

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monologue

#they said i couldnt have a worse speech bubbles to image ratio and i said 'bet?'#isat spoilers #in stars and time #in stars and time fanart #isat fanart #isat siffrin #isat loop #two hats spoilers #isat #lucabyteart #sifloop #not rlly but it gets the tag in case ppl r backscrolling my tags on my blog for some reason #anyway this dialogue has been kicking around in my files for about 2 months as it is known to do & i wanted to play with typesetting #'write a fic if you like words so much' absolutely not . what if it was pictures instead. and also i wanted an excuse 2 loop gradient #but yeah uhhhh this is very . very loosely the result of me thinking about the 'island is trapped in the fucking future' theory.#like if so. would it just like. reappear. when the rest of the world catches up w where it was stuck in time. like . 20 more years on.#and thus the q: god wait at what point would sif be older than the age they last knew their parents to be. theyre nearly 30 now so like.#you can see my logical path thru these thoughts yes? anyway i think its fun when these two put their braincells together to realise #the horrors. and kind of exclusively the horrors. wahoo!!!#anyway food for thought re: island reappears and to the islanders it's not been any time at all. but its been like 30 years for the rest #fuck do you do: your boy returns 30 years older plus a family (maybe even a child) and minus . a fucking eye.#also theres a fucking angel with them? update. thats also your boy what the fuck. wait fym theyre married. hold on. wait--

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xxplastic-cubexx · 3 months ago

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HAVE U SEEN THAT ONE CHERIK DEVIL AND ANGEL COSTUME HALLOWEEN ART THAT ONE COMIC BOOK ARTIST DID ON TWT

NO CAUUUUUSSE YOU DONT UNDERSTAND HOW FAST I MADE THE WHOLE THING MY HOMESCREEN: THE ARTIST IS JOSH CASSARA AND I OWE HIM EVERYTHING

the fuckin sillies chat i cant STAND them……

#snap chats #shoutouts to oomf for sending me the tweet the sec it dropped i owe them my LIFE #someone posed the very important question of whether that was magneto in an angel costume or angel in a magneto costume #and i love both ideas immensely. namely cause i can only imagine erik walking in two seconds later #and catching warren with his helmet and One Of Like Ninety Suits like boy where did you get that …….#hes rich you can get whatever you want right BUT ANYWAY #i love this so much bless up the person who commd this whole page really ITS SO CUTE #i hate that kurt gets blocked out tho like nooo thats my son ……..#i cant get over charles’ costume. the pitchfork really sells it YOU DIDNT NEED TO DO ALL THAT #and i already talked with oomf how hes definitely giving out candy but also sneaking some for himself …. RIDICULOUS <- i love him

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hazeytae · 2 days ago

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perv!roomates taesan & leehan who always sneak around and steal your stuff until one day you catch them and they corrupt you..

can i be 🧊 anon ~○~

had to have this marinate in my inbox for a lil bit bc when i got this ask i was GIGGLINGGG 😫 nd yes u can be 🧊 anon!! hi !!! :3

♡ dacryphilia, voyeurism (?), oral (mf), i will be making this into a full fic!! 😡 so much i wanna add to this

you first started noticing your things going missing only a few months into becoming roomates with taesan and leehan. small things like a worn pajama shirt, or panties you swore you put in the laundry hamper that you just havent seen since. sometimes theyd randomly appear right back in your drawers and youd be a little confused, but you just brushed it off as you mustve missed it while searching.

unbeknownst to you, your perverted roomates had gotten their hands on all your panties! taesan literally couldnt get enough of you !! he wanted you so bad, but unfortunately for him you were just roomates. he resorted to stealing your worn panties and other used garments. stroking his cock as hed bring your panties to his nose, taking in your scent which just made his dick harder. wrapping the fabric around his cock to bring him closer and closer to the edge. strings of your name falling out from his mouth like a song while ropes and ropes of white sticky cum soiled your panties. afterwards he felt so gross, but its not like youd ever find out- he'll just wash it and place in back in your drawer! also i feel like taesan would take pictures of you changing or in the shower, staring at the pictures before stealing your panties off the floor and running to his bedroom to jack off to the photos. he'd think about how pretty youd look taking his cock sooo deep into your throat, gagging and crying on his cock. you were an innocent doll to him, and your angel like face and those cute lacey panties you wore made him want to corrupt you into a perfect slut just for him.

(more undercut!)

on the other hand, leehan wouldnt be stealing your panties if it werent for taesan. leehan once caught taesan in the act, but instead of asking him what he was doing it just gave him an idea. slowly but surely more of your panties started to go missing, some not even returning. leehan wouldnt return them. he'd keep them in his drawer and he'd make sure not to cum on your panties so your scent wouldnt go away. and if your scent went away- he'd take another pair of your panties. leehan would even take your panties to his mouth, tongue swirling around the fabric while he took in your taste. leehan had been obsessed with you- ever since he saw your pretty face and heard your pretty moans through the thin walls. you were moaning out his name too, even your lewd moans of his name sounded so innocent to him; from that moment forward he knew he had to corrupt you.

you started to get frustrated- your cute, expensive underwear kept going missing! youve searched everywhere and the only places left were leehan and taesans rooms. with a sigh, you decided to check leehans room, thinking it mightve ended up in his laundry by accident. but as you rummaged through his drawers, you found your panties, wrinkled and stained. your face turned red as you quickly grabbed them. "w-was leehan... with my panties...?" you whine blushing at the thought, before rushing back to your room.

you suddenly heard a sharp cry of your name coming from taesans room, his voice trembling as if he were crying, or maybe whining? your innocent mind immediately assumed he was hurt and needed you. as you approached his room, the sound of staggered breaths grew louder, confirming your worries. “taesan, are you okay?” you called out, pushing the door open, only to be met with the sight of him with your panties wrapped around his cock while thick ropes of his cum spilled out onto them, making eye contact with you with that cocky smirk while you covered your blushing face. was he really doing this? not only was leehan taking your underwear, but so was taesan!

you felt a large figure slowly come behind you making you squeak, it was leehan. "t-taesan.. leehan- w-what is this?" you watch taesan as he walked towards you chuckling.

"you just noticed? you didnt know i was the one taking your little lacey panties?" taesan asked cupping your face with his hands, smirking at your red face. it wasnt unusual for taesan or leehan to be touchy with you, cupping your face or kissing your neck- but this was something else. your heart was racing and you had just watched taesan cum while moaning your name oh so beautifully.

leehan was giggling behind you, "cant believe you got caught taesan." he swiveled you around to face him "i saw you found all your panties. sorry for taking them." he ran his hands down your body making you shiver, you knew his apology wasnt true.

"y-you guys are perverts..." you whisper, suddenly getting shy with their hands all over your body, leehans hands slipping under your shirt rubbing your sides while taesans hands slipped under your waistband. you did want them- you wanted them really bad, just as bad as they wanted you. and they knew that. they knew that from how many times theyve heard you moan out their names while finger fucking yourself.

taesan took innovative to tug your shirt all the way off, "you dunno how long ive waited" he mumbled moving your hair to kiss and suck on your neck while he played with the waistband of your shorts. leehan looked down at you humming, "me too..." he mumbled before smashing his lips against yours while desperately tugging down your shorts and panties at once, making taesan chuckle at his desperation.

taesan picked you up, pulling you away from leehan and throwing you down onto his bed, "let me use you angel, let me make you mine." he mumbled crawling on top of you burying his face into your tits kissing and sucking. his pants had already been thrown onto the floor, making his boner painfully obvious. leehan whined coming in between your legs "taesan stop taking her from me!" he mumbled swiping his fingers across your folds feeling your wetness. "yah,, shes already so wet for us," he giggled kissing your clit gently. you felt so shy, practically bucking into leehans face while you watched taesan.

taesan groaned licking and lapping at your tits while leehan worked on your pussy with his tongue. taesan suddenly got on his knees tugging your hair slapping his cock onto your face "use your pretty mouth angel baby. you got it," he hissed when you opened your mouth happily taking his length into your throat. he was big, you were gagging everytime you bobbed your head. leehans skilled tongue was making you moan around taesans cock and taesan loveddd the vibrations, he couldnt get enough of how good your mouth felt and leehan couldnt get enough of how delicious you tasted. he was starting to get pussy drunk as your juices mixed with his drool coated his chin, sloppily licking and pumpijg his fingers in and out of you while you worked your mouth so sweetly on taesans cock.

but taesan wanted more. he gripped your hair into makeshift pigtails before warning you "m gonna fuck your face, tap my leg if its too much" he grinned throwing his head back as he thrusted into your face ruthlessly and moved your head up and down. you started to cry. he loved this sight, your pretty teary eyes looking up at him while he ruined you. this was just what he needed. leehan was in a trance as he watched, humping taesans bed while he ate you out. your nose hit taesans tummy as his cum filled your throat, making you swallow it all. you and taesan came at the same time, your taste emitted a long satisfied moan from leehan as he slurped up your juices happily.

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skitskatdacat63 · 1 year ago

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2023 Brazilian Grand Prix - Sprint - Fernando Alonso

#yknow i thought maybe id get immune to his insane level of attractiveness from this weekend after posting so much #but these had me going: 'WHAT THE FUCCCCKKKKKK' super hoarse LMAO #im so confused at him. he was very cute and angelic in the earlier interview and now he looks like this???? unfair.#theres something about a man trapped by the sleeves of his racesuit....#okay anyways this should be my last work of the day actually #i have to go do a school thing so i shant be online...probably #BUT AH NO SERIOUSLY ITS BEEN SSO FUN YESTERDAY AND TODAY!!!#like it really is a reward after suffering thru all his races since zandvoort basically #but mostly cota and mexico killed me but this wknd has reminded me how fun racing and f1 can be #thank you everyone for being so fun hehehe #fernando alonso #f1 #formula 1 #2023 brazilian gp #we do a little bit of f1

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fumifooms · 3 months ago

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Makima, devils and self-fulfillment

Dumping some Makima and CSM thoughts after a part 1 binge bc I think about her forever and ever. I’m sure I’m forgetting some devil lore, feel free to correct what i get wrong/what’s been confirmed. On the table of contents there’s why & how Makima got fixated on Chainsaw, her revealing liking for the country mouse and discussion of her nature & emotions & desires. Was the scorpion doomed to be a scorpion?

The most of this post was thought of during a conversation with @saccharineomens and I don’t think it makes sense to jump into the spiral it sent me on without first laying down the interesting groundwork theorizing she did:

"Thinking about how makima herself wants to be deified. I wonder whether she recognizes the difference between Love As Worship and the love that Aki, Power, and Denji had. She says she wants to help humanity by having Chainsawman eat the “bad” devils, but why does she want to help humans? Because she was ordered to by the Prime Minister? No, her drive seems much more personal than that, it seems like she teamed up with the PM for contractual reasons. (In the most recent chapters we see governmental members wanting certain devils to be eaten, too. What was Makima’s relationship with them? She’s too independent to just follow THEIR orders, she’s Control.)

So is she wanting to better humanity for the accolades, or out of the goodness of her heart? She sees the big picture. She sees any small sacrifice as worth it for the end result, and she’s ruthless. Perhaps she thinks that a more sedate human race would be easier to control? But Makima doesn’t loathe humanity. She never acts like she sees all humans as lesser. She loves humanity’s creations, like good food and movies. She just wants Good Things all the time

She says she prefers the country mouse BUT adds a story where she helps exterminate country mice like vermin. She likes the simplicity yet rejects the idea of being simple. Makima the complex individual you are"

The story itself seems to prefr the country mouse. Well- it strikes a balance, shows that a risk to live good & fully can be very worth it, but still that stability over ambition is preferable, proning having a simple happy life over fame, a simple job instead of a dangerous one, etc etc. And I do find Makima’s answer on this so so interesting, she prefers the country mouse, but this preference isn’t out of affection or sympathy but because of how relaxing it feels to exterminate them when they cause problems.

Order satisfies her. Her order satisfies her. She likes the action of rooting out disorder. Maybe this is the devil part, like how Power especially wants blood and drinking it, I feel there’s an itch to every devil, and for Makima it’s a very rigid world view/morality/standards & making things follow her rules and submit to her order.

And maybe this is why she’s attached to humans too, why she felt it was worth it to stick with the government- because devils are chaotic by nature (it’s a whole plot point that hell is essentially a free-for-all battleground for example), meanwhile humans are the species that universally rule Earth with systems they invented and instilled. They made then enforced rules, complex and intricate webs of them. She feels alienated amongst devils but she understands the humans’ need for an orderly organised society, and now she wants to be part of it. Control and conquest require social dynamics after all, requires civilizations or groups. War is chaotic while peace is, well, peaceful— Makima resents her sisters for being death, famine and war, things that throw the world in such chaos. She wants a world of perfect order, no matter how much collateral damage there will be if the end result is control.

This is even more interesting if you consider that yes, Makima is untouchable of her own design, she deifies herself with her omnipresent amount of control and the sway over others that she seeks and encourages— There is this urge to dehumanize her for it, that yes, she is the devil of control and that means she was never going to be any different, have any more feeling be any less uncanny. And I love part 2 so much for this, because it shows us the war devil and the famine devil and we see how frankly uncharismatic with poor self-discipline they are, Nayuta too, and it helps us realize just how much Makima’s success was self-made.

She admires Chainsaw Devil, the Hero of Hell, because he had his own code and his own rules and he made Hell, the chaos pit, submit to them unfailingly. Wherever he goes he decides what he does and what happens to the people he encounters but does so consistently, he has his mechanism and his rules that he always obeys, and he fulfills them every time. It’s still a mystery the why of Chainsaw Devil’s behavior back then and how it works exactly, maybe Pochita left hell because he was tired of these rules he lived by like chains, but still, he was a servant to his code. Makima would have been glad being killed and eaten by Chainsaw Devil because it’d have been becoming part of his design, his conquest, his domination, she’d have been part of that —his— order. Through her death she would be shaping his world and be part of a conqueror’s making history. Like how she appreciates the country mice that die for the sake of order. Like how sacrifices must be made to herself, like listing the name of every person whose life was lost to the Gun Devil— All for the ~greater good~, for her vision for the world. Conquest always thinks its reasons are justified.

And she does mention with the country mice thing that she goes out to a friend’s farm every year! She has a human friend?? That she visits yearly and she genuinely likes it?? Ultimately she lives a busy city life because of her goal and drive and her urge & satisfaction with overseeing shaping the world herself, but part of her, like so many characters including Angel and Aki and Reze, wishes she could live a slow peaceful country life. Moviegoing and dogs and mice in a farm- Wouldn’t it be so much simpler if Makima could find fulfillment and happiness in being a farmer, in keeping control of her own farm, getting satisfaction from exterminating vermin and expertly getting everything right, the right crops grown at the right time on the right soil? Here, too, in a way it’s trying to have full control of an ecosystem, but her goals would be easier to achieve and better, without ceaseless sacrifice or much pressure. But Makima wants grandiosity and her goal does matter to her on a fundamental and moral level, she does think she knows what’s best for the world, and with the power to change it why wouldn’t she strive to? Visiting the farm is just a break, just something she does in fall to help out and just in time to see the vermin extermination. It calms her, then it’s back to actual work.

In capitalism, even the one at the very top of the ladder is ultimately alienated from others and often unsatisfied by their lifestyle, always wanting more and more power because surely that’s the extra edge they must be missing to be content— like how Makima thinks she wants to dominate Chainsaw Devil instead of being his equal. And she says it herself too, she likes humans the way humans like dogs…….. And she keeps so many dogs :( Makima prefers the country mice because they’re calming to root out, maybe because she usually mainly deals with city mice. It’s very easy to equate humans to the mice in this allegory because it’s pretty direct and she’s already likened humans to lesser animals compared to her. She’s self-isolating by design for her design but she still craves relationships and contentment, and the dogs are the embodiment or her want for bonds and occasional simplicity because there is no possible ulterior motive, no way they tie back into her wider plan. They’re her personal life— something that feels so alien when speaking about Makima. Personality and individuality and likes and preferences and friends they visit every year. She likes how easily she can train a dog and how they become putty in her hands, at her beck and call, how much they love her and how much she enjoys their love. How simple and straightforward and easy it is. She keeps them because she likes being loved by them and loving them, and she’s gotten and raised so many. A conqueror always wants more and more and more, is never satisfied.

Devils and agency

Like Power the blood devil wanting blood and having a fixation on drinking it like with Denji’s, or how it was shocking that the violence devil was pretty tame and nice and how he himself theorized it was because he was a fiend and possessing a human body… There’s something to be said about nature vs nurture with the devils. The way they reincarnate and always embody their fear makes it seem categorically like nature, that they always always end up fulfilling the role they were named after and born to fill… Outside influence they’re helpless but to conform with. Like the humans accepting their spot in the social ladder and the shittiness of their living conditions and job under capitalism. Makima craved being equals with someone despite being the control/conquest devil, Angel Devil despite claiming to be a devil who likes to see humans dying was haunted by their deaths and wanted to avoid ones like Aki’s. The Ghost Devil being ironically haunted by Himeno, seemingly helping Aki in her memory out of… Lasting affection? Or maybe it was less about being haunted itself and more about it recognizing how Himeno haunted Aki, and acknowledging that, with the memento, paying her respect to the ghost of her. It’s Angel Devil’s devil nature that makes him like human suffering, so then is it his angel nature too to still care about their deaths? Is there truth to this or is that just personality, just our confirmation bias haunting every part of their identity like it might in their own view of themselves too? We do know different reincarnations of devils do have different personalities after all.

Yoru, war devil, is the most interesting one when talking about the nature vs nurture debate with devils. There is how through her we see the perhaps the most the consequences of a devil stopping being feared— we see a horseman for a concept as universal and horrifying as war be reduced to some bird who needs a contract with a human to have any power even just on the situation when meeting Asa. And through the story we get to know her better, and it becomes clear that her goal is fueled in good part by simply wanting to be remembered and respected through fear. Liked, validated, seen a powerful. But what is more isolating than war? Or control? We also see Nayuta accepting others’ house rules. If part 1 shows perhaps the futility of running away from the truth, with Denji’s memory, with escapist coping mechanisms, with passivity and denial under a corrupt system and with abusive relationships- running away from your own feelings and from the reality of things and from all that you are, more complex than simply human or devil or both or neither— part 2 builds upon the theme of cult of personalities, the chainsaw church, etc. The apocalypse is coming, but this celebrity superhero might save us all, or doom us all uh, dunno. The hero of hell reliving the cycle of pressure from responsibilities and expectations, maybe the part will end with Denji running away like Pochita did~

But yes, on the reverse, I think Famine is a very interesting example of how a devil’s namesake may be more innate than coerced by circumstances. One would think that a famine devil would only like inflicting famine upon others, not being famished itself, but Famine has a bottomless stomach that can never, ever be satisfied, sated. I struggle to find a psychological explanation for this, except that maybe instead of her being hungry it’s her feeling empty when she’s not eating, tasting and having that high sensory experience that releases serotonin in humans, sort of like drugs? But I do take this as a step towards the compulsion theory overall, feels like a reach in the consistency otherwise. And compulsion does not mean it’s something that they like nor that it’s something that they fight against, pretty neutral, just a nature that nudges you towards one path. Maybe it’s even just their go-to for entertainment. Maybe it’s the only thing that makes them feel right and whole. But still the debate remains, what is it, a compulsion or an urge or an itch or an active desire or a conscious chosen want? Does it change anything in practice?

And because of all of this earlier, devils being self-fulfilling prophecies with their role is not in unsignificant part nurture, because doing their atrocities is how they stay remembered— feared, powerful, known— hell and devils are a very isolating place and breed after all, and we do see devils can want companionship. Existentially, it’s their purpose and how they justify their place in the world, in the terrifyingly vast and unknowable cosmos.

We still know so little of what makes Chainsaw Devil so special, why his carnage is so self-controlled. Despite a chainsaw maybe being possibly one of the most "nature" thing you can be— a tool to cut things, a human tool that can be helpful for many things, something to be wielding by another at their judgement on what they decide, but mainly something to cut, a tool suited for carnage, to hurt and to destroy. A blade with a toothed chain, spinning around and around and around endlessly on the same road at the same pace. Such a…. Innately circular concept. And yet the Chainsaw Devil is his own, not driven by an urge or by chaos but his very own brand of order, his own unique assigned purpose, a "if you call i’ll come running to help" policy equalizing everyone. He chooses to withhold his destruction and interference otherwise, and then he chooses to be used. If it’s a choice, of course.

Maybe this is what inspired Makima so much, that Chainsaw Devil could decide what to make of himself despite expectations or innate role. Because even Hell he decided & managed to subjugate under his will and whim, with a precise vision and process. When Chainsaw Devil acts like Denji or is defeated, Makima clicks her tongue and loses her admiration and respect. Makima admired and liked Chainsaw Devil, but only as long as he matched her great image of him in her mind, as long as he followed he rules for what she thinks he should be like. She admired him for his unrivaled self-made success, but once he stepped out of that to truly embody self-fulfillment and agency, disappearing from hell to live on his own road at the beat of his own drum… Well. Surely that was a mistake she has to correct. However their second battle ends, the better conqueror will have prevailed and she’s happy about that, all in the spirit of domination and subjugation.

Imo Makima’s biggest tool, similarly capitalism’s most helpful effect for its own purposes, is complacency. Resignation and passivity helps uphold the system and go along the flow of the will of the people in power. Aki and Reze go along with orders even when knowing their job is trash, etc. In Angel Devil especially we see him go along with the flow uncaring about anyhing, and we discover it was in part due to Makima taking away memories that motivated him. If every devil decides this is just how things are and how things should be that’s what they’ll continue to be and do mindlessly, not pursuing a better life like Chainsaw Devil and Denj and not seeking to change the world like Makima. I think even Makima veils herself to a lot of things, she doesn’t like to think deeply about some things, like her desire for connection, or how making bad movies disappear is strenuous and unsustainable and requiring sacrifices at best— how her judgement is as subjective as anyone else. How liking the country mouse and her friend back at the farm and her dogs could be not devoid of sentimality. Wanting bad movies erased is her one biggest show of selfishness, of pettiness and individuality, it’s about her tastes, simple as. About how she can have tastes, and cry seeing a scene of people hug, and want things that aren’t logical, her ideology and mind twisted into a pretzel to avoid acknowledging that she doesn’t live and breathe purely for the mission she’s made a single-minded robot out of herself to accomplish. Nayuta is assertive and selfish and loud, Makima is manipulative and strategically both for her goals and for coping hollow.

Everything in her plans and goals she says is for the greater good, necessary evil, manufactured happiness the way she’ll have decided for people— and that’s the thing isn’t it, like with War, it’s the crack that shows it was all truly about herself after all. Her self-made deification still had the flaw that a self made it. Makima is not omniscient, and it’s not Chainsaw Devil the not-so-fellow-kindred-soul conqueror who gets the best of her, but a city mouse, a dog, someone she would have never thought to respect, Denji.

#Fumi rambles #Chainsaw man #makima #analysis #meta #The goal is moreso me dropping thoughts than being flawless on every aspect of the lore so if and when i get things wrong b merciful….#Maybe her liking of control is why she remembers the ww2 authoritarian fascists. I don’t want to say the word jic for tumblr search #Pity is never a factor When mercy is a sign of a talentless actor #And as you grow its hold on your throat starts to falter And once you go beyond pure humanity's border #You will come back like a dooooog 😭#This’d be a different topic but. I don’t think makima likes denji as much as one of her dogs. If so i’d say it was in the moments where #she brought him to movies but even then….. i think she has more fondness for her dogs bc w denji it was indifference and derision #I love you please humiliate me / strip my dignity and laugh my honey #God. God i’m fine. I’m so okay about csm #Makima has a cryptic but strong sense of morals?? That doesn’t align with ours obvi but #‘Someone like you has no right to wish for a normal life do they?’ What do you meannn what do you meannnnn #What is this contempt for denji. Does she see herself as moral or part of those that are city mice bc they’re undeserving of a calm life???#Maybe famine only feels fed on humans and their blood 🤔 or their fear. man idk idk idk idk but i wanna see more of her quirks #And before someone says ‘but every demon likes to drink blood’ power is especially fixated on it tho cmannnn #Did Angel lie when he said he liked seeing humans die?? Did his haunting thing become worse after meeting Aki?? Did he suppress it #because he feels like he doesn’t belong as a devil??? bc he’s suppressing his memories of the villagers he cared about??#Has he just been trying so hard not to care for so long. Passive bc he thought that’s all he could or should be #AGHHHHH #Spoilers #There’s a lot more i’d have liked to touch on like the popular theory that Makima was *raised* by the government #and i’ve seen a take that the ‘my friend at a farm’ thing is all euphemism from makima about her troublesome human killing job ykyk #but i think the phrasing is too literal and natural for that. The snow and soil talk everything. It’s a perfect allegory but it can be both

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