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red-doll-face · 1 month 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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cherryrikis · 4 months ago

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BETTER LUCK TOMORROW - one ! the first contact

pairing : nishimura riki x reader

synopsis : after being in the wrong place at the wrong time, you (as well as your friends), were framed for the death of your brother and disappearance of your boyfriend. you all had no hope. no job, no money, none of you were even allowed to graduate. at least, until a stubborn kid on a dance scholarship suddenly acts as your savior, riki helps clear your name all for the sake of a school project.

this episode contains the following : mentions of murder/killing, incorrect description of the american legal system but this is fiction so that’s ok, mention of jail/juvie

previous | masterlist | next

“hello? is this mr. kwon?” riki asked hesitantly once the phone stopped ringing, signaling the other caller had picked up.

“yeah, this is that kid jungwon right?”

jungwon snorted out loud, a little too loud as riki slapped a hand over his mouth in response.

“this is actually riki, riki nishimura. i’m a senior at the academy. but-” “it’s actually the two of us, mr. kwon. im jungwon yang.” jungwon interrupted, ignoring riki’s annoyed glare which screamed ‘since when did you want to be part of the interview?’

“okay?” soonyoung went silent, other than clearing his throat, which seemed to go on for a while. “just call me soonyoung.. uhm, why do you guys want to know about the lee-park case? this was a pretty heavy event.”

“actually, we knew the three involved personally. heeseung lee and jay park were our childhood friends up until, you know. that day. but this is really for my senior project. we just want.. closure?” riki informed.

“sorry for your loss. not to be insensitive, but especially knowing it was lee’s own sister who’d be the cause of his demise must’ve been hard.” soonyoung sighed as if it was nothing.

the two stared at each other for a quick moment, giving each other a knowing look before turning back to the phone.

“so just to get into it, are you okay with this interview being recorded and transcribed, especially in the event of these audio clips possibly being publicized?” jungwon questioned in advance, as he had his audio recorder in hand.

“i don’t see why not. but if you do publish any of this information, just leave my name out of-.”

the audio stopped playing as riki sat on top of the device, causing jungwon to gasp.

“riki! just- just let me listen to the tape so i can transcribe this. go outside.” he huffed, pushing the other out of the room.

[2024.9.20 - soonyoung kwon interview : contact #1]

RIKI : why were you certain yn was guilty, and what helped you determine this?

SOONYOUNG : well, the writings on the wall, no? at least 28% of murders in america are by someone close to you. two people dead but they just so happen to be her brother and boyfriend? that’s already suspicious. not to mention she was one of the last people to see either of them alive.

RIKI : do you believe heeseung and jay were innocent ‘victims’?

SOONYOUNG : of course i do, and you should too. especially as one of their friends.

RIKI : that’s off the record.

JUNGWON : why do you think they were innocent?

SOONYOUNG : well, they were unsuspecting victims. they led a good life im sure. but i don’t believe anyone is killed for no reason. i just believe that if they were killed for a reason, it was more yn’s fault than theirs.

JUNGWON : sounds like you’re biased against her. so, do you believe yn lee should’ve been tried as an adult?

SOONYOUNG : i do. she was charged with second degree murder, and she only got juvie? she had just turned 17 that year, (in 2021), which is already close to 18. i say the case called for an adult trial.

SOONYOUNG : i heard lee just got out a few weeks ago. personally, 3 years wasn’t enough. yn lee should’ve just been transported to an actual jail once she turned 18.

RIKI : is yn innocent?

SOONYOUNG : well, now you’re just starting to piss me off.

SOONYOUNG : if that’s what you’re trying to prove from this project, i suggest you tread carefully. stupid questions like these can get you into a lot of trouble if you ask the wrong person.

[ 5:46 of 5:46 recording ]

taglist ! @jiiyen @prettiestgirlontheplanet @hannicorpse @wonsboo @murazbae @stilesks @soobinbunnie5 @blvengene @r1kification @gyuvision @goldenmellow @ariluvssssss100 @who-tf-soddhi @mmurazz @jaemified @strawberrieswithchocolateo3o @heartheejake @hoonsdrnkdzd @wonkixo

#k-films #en-diaries #enhypen x reader #enhypen #niki smau #niki x reader #enhypen imagines #enhypen smau #enhypen scenarios #enhypen niki #nishimura riki #riki x reader

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saeriji · 2 months ago

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hello, can i get a promo?

HELLO rijians i am ALIVE AND WELL!!!!

i would like to apologize for disappearing for months and not posting anything and leaving a few asks to specific creators and dipping. my academic career was dropping so i had to throw this account to the side.

BUT i am on break now for this week and next week! so i want to make this account alive again.

i actually havent checked this blogs followers in forever

but we’ve reached over 300 followers! so i want to thank all of you for supporting me despite me disappearing from the face of the earth. no events, sorry, im too lazy for that, but i’ll likely make a template or two as a gift of appreciation.

i’m sorry for not keeping my promises in the past, i didn’t keep them because i forgot about them.

a few things i want to change about this blog:

i’m likely going to be posting more of rentry inspo and rentry resources compared to graphics and stuff. why? i don’t want to make much stuff for people now sorry im not super interested in that stuff. unless i start commissions which i need to make example rentries of.

i’m not going to be very request oriented anymore! i’ve found that my will to do anything diminishes when someone asks me to do something. so instead, i’ll likely be opening suggestions for inspo and resources. crediting to lavender/lavendergalactic for the idea of suggestions ^_^

lastly, i kindly ask that you don’t ping me for palestine posts because often not there are images that are very graphic and i’m not comfortable with them. however, i still will keep up other ways to support the crisis in gaza, notably by the daily clicks site.

i will likely revamp most of my things here.

tag list below !

@llocket @lavendergalactic @frilliette @selysie @hiddencircus @ubelaces @ipcventurine @bydollita @pokipng @lenqkeju @rrozeta @frillylamb @smilepilled @nomkiwi @ipcventurine @shinjirx @kiochisato + anyone else ! shoot an ask if u would like to be added or removed, i apologize if you didn’t want to be pinged.

holy shat i hit the tag limit like the #’s

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navstuffs · 10 months ago

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hi!! i really love your writing and i would love if you could feed me with a request (only if you're comfortable with it, ofc) 👉🏼👈🏼 what about a leon x reader where reader is passing through a very tough depressive crisis and is really not fine mentally speaking — and leon just try to help and comfort them through this? 👉🏼👈🏼

anyway, thank you for your fics, they really helped me these days 😭💗

Anchor

Pairing: Leon Kennedy x GNPartner!Reader

Summary: It is 1 am when Leon Kennedy knocks on your door. He shouldn't be there and you shouldn't have opened it.

Warning tags: hurt/comfort, angst, leon almost died, reader is suffering with anxiety due to past events, can be read as platonic or romantic (you choose)

Writer's Notes: hello! first of all, im sorry i took so long to write this request for you. i changed some stuff and i hope you don't mind (reader is still depressed). thank you so much your kind words and i hope this fic serves as comfort for you!! <333 stay safe anon!

for more painful leon's fics, check my masterlist. i have some happy ones too :)

It is 1 am when Leon Kennedy knocks on your door. It is the third time that week only, the fifth of the month.

It starts when you don’t appear at work after two weeks since his return, and no one knows where you are. HR informs you are sick, which means you are still alive somewhere in the world, just sick. Okay, but sick with what? Sick how? Are you in the hospital? Do you need any help? Leon knows you don’t have family around, like him, and you are pretty much alone - like him.

So, as any regular worried friend would, he calls and texts. He wants to hear your voice and guarantee that you don’t need help and have everything you need. That you truly are okay. No answer. HR has guaranteed him you are not dead, but what if you—no, he shouldn’t think about that.

The next step is going to your house. He knows where your address is and wouldn’t be a complete weird appearing there in the afternoon. No answer. Leon won’t be a creep as far as looking at your windows, at least not yet. He won’t go as far as busting your door and checking how you are feeling because he needs to confirm you are okay. You might just not be home.

On the second visit, Leon got awfully close to kicking your door. Before he could do that or even knock, he saw a shadow pass over the window. Though Leon told himself he wouldn’t, he looked inside just in time to see you disappear to the second floor. So, at least you are really alive, Leon’s body filling with relief. It could have been a bad case of flu, and you don’t want to contaminate anyone.

One more week passes, and he visits your house two more times. Those times you didn’t even bother to hide yourself, lazily lying down on the sofa in a way Leon couldn’t see your face (oh yeah, now he is definitely peeking out your windows). So you are genuinely ignoring him or truly sick with some contagious disease. Maybe Covid?

The fifth time he knocks on your door, it is 1 am and Leon is deeply not only worried but bitter. He was sitting in his apartment alone, wondering what you had and why you didn’t open the door for him. You two are colleagues, and Leon would dare to go as far as to call you his friend if anyone asked. How many times have you brought him soup while he was sick? Brought him meds, kept him company? Checked on him until he was finally all better?

It would be only fair if he did the same.

Leon grabs his keys without even thinking: You will open the door for him tonight. And if you don’t, well, he will kick it open. To hell with the civil approach.

-x-

All the courage slips away from his body when he notices the kitchen’s light on. Leon can’t see anything inside since you decided to make his life harder and close the curtains. So, instead of kicking that door until it’s down, Leon goes back to the gentle approach (like the idiot he is): he knocks.

The door opens not even ten seconds later, and Leon blinks, surprised. You are there. You, not a trick of his eyes: a fluffy and long blanket covering your body, only your face peeking with a familiar expression Leon recognizes immediately - he had seen in his own mirror before.

“You won. What the fuck do you want?” Those are the first words to him in weeks.

“May I come in?”

You ponder for a moment, your eyes red, and Leon wonders when you last slept. You walk away, leaving the door open, and Leon follows inside, locking the door behind him.

Your house isn’t in the best state. He had been here before and thought you weren’t the most organized person (“I can find myself in my own mess, Leon.”). The mess had grown too much from normal. There were tons of take-out boxes on the kitchen counter, pizza boxes, and fast food bags. At least you had been eating—not the best food ever, but feeding. He could work with that.

And the bottles—oh, those Leon would identify anywhere. You weren’t a heavy drinker, and you mentioned plenty of times you didn’t know how he liked whiskey. Now, there were countless empty bottles of whiskey, beer, and vodka, so much so that the place looked like a bunch of frat boys had a party just the night before and didn’t bother to clean.

Leon follows you to the living room as you fall onto the couch. An old Simpsons episode plays on the TV screen. There are still some bags and bottles on the floor, but fewer. Your eyes focus on the TV, not really watching or paying attention to him. Leon stands there, keeping a safe distance from you and gathering what to say.

“I came to check on you.” Leon starts, his eyes glued on you. “You haven’t called or texted me back. The HR said-”

“I am sick. I wanted to be left alone.”

“I know, but-”

“I could complain about this to HR, you know? It could be considered an invasion of privacy, and you could lose your job. “

“I was worried about you.”

“You saw me in the window that day, didn’t you? I’m alive and breathing. Now get out.”

You hide your face in the sofa, conversation clearly done on your side. It feels like an impossible battle to win. Leon then tries again, “Do you need anything?”

“No. Get out.”

He sighs, turning on his heels. Leon wants to say you can call if you need him, any time, but Leon knows you wouldn't. This is an impossible battle to win, Leon realizes as he starts to leave. But then he freezes, a memory piercing his thoughts. Leon comes back to the living room, your face still hidden.

“No.”

“What?”

“I am not leaving. Not before I know what is wrong.”

“I am sick.”

“Yes. So I have heard.”

You don’t turn to look at him, and that’s fine. If you want to be stubborn, so could he. Leon can wait. The episode on the TV finally ends, and as the familiar opening plays in the background, you slowly turn in his direction, one eye appearing first, then the other, as if expecting Leon would be gone by now. Unlucky for you, Leon S. Kennedy didn’t give up that easily, especially for his friends.

“I don’t know what you are feeling, but I know that face.” His voice manages to sound neutral.

Of course, he does. Of course, your partner, the legendary D.S.O veteran, would know. You, just a newbie, would have no idea what he went through, but Leon didn’t seem the kind of person to crumble for anything. Leon would probably be fine if you were the one to get shot, not him. He wouldn’t have panicked, he wouldn’t have started crying, screaming for someone to help them, losing themselves in a sea of despair and pain.

“Hey…”

Blood. So much blood in your hands. You are useless, you can’t help him as Leon’s face loses color-

“Hey.”

He deserved someone better—someone much better as a partner—not you, a weak agent who thought you were strong enough to stand by his side. Oh, how wrong you were.

Leon calls your name, more urgent this time, and your line of sight is filled with the face of the man you considered your friend right at your path—concerned blue eyes, his hair tickling against your face. His forehead is in concentration, the faint ghost of a beard, as he speaks soothingly. “Hey, look at me. You are safe. Deep breaths, come on.”

The visions mix as you blink: Leon losing blood in your arms, unconscious, back to being safe, his worried eyes staring at you.

Your rapid breathing noise fills the room, your heart wanting to burst as the pain spreads over your body, the pain worse than being stabbed or punched. You keep your eyes on Leon - he is fine, he is safe, he is well, he is worried sick about you- as he continues to nod and tell you to breathe.

It takes a while, Leon’s hands on your shoulder as you finally calm down, the tears rolling freely from your eyes.

“I am sorry.” You manage to whisper. “I am so sorry.”

“You are safe. We both are safe.” Leon declares, and you take that in. Right now, yes. But what about tomorrow? What about-? “Hey, eyes open at me.” When had you even closed them? “Come on. There is no one else, just you and me. And we are safe.”

You nod, not arguing back. Finally, you sit down, and Leon takes two steps back. “Water?”

“I think there are some in the fridge,” you reply, cleaning your tears. Leon leaves and quickly comes back with two bottles, unbottling them for you. You shake your head, but Leon insists, and you drink in small sips, the cold liquid refreshing your dry throat. When was the last time you had any water? Or took a shower? Or slept?

Finally, you give him space on the couch to sit. Leon doesn’t, and you point your head to your side, and he sits, keeping a safe distance from you. You two say nothing for a while, simply looking at the TV to watch Bart Simpsons on his shenanigans.

“I am sorry.”

“Would you stop that?” Leon sighs back, frustrated.

“No. I am sorry.”

“Fine. I forgive you. Are we good now?”

“No.”

“I knew it wouldn’t be,” Leon replies with a sad smile.

“You could have died, and I didn’t-” Leon says your name, but you continue “-let me finish. I didn’t help. I didn’t move. I did nothing.”

Leon didn’t want to talk about this, knowing it was inevitable. The day he took a bullet for you: not one, but two. Leon noticed before you, his reflexes quicker than yours. It was his responsibility anyway.

You only watched, shocked, as the bullet pierced his leg, then his chest. You didn’t move or flinch; you just froze, your hands closing and opening nervously as Leon fell right in front of you. You had been fortunate that the backup team had arrived on the other second, finding in the middle of the swarm of bullets a screaming you protecting Leon with his own body, all training thrown out of the window. You two should have been dead. Life had given you and him another chance, since no other vital organ or vein of Leon had been damaged.

You don’t remember much after except asking for your resignation that same day and getting a “No” as an answer. So you decided to get on sick leave until some higher-up got tired and fired you.

“I did nothing.” Leon tries to interrupt you again, but you continue, “You could have died, and I did nothing.”

“It wouldn’t be your fault.”

“What? Of course, it would!”

“No, it would not.”

“Can you fucking stop trying to make me feel better?” Your tone is so angry, so vile, that Leon almost flinches.

Death is always in the back of his mind. Every time he is out there, he could die. He is expandable; they all are, but he couldn’t just let you die. You a much smarter version of what he once was during Raccoon City. The same bravery, but not foolish as his. Much sharper. Leon knew why he got paired up with you in the first place, the irony not completely lost in him.

It would have been fine if Leon died that day he protected you, but not okay if you did. Not on his watch. Not now, not ever.

“I can’t help it,” Leon replies, a sad smile on his lips. “I can’t help it, especially when a friend needs my help.”

A friend?

Do not grow attachments. Wasn’t that your first lesson? It had been hard to be paired up with a man who hated it at first, then to learn how to laugh at his silly jokes or admire how far Leon would go for anyone. For anyone, except himself, stupid brave man.

You open your mouth and close it, simply lying against the sofa with your eyes closed.

“So, let me help you?” His voice is warm and inviting.

It would be best if you said no. You should kick this man out of your living room, out of your life, and never go back to that stupid job fighting an endless battle that would end with you dead or someone you cherished dead. You don’t know how Leon does it, but as you open your eyes, his blue eyes look straight at you awaits in hope. Waiting to comfort you, support you to the best of his abilities, and be your friend.

The pain is still there, vivid in your soul and mind, but there is hope. Right there, in that tiny spot you gave Leon S. Kennedy. That’s why you shouldn’t have opened that damn door, you realize, but it is too late. You limit on nodding.

#leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy #leon kennedy angst #leon kennedy fic #leon kennedy fanfics #leon kennedy imagine #leon kennedy imagines #request #requests #asks #ask

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in1-nutshell · 1 year ago

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IM GETTING EVERY IDEA I GOT OUT WHILE REQUESTS ARE OPEN IM SORRY

also I'm sorry i keep bringing up chaotic teen Buddy and Megatron, but i love seeing this fucker suffer through forced adoption.

I'm still kinda trucking through the comics, but i know that at some point Megatron is essentially yeeted into a whole ass different dimension and spent 300 years there (i could be totally wrong, if so ignore.) long story short, i have been stuck on the idea of Megatron getting stuck there for 300 years, mourning his funny little human child after 80 years, cause he figures even if he does get back home, they wont still be there.

Luckily for everyone involved, that 300 years was just a few months for the lost light. unluckily for everyone.

Buddy - "My father is gone, therefore I am no longer responsible for the consequences of my actions."

Hello again! Don't feel bad for asking/ requesting. Requests are fun to do for me and I can write almost anything someone asks, almost. Still, ask if you want something written. It is time for the return of Fearless Buddy!

Hope you enjoy!

Fearless Buddy reaction to Megatron coming back from the other dimension

SFW, platonic, familial, bit of angst here and there, Human reader

MTMTE/LL

Buddy had conveniently slept when Megatron had left. Don't blame them, they had been running off of little to no sleep for weeks and their body finally had enough.

Rodimus had to break the news for Buddy.

"What do you mean Megatron is 'gone'?!"--Buddy

"He left, he just up and escaped! But don't worry we'll get him back on board in no time."--Rodimus

"He... He really just left?"--Buddy

"I'm afraid so."--Rodimus

"Well, you know what? Who needs him anyways! The big sorry pile of scrap can go rust in space for all I care!"--Buddy

"Buddy--"--Rodimus

"Who needs him! Thanks for letting me know Roddy, really. Now if you'll excuse me, I have some important things to go over with Whirl."--Buddy

"What important things? What could be more important than this right now?"--Rodimus

"We are going to put a bumper sticker on Minimus saying 'Kachinga'!"--Buddy

"... Carry on!"--Rodimus

Rodimus really wishes now that he had stopped Buddy from making it to Whirl's. The ship had become the two's playground for pranks and sillies.

No one was spared from their wrath.

Many bots on board got mad at the two. But it was the bots closest to Buddy to realize something was deeply troubling them.

Their enthusiasm seemed forced most of the time. Their laughter almost seemed... Robotic almost. And their eyes... they looked so hollow and lacked the usual twinkle they had before.

Whirl appointed himself Buddy's guardian in the meantime. There wasn't much argument there as being Buddy's Amica, it was probably for the best.

Whirl lost count of the amount of times he caught Buddy going into Megatron's habsuite and crying over some of his poems. He wants to hurt Megatron so badly for the pain he inflicted on Buddy. They became Rung's most frequently seen patient after talking with Whirl.

"You really think this is going to help?"--Buddy

"I'm sure of it! If Eyebrows here can stand me, then you'll be like a walk in the park!"--Whirl

"... Thanks Whirl. I mean it, you're the best Amica a friend could ask for."--Buddy

"Hey now, don't get soft on me yet. That's Rung's job. Now get in there and punch those feelings in the face!"--Whirl

The day when Megatron comes back after everything is settled Whirl is one of the first in line to deck him across the face.

"You sorry excuse of a tyrant!--"--Whirl

"I know you're upset Whirl... Buddy passing must not have been easy..."--Megatron

"Passing? What are you talking about?"--Whirl

"Surely they have already passed it's been more than 80 years."--Megatron

"Megs, it's been a couple months since your little disappearing act."--Rodimus

"...Is Buddy alive?"--Megatron

"Of course they are! Why--Hey!"--Whirl

Megatron sprinting pass him and to Buddy's habsuite.

Megatron had never sprinted as fast as he did at that moment. For the past 200 or so years he had been in a constant state of mourning. He thought he had lost Buddy forever. The biggest regret he had was not at least telling them good bye.

Now here he was... He almost backed out of knocking on the door, but he did it. The doors opened revealing Buddy in all of their morning glory.

"... Buddy?"--Megatron

"Ah man it's one of those dreams again. Listen fake Megs, I'm not in the mood right now. So if you'll just come back next week that'll be great."--Buddy

Megatron finally snapped out of his dazed and scooped up Buddy into his servos and held them close to his spark.

It took Buddy a solid second to realize this wasn't some fever dream.

"Megs?"--Buddy

"I'm here now. I'm here."--Megatron

"...How... How dare you! YOU LEFT ME HERE ALONE! YOU DON'T JUST CALL SOMEONE THEIR KID THEN LEAVE THEM HIGH AND DRY! WHY DIDN'T YOU TAKE ME?!? OR AT LEAST SAY GOOD BYE!? TELL ME! TELL ME WHY?!? DAD WHY DID... why did you leave me...*--Buddy

"...I am so sorry..."--Megatron

"...you better be... I will never leave your side again... You're worse than a toddler getting lost at a Walmart..."--Buddy

It wasn't an easy transition at first. Buddy had their friends always within arms length from Megatron. Buddy themselves put up some walls to avoid getting hurt again.

The two eventually decided to seek counseling to try and mend their relationship. Thank goodness that happened.

Now Megatron was sitting in his habsuite with Buddy telling him all the latest news on the ship while reviewing their latest poems.

These were the little things he missed most and was glad he had gotten a chance to get them back.

#transformers #transformers x reader #maccadam #idw mtmte #mtmte x reader #mtmte megatron #mtmte whirl #mtmte rodimus #human buddy #fearless buddy

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agaricus-bitorquis · 1 month ago

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PVPCIV SEASON 2 SPOILERS

Holy shit. Hello? Okay soooooooo were lying in the credits now purposefully hiding that Seawatt was in PVPCIV??? I have a screenshot right before and the one after and its INSANE how well hidden of a secret this was I have, truly, been duped. A full Tabi pull apart will be a seperate post another day.

THAT INTRODUCTION SCENE? CONFIRMED FOUND FAMILY? HELLO!!!!! THIS IS A WIN THIS IS A WIN. ESPECIALLY FOR JULIE FANS!!! ESPECIALLY!!!!!!!!! Andddd then I was like actually so sad watching Evbo and Tabi sit down together and then her disappearing. Like holy shit. And him calling her his best friend!? !? That whole beginning scene was so exciting.

Parrot and Evbo HELLOOOO They make me so sad. It makes me genuinely sad seeing them interact because it's like. ;;;;(

THE INTRO TO HOW THINGS WORK IS SO COOL TOO ITS SO JOYOUS!!!

Sorry I think my thoughts are all over the place but I'm really sick right now. Anyway. How does Parrot know about the guards advanced tunnel system?

Speaking of the guard...

And that's all I have to say.

I'm so nervous about the Parrot and PrinceZam shit. It's so exciting. Why IS he the only one still alive?

All I could watch through the scene where he's doing the video journal inside the video journal once Minute appears is "The alpha minutetech... has arrived."

Maybe one of the last things I'll say. FUCKING SEAWATT. HELLO? IM SO EXCITED TO SEE WHERE THIS IS GOING AND IM GLAD THE GUARD STILL HAS A RELETBLY BIG ROLE. AND THE CLOWNPIERCE REVEAL?!?!?! IM SO EXCITED. THE FRAMING OF okay I have screenshots

#pvp civ #pvp civilization spoilers #pvp civilization

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captainremmington-13 · 9 months ago

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A Lady Made of Snow

DISCLAIMER: I don’t own The Hunger Games franchise, the images above, The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes, or any of the characters in this fic other than Bellova. I also do not condone the beliefs or actions of Coriolanus or Bellova.

SUMMARY: Coriolanus’s academic and professional life is blossoming. But his wife continues to be his biggest obstacle.

⚠️Warnings⚠️: THIS IS A DARK CHAPTER. It contains violence, verbal/physical abuse/, mention of murderous intent, Coriolanus being horrible, HEAVY ALLUSIONS TO SEX, NONCON, swearing

A/n: IM ALIVE YIPPEE i’m so sorry for disappearing i went on a trip and i was also facing MAJOR writers block but i’m back!!!

“Congratulations once again, Mister Snow. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow on your first day as an official Gamemaker.”

Beaming, Coriolanus shook Dr Gaul’s hand and quickly exited the office. He was elated, relieved that he’d finally received the promotion he’d worked so tirelessly for.

Finally, he’d be able to make some real change. Sure, it meant more office hours, but it was more than worth it.

As he rode home, Coriolanus was already brainstorming ideas to bring to the meeting the following morning. He knew he needed to immediately prove he was worthy of the position, despite having worked with the other Gamemakers for almost a year.

When he arrived inside the Reginelle estate, he took off his coat and practically shoved it into an Avox’s arms. He ordered her to get him a glass of red wine, and to bring it to his Bellova’s. Nodding quickly, she did as she was told, and he relished in the obvious nervousness in her body language.

Now that he was officially the man of the house, he held a significant amount of power over every matter revolving the Reginelle fortune and property. In most ways, he had more power than Bellova herself.

Which was extremely satisfying.

Pushing open the bedroom doors, he immediately spotted his wife sitting at her vanity, brushing her hair slowly. Her movements seemed robotic, which wasn’t out of the ordinary. When she was under the serum’s influence, she was obviously not functioning as a normal human would.

But somehow, nobody noticed. Or at least, they attributed it to her lingering grief, not to any unnatural cause.

Bellova looked over her shoulder, and smiled at Coriolanus. “Hello there, handsome. I missed you.”

Coriolanus didn’t return her smile. “I’m sure you did.”

His fingers worked quickly to undo the buttons of his dress shirt. Though he wanted to change into his sleeping clothes as soon as possible, he was still careful to preserve it’s condition. After all, it had cost at least a couple hundred dollars.

As soon as he slipped on his silk robe, he spoke again.

“I had a meeting with Dr. Gaul today.”

Coriolanus barely suppressed a grin when Bellova’s eyes widened in fear at the mention of the Head Gamemaker.

“W-What about?” she asked softly, setting down her brush.

“She promoted me. I’m now officially a Gamemaker.”

Bellova breathed a sigh of relief. “Congratulations, my love,” she said gently, walking over to him. “I’m very proud of you.”

She looked so vulnerable, the dim light of the room casting an angelic glow across her face. She was clad only in a cream white nightdress, the fabric tantalizingly translucent. Though he despised her, it he still found her body to be irresistible.

Coriolanus sat down on the edge of the bed, and pulled Bellova into his lap. She immediately curled up against him, the romantic gesture making him cringe. Her clinginess always irritated him, and he would reprimand her often so she would behave at least decently in public. However, when they were in private, it took even more effort to keep her hands off of him.

But he supposed that using her desperation for his own pleasure wouldn’t hurt.

Coriolanus lifted Bellova off of his thighs and let her fall backwards onto the bed. She giggled, blushing like a schoolgirl. She truly was enamored with him.

“You’re so pretty, Coryo,” she simpered, reaching up to cup his face with one hand. He didn’t reply, simply pushing the straps of her dress off of her shoulders.

Just as he let the fabric slip past her chest, Bellova let out a pained cry.

Coriolanus snarled in frustration. He was so close to letting out all of his pent-up feelings out, but now, he had to deal with the real Bellova.

He didn’t move from his position over her as he reached into his back pocket for the serum. He watched, almost bored, as she writhed beneath him, her eyes squeezed shut.

As soon as Bellova stopped twitching and her eyes opened again, a smile spread across his face. It was cruel, the immense enjoyment he got from her fear and helplessness.

But he didn’t give a fuck. It was what she deserved.

Bellova’s lips immediately curled into a sneer.

“Get your hands off of me.”

Coriolanus rolled his eyes and didn’t respond. He tugged her nightgown off of her body, making her gasp and shudder. One of her hands shot upwards, but he grabbed her wrist before she could grab his throat.

“Say whatever you want to say now, you feral bitch, before I put you back under.”

“You’re calling me feral, and yet you’re the one who’s desperate to fuck me.” Bellova’s smirk was infuriating, but Coriolanus refused to give her the satisfaction of a visible reaction from him.

“You’re a pathetic man, Coriolanus,” she spat, her voice shaking with pure hatred. “One day, I swear, I will make you pay for everything you’ve done. You’ll regret that you were ever fucking born.”

Coriolanus threw back his head as he laughed, and gripped her left shoulder so tightly that he was sure it would leave a mark. The needle of the syringe was a mere inch from her neck, threatening to puncture her at any moment.

“You don’t scare me anymore, Bellova.”

Bellova averted her gaze from the needle, and her piercing grey eyes cut into his with a burning intensity. When she spoke, she sounded exactly like her old self: confident, vengeful, and wickedly intelligent.

“Good. That’ll make you much easier to kill.”

As the needle pierced her skin and Bellova let out a scream, Coriolanus’s stomach churned unpleasantly.

It was harmless threat, he was sure of it.

But it still shook him to his core.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Within a month of working as a Gamemaker, Coriolanus had established himself as one of the sharpest young minds in the Capitol.

The combination of his effortless charm and impressive intellect had made him instantly popular. Hardly anyone remembered the incident that occurred regarding him and the 10th Hunger Games. He had buried that as deep as possible, and covered it by establishing his reputation as the bright, young Gamemaker who was destined to succeed.

His University life was also flourishing. He had a great report with all of his instructors, and was well-liked amongst other students. His grades were stellar, as he knew they would be, and put him on the path to graduate at the top of his class.

The only challenge he faced was dealing with his wife.

Though the serum was still effective, it continued to wear off during the evening. Bellova would scream and yell as loudly as she could, cursing at him and occasionally pleasing for someone to help her. Luckily for him, Coriolanus had smoothly lied to everyone working in the Reginelle estate, saying that her cries were a result of a mental disorder she’d developed from intense grief.

He knew they were all too scared of him to question it.

However, as more time passed, the enjoyment he felt from seeing her distress diminished. It simply became irritating, and he no longer got pleasure from seeing her suffer mentally.

So he decided it was time to tame the beast that was Bellova Reginelle once and for all.

It didn’t take long for him to convince Dr. Gaul to begin working on a stronger serum: one that contained effects that would subdue his wife for the rest of her days. She understood the importance of eliminating threats. After all, she’d encouraged him to continue his practice of poisoning his opponents.

The serum would take at least two weeks to develop. Dr. Gaul insisted that she needed adequate time to test it, and ensure that it worked exactly as intended.

“No mishaps this time,” she had said with bone-chilling determination. “Your bride will never be a bother to you again.”

So Coriolanus had to accept the fact that Bellova would fight tooth-and-nail for her freedom for several more nights.

But he would never let her have it.

His career was just beginning. He could not let the citizens of the Capitol discover that he was deeply involved in corruption and scandalous acts. It would ruin him before he truly began to climb the social ladder.

After all, Snow was destined to land on top.

And in his case, getting to the “top” only meant one thing:

becoming the president of Panem.

✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ ‧˚₊❆ ‧

TAGLIST: @daenerysqueenofhearts, @squidscottjeans, @euphemiaamillais, @gracieroxzy, @effectwalker, @vxnilla-hxrddrugs, @mystargirl-interlude

Author’s Note: Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think in the comments! Again, I am so sorry for disappearing. I promise to try to write more consistently going forward <3

Also, let me know if you want to be added to the tag list! (I had to add some of y’all to a comment instead becuz tumblr won’t let me tag more people for some reason☹️)

#coriolanus snow #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #tbosas #coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus snow x oc #the hunger games #original character #thg prequel #tom blyth #president snow #dark!coriolanus snow

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superbpudding · 5 months ago

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Hello again, sorry for today's images being crap i just felt like it. Anyway since there aren't any super mysterious strange yiik youtubers with weird videos that im aware of today's topic of discussion is the legend herself Semy Pak.Also my right arm hurts rn so i will be a little more insane today ok, also since this is just pure YIIK talking and speculation be prepared for just my raw consciousness and what i think about things in YIIK. So uh first of all for anyone who haven't realised it yet ALEX EGGLESTON DIDN'T MEAT SEMI PAK HE GASLIGHTS YOU INTO BELIEVING HE DID HE ACTUALLY SPENT THE WHOLE DAY EAGLING HIS STON TO HIS REFLECTION ON THE MONITOR !!! Sources cited: when Alex comes home he keeps yapping about some other random bullshit that isn't anyhow connected to Sammy and also on the next day he mentions not being able to get "the video" out of the head, not the events. He also seems surprised when Vella mentions her name on the phone in Chapter 2. So now with that cleared up let's start with the very first appearance of Sammy and what comes before that. First of before we get to Sammy we meet another woman, a Blue one, she mentions that Alex is "not supposed to be back here" and disappears.

I want to instantly point out how her outfit, skin color and hair color are exactly the same as one of Spectre Sammy's, personally i think that counting YIIK's cyclical narrative the Blue Woman is the previous missing woman that Alex was obsessing over(possibly even Jae-Hwa Wen herself), with the graves you see in Factory Hotel being graves of previous Sammys and Dalis, the one in park looking area could also be referencing the "The Death of Semi Pak" post.

I also want to point out the tree that Sammy sits on, it has a mirrored Borjgali symbol, that being the symbol of tree of life, the sun and the eternity. With it being placed on a literal tree i think it's safe to assume that the tree in question is the tree of life, with other 2 meanings being the eternal cycle of yiik's narrative and this tree being the symbolical beginning and the end of all Sammys. This same tree also appears in KNN ending.

After that she gets taken by the Mysterious Star Creatures during the elevator ride and while the original is interesting too i want to talk about the I.V version of this cutscene. It ends with this scene of Sammy getting killed in an Iron Maiden which is a really similar to one of Asuka Furutani getting turned into a Digital Soul Vessel in Deviation Perspective 1, while ost "Digital Soul Vessel assembly line" plays on the background, so i think it's fair to assume that in this scene she gets turned into a Digital Soul Vessel, while the literal God takes her body.

Now let's talk about the lore implications of this scene. Personally i think that the Digital Soul Vessel for Sammy is the ONISM1999, the one that Alex specifically downloads on his computer and that is presented to us as a website, with details of who she is manifesting as different posts, tho i can't be sure what are the full implications of it since i think there will be something new going on about Sammy in I.V that the Digital Soul Vessel creation hints to. Anyway let's move on to the next appearance of Sammy.The Librarian, with talking about this character i want to point out something probably obvious but important to understanding Sammy, Sammy is parallel to Alex. The story of her life that she tells is Alex's, the traits that Sammy shows are Alex's, "oh no i've become my mother", her story of wanting to go far away but ending up in the mind dungeon is what's happening to Alex. The fact that she appears in the Mind Dungeon is important too, the Alex's Mind Dungeon is not just a manifestation of his mind, Vella gave Alex a phone number for it, the same Vella who tells Alex about how in her universe you can call the dead, the Krow is the connection between the alive and the dead in Alex's mind she is connecting Alex with shattered pieces of time and matter floating in the Soul Space and Alex sees a parallel of himself as a dead because he Wishes He Could Just Disappear because these ONISM posts are his and by posts i also mean the "Fuck it. I'm done." because Rory is parallel to Sammy and both Rory and Sammy are parallel to Alex because he is internally a deeply traumatized character and i can't not speak about it.

So uh let's i should probably explain in levels what i just said rn so uhhh. First of all, why Sammy is parallel to Alex. If we don't count stuff like Sammy literally telling us about who Alex is from his head as if she's talking about herself there's still plenty of other hints and signs through the game starting literally from the Title Screen:

When you get to the ending 1 of the game you see that the King and Queen are both Alex, they are parallel to each other despite being the opposites, the concept characters of The Digital and The Spiritual in game are parallel and so are characters who fit into them and it just so happens that literally every love interest that Alex has is the Digital to his Spiritual and is parallel to him, including Sammy. Then i want to mention the phone calls at the end of Chapter 5. They may seem very random and don't have any obvious meaning at first but their role in the narrative is to draw parallels between characters.Michael is paralleld to Chondra Alex's mom is paralleled to Alex's dad and then there's Sammy who seemingly makes pretty random statements however they are swapping Sammy and Alex in their roles with Sammy asking Alex to pick up her cat from the dry cleaners, like if it isn't a real cat but a stuffed toy, like a stuffed Panda. She mentions Alex leaving Sammy in the elevator while leaving her alone which is the opposite of what was shown to us in Chapter 1.

And then finally, Spectre Sammy, she appears in both main endings and in both she ends up hugging the Alex model, however while in Ending 1 her monologue more just sets up what's comming but Ending 2 is way more focused on her. So, the thing is, there are 2 Sammys. There is the Semi Pak and there is what i call the Semy Pak(Spectre), Alex himself mentions there being 2 different Sammys multiple times actually, with talking about how Sammy he met and on ONISM video "didn't look exactly the same" or how "his Sammy and Sammy in the newspapers were different", so, why would there be 2 Sammys? This is where "You" come in, "The Player", or actually The Ultimate Alex, the one who wields the sword in Ending 1 and the one who you give your name to at the start of the game, they can exist as their separate concept outside of the player however through you taking role of The Ultimate Alex the concept of it is told, The Ultimate Alex is the impossible goal of Alex to be the Ultimate self in form of a main hero from a video game and his desire to become this goal instead of anything realistic has started to control his life and it created The Dungeon Master who is The Ultimate Alex and the Proto of this concept is deeply hidden in Better Endings but just like Twisted Beings i doubt it's possible to truly defeat them since the fact that we're playing the game still means that The Ultimate Alex exists. Anyway, since "You" the Ultimate Alex is better version of Alex from another reality and he wants to make you as close to himself as possible he gives you a copy of his own friends...and his obsession, another Sammy. Since "You" are just like Alex that means you also parallel to a Sammy, that's why in Ending 2 you work at KNN, "You" are being paralleled to Sammy Pak with all the characters refering not to Alex but to the name you gave to the Ultimate Alex. This is why Alex stands with Spectre Semy and Ultimate Alex stands with Semi.

And now, about how Sammy is paralleled to Rory. First of all i want to talk about the "Do you ever wish you could just disappear?" post, the theme of wanting to escape to "soul space" because of unwell mental health state is very similar to Rory's arc in chapter 2, we can also see bearsnessecity reply to this post which is interesting because bearsnessecity is also the one posting the "Fuck it. I'm done.", which appears at the exact same moment as "The Death of Semi Pak". The only other bearsnessecity appearance is in "GHOST SITING in WIND TOWN - NJ", in which the users S/superbpudding appear and tell Rory that she's a ghost. There's also a water tower with Sammy jumpscare in Windtown and also there's Rory's grave in KNN, right near the Sammy Pak grave.

The Golden Alpaca in KNN's version of Sammy's room quotes Alex's responce to Rory. The date of Sammy disappearing, 4/04, is the date of Rory's birthdy. The gate from Rory's house also allows you to go back to Sammy's room. Now for the last section of this post i want to talk about something even i don't fully understand the implications of. So uh, you know how in Chapter 5 there's a sideguest where an ONISM user makes you place Sammy posters around the state. These posters have a very interesting description:"Last Seen 04/01/1999".You get these posters in the mall and right down from the mall on the overworld map you can see trees that form text saying

4 0 1. April 1th. Personally i see the possible implications of this being that either Sammy really went missing not on April 4th but instead on April 1th and Alex adjusted it for his narrative and to make it fit with Rory's birthday or it comes back again to 2 Sammys, one of wich went missing on April 4th and other on April 1th. Also the obvious implication that it being April 1th could mean that the video was a prank. The posters themselves are interesting too, first of all they are very obviously different from what is described in item's description since they still say 4/04. The e-mail adress is the same one that sent Alex the "link" to onism post, also want to note how she wears different clothing than one on video. I aslo want to say that in post "Elevator Girl" a similar poster is described(tho there is no image attached, despite users acting like there is) and it also seems like the name Semi Pak was found out through this poster(btw the post appears way earlier than when Vella calls Alex and informs him of Sammy's name being found).

Now i want to compare it to different poster, the one that appears in I.V/Nameless Psychosis intro in Claudio's shop.It is very similar to the previous one however there are quite a few important differences, first of all the date on poster being 2016 and nto 1999, the photo is a screenshot of Sammy's 3D model which is the same as in the ONISM video, building behind her looking nothing like any buildings in New Jersey and instead looks like buildings in the intro. However the 2 most important details for this discussion is the lack of name "Semi Pak" on poster and also the height being 5'1 instead of 5'2 as on the mall poster, yet again suggesting multiple Sammys.

I also want to talk about Sammy's age on these posters, on both of the posters and also in ONISM1999 posts it's stated that Sammy is 21, however on her gravestone near Alex's house and as said by Alex himself her age is 23. Which is interesting considering that 23 is Rory's age.

That was pretty muc it, it's still not everything there is to be said about Sammy but i think that's enough for this post. Thanks for reading and all that.

#yiik #yiik: a postmodern rpg

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