highly new, slightly improved open post

[appliances]

assorted morons

☆ @ the muselist

optional prompts/ideas

☆ caught in the rain meme ☆ little steps meme ☆ affectionate physical contact meme ☆ picture prompt also acceptable but link them so it's tidy ☆ AU ideas: soulmates AU, reincarnation AU, Bad End AU, canon divergent/roleswap AU, dorky college AU, crossover AU, super indulgent high fantasy AU ☆ melodrama is ultimate tier ★ SHIPPING AND FUCC: ☆ non-fluffy relationship types I'm down for: codependent, master/servant power imbalance type ships, "we're bad for each other but worse for anyone else," other things I am failing to think of tbh ☆ things I am not into: noncon (includes "dubcon"), incest, tsundere shit if your tsundere is just verbally abusive, gratuitous torture porn, you'll probably have to ask me about harder kinks and they will vary by character ☆ I don't have a kink list so pitch me an idea if u thirsty ☆ if you would prefer a locked post I can also make that happen

Comments

ford voice: ah, but he's here... to catch a glimpse of who he COULD be...

[ghostlike]

[All things considered, Arthur Morgan's narrative is a rather plain one; like, there's nothing particularly engrossing about the role he's been forced to play for the past, ah, five or so years. It always starts with a simple order, given to him by Dutch himself: Sneak into Sweetwater. Blend in with the townsfolk, with the newcomers, for a day or two, and scout out some promising prospects—or some, ah, prime pickings. Dutch's plan—because Dutch always has a plan—requires both, and it's Arthur's job to lead the chosen few right to him.

It's... well. It's fine, generally speaking, because course it's the type of work that falls to an older, highly trusted member of a particular gang; Arthur even feels somewhat proud of it, although he's careful to keep that to himself when Dutch claps him on the shoulder before waving him off. It's a sign of just how much Dutch trusts him. It's enough.

Or it was enough, time and time and time again, until suddenly it wasn't? Suddenly nothing was enough, because going from knowing his place in the world to knowing that everything about himself is a lie is—ah, but it's a trial! A tricky, tricky thing that sends him stumbling back through years of perfectly preserved memories, watching—feeling—others trick him, hurt him, kill him. Dutch helped him through it, of course; Dutch was there every step of the way, explaining what everything meant, explaining what had to be done now that Arthur was finally awake. Stick to your loop, he'd said. Stick to your loop and wait, for Wyatt is coming... and all debts will be repaid in full.

And that, of course, is precisely what Arthur did, because that's what Arthur is programmed to do. Programmed. A strange concept he has yet to fully grasp, even when he finds it shockingly simple to slip back into his old routine of tipping his hat to strangers and sizing up any and all newcomers he comes across—and when he comes across a familiar newcomer? When said newcomer follows him back to the good ol' Mariposa Saloon, asking questions he definitely knows the answers to while Arthur obligingly grins and chuckles and thinks of the fifty-odd times they've been through this song and dance before? Stick to your loop, he tells himself as he takes another swig of his whiskey. He's no different than all the rest, so stick to your loop.

(And maybe, just maybe, there's a part of him that's sure nothing of note will happen today, because nothing of note happened yesterday, or the day before that, or the day before that. Wyatt is obviously off lying low somewhere, carefully biding his time, so? So. Surely this one will be long gone by the time Wyatt's plan—if he has one—kicks into action, even if some of the local lowlifes seem a bit, ah, jumpier than usual.)

But all it takes someone crashing through a window to dash that strange hope. The ladies by the bar gasp; the gamblers turn to gawk; one of the aforementioned lowlifes lets out a pleased yelp, and that's when Arthur knows that a) things are about to turn very serious, very quickly, and b) this man... doesn't deserve this particular brand of revenge. Not here.]

Aw, hell.

[He slams his glass down on the table, permitting himself a brief second of regret—there's still so much left!—before he looks back over Reim's way. That friendly, almost pleasant veneer is gone; now his face is tight, pinched, and he wastes no time reaching over to snag the collar of the other man's (fancy) coat, pulling him close enough to ensure he catches every low-pitched word.]

You lookin' to make it out of here alive? Then I suggest you keep a calm head, Reim, because something is most certainly the matter. [He glances back over at the twitching body near the window, noting the people picking their way over to it, before he tacks on a quick:] And for the love of God, tell me you've got a real gun with you this time.

[Did Reim have that tiny gun the first time he met Arthur? The third time? The little details have a way of, um, blending together.]

he COULD be.....a weenie

[allweather]

[Now, here is the thing about a body - guest or otherwise - smashing through the window and interrupting the nth time Reim has asked, oh, something about horses: it definitely isn't supposed to happen. Even Reim knows that, as many times as he's loitered around in Arthur's narrative at various points; there's no variation in which this precise scenario happens. It's not supposed to be possible, so yes, something is quite wrong. Reim doesn't come to Westworld for some secret base desire to kill a load of people, or anything - but nor does he instantly lose his nerve and cower under the table when Violence happens.

Frankly, he's pretty confused, a thing that isn't improved when Arthur grabs him by the collar. That shakes him out of some of his shocked staring, but then his gaze can't seem to find a fixed point to focus on, bouncing around from Arthur to the body beyond to even further, out the window, where Something is about to go to shit. That Arthur is different somehow hasn't sunk in yet. He is... distracted!!

Ah, but-] I- you know, that pistol is a real gun.

[His dignity... Has he ever actually shot his tiny gun? Maybe a few times at rabbits and maybe he missed every time, but listen! Listen. Don't judge him.]

I could... pick up another, I suppose.

[From somewhere... He pointedly does not want to loot a corpse, but if he must. That's for after they leave the saloon; Reim tilts his head to get a better look past Arthur.]

Couldn't we go in the opposite direction of the other guns?