A STRAND

— hey there! i’m bard, 26, they/he, gmt, white, spoonie, various brain problems. i’m here for a good time, not a long time. so if you bear with me, we should get through the rules pretty quickly.

— sam porter bridges / sam porter / sam strand / just sam is the main character from the norman reedus fetus delivery simulator, death stranding.

— i tag any/all triggering content very simply as #nsfw or #example content warning. they should be easy to catch with blacklist. with that in mind, sam’s story comes with the following overarching warnings - mental illness, familial death, suicide,

— i’m mutuals only - basically this just means please give me a few days to check through any new followers before i follow back … i want to meet new people so i don’t consider myself to be selective at all.

— i love to break the ice through starter calls and ask memes, so even if we’ve never interacted before, please feel to send those in or like my starters!

— i’m open to shipping, and i don’t consider flirting or advances made in-character to be ‘forced shipping’. that said, sam is extremely private and has particular phobias that make it unlikely.

— i don't do exclusives because the fandom is just too small for it, but i do mains & ship exclusives.

— i don’t use small text and i use icons really sparsely - basically when i feel like it. and in turn, i don’t mind what you do. i also don’t expect you to match length with me! sometimes i ramble.

craft me with a cunning creation

the power of 'i made this for you' is enough to make your heart ache in the good kind of way. the knowledge that someone sat down, and, with you in mind, they Created. they painted, they knit, they sculpted, they folded. they Created for you. it is something tangible. something that will remain when they have to leave for the night. something that lingers. you can look at it, touch it, and you can know that you were cared for enough to inspire creation. you were the source of someone wanting to make. you were, and you are, and you have proof of it. you have proof that they think of you, proof that they thought. and you're worth it, love, you're inspirational. i hope you have an entire shelf or bookcase filled with proof of being thought of and remembered. filled with tangible evidence of consideration.

which is to say, it’s more akin to being a medium, and he hasn’t died nearly as much. and all the ways in which he has died are stupid or inconvenient rather than being like, murdered or killed in a voidout

sam’s boot kicks up against his bike’s mangled tires, a little spiteful, more outwardly annoyed than usual. inanimate objects don’t get anger or stoicism, and the middle ground is just to kick the thing and hope it gets the message. “lot more people out these days,” he says.

it’s not entirely disdainful. it’s the system working as intended. more porters, more people, more... life, outside of the tiny shelters that humanity’s sequestered itself into for all of sam’s life. “went over a ridge to go through a muddy ditch.” he lifts his hands, gestures vaguely. “six inches of mud and water, maybe. someone had dropped a ladder right in the middle of it.”

higgs isn’t some badly-protected antimatter bomb he has to cart up a mountain, but sam looks at him like one. furrowed brow, a hell of a lot of questions. “not my problem,” he mutters, leaving behind his usual dry irritation for something more personal - shit, it’s so fucking personal with higgs that it unsettles sam. like having a hand on the nape of his neck, the constant feeling of breaking out in itchy hives.

sam exhales. he reaches back and scratches at the back of his neck. “yeah.” not my problem. “that’d be nice, right? not be anything anybody has to worry about anymore?” hell, it’s what sam does. work for nobody, work for nothing, look after lou. he doesn’t call on fragile. he doesn’t call on anybody. there’s an appeal to to how wide the uca is; sam doesn’t have to be part of it to avoid everyone, anyone, for weeks, months on end.