#and misgendering of the horses ;-:

[paging-possum]

3.5 hours of sleep does crazy things to ones brain and by that I mean. Murderbot gender thoughts

[st-dionysus]

I think it's fine when trans women call cis men eggs, actually. It's not like they're going up to cis men in real life and saying "I think you should transition because of XYZ", they're saying "This person is doing the things I did before I transitioned, and they might be trans, and I'm suggesting they think about the possibility because it might make them happier and healthier" or their silly jokes about fictional characters.

And Noah fence, but I don't see any of you calling me out for calling fictional women transgender men. I make jokes about female celebrities being transmasc and jokes about cis male celebs "who are clearly going to come out as they/he in two years" because yeah guess what people relate to other people and make jokes about it.

It's not about you, and honestly it comes off as you all panicking "oh no they are trying to forcefem cis men" the same moral panic that FOX NEWS likes to spread. Consider the amount of attacks trans women get because they are accused of transing people. Consider that some of them might also be satire about that very accusation.

It's not a big deal. If it makes you uncomfortable, you are very capable of using the block button and filters.

And honestly, sometimes trans women saying these things, does crack actual eggs who go "oh, I never considered that an option but if these trans women support me and I feel connected to their experience, maybe I should experiment more with my gender".

Me and the trans women I know in real life make these jokes to ourselves all the time and they harm no one and offend some. Those that are offended or have a moral panic about it or choose to put words in trans women's mouths about what they're actually saying can get over themselves.

[toburnup]

Literally stalled reading your cowboy fic for the weekend. Even got some snacks and gonna read it tonight. Love your rawer works a lot 💕

thank u my friend. this is so nice to hear. enjoy your snacks <3 and enjoy the cowboys with all their rawness and rawdoggin

[proudfreakmetarusonikku]

like unironically at this point dt stans r just repeating fucking terf rhetoric as an excuse to keep harassing ranboo fuck you all. deflecting a conversation about very real and literal genocide into a literal lie about a trans person to demonise them- because ranboo has taken steps to try and stem the racism in his community and is actively reaching out to people to help- and comparing them to the literal alt right streamers on kick while misgendering them is literal terf shit. you’re radicalising yourself just bc you’re pissed someone called out your shitty cis white boys.

[twpsyn-who]

Trying not to judge Poland on my very first watch of their performance, but what the hell is the matter with that red horse??? That threw me off soooo bad

Also I know many complained last year about the effects and stuff, but that was what kept me entertained during Solo guys. You can't get rid of the colors and expect me to listen to this year song again

[steampunk-raven]

Ashton reminds me so much of my brother and I love them

[procrastinatingattorney]

good for those who can manage to rework it into their trans hcs but man fire emblem's pegasus gender thing will always be gross to me

[asterdeer]

i didn't rb it because i agreed with less than 50% of it and did not vibe with the tone at all but i saw this post talking about the barbie movie and how the entire internet has come together to rewrite history into "loving pink and playing with barbies was the Universal AFAB Experience and it's unfeminist not to relate or enjoy barbies because if you do then you hate women and having fun and women having fun" which. damn. yeah. like i have nothing against the barbie movie, i have nothing against barbie in general, but it's so fucking wild to experience the exact same alienation as an agender young adult as i did when i was a gnc little girl. being socially scolded for not wanting to play with barbies or dress in hyperfeminine pink dresses and heels all over again. fuck. i didn't realize why i was chafing against the barbie madness so much until i read that paragraph of that post.

[newspecies]

hi. im normal about books. now everyone go read Lone Women by Victor LaValle

[gachaparadise]

what do you mean people don't like Caenis :(

[cat-in-a-mech-suit]

Transmasculinity Throughout Time: Amelio Robles Ávila

Amelio Robles Ávila was an openly transgender colonel in the Mexican Revolution. He was born in 1889 and lived as a man from the age of 24 to his death in 1984. From a young age, he was interested in masculine activities like marksmanship and horse taming. He received military awards for his service in the revolution and his male identity was recognized by the government. If anyone misgendered him, he would threaten to shoot them, and once he had to kill two men in self defense when a group attacked him because of his gender. After his death, there is a mixed consensus on his recognition- his tombstone misgenders him, but there is a school named after him with the masculine version of his name. Historians generally agree that he was a trans man.

[dunesofpriam]

I think part of the reason that "misgendering" a trans person is seen as such a horrific crime is because transgender ideology upholds sexist gender roles and steeotypes.

Under a gender critical theory, saying a trans man is a woman is no different than saying a female horse is a mare. It goes no further and implies nothing else. But when you attribute certain aspects to sex, then suddenly calling a trans man a woman implies a whole host of other things- now its something to be offended at.

Rather than remove the stereotypes from the sex, trans ideology has removed the sex from the stereotypes.

[nobody-nexus]

Ragapom HCs I Have

(WARNING: There's a LOT of headcanons)

-Transfem Lesbian Pomni (Is On The Spectrum)

-Cisgender Bisexual Ragatha (Has ADHD)

-Pomni has a cat tail (This is to give other hcs context)

-Pomni loves hearing Ragatha play the cello

-Ragatha will always ask if it's okay if she can touch Pomni or not, but if they're in immediate danger there's no time to ask (she will ask if Pomni's okay and apologize AFTER the danger has passed)

-Pomni learned how to sew just to help out Ragatha (She's not great at it, but it's better than nothing)

-They both learned each other's favorite smells and they've asked for candles of that scent just to sit in their rooms and take it in

-Pomni's not the BIGGEST fan of her body but Ragatha makes sure she feels valid (if you misgender her, you die. There's no getting pass it)

-Ragatha hides her love of horses because she's embarrassed by it, but Pomni actually really like animals

-Pomni makes various animal noises when expressing emotions, mainly cat or even dog like noises- and Ragatha's memorized all of them

-Blanket cuddles ALL THE TIME- even if Pomni's okay with touch. Ragatha being one giant comforter for Pomni always makes her SO HAPPY

-Pomni has bells on her tail, which although was Caine's idea, it DID make it easier for Ragatha to know if Pomni's sneaking away for a late-night snack or not

-Pomni has a BIG love for dresses. Ragatha once made a dress for Pomni, who wears it every time they go on a date

-Jax was the first to find out about them dating by barging into their room while they were making out. Caine was the last to find out, but still thinks they're "gal pals"

-Whenever Ragatha's having a bad day, Pomni just likes to talk. Since she's not always up for physical comfort, she knows her voice soothes Ragatha

-Pomni swears a lot whilst Ragatha hardly does so

-Ragatha makes Pomni flustered CONSTANTLY, and she never even means to

-Pomni's stamina is nonexistent while Ragatha can run for hours without realizing it

-Ragatha can pick up Pomni like she's nothing

-Pomni is awful at coming up with cute nicknames for Ragatha, but Ragatha has a bunch. Her favorite one is 'sweetheart' for Pomni

-If the jester's feeling very protective, she'll bite Ragatha to show bite marks, showing that no one touches Ragatha but her (And the doll's beyond embarrassed about it)

-Pomni's flirting sucks, but Ragatha's reaction is THE most 30s thing you could imagine. Hands on sides of face, shaking her head a little, "Oh Pomni, QUIT IT! You're gonna make me blush!", blushing hard, giggling along the way

-If Pomni gets flustered enough, she gets a nosebleed like a cartoon character! Her blood is black in color

-Ragatha lets Pomni help in the kitchen by grabbing ingredients for her. That's about it

-Ragatha was shocked hearing Pomni talk in Spanish and Russian for the first times (AN: YES, I still think Pomni's Russian and Hispanic)

-When they kiss, it's VERY obvious. Ragatha wears red lipstick, and it gets all over Pomni's face, making her all red and flustered, but she loves it every time it happens

-No one has told Pomni her eyes turn into hearts when she's infatuated yet. Not even Jax (Mainly cause Ragatha won't ALLOW him to do so)

-Pomni thinks Ragatha looks hot holding knives.... Ragatha's a little bit of a klutz with knives in reality

-Unlike Ragatha, Pomni actually likes bugs. She usually handles centipedes if any are around

-Ragatha has a big sweet tooth which is why she bakes. Although it has lead to Ragatha accidentally getting high because Zooble made pot brownies... Multiple times

-Pomni is easy to anger whilst Ragatha has a long fuse, but can be easily bothered

-If Pomni gets too stressed out, her teeth get shark like. She can crush a damn BONE with them, and Ragatha helps out with those said bones (don't ask where she gets them from)

-Pomni likes playing horror games whilst Ragatha likes calmer games

-Ragatha loves FNaF and will ramble about it to Pomni

-Pomni likes to draw! Ragatha loves ALL the drawings she does

-They watch Disney movies in bed together :D

-Most of their dates get ruined because of Jax or Caine (Sometimes Bubble)

-Ragatha gets oddly competitive in multiplayer games, thus why they don't play many multiplayer games together

-Slow dancing is Ragatha's favorite romantic thing to do with Pomni

-They usually kiss when both are laying down because the height difference hurts Ragathas back hurt when they kiss whilst standing

-Pomni HATES being wet with her clothes on. Pomni has to be carried by the scruff of her outfit like a cat because she just COMPLETELY shuts down due to overstimulation of the wet clothes against her skin

-Ragatha hates her hands, but Pomni finds them interesting, and she likes to watch Ragatha use her hands for various things JUST to see how they work

-Caine almost gave them a child by overhearing something they said wrong, but thankfully the two were quick enough to stop him

WOW that's a LOT of hcs. And maybe I have more. Hope you like them!

[theravenmuse]

The Ineffable Bride

This fic is a retelling of The Princess Bride written for the Good Omens Do it with Style Silver Screen Bang! I've been wanting to write this fic for awhile so I'm glad for the push this event gave me to finally get it done! Featuring art by @crowleys-curl

CW: minor character death and temporary character death typical of The Princess Bride story. Persistent misgendering of Aziraphale (who is a man that chooses to dress femininely) by Gabriel.

Summary: Aziraphale had known true love once. Perhaps he had been young, and foolish, but even as his inevitable wedding with the eminent Prince Gabriel drew closer, it was the smile, dashing and equally foolish, of a long lost farm boy which filled Aziraphale’s mind. But that farm boy was gone. Long ago, he’d left to seek his fortune with promises of returning as soon as he was worthy of Aziraphale’s affections, but he had broken that promise. It was no fault of his own, but Aziraphale had never forgiven himself for letting that foolish young farm boy go, and he hadn’t forgiven Crowley either. He’d never thought he’d need to, until Aziraphale found himself captured by a dastardly Sicilian who aimed to make war between Florin and Guilder, and a mysterious man dressed in all black – really, what had that silly farm boy been thinking, neglecting to cover those brilliant golden eyes – came to his rescue.

Excerpt:

“Farm boy,” Aziraphale called as he dismounted his horse. His plain, powder blue dress settled down to his ankles and he gave it a tug to straighten it out.

Crowley scurried towards the call, tripping over a stray pail in his haste and landing with a muffled oof, his lanky limbs akimbo in the straw. He made it to the open barn door a few moments later, stray bits of straw clinging to his copper hair.

Aziraphale did his best to hide his scoff with a smile as he held his horse’s reins out for Crowley to take. “Polish my horse’s saddle. I want to see my face shining in it by morning.”

Crowley answered Aziraphale’s demands as he always did: with a devilishly endearing grin, a gleam of his golden eyes, and an “as you wish”.

Read Chapter 1 on AO3

@do-it-with-style-events

@goodomensafterdark

[grave-z-boy]

Right so I love your writing and just need more mx m cause fuck I'm tired of imaging dead me .

I'm a Trans man..I think ( female to male ??) So I was hoping for a fic somewhat like that . Arthur and reader meet when they're female but 2 years later or so they meet again and arthur doesnt recognize y/n (because they transitioned) I just want some fluff and acceptance of that . I know back then homosexuality was a big no no and being trans is unheard of so it'll be fun to see where you take it.

Arthur Morgan x Trans!Male!Reader

Summary: You’ve felt stuck and unhappy for years, so, in pursuit of your own happiness you leave everyone and everything you’ve even known behind. Including your currently out of state lover, Arthur Morgan.

Word count: 6,011

Warnings: reader is a bartender, reader steals, readers sister and mother are mentioned, implied past sex between Arthur and reader, drinking and alcoholism mentioned (not reader or Arthur), y/n and his guns, guns mentioned, shooting mentioned, abandonment, hurt comfort, reader being One Of The Guys™️, sleep deprived Arthur, Tilly being helpful, reader get misgendered and deadnamed a lot but it’s before they knew he was trans, reader cries really fucking hard at one point Arthur being sleep deprived, sleep deprive Arthur being really gay for Reader, not mentioned in the story but the reason Arthur is so tired is because about half way though his second trip to town his horse bucked him off for pushing her too hard and he had to walk the rest of the way, worlds longest warning list damn

Sept. 15, 18XX

My Dear Arthur Morgan

It’s been thirteen months since I saw you last. The time has passed slowly for me- sometimes it felt as though I was standing still for days at a time. Like everyone and everything around me was moving forward- but for me, and only me, time stood still. In the months since you’ve left it seems my joy, as well as a my love for my home town, has dwindled to nothing. Staying here, the way I am, it pains my heart. I know I said I would be here, that I would wait for you to return. But I need to change and the change that I need cannot be achieved here. The people here know me, they’ve known me my whole life, and no matter what I do I will always be that same little girl to them.

I’m heading up to a little town in Nevada, maybe I can start over there.

Always yours, D/n.

Arthur received your final letter months ago. In the time since he’s read it hundreds of times, mulling over every little detail. The crumbles in the paper, the unevenness of your writing, the all too familiar tear stains that permanently warped small circles on the page, the way your name ripped through the paper, as though you’d traced it dozens of times before sending it off.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever understand what happened, why after all this time of waiting, all this time of writing him dozens of love letters, why you decided to say goodbye, he understood change. Arthur has seen people change, he’s changed, and if it was change you needed he’d do it again. But you left. If he really wanted to, he could find you, ride day and night, ask everyone he saw if they’d seen the beautiful woman that he loved more than anything. But…

You didn’t want that. You didn’t want to be hunted down, you didn’t need to be convinced. You needed change, not a reason to stay the same. So he let you go and even when the following days were filled with the nothing but pain and confusion and the complete desolation your decision brought, he still let you go.

The gang knew he was hurting, he was withdrawn, went off on his own for a couple of days. They figured he went to find you, but when he returned, without you and in a severely worse state, they knew not to press him on it.

You weren’t much better.

This was your decision and you were going to live with it. You yearned for Arthur, every day and every night, it was different from waiting for him in your hometown, he was the one who’d left then, but you knew he’d come back to you one day. Now you were the one leaving, and you could never go back to him.

You needed to move on, you sold every piece of clothing you had to a local tailor, it was almost funny to see some of your nicer dresses displayed in the window the next morning, early on, your new wardrobe came from various drunk men. You’d be surprised just how much you could find in an alley next to a bar. After you had an outfit, a proper male outfit, you were able to assimilate.

You lived above a tavern. The owner was far too old and far too tired to run it anymore, and he wanted to live in his own house for the first time in decades, so he offered you the place for a little over a hundred bucks. You worked at the bar at night, while you handled various chores and other responsibilities during the day. The pay wasn’t great, but you had a permanent place to stay and spare food from the bar to eat, and it was more than enough.

You’d taken up a new name, y/n, you thought about it for a long time before you left. A good name, the name of a proud man with no connection to who you were before. No one ever questioned you. You were just a man to them. They teased you, in the earlier days, called you feminine, pointed out your hand, your cheeks, and your hips among other things, but in the end it was just teasing, they didn’t know why you were like that, and they didn’t question when you put in an effort to change or hide your more feminine aspects. Maybe they were just too drunk to care.

You loved this life, you were just the friendly bartender.

But even with this new life, you found yourself missing aspects of you’re old one.

Your old friends, your old family, your old lover. They wouldn’t take you back, not like this, they’d think something was wrong, they’d try to change you, try force you back into the box you clawed yourself out of.

But still you dreamed of them, your sisters cooking, the way she was effortlessly graceful even when she was teasing you, your friends, the girls you’ve know since you were in diapers, singing, making flower crowns, getting into trouble. Arthur…

You dreamed of Arthur the most. Your days and nights were filled with thoughts of him. You think back to your last night together, the way he held you so tightly, you swore you could still feel his hands there. The praises he muttered, the love he confessed through out the night, every move he made, the way he left and the hole that was left in your chest after.

You dreamed of him, like one day you’d wake up and he’d be beside you. And he tell you that he loved you, not d/n, not the girl from before, but you, y/n, as your truest self.

But just like yesterday, and the days before that, he wasn’t there when you opened your eyes.

The sun was just coming up. But the sliver of light that did shine through the window seemed to magically be angled at your eyes. Making the rest you so desperately wanted impossible.

You pushed yourself up with a groan, your elbow popping the moment you were upright, your eyes were just barely open, you scratched your chest and let out a long yawn.

Your room was still dark for the most part, but you were still able to pull on some pants and fasten a belt so you could head downstairs. The tavern was empty, you cleaned up good last night and you wouldn’t have to worry about really opening until later. Still, you unlocked the front door and flipped the wooden sign in the window to say open, the people here knew you weren’t really open to serve, you were just open to the chatty people that passed through in the morning, locals coming to say hi, or travelers in need of direction, others came to sit with their friends and get out of the violent Nevada sun. Either way, you’d be polite enough to them, but they weren’t welcome for a drink for another couple of hours.

Stepping into the backyard you picked the laundry off the line and into a basket. You heard the bell up on top of the front door ring a couple of times. As you got closer to the back door you could hear the faint chatter of two people inside, Doctor Mayer, one of three doctors in town, and Anita, a house wife. She was in here more often than her husband was, but you always figured that she just needed something to do while he worked considering you’ve only ever seen her drink a handful of times in the past year.

When you came through the back door she let out an excited yelp,

“Y/n!” She shouted, like she hadn’t seen you the night before.

“Mrs. Matthews.” You said with a respectful nod. “How’s you’re husband?”

She groaned, “paranoid.”

Setting the basket down on the bar, in between the upturned stools, you turned back to her.

“He used to be a farmer, farmers are always paranoid.”

“He was not a damn farmer, don’t let that man fool you, he was a farm hand, it’s different,”

Dr. Mayer piped in, his voice low and tired, though that just how he always sounded, “the bastard smells like one…”

“It’s getting warmer out there.” You responded, leaning against the bar.

“Doesn’t mean he has to walk around smelling like a damn animal!”

You laughed, turning back to Anita, “what does your husband do anyway?”

“He’s a banker, which is why he’s so damn paranoid in the first place.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well..” she stated, adjusting herself in her chair, “one of his colleague’s brother-in-law told his colleague that he saw a gang ‘a outlaws heading up this way, but here’s the kicker, Johnny, the colleague, is a notorious liar. Lies left and right like his life depends on it.”

“Johnny Flores?” You asked.

She smacked the table, “That’s the bastard!”

“Yeah, he comes in here every Wednesday like clockwork, telling the boys his stories. It’s a surprise the whole town hasn’t heard about this..”

“Well, it isn’t Wednesday yet, is it? It’ll make it’s way into you’re bar, don’t worry”

You laughed again, grabbing the basket off the table you said, “Alright, I’ll be back in a minute, got a few more thing to settle.”

You weren’t too worried about the rumors, there wasn’t much in the town anyways, no sheriff either so if they did come and make noise, it’d be a free for all and they’d leave with less than they came with. Everybody had a gun, hell- you had two, a shotgun the last owner had given you, and a pistol Arthur had given you a few weeks before he left, one was under the bar on a shelf, the other was under your bed, you’ve never really had a need for either, but if Johnny was being truthful for once in his life, which you doubted, you figured it was good to have them.

That night, when the bar did open, a few unfamiliar faces strode in, though none were to shady. A couple of working girls took to them quick and they were gone after being chatted up by for a bit. Outside of that, it was a normal night.

You closed late, shooing out the last drunk nearly two hours later than usual. Wiping down the tables, flipping the chairs and stools on them, washing the glasses, sweeping, mopping and making sure the front and back door was locked before heading upstairs. You scrubbed yourself down at your washstand. Of all things you missed from your old home, your bathtub was one of the bigger ones. Your mother had invested in it early on, and now you were saving to have one installed here too. What you wouldn’t do for a hot bath after a long day. You were almost there, another fifty dollars and you’d have all the money you needed. That’s were a good portion of your money went, you didn’t mind, after all you’ve sacrificed you deserve something nice.

——-

A couple of weeks later, Wednesday afternoon, Johnny Flores and a couple of his friend decided to take over the seats directly in front of the bar. Again, he told stories of bandits headed your way, but he was “serious” this time.

“I swear, I know what I saw, Dutch’s boys, just like the damn posters! I saw them coming from the east, clear as day.”

Before one of his friend could respond you asked, “and what the hell were you doing in the east, huh?”

“Well-“ he straightened himself out, “I was out with my lady friend-“

“The prostitute-“ his friend, Oscar, interrupted.

“-Not a prostitute, she's a-”

“-escort-” both Johnny and his three friends said together, they've heard that one before.

“Isnt that the same thing?” you asked.

“He doesn't think so!” Oscar said.

“They almost knocked our carriage over!” Johnny shouted, getting the conversation on track.

“Sure they did..” you said, drying the glass in your hand before setting it back down. “Bet they stuck you up too, only let you live cuz you're so pretty.”

“Go to hell, y/n.”

“I'll go where ever your lying, drunk ass ain't.”

“Im not lying, and I’m not drunk either, so get me another whiskey, asshole!”

“Hey now,” Daniel, who was also a regular, piped up, “careful how you talk to him, he might shoot ya’”

You set the glass down in front of him, he snatched it quickly, gulping it down.

“Or I might just piss in your whiskey.”

He choked hard, luckily the drink went down his throat instead of all over your counter, then you would have shot him. His face morphed to one of irritation, but his friend's laughter was infectious and he found himself laughing along with them.

The night ended with you carrying a passed out Johnny to the alley, you cleaned up, scrubbed yourself down, and went to bed just as you always did.

The next morning a delivery was made to the bar, food and alcohol, you kept your meats and some of your more expensive liquor in the ice box and things like bread and supplies were kept on the shelf. Food wasn't ordered commonly in the tavern, but there were those who ate here nearly every night because they had no skill for cooking and no one else to do it for them. You enjoyed those people, and you think they enjoyed you too, especially since the last owner would drive them out if they tried to come in for more than three days in a row. He thought that they were stealing food from other customers, but you didn't, You knew they were just hungry and needed to eat, and they couldn't be stealing because they always paid.

After that, your day was pretty normal- other than what you consider to be one the best things to happen to you in a long time- your bathtub, your beautiful porcelain bathtub with golden feet and faucet, was done. Fully installed and in perfect working order. You weren't going to pretend to understand how the man you paid did it, but he did. And finally, after what felt like years, you were able to take a hot bath.

It was weird, staring down at your distorted body as you soaked. Usually, when you scrubbed yourself down at the washstand all you could think of was how desperately you wanted this to be over. Your mind was clear, but that clarity only lasted so long though, as it did most nights, your mind wander to Arthur.

Saying you missed him was redundant, it was meaningless, it was stupid. You know, but you did. Letting out a long sigh, the last time you saw Arthur was like a dream, you spent an entire day together, you woke up together, ate together, bathed together, dressed together- everything you did, every little move you made reminded you of that day. And with Johnny spreading rumors about the Dutch’s gang, you heard his name more and more. You let yourself sink into the water, your eyes clenched shut as warm water covered your face. You stayed there longer that you should have, when you finally sat up, you were nearly gasping for air.

You got out few minutes later, you were tired, dressing yourself halfway before collapsing into bed.

You didn’t dream that night, your mind either too tired or too pained to show you your usual fantasies.

——-

Arthur swore he wouldn’t look for you, he swore it to you and to himself that he’d let you be free. But it seemed unavoidable now. Dutch had settled the gang in a large clearing in Nevada, the gang was mostly hidden by a small chain of mountains, and there was a streak of towns and settlements all within a couple dozen miles from each other.

There weren’t many cities in Nevada, it was dry and damn near impossible to farm out here if you didn’t know what you were doing, and if that wasn’t enough, the heat would be.

You were out there somewhere.

Dealing with the heat, with the drought, and with the shitty crops. And you still didn’t go back home. He’s been to your home. He's gone back dozens of times, you were never there, whatever you wanted to do, whatever changes you made, you succeded. He was happy for you, you were happy, God he hoped you were happy- he doesn't know what he'd do if he found out you weren't. If you were somewhere miserable and sulking, all this time, when you could have been with him.

He pushed those thoughts back- you were happy, you had to be.

When Arthur mentioned he was riding into the nearest town, he got a few odd looks. It wasn't a secret that you'd run off to Nevada, not even close. Most didn't say much, maybe a quick good luck, or a request for something from town. Some didn't say anything, but Dutch did. Dutch warned him, warned him about you and how some changes weren't good, and if Arthur did see you that he needed to be careful.

Arthur wasn't one to ignore advice, and he didn't ignore it, he thought about it as he road through the desert lands of Nevada, but whatever changes you made, he could handle it. He wasn't a child, he didn't need have his hand held. There wasn't even a guarantee that you'd been in this town, or the next one. So for all he knew he'd never have to face you're changes.

The town was bustling with life. The people went about their business. The town was…normal. Small, busy, and normal. He road in unbothered, no one here seemed to care enough to even look when the man when he trotted by.

Hitching his horse to a sturdy pole he set off to one of the small shops nearby, after picking up some extra oat cakes and apples for the horse, he tried to find the sheriff’s office, only to find that this town didn't have one after asking a mildly disheveled yet nicely dressed man for directions, no government either. The town was its own unit outside of the occasional trading.

“Danny Hikman used to be the law here, well, not really, but he kept people on the right track. Encouraged them to do right- and get guns, he used to run a bar a little down the way, gave it to his nephew or something-” the man said, laughing slightly.

“‘ bar any good?” he asked, only half listening to the man.

“The best, fresh food, cold whiskey- bartenders a good guy too, won't hesitate to throw your ass out though.”

“I’ll bet- which way’s that bar, again?”

———

You started serving earlier than usual today, mostly so you could close earlier without complaint. The familiar chime of the bell above the door called your attention for a less than a second, you recognized Johnny, then looked back down at the glasses you were cleaning.

“Changing your schedule on me, Johnny? I thought you were a Wednesday man?”

He let out a short laugh, sitting in the spot directly in front of you, “just showing a friend around.”

“You’re friends are all alcoholics, I doubt they need help finding a bar.”

“Hey now, I’ve got a new friend. Mr. Uhh-“

“Arthur.”

You felt like you’d just jumped out of your skin, the glass in your hand clattered against the floor, ever so sturdy. Landing thankful one piece. Staring at the man in front of you, standing just behind Johnny, Arthur Morgan, right there, looking just the way he did when he left, just the way you remember him.

He glanced at Johnny, then back at you- it felt like he looked right through you. Looking at you with none of the love or adoration from before. Because he loved d/n, not y/n. Y/n was just a bartender to him, an awful one who apparently couldn’t even hold a damn glass.

Your heart felt like it was collapsing in on itself, your chest was tight and you could feel your throat start to close as tears weld in your eyes. Quickly, you broke eye contact with Arthur, ducking down under the bar to grab the glass, using the sleeves of your shirt to wipe the forming tears in your eyes before standing up.

“Sorry boys,” you muttered, “you’re, uh, friend startled me is all.”

Taking off his hat and setting down on the counter, Arthur took a seat on one of the stools.

“Sorry, your friend here talked you up quite a bit, had to see for myself if what he said was true.”

You let out a laugh, forced and almost nervous, setting the glass down with the rest of the dirty glasses, you said, “Trust me, it’s true, what you looking for Mr. Arthur?”

“Just Arthur, and whiskey, thanks.”

You nodded to the man before heading to the storage room, you’d hate to admit it, but you wanted to run, straight passed the storage room and out the back door. But that would make Arthur think something was wrong, and yes, something was wrong, but he didn’t need to know that. He didn’t recognize you, and that was okay, it was supposed to be okay, you left so you wouldn’t be recognized, you left to start over. But he’s out there, and you were hiding in the storage room so you wouldn’t have to face him. You gave yourself a moment, for your throat to release and for your heart to stop pounding and aching. Only the pounding stopped. You needed to work, you couldn’t let them know anything was wrong.

Grabbing a bit of higher quality whiskey out of the icebox, feeling the frosty glass sting your hand as you carried it out of the storage room. Without looking up at the man you grabbed one of the clean glasses and poured him about half a glass. You remember Arthur complaining about it once, only getting serviced the tiniest amount of alcohol, no matter the price. Capping the bottle you gave a short wordless nod before setting it under the counter. Arthur grabbed the glass, before he could speak you were on the other side of the bar, serving somebody else.

Johnny didn’t stay long, he had other things to do on a Thursday afternoon, but Arthur stayed, you poured him a couple more glasses before cutting him off, at least from your expensive whiskey.

“How much do I owe you?” He ask, his speech a bit slurred as he sat unsteadily in his seat.

“Nothing, I’ll put it on Johnny’s tab, come Wednesday he won’t notice it.”

“Thank you kindly-“

“Y/n-“

“Thank you, y/n.”

“You have a good night Mr. Morgan.”

You crawled into bed that night, still in your day clothes, feeling like your heart had been torn out of your chest. And you cried, you cried until the sun came up, until your body couldn't cry anymore and every sound you made was a rough heaving sob. And when you had no more energy left to sob, you stared at your open window, watching the sunrise, listening to the people.

You were supposed to open today, unlocking the door and flipping the sign, staring out the window, at the people, at Mrs. Matthews waiting across the street for you to open your doors.

You flipped the sign back, you stated at the word “OPEN” facing you, then at Mrs. Matthews's face fell as the word “CLOSED” faced her.

————

Sitting on his cot, journal on his lap, Arthur stared at the picture he drew. It wasn't perfect, considering he was half drunk when he drew it, but it was something. The bartender from last night. He was…something. A nervous something. Arthur felt bad for him when he dropped the glass, then he just…stared at him, long enough for Arthur to get a spark of familiarity when he saw his face. Arthur tried to get his attention as the night went on, ordering drinks, asking questions, trying to get the man to stay close, be he'd walk away the moment he'd answered or served him.

He wasn't like that with other patrons, he laughed, he joked- then he kicked everyone out.

He heard him say he was closing early, but let him stay until he finished his last drink. Arthur thought about the name he'd given. Y/n.

“I see you're drawing d/n again, did you catch her in town?”

Looking up he saw Tilly standing next to him with a kind smile on her face.

“No, it's not d/n, some bartender in town, he looks so familiar.”

Tilly hummed, sitting on the cot with Arthur and taking the book out of his lap. She flipped through the pages quickly before finding a drawing of d/n, with your final letter stuck right next to it.

“Needs a change, huh? Maybe she skipped town and became a bartender, you never know.”

“A bartender and a man?”

“You never know Arthur. Maybe that's why she left, couldn't make a change like that where people know you. They would've hunted her down.”

“Tilly..”

“Maybe you should talk to the bartender, if it's not her then it's not her, but if it is, are you really going to miss seeing her again because you won't take a chance?”

Handing the journal back to him she said, “Just think about it, at least.” Then she walked away.

————

You heard the slam of the front door behind you as you sat the freshly cleaned glasses on the rack. If you were going to sulk and lock yourself in the bar then you were going to clean while you did it.

“We’re closed..” you said, your tone not exactly customer friendly.

You had a list of things you needed to do, you've already mopped the floor, scrubbed the tables and walls, washed every glass, plate, and utensil, did your laundry, scrubbed your tub, cleaned your room-

“D/n..?”

You paused, then glanced over your shoulder. You knew it was him, you already knew, you knew his voice too well to ever mistake it. Taking a breath, you hands shaking and heart pounding, you turned around.

“Arthur, I-” you breathed out, but you didn't know what to say. “How did you-”

“Lucky guess..”

Taking slow steps towards the bar, you heard him sigh.

“Are you…okay?” he asked, unsure.

You nodded, “Yeah, yeah I'm okay.”

“We should talk-”

“Yes, we should-”

You stepped from behind the counter, still unsure as to what could happen next. Then, without warning, you were pulled into a tight hug, Arthurs's body practically enveloping yours. You stood there, holding him as tightly as you could until your arms started to burn from the strain.

You didn't know what to say, or how to explain what happened, the realization you went through while he was gone, why you left.

When you pulled away you still didn’t know what to say, you opened your mouth to talk but no words came out. You kept your face glued to the ground for a long moment.

“You look different, I didn’t recognize you yesterday..”

You pulled out one of the stools.

“I told you I needed change.”

He pulled another out beside you.

“I know, I just don’t know what I was expecting.”

“This must be so confusing.”

“It is, but I’m betting it was more confusing for you that it could be for anybody else.”

Leaning on the counter, you looked up at him.

“I guess so. In my home town I figured that they’d be a little more angry than confused so I left..” you stopped, taking a breath, “I didn’t want to leave you, Arthur.”

Arthur sat there silently, his eyes turned towards the counter.

You couldn’t help but stare, you haven’t seen him in so long, his eyebrows were slightly scrunched downward, his pretty blue eyes focused on nothing as his mind raced. His fingers tapped against the counter every few seconds. You tried not to let that anxious feeling in your chest build, but the longer he was silent, the harder it got to push down.

“You said you aren't happy anymore..”

You blinked.

“I wasn't.”

“How about now? Are you happy now?”

“I'm.. I have more good days than I did before, so…yeah, I'm happy.”

He stayed silent for another moment. You figured he was just trying to find his words.

Then, when he did speak,

“I still love you.”

You sighed, “I still love you, too, Arthur.”

Another long silence passed. It was odd, you've dreamed of seeing him again, all the damn time. And now that he's here you didn't know what to say. Your relationship, how ever strong it was before, was dying. Even though you loved him and he loved you.

Arthur was having similar thoughts, he didn't care how much you changed, he wanted you to be happy. That's all he wanted for you. But he wants to be with you, he doesn't care that your a man, it doesn't matter to him, he doesn't think it's ever mattered. He's never thought too hard about it. But now, with you sitting there looking the way you did. Looking so different, so muchlike yourself, so much more at peace even though you were being confronted, he thought, ‘yeah, I could be with a man.’

Before he could, you took a chance.

“How long you thinking of staying in town for, Arthur?”

———-

You laughed, he missed your laugh.

“You can't just go around taking people's clothes off!”

“I needed clothes and they were so drunk they wouldn't miss them!” you argued.

“How have you not been caught yet?”

“I bought new clothes!”

“Why couldn't you do that first?”

“I needed to avoid suspicion.”

“Avoid suspicious by stealing clothes..”

You laughed again.

You and Arthur had found your way upstairs, both of you sat on the floor, leaning back against the wall. He asked you how you ended up here, it was funny, explaining to Arthur, a known outlaw, the various ways you broke the law, and having him lecture you.

“I will not take this from an outlaw!”

“You're an outlaw too, now, Clothes Bandit.”

“Oh that's awful, why couldn't I get something good?”

“‘Good’ like what?”

“I don't know, you're better at naming things than I am.”

He looked over at you a small smile on his face.

“Really now, Mr. Y/n, how’d you come up with that anyways?”

“Well I found a baby naming book.”

He sat up, giving you a look.

“Are you serious?”

You looked at him for a second, a stren expression on your face, then slowly a smile broke out on your face.

“You're an ass.”

“You really think I got Y/n for a baby naming book?”

“You could have!”

“But I didn't-”

Eventually, after showing him your room and the various aspects of your new life that you adored (yes, the tub too), you headed back down to the bar, only to see Daniel, one of Johnny’s friends, behind the bar serving himself.

“Daniel, I'm going to kill you, how many drinks have you had?” you said, rushing over to him, snatching both the glass and bottle from his hand.

“One-” you gave him a look, he caved quickly with a sigh, “five.”

“Goddamnit.”

“‘M sorry, you are closed, your never closed!”

“I wouldn't be serving drinks this early anyways!”

He laughed, walking around to the other side of the bar, “I'm special though right? Won't get shot or banned or nothing?” he practically pleaded, but formed it like a question.

“No, you're not banned, but you still need to leave.”

He sighed, dragging himself out the door.

Sighing yourself, you turned to Arthur, “See what I have to deal with?”

“‘Seems like a handful.”

“Daniel is harmless, he's just an alcoholic.”

“Never met a harmless alcoholic.”

“He's harmless now, he doesn't want to risk almost getting shot again.”

Arthur laughed, sitting at the bar, just like had yesterday, “Who shot at him?”

You stared at him for a moment.

“You?”

“I gave him plenty of warning, see that hole in the wall that there—” you pointed to the very back wall of the tavern, between two tables was a loosely patched hole, “- warning shot, missed him by an inch.”

“Who the hell taught you how to shoot?”

“I taught myself, maybe I could teach you sometime.”

“Very funny, y/n, I wouldn't mind seeing you shoot sometime though.”

“There's a range in the next town, I could take you there sometime.”

The two of you talked until the sun had fully set and the town had gone quiet. The bar made you feel more open somehow, it always did. Arthur helped too, you guess. You missed him, you missed being like this, so normal with him. You were surprised his quickly things settled back in place, like neither of you had ever left. It was clear that you were different, but Arthur seemed to accept this change flawlessly. He never messed up, seemingly having ingrained every aspect of your new life into his mind.

Y/n, Mr.Y/n, Sir, he even called you handsome, you swear you nearly fell over when he did.

By midnight, you both were tired, and despite what he planned before, which was bringing you- if it was you, back to camp with him. But that plan never fell through, you ended up pulling him into the bathroom with you. You thought you'd be uncomfortable at first, but you figured if he was going to be back in your life you should get used to him seeing you naked again. But it wasn't, it was calm, comforting. You were thankful for your massive bath, the both of you fit well, you sat behind him, his hat tossed in on top of the heap of clothes you two had left, you ran your fingers through his hair, water from your hands running down his face. He hummed in contempt. He didn't speak much at first, simply enjoying you and your presence. It wasn't until the water had begun to cool and the cold air of the Nevada night started to seep in did he pressed himself closer to you, muttering something quietly.

It wasn't until you got out, long after the water cooled, we're you able to figure out what he was saying. You had some clothes you figured might fit Arthur, something you'd bought impulsively without actually checking to see if you could fit it.

“You have…nice arms-” he muttered.

You were pulling your pants up over your waist when he spoke, you turned to look at him, one hand holding your unbuttoned pants up, you asked, “Arthur, are you drunk?”

“No, no I'm just…real tired.”

“Didn't get much sleep?”

“I didn't sleep, I kept thinking of you.”

“When was the last time you slept?”

He groaned, “Tuesday, I was on watch Wednesday, I was pre occupied by your ass on Thursday, and now here we are.”

“Fucking Christ, go to sleep.”

“I want to look at you, I missed you-”

“I'll be here in the morning Arthur.”

He didn't respond for a long moment, you figured he dozed off finally, until you decided to switch shirts, shoving the one you had on into your drawer and pulling out another.

“You have a nice back too-”

“Good night, Arthur.”

Your night ended with you curling up around Arthur, your arms nearly wrapped completely around him. You didn't dream again tonight, your usual fantasies of seeing Arthur were deemed useless now and we're thrown out with the rest of today's mental trash.

[2demondogs]

Hiii!! I love your work so much and would like it if you could do some angst(?)/comfort with Arthur and FTM reader?

If you're comfortable with this, reader might experience some transphobia while trying to get his hair cut short at the barbers, and they refuse to cut his hair. When he comes back to camp and Arthur sees that his hair isn't cut and he looks disappointed and upset, Arthur comforts him and offers to cut his hair instead.

Thank you!! I love this prompt... everyone's experiences are different, so I drew a lot from my own here. This was cathartic as fuck I hope it is for you as well.

Since the relationship felt ambiguous to me this is as well. Can be read as platonic or romantic <3

Words: 2.2k Tags: Period-typical transphobia, misgendering (explicitly in first scene); gender dysphoria, hurt/comfort thru out

I don't serve your kind. The words keep replaying in your head as you slow your horse's run to a trot, slurring into the next warning of: 'n' neither does anyone else 'round here, girl and whatever the barber had said afterwards.

Your ears had rang with the sudden rush of blood to your face when he pointedly said girl, so you hadn't heard much besides the clearing of your own throat and the tense, panic-airy good day, then you were forced, by polite expectation of your apparent subhuman nature, to utter instead of—

Instead of doing what?

Slitting his throat?

It wouldn't even have sufficed to relieve the blackness that filled your gut to bursting.

The words were spoken the same as any declination of service might be, the way it almost always is. That silent look over your figure, head to toe, and some kind of parental disappointment. Pursed lips or a frown, scrunched nose or not, and always the same, disquieting look that begs the question of who raised you?

As if this festering discontent is as blase a decision for you to make as a toddler playing in cow manure. Some work past the fence, but it's easy when you're young and small and you can wriggle through the wooden boards nailed to the posts. Except you're too old, now, for mucking about in mud that you are smart enough to understand is shit.

As if it's a decision at all.

As if you don't already fear, sometimes, that you are mucking about in shit, whatever it could mean.

As if, as if, as fucking if.

And by the time you are starting to feel the anger again, you're blinking and Bill is barking his usual who goes there? from his post watching guard. You ignore him, your mare recognizable enough to answer one of you, if not just me.

Everything melts into hot wax, burning behind your eyes. Exhaustion, and some reactionary, snapping-dog hatred of Bill for how deep his voice is, for all the hair coating his arms; suddenly, you hate every man in camp, keep your eyes on your horse as you dismount and leave her to socialize with the others. A greenness is taking root inside you, turning the fires of maladaptive respect and twisted-sweet envy into a purely Grecian kind.

Even over reason, it burns. It's so much easier to be angry, for now, than it is to let yourself cry.

Men don't cry.

Arthur is always lurking. Built for looming around, he is, but unsure where to go about it. Any other afternoon, that awkward habit would endear you. Now, he is the last and first person you wanted to hear say your name.

He knows, you think, both about the day's events and to remind yourself that you could be asked by anyone else what the sour stink rolling off your expression is all about, only to have to stammer through a lie.

Still, you freeze and splay a hand over the pages of your journal where it rests in your lap, and then gain the sense enough to shut it. Most of it had been words that would've been difficult to read from where Arthur stood, but there were drawings peppered throughout you'd rather he did not see.

He's standing in front of your seat on your bedroll, a respectful few feet back as always, thumbs hooked into his belt. Gun belt nowhere to be seen; it must be a day off or a late-starter.

"Yessir?" You answer him. It's a teasing formality, but the lack of oomph behind it makes his face twist.

"Thought you was gettin' your haircut today, mister," Arthur says, nodding at the thicket of hair still dusting your shoulders. His raises his brows, half concerned and half prying for a story, if there is one. That would endear you, too. "Y'get some trouble instead?"

Warmth raises in your cheeks. You glance at your journal, and then the bushes that line camp, as if both might speak for you. Even if Arthur won't spit invert or crossdresser at you — though the way being treated as you were this morning leaves you feeling so raw, you're suddenly afraid his heart might have changed since those months ago — it feels impersonal and also far too personal to tell him.

Violated, you realize, is how you've felt since this morning. Seen through by the eyes of hate, and violated. That burning in your skin is crawling.

"Sort of," you finally say, and the pause clearly perks his ears.

He sucks on his teeth, slides his thumb over the stitching on his belt for something to move. "You been mean-lookin' since you got back, man," Arthur says, but his tone of voice asks: Are you alright?

Men never do ask what they mean. You had to figure that out quick when you were surrounded by so many of them, of the most emotionally-withdrawn variety to boot.

Sometimes it pisses you off. You ache to be foolish in the right ways, instead of the ways that you are.

Another pause, as you ask yourself once if you should tell him, and then stare into the grass poking up around his boots instead of actually pondering the question. You suppose you knew you would the moment he called for your attention.

Why is it so difficult to accept his concern? Why does it hurt?

Tearing your gaze from the ground, roving it around camp and finding nobody close enough, you bite the bullet. "Barber turned me away." You sigh, drop your journal on the ground beside your bedroll and draw your legs to your chest, before readjusting against the stiffness of your packer pushed uncomfortably into your gut.

God, I feel extraterrestrial.

His brows furrow. "Why?"

You just look at him, shoulders sagging. He seems to recall, as if it's something he could ever forget. Does he really forget?

"Oh," he says, rubs a hand over his mouth. His nostrils flare, and he points vaguely at the ground as if condemning the blades of grass in place of the barber. "That's bullshit. How would he...?" Arthur trails off, shakes his hand, realizing it probably isn't the question to ask you in this frame of mind. "That's real bullshit. I woulda hurt him."

You blanche. "Arthur, it ain't that— it ain't nothin'," you lie. "Not worth that."

"Yes, it is," Arthur says, as if he's disagreeing on the weather.

You can't help wishing he were right, that you could have slaughtered everyone who turned that evil eye on you without soaking your hands through to the bone with blood. Before Dutch came along, before you had a place — as transient as it is — there were no rocks to cling to, because only pebbles are laid out for men like you. If it weren't for the hatred spread so far, you'd think you were the only one born wrong.

Sometimes, you feel that loneliness, anyways.

There is no want me to do something about it? asked in the silence that follows. Although you can feel it lingering in the air after he sighs, you also know Arthur isn't a stupid man.

There is no justice for you, same as anyone deemed degenerate in the way you are, and he knows this as well you do. There is no use pretending that there can be, not today and not tomorrow. Twenty years from now, maybe fifty, maybe the very day you lay dying— but not today, and not tomorrow.

The promise of it beneath Dutch is part of why you've stuck around, despite that promise being made in the utmost secrecy.

"I'll put the bastard out of a job, at least," Arthur offers. "Won't even charge ya."

"You know how to cut hair?" You ask.

He offers a small smile, lifts his hat and bows his head. "Can't promise it'll be handsome," he says, running a hand through his own choppy hair before re-settling the gambler on his head. "I been cuttin' Hosea's, lately, old coot can't work the scissors. Used to cut John's, before we could trust him with scissors."

Your mood lifts, menially. "Is that to say you're still cuttin' John's?"

Arthur laughs. Nothing gets a belly-laugh out of him like picking on John. Somewhere, some sixth sense probably made the other man sneer with no apparent cause.

"Nah, he's too literate now. He could actually tell me what he's thinkin' 'bout," he waves a hand, then feigns a disgusted expression. "I'd prob'ly end up stabbin' him in the head."

Clearly, he's more comfortable raising your spirits this way. You don't blame him; it's easier, too, for you to get distracted from your grief than to explore it.

Most of camp is busy, the women washing and mending and reading, the men doing the hard labor and lazing around. Even out in the sticks, even above the law— those divides still find us, you think, and ignore the complexity of how you fall victim to them, too, in your own ways.

The canvas flaps of Arthur's tent are already drawn down to keep his cot in the shade, and you're thankful for the privacy despite the slight claustrophobia inside it. Sure, you've shared tents with Hosea and Lenny who both are afflicted with a constant chill only drawn canvas can resolve; and with Javier who draws the flaps because he is forever roasting, seeking the same shade that's found here. Something thick clogs the air as Arthur takes a pair of scissors from his shaving stand and drags his fingers through your hair to straighten it out, all before you've even stopped moving, as uncoordinated as most of his friendly gestures are.

Kindness just the same.

Could be thick in your throat, too, maybe that's why your eyes feel dry enough to burn — but neverminding that, you swallow and say: "Thanks, man."

Arthur grunts behind you. He's so much taller, he doesn't need you to sit to see clearly over the top of your head. It stings, a little, and then it fades.

"Ain't nothin'," he says. "How short you wantin' this?"

You try to think of anyone but him to compare your desired length to. He's already being nice. You can't let yourself appear admiring.

"Sorta like Bill," you say.

"Wanna be baldin' in the front like 'im, too?" He asks, and you can hear the shit-eating grin before he snickers alongside you.

It should probably worry you how quickly he works, pulling chunks of hair taut and snipping straight across the ends. First, a solid inch comes off your nape; then he's working closer to your scalp, rough but confident. Most finer movements, you've noticed, seem to come natural to Arthur despite his inelegance with the rest of life's motions.

You can feel the boxy pattern he cuts in. Cookie-cutter, probably, because you suppose Hosea is the only one he's ever done-up who really cared to instruct him on flattering his face shape.

That thickness raises in your throat again, and your chest presses against its bindings with the heavy breath you take to try staving off what must be tears. Only some, does it lighten, as the weight of untrimmed hair is loosened and felled.

Thanks doesn't feel like enough. You aren't often so... whatever you had been since you got back from town. And Arthur still took your vulnerability in his hands by his own volition, without asking for anything in return. Gratefulness blooms from that tacked-on clause, because you know the plight of where's my favor? too well from that false girlhood.

A haircut amongst thieves really ain't nothin', he's right — your hair has been cut by many a fool before, in shops and in camp — but whether or not it's just a haircut is a better question. It is, then it isn't, and then it's too much to think about all at once and you feel overwhelmed, slinking out of your own head and back to the present, staring ahead at the beige, stained canvas of Arthur's tent as his hands work through your hair.

He's ruffling it and nudging your head towards the barrel his shaving mirror stands on before you're fully back in reality. You need to get a handle on the spacing out, you know, but you never realize it's coming on before it does.

"Take a look," he invites as you step towards the looking glass. "Tried not to do y'too nasty."

You lean over, fix the part of your hair after running a hand through it, just to feel the difference. It's a weight off your shoulders, mentally, and you find yourself smiling.

"Looks good enough for a hat," you say, give him lopsided grin.

He snorts. "Careful." Arthur tosses the scissors back atop the barrel. "Might inflate my ego."

It's choppy and slightly cockeyed, if you look carefully, which you don't.

Straightening, you itch with the urge to hug him. Contentment wavers. Another moment of social expectations reaching into your heart, twisting around the feelings, making you wonder if men ever get that urge or if it was too womanly of you to even consider it— and Arthur must sense your pent-up intent.

He doesn't offer an embrace, though you've never known him to be one to shy from it. Instead, he claps your shoulder and squeezes in something quite like one, offers a crook of his lips.