#listen a man gotta do what a man gotta do

[coffeecat1983]

@dreamyluigi (I apologize in advance for any mistakes, I'm not well versed in the Paper Mario games)

TW: Blood, mention of suic*de, character death (be sure to read to the end!)

     "Ugh..." Mr. L hissed again, clutching at his head. The figure in red before him blurred. "What is th-this?"      "Weege?" Mario reached out, recognizing the signs of a severe migraine. "C'mon, lil bro, you gotta rest."      "Don't tell me what to do!" L snapped. He groaned again, stumbling backwards.

   A room in a little house. A warm, inviting bed draped in green blankets. Sleep. He just wanted to lay down. The bed beside him, the red one. It was empty.

Again.

   He fell to his knees, clutching his head in sheer agony. Unable to take it he ripped off his hat and mask, the fabric felt suffocating. He looked up, his steel grey eyes glimmering with a mixture of fear and hatred.      "Wh-What did you do to me?!" he cried out, doubling over. Words flooded his mind's eye, memories.

   He was there. Always there. Since they were kids that constant safety had always been there. Whenever he needed his brother he would just call and he was right there. Then he became a hero. Then their world changed. Their lives, changed.     "I'm sorry Weege, but maybe you should stay home this time."     "It's okay Weege, I got this, you can stay here."      "Heh, Mario left him behind again," a toad at the marketplace  said to another, thinking they were out of earshot. "Bet it's because he's useless."    He woke from a nightmare with his brother's name screamed out into the night. Yet no reply. He was alone, the one who claimed he would always be there was gone, risking his life for others.    Leaving him feeling forgotten.    It hurts. It hurts! IT HURTS!

   Mario went to step towards the now trembling figure only to freeze at the low voice.      "You left me." It wasn't the harsh condescending tone Mr. L had been using. It was that rusty, soft voice. A voice that normally would have made the older twin's heart sing. And yet something this time sent an icy chill through him.      "Weege?"      "You always leave me." Two voices chorused from the one man. "You said you'd always be there. You lied."    He looked up and Mario couldn't help but take a step back. It was like a scene from a horror movie. His brother's face split in two emotions, one grey eye filled with hatred, the other a sapphire blue filled with pain as tears streamed down his face. When he spoke, Mario again heard two voices.      "You always leave me." a shuddering sob as Luigi/L stood, moving like a drunken ragdoll. "They tease, they taunt, you never hear it." He lurched forward only to fall again as the room spun. "So much pain. It hurts... Mario, it hurts."      "Luigi, I never meant...!" Mario jerked back as Mr. L snarled, lunging at him before falling again.      "You're never there! You've dedicated yourself to everyone except me!" Mr. L howled before collapsing, writhing as he clutched at his head. Gasping he looked up, both eyes wild with inner conflict.      "Heh. Hehe." the laugh was cold, vacant. "You have no idea, d-do you?" he spoke in just L's voice. "He's screaming inside right now, screaming over what you've done." His hand slid down to his left leg, the hidden weapon Count Bleck had gifted him gliding neatly from it's sheath.   Mario felt sick when he saw the glint of the dagger. He held his hands up, taking a cautious step forward.      "Weege..."     "Don't call me that!" Mr. L slashed out, forcing Mario back. "Y-You, that name is a spell, isn't it? It does something to my head! MAKE IT STOP!" he was gasping now, his eyes flashing a mix of dull silver and sparkling blue. Mr. L paused as if listening to something. To someone.    If cruelty itself became human and could grin, it would wear the smile that briefly danced over L's features.

Continued in pt 2 here.

a brief moment of clarity

[genderqueerdykes]

tired transmasc from earlier. My discomfort with those who believe in "transandrophobia" is not from self-hate nor from radfems. It’s from listening to transfems. And I don’t believe men or masculinity are bad at all!! I am in community with with men and mascs and with women + fems all the time. It’s just plain ignorant to say we don’t have male privilege and are actually oppressed for being men. We do have privilege. The whole "everyone is saying men are evil!!" thing sounds so much like incel behaviour it’s really off putting.

hello again! thanks for dropping by, let me see if i can help explain things better, and as to why it's not okay to put down other trans men and deny that they are experience oppression just because you, one person, believes they are not. dont take this personally, but much like gravity, you not believing in it doesn't mean it's not happening. it's happening, you're just refusing to acknowledge it. this is the equivalent of plugging one's ears and humming when someone else starts talking

i'm gonna call this behavior for what it is, because yourself & every other self-flagellating trans man & transmasc who says transandrophobia doesn't exist because it belittles trans women are just hurting people ON PURPOSE with a thin guise of saying "listen to trans women!!!!!" i really hope you understand that trans women can see through that. we can tell that you're doing this specifically to hurt people, not to give trans women a platform to stand on. you think you are telling people to listen to trans women, but what you are doing is SILENCING trans men & mascs in order to do that. you can't do that to your own gender. you're silencing yourself in the process. you're participating in transmasculine erasure and this is not a good thing. don't be proud of that. don't be proud of erasing the things your siblings go through.

I have to be really, really honest with you and tell you that this kissing up to trans women for brownie points stuff is really, really obvious and none of us like it. Like I'm not being mean. Please don't take this in a sarcastic tone. I am stock serious when I say that trans women & transfems can tell when you are doing things to pander to us to act like you care about transfems and transfemininity. We can tell this is desperate virtue signalling to not look transmisogynistic and nothing else. I'm serious. You are hating people on purpose with the guise of trying to help trans women. You do not have to silence someone else in order to let trans women talk and listen to them.

If you do not want transfems & trans women to be silenced: do not silence someone else. You do not solve this problem by silencing someone else. We solve the problem by listening to each other, not forcing the other to sit in silence while only one person talks. You don't solve the problem by doing that exact thing to someone else. You're creating a new problem.

privilege is a power structure, trans men do not suddenly shoot up from oppressed woman to neurotypical cishet white able bodied man in terms of status in society. i need people to get this into their heads that trans men do not and will not ever shoot directly up the privilege ladder and instantly become abusive and predator and holding power over all the other queers. like this is completely fabricated. you can stop believing that now, it's quite literally made up by trans/rad fems because they do not interact with trans men irl to see that they struggle.

trans men are not oppressed for being men: they're oppressed for being TRANS men. the trans part is what they're being oppressed for. do you not see transmascs and trans men as trans? because if so that is highly disturbing. and don't call that "regular transphobia" because that's not true and you know it isn't trans men and mascs are oppressed... for being TRANS men. seriously. you gotta stop focusing on "men bad" so hard that you literally forget that trans men are trans. back it up. like seriously i'm dead serious. back it up one step. before you focus on the "man" part, think about the "trans" part and how you're basically denying that trans men are trans because you are so wrapped up in radfem hate. TRANS men do not become cis men after they come out. they don't become cis men after transitioning. this, quite literally, is transandrophobia. what you said right there is an example of transandrophobia. sober up, you are not thinking clearly.

the thing is that we do not have male privilege wholesale as a group. that is a lie you have been told. you have to realize most trans men never gain any form of cishet male privilege. some trans men may pass well, but if the word gets out that they're trans, they are no longer respected or viewed as a man at all. especially if you're a man of color. trans men may have an amount of privilege depending on the situation, like being someone's manager, but it is not male privilege in every situation, nor is it anywhere near the privilege that cishet perisex white abled men have.

when we have this type of conversation, we are assuming that all trans men are 100% cis passing who will never be questioned. which happens, but that does not mean those trans men do not struggle. in fact, trans men like that suffer greatly in terms of reproductive care. cis passing trans men are often outright denied reproductive care, and some need that to live. some need to see a gynecologist for a variety of reasons, and being a cis passing man can shoot you in the foot. trans men struggle in health care almost universally. trans men are constantly misgendered in medical settings, and are very often treated as though they are cis women by medical staff no matter what. trans men and mascs are also very commonly assaulted by doctors and other medical professionals

most trans men do not get paid more at their jobs. trans men struggle to get promotions. trans men struggle to get employment in male dominated fields. most trans men still deal with homelessness, sexual assault, physical assault, domestic violence, addiction, misogyny and more. trans men deal with corrective rape. trans men deal with stalking. trans men do not magically have it better in society the second they come out. it creates a whole new host of problems

gaslighting strangers and telling them they're not being abused and oppressed isn't helping anyone. i'm serious. please stop this behavior because you are the one hurting people. care about trans men and mascs. you don't have to throw transmascs and trans men under the bus in order for trans women to be heard. we don't need to be pandered to like this. it's not flattering or helping anyone. you don't need to kiss up to people who literally hate your gender.

i need you to understand that people who talk like this hate transmascs and trans men. they don't like you. they don't care about you. leave those kinds of environments. you're going to regret it if you don't. if you're thinking about your oppression aaalllll day long its all you're ever gonna see and eventually, it's gonna crush you under its weight. be careful. that's dangerous thinking.

[octuscle]

I’m so sorry!!! I used my chronivac to get my body into shape for my first date with this guy, but at the end of the date he said I was just too smart for him! He’s so hot and I really want a second chance!!

Bro, if you want the lowdown on what to do, you gotta pay attention, alright? No zoning out this time, man. Listen up! Straight talk: your brains are like bread, dude. But hey, you can totally lift some weights, toss a mean pass, and you rock that armpit game. And bro, when it comes to the bedroom, you're like a beast! If there’s a second date, he’ll be impressed, no doubt!

[beloveds-embrace]

I’m sorry this is gonna be long but i was just listening to “Labour” by Paris Paloma and it reminded me so much of the angst DukeDom AU you are writing (which is absolutely fire, you are so good, i love it very very much)

Cause the “emotional torture from the head of your high table” part hit me so hard because that’s literally (in my head) John Price in your AU with how deliberately ignorant he became to Reader’s suffering.

“Who fetches the water from the rocky mountain spring? And walk back down again to feel your words and their sharp sting” it reminded me so much about the angst part where Reader catches cold and later looses limb. But also…Kyle (I’m sorry) because once you wrote that he brushed reader off and treated her like he couldn’t be bothered to answer her questions and yk my brain made connection.

And oh my god the “I’m getting fucking tired” verse of the song is literally (again, in my head, I’m not trying to say i know your AU better than you do, it’s your baby, I’m just having fever thoughts) Reader when she gets fed up with them.

I especially love the “The capillaries in my eyes are bursting. If our love died would that be the worst thing?” because it feels a lot like her when the fire inside of her starts to finally dim because everything has just been too much and she doesn’t handle it well, because her cookie duchy is crumbling on her head.

“For somebody I thought was my saviour you sure make me do a whole lot of labour” reminds me a lot about the way she probably arrived to the duchy at first, getting married to John and not knowing what was actually waiting for her. And in all honesty, it’s not her fault he married her. But it somehow became her responsibility once everyone’s (stuff, the rest of 141, John himself) disapproval and blatant disregard started to pile up.

“I know you’re a smart man, and weaponise the false incompetence, it’s dominance under a guise” which may not fit fully but the way i felt like reaching through the screen and shaking John Price sometimes because yeah, you brought Reader into your home, your duty was to care for them and take care of her and you DIDNT. And worst of all, you allowed others treat her like nothing.

“If we had a daughter, I’d watch and could not save her the emotional torture from the head of your high table. She’d do what you taught her, she’d meet the same cruel fate” and it’s purely my thought but what if in angst branch of your AU Reader was actually feeling glad that John never came to consummate the marriage thinking about fate that could meet her baby. Especially if it was a girl (oh my god, my Sheila).

“So now I’ve gotta run so i can undo this mistake. At least I’ve gotta try” reminded me a lot about your Reader running away in some parts of this AU because yeah, she was looking for different life (rightfully so) and the realisation that the things as they are might never change actually pushed her towards moving into entirely different directions.

I love love LOVE that song, so to have my writing compared to it in any way? 😩 I’m amazed, thank you so much for your thoughts anon!! 🫶🏻💕

[cleolinda]

JANUARY 5: I got turned around and went all the way back to the cemetery. You know, the second place you go ever in Silent Hill 2.

JANUARY 6, TWO WEEKS AGO: I actually downloaded and learned to use Audacity to clean this audio up at least a little, because a beloved family member opened and closed the garage door at the beginning and end of my very first attempt at fighting anything in a video game ever. (A "lying figure" that vomits acid at you; I don't describe it and you don’t hear it, but consider that a content note.) I would have scrapped the recording, but you never get a first time twice, I guess.

By this point, I am still bumping James into things and my camera movements are a bit wild, but I can mostly get him through doors.

(Comments directed at my player character are in parentheses.) {Comments directed at the enemy/monster are in brackets and bold.}

[Muttering at first:] All right, so I gotta get to this door to get our radio, our monster detector/wife communicator. (All right, point you through the door—we're gonna die. We're about to die.)

Okay. [Determined sigh.] I've got the mouse, the external mouse. We're gonna move the phone back a little bit to record. [Sigh.] 

(Go ahead and look at your nails. Go ahead and grunt at me.) 

I have to... I’m gonna take off my sweater, it's getting hot. Here we go. [Pep talk:] No, I got a mouse. I got a mouse. Everything is left click. Everything is left click, except space is dodge. And then we hope we're not gonna die… okay. Listen, if this is humiliating, the point of it is that y'all can laugh at me. That is the point of this recording. 

All right, can't turn back. What—get the—get the camera! Okay. When I hit this letter E... [sigh] I can't turn back. Shit starts up. Here we go: E. 

[Unfortunate sound of garage door.] Ohhhhhh, here's the cutscene, ohhh nooo. Okay, here's the monster, I'm so scared. I'm not scared of the monster, I'm scared of getting humiliated. (I know, I'm not happy about it either, James.) It breaks... it breaks through the... wooden... barrier somebody has. It's... fucked-up looking. He turns around... he grabs Nails on Stick from the window. “Stay back,” he says—oh, my God. [Vehement mouse-clicking.] Oh my God. Hit it. Hit it, hit it. Oh, we're not doing terrible. We're not doing terrible.

[Indignant:] {Oh no, don't you hit him!!}

Ohhh, I got vomited on. Okay. [Tone you would use to beckon to a small animal:] {No, no, c’mere... c’mere...} I got vomited on a lot. Here we go. {No—don't you dare, don't you dare—}

Oh, oh God, okay. Heal? Heal? Heal. Just—fucking heal. [Garage door.] Okay—oh, that was a good one. Got a good hit. {Oh, don't you fucking do that.} Oh God, he's gonna die. He's gonna die—I've never done this before. He is gonna die so hard. [Vehement mouse-clicking.] Hit it. Hit it. Stomp it. There we go, get it. {Are you dead? [Click.] You're not dead. [Click.] You're still not dead. [Click.] } (Stomp it. Stomp it. Okay.) {Are—are you dead?} Ohhh it’s dead—he said, “What was that thing?” [which indicates that the tutorial is over], he’s dead, she’s dead, somebody's dead. 

Okay, so I'm dying. I'm like, super plus… dead. Okay... I've got the plus sign [that indicates you are near death] come up. 

(I know, buddy, I know, I deserve everything. I deserve all bad things.)

Do we go through the door? [I hit the wrong key:] He's dodging. Yeah, that's fair. Okay, we go through the door? We don't go through the door. The game is like, “Fuck that door. You can't go back.” [Long pause.] He's trying to go through the door. 

(Sweetie—sweetie, can we—thank you. Why… why are you… swinging at things?) 

Oh, he's limping so bad. He's... he's... he's hurtin’. He's hurtin’ real bad. 

At a key point, I accidentally held the V key down, which means I… would have used a syringe [a healing item stronger than a health drink], except I don't have one yet. That was bad. Please give me a syringe. This man is... not doing well, he's not. He's struggling. A lot of my problem—

(I know—sweetie, don't make those noises. I'm so sorry. I'm doing my best. Come on. My best is—) 

[Long gasp] It’s a syringe box!! (Go get it! Go get it! Get it! You can make it, you can make it.) You have to tap V for health drink and you hold it down for syringe and I didn't have a syringe yet. And that cost me precious time. Yes... he’s struggling, he's struggling so bad. 

[After using a syringe to pretty much fully heal:]

Okay. All right, so now we're gonna go through a window, right? We're gonna go through a window, we're gonna learn to do that. Oh, he's doing a lot better now, okay. Press—yeah, okay. Breaking glass is like the primary mechanic early on [laughing], that’s mostly what you do. Okay, so he's gonna stop and listen to the radio.

Okay, that was rough. But... I did better than some people. Some people get killed. Some people get killed in that first part, I did okay! [Tiny voice:] I didn't feel okay. I did okay! I got him out! (That's your wife, that's your wife on the radio. Just—let's get through this.)

I may go back to that save and try it again at some point. But see? It wasn't terrible? It wasn't terrible, we did okay! We did okay... 

That was… bad. That was ugly. That was real—

(No, I'm taking you—I'm going to—I'm sorry. I bumped you. I'm sorry.)

------

After that, I practiced fighting in the first area of the game on a couple of mini-runs through South Vale, and then went through the next two major areas. I'm very good at fighting basic monsters now, plus I’ve learned enough OBS to record gameplay with voice commentary! I’ve already inflicted further audio clips on everyone on Patreon, and I’ll probably bring a few more over here. As of today (1/22), I'm about to fight Pyramid Head for the first time, possibly with a video clip, and that'll also hit Patreon first.

If nothing else, it’s been fun to document my progress. I really did not think I was the kind of person who would stalk a dark apartment shouting “I HEAR YOU! COME OUT! COME GET ME!” but here we are.

[haveihitanerve]

This brilliant little backstage scene deserves to be shared with the world and because i am who i am i also have to add my thoughts- once again, ignore them and just watch the vid if you so please :)

Tim casually sprinting away, what a delightful man :) 

The way they have like… feet on either side of the stage, lots of space, but Tom and Sam are sitting right next to each other, absolutely not even an inch between them, legs and arms touching, talking about best first dates??? My heart😭

“Mainly… balance.” Both Tom and Sam’s shoulders moving in the same way when they laugh- 

The way Tom is looking at Sam while listening-

“That would be amazing!” “that sounds awful.” the dichotomy lmaooo

“One of us? There's four of us?” Sam i love you so much- he automatically thinks of the other two not present they are like so close i'm gonna cry-

“I always think of the collective.” 😭💗💗

“How do you not understand how basic conversation works?” ribbing each other, the way true friends do, beautiful

Sam: *makes unidentifiable noises back to mock him*

“Tom!” The way Tom’s head snaps over to look at AJ, and Sam peters out to look over too. So responsive 😭

“I'm so glad we’re committing to that.” Tom i love you-

AJ just being the Tech King while Sam casually helps. Idk its domestic and cute ok leave me alone..

Tom’s “oooooh.” as AJ changes the lights- while casually not helping and being on his phone as Sam and AJ figure out the lights (jk hes probably doing admin stuff but its funny)

Joe: *slams into a chair* ow. Sam: *snickers* its a bit dark in the room AJ: *scoff laughs back*

The way they debrief is just amazing idk why but its so cute to see, they're supportive but still critical, but like constructively critical, and still supportive of each other. Plus the metaphors are great, and the laughing at each other

“Each of their… utterances.” The way AJ is smiling at Tom i cant-

“JAMES was a good man before we lost him.” “killed him.” XD

Gotta be honest maybe they were just showing the best clip, but the A-Z game is pretty fucking good. I think its the audience’s fault tbh, they're not hype enough

The explanation of how games come to be and how they figure it out is sooo good, im always nerdy and want to learn the thoughts/plans/processes behind it all so thank you!!!

“He says softly. Lets go get you onto a mechanical bull.” Sam contemplating what on earth to do with that. “NI HAO!” aaaand there comes AJ out of left field, perfect. Sam now utterly baffled, glorious

“That was joyous! That was good!” Sam coming in saying it was good when AJ and Tom were just complaining- but the way he immediately catches that they didn't feel exactly as confident about it as he did and going “no?” to just check and make sure, looking between both and not just one- brb crying they're such good friends he picks up on that-

Aj’s look at the camera lol “👀do you see this man?”

“Did that go alright?” the immediate reassurance they gave him-

“It feels like you have to start fucking-” “rowing.” finishing each others sentences and a good metaphor- i'm fine

AJ and Sam arguing as DaVinci and Michelangelo gives me life-

“It turns out i just made up a word.” idk who cameraman joe is, but i love him. Real

“Thats the straight white guy philosophy. Say it with confidence and keep walking.” I love how they address it and yet can joke about it, really refreshing 💗

“Stay safe, stay sexy.” thank you Sam, thats my life moto from now on

“And AJ anything from you?”... “I had a really fun time!” Yay!!!

“I’m pissed off. My clues.. were fucking genius. And the audience.. didn't get ‘em” Yes Aj, you tell ‘em!

“And the guys.. *voice crack/half sob* didn't even bother to try and like- *near tears* fucking- make a thing like-” *laughs* oh AJ, poor baby XD

“They just looked at me and then went: “i have a different clue!” Great!” sadness AJ, its ok, they still love you lol

Tom and Sam both in the same position watching AJ’s “genius clues” -Sam’s face of utter confusion and Tom just watching in interest trying to understand it at all

“You know, I also have a clue-” AJ’s slight smile. “I’m very glad because I have no idea what the fuck that was-” AJ having to laugh slightly at that

“Fucking shit im out of here!” *tries to do the cool storm out, but is also checking to see if he left anything behind, kinda ruining it XD*

“I have to know about the Nazi chinchilla-” firstly its wonderful explanation??? I guess, kinda makes sense- but let me just point out to you lovely people that Aj, in the background, downs his beer, steps up right behind Sam, and then takes his beer and also drinks his, and Sam just watches and nods- they’re too fucking cute what the heck-

Also AJ’s face mocking Sam in the background as he starts to explain- idk what prompted it, but it was hilarious

“What was the rant about?” “My clues were fucking great-” Sam: *starts cackling like ‘sure buddy, sure’*

“I got that one! I said that!” defending that he understands his friend- 😭

“I got it. I appreciated that one.” Calms AJ down slightly, so cute

Sam: *slips in advertisement as AJ casually blames the audience*

Aj and Sam’s hug at the end😭 cuties

Anyway thats it :) they're cute and yeah. 

also! where was luke??????

[pickyourpoisonandevolve]

Boyfriends to Have Boyfriends Headcanons, pt 5

Look guys, the brain worms say we gotta get through them all before we can eat, okay? IM SORRY.

(Also please let me know if you’re still fucking with this at all!)

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

——

Ahem, where were we? Oh yeah, the other half of this coin, huh? Simon, Simon, Simon, the devils favorite. He fell into a similar boat as Price in your mind, higher ranking, more important than you, and best if you stay out of his way. A “no news is good news” kind of guy. Unfortunately he was a FUCKING WEIRD GUY, and he made it damn near impossible to ignore him.

People don’t talk enough about how genuinely scary it would be to have a man who ranks higher than you just kind of saunter in a meeting in the MILITARY, in a MASK, say little to nothing, then leave. For like, months. Just straight up ignore you or one word answer you. Were you messing anything up? Is he racist? Does he hate women? Does he hate you??? The other three were less than no help. “That’s just how he is.” “Oh, you’ll get used to him lass. Trus’ me, if he didn’t like you, you’d know.” “Mind your own business.”

The only thing you could do was stare, if only to know where he was so he’d stop scaring the shit out of you. Sneak a glance in a common room, only to meet his eyes staring at you, then scampering off. Stare at his ass on a mission, making sure to follow his every barked order, and not fuck anything up. Pretend to not stare as you wait alongside the mats for your turn at hand to hand training with him. He noticed you looking at him almost immediately, but thankfully didn’t start returning the favor till you were a little more settled in. Eventually he’d catch eyes with you for longer periods of time. In the transport, for literal hours. You tried to stare him down in return and fell asleep doing so. In meetings, when you were giving parts of your report, unwavering. In the field, looking into your soul damn near after you were rocked by a flashbang. At the back of your head as he had you in a chokehold, legs around your waist, muttering softly “come on, there are bigger guys than me out there. Think.” Johnny put in his first formal complaint that day, saying you got special treatment cause you were the only one Simon didn’t outright yell at.

Eventually it became a little less unsettling. He was being a weirdo, but he was listening, that’s for sure. Assessing. Checking. Caring. About what exactly, you weren’t sure yet, but you knew you had his attention, front and center when it happened.

Well, the mission happened.

Some throwaway thing in Belgium Price sent Ghost, Gaz and you on. Capture some files from some guy, stay lowkey, kill as necessary, blah blah blah. Tits up, immediately. Markarov’s guys crawling all over some historical building with a million hallways and secret doors. Real Scooby Doo vibes. Everyone has a bad day in the field, and Simon’s hasn’t come up in a while. But for some reason he was a beat behind. Not reacting fast enough, not shooting quite on the mark. He was clearing a hallway alone and heard footsteps behind him a beat too late, seeing you come out of a doorway in front of him. Before he could yell, a knife thrown by you an inch from his ear into the face of an enemy. Followed by shooting down the hallway to another faceless goon. You took a breath and had the AUDACITY to look at him, almost pityingly, saying “On your six, L.T.”

Karma moved quickly, by the end of that mission you took a stab wound for him and a remote bomb threw you into a brick wall and promptly into concussion city. The heli ride back was pin drop silent, and as Price held the door as you entered the debrief room, you didn’t see Simon shoulder check two grown men further into the hallway and slam the door. A small click before you were the one doing the staring, primarily into a wall this time.

The next 45 minutes were largely static in your mind. Audible static as Ghost absolutely laid into you about safety, recklessness, ego, etc. Visual static as he slammed his hands into the table, paced around the room and got in your face, mostly in a loop for that period of time. But somewhere in between “You’re gonna get yourself and everyone else fucking killed” and “Do you remember what chain of command means you fucking cunt”, was something else. A real blink and you’ll miss it moment.

“Do you think we’d just move on if you died out there? Do you not see how I— how the team needs you? You selfish bitch, only thinking about yourself out there, thinking I need saving. Like I wasn’t meant to take bullets for you—�� You were already tuned out, but now for a different reason. In the sheer exhaustion and fear settled a weird warmth.

Price was waiting for you as Simon stormed off, giving you a bemused look in the hallway. “We’ll do it in the morning. Get some rest.” A pat on the shoulder and a miserable walk to your room later, you took a shower and washed off the blood and shame. Throwing on some shorts and a top, you waited till it was late enough to head towards the common area to get something to eat that wasn’t crow, as hands came out from the darkness, holding your mouth and subsequent scream as well as your hips. You felt a mass behind you as his arms sunk you into his chest and thighs and warmth. He held you long enough to feel you relax as you realized who it was.

He allowed you enough space to turn around as he squished you back into his chest, face now in his soft mask. Eyes a little less steely this time, he looked down before he gave a covered chaste kiss to the top of your head. “If you ever do that to me again, I’ll stab you in the heart slow and make you watch. Do you hear me?”

You would have been more in the moment if you didn’t feel his cock harden between your thighs. As best as you could muster being held between his pecs, you squeezed out a barely audible “Yes, sir.”

[sheriffaxolotl]

Rough Hands and Gentle Strokes (Chapter 1) Arthur Morgan x Reader

Summary:

In the rugged wilderness outside of Blackwater, a hardened outlaw crosses paths with a woman who challenges everything he’s ever known. A kind-hearted and resilient art teacher, she bears the weight of the world’s judgment, especially regarding a woman’s place in it. As their lives intertwine, he struggles with feelings he can’t make sense of, questioning his very purpose. In a world of harsh realities, can he dare to let someone in? And will she allow herself to soften enough to find love where she least expects it? Together, they come to heal, challenge each other, and discover what it truly means to fight for something worth living for.

Additional Tags: Romance, Arthur Morgan Deserves Happiness, Pre-Blackwater Massacre (Red Dead Redemption), Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Sexism

Chapter 1: The Touch That Lingers

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The sun hung high over the quiet town of Willoughby Creek, its golden rays dancing over the bustling main street. Children’s laughter floated through the air, mingling with the rhythmic creak of wagon wheels and the hum of distant conversation. Arthur Morgan tugged his hat lower over his eyes, squinting against the glare as he guided his horse, Boadicea, toward the general store. He wasn’t planning to linger—just pick up supplies and get moving. The less time spent around people, the better.

Compared to Blackwater, Willoughby Creek felt like a world apart. Where Blackwater thrummed with the energy of a growing town, a hub of commerce and the occasional confrontation, Willoughby Creek was still finding its rhythm—quiet, more laid-back, with a slower pace of life. The folks here went about their business in a way that reminded Arthur of the earlier days of civilization, before progress changed everything. A lot more open space, fewer buildings, and none of the modern hustle and bustle. In some ways, it suited him. But that didn’t mean he felt like sticking around long.

The creaking of an old wooden sign as it swayed in the wind drew his attention for a moment, but he quickly shook it off, focusing on the task at hand. He wasn’t here to get lost in thoughts of how things used to be—he had a job to do.

But as he passed the edge of the small park by the church, something made him pause. A group of children sat cross-legged on the grass, their faces alight with concentration as they hunched over wooden easels. In the middle of it all was a woman, her voice soft but carrying a melodic quality that drew his attention. She moved among the children, her skirts brushing the ground as she knelt to examine their work, offering encouragement or gentle advice.

Arthur’s brow furrowed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard laughter like that—pure, unrestrained, and joyful. It was contagious, and before he knew it, he’d stopped entirely, his curiosity getting the better of him.

“Mister, you here to join the class?” piped up a small voice.

Arthur’s eyes darted down to a freckled boy staring up at him, a mischievous grin on his face. Arthur shook his head, glancing around as if to make sure no one else had heard.

“Nah, kid. Just passin’ through,” he said gruffly, shifting his weight. “Don’t reckon I’d be much good at somethin’ like this.”

The boy wasn’t deterred. “Aw, c’mon! It ain’t hard. You just gotta try. Here, I can show ya!”

Arthur took a half-step back, his hands coming up in a warding gesture. “Listen, I—”

“Mister!” the boy interrupted, his tone insistent as he grabbed Arthur’s sleeve and gave it a tug. “It’s real easy! Miss Harper says anyone can draw if they give it a shot.”

“Miss Harper?” Arthur repeated, glancing toward the woman now, who was crouched by another child and hadn’t yet noticed the commotion. He was about to gently extricate himself when the boy cupped his hands around his mouth and called out loudly.

“Miss Harper! This man says he can’t draw!”

Arthur groaned inwardly as several heads turned in his direction, including hers. The woman straightened, brushing her hands on her skirt as she approached, her expression curious. Her eyes—clear as a mountain stream—locked onto his, and for a moment, he felt rooted to the spot.

“Oh, now, don’t be shy,” she said with a smile that held both warmth and mischief. “We’ve always got room for one more.”

Arthur shifted awkwardly, one hand scratching the back of his neck. “Don’t think I’d be much good with all that,” he muttered, his voice gruff.

“Nonsense,” she replied, gesturing to an empty spot on the grass. “Art’s not about being good. It’s about trying. Besides, I’m sure the kids would love to have you join us.”

“Yeah, mister! Draw somethin’!” the freckled boy chimed in, tugging on Arthur’s sleeve again.

Arthur sighed, glancing between the boy and the woman, whose expectant gaze didn’t waver. He opened his mouth to protest once more, but the boy’s grin widened as he thrust a piece of paper and a bit of charcoal into Arthur’s hands.

“Here! Just try it!” the boy said.

With a resigned shake of his head, Arthur relented, muttering under his breath as he lowered himself onto the grass. The woman’s smile softened, and she crouched beside him, her presence unexpectedly calming.

“Here,” she said, demonstrating a quick, simple outline of a horse. “Just start with basic shapes. You’ll get the hang of it.”

Arthur’s first attempt was, in his opinion, a disaster. The horse he drew looked more like a lopsided mule, and the weight of so many curious eyes made his hands feel clumsier than usual. He wasn’t used to drawing where anyone could see—his journal was a private refuge, where lines flowed easier without the pressure of an audience. Here, under watchful gazes, it felt like every flaw was magnified. He half-expected the kids to burst out laughing. But when he glanced up, he found the woman studying his sketch with a soft smile.

“It’s got character,” she said. “And look at how strong those lines are. You’ve got a steady hand.”

“You don’t have to lie,” Arthur replied, his voice tinged with self-deprecating humor.

She laughed, a sound that made something in his chest loosen. “I’m not. Art’s about expression, not perfection. And you’ve got plenty of expression here.”

By the end of the lesson, Arthur’s initial awkwardness had faded, replaced by a reluctant sort of enjoyment. The children’s chatter and the woman’s easygoing demeanor had a way of disarming him, and he found himself lingering longer than he’d intended. As the children began to pack up their supplies, she turned to him with a curious tilt of her head.

“Thank you for joining us,” she said. “I don’t think I caught your name.”

“Arthur, Arthur Morgan,” he replied, adjusting his hat, his voice faltering slightly.

“Well, Arthur, it was a pleasure having you in class. You’ve got an artist’s spirit, whether you realize it or not.”

He snorted softly, brushing a hand over the brim of his hat. “Don’t think anyone’s ever accused me of that before.”

She smiled warmly, her eyes crinkling at the corners. There was a kindness in her face, a softness that felt out of place in a world that seemed to grow harder by the day. “Well, there’s a first time for everything. I’m Miss Harper, by the way. If you’re ever in town again, feel free to stop by. We’re always here on Wednesdays.”

Arthur nodded, tipping his hat politely, but before he turned to leave, his gaze lingered on her for a moment longer. She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, he noticed. Her hands, pale and delicate, bore faint smudges of charcoal, a small testament to her craft. Her dress was simple but well-made, the soft blue fabric catching the sunlight in a way that reminded him of clear summer skies. A loose strand of hair had slipped from her bun, framing her face in a way that made her look younger, almost carefree.

She didn’t seem like the sort who belonged to a place like this—Willoughby Creek, with its rough edges and tired faces. She carried herself differently, with a quiet confidence and a grace that made Arthur feel a little self-conscious of his own mud-splattered boots and worn clothes.

“Take care, Mister Morgan,” she said, her voice pulling him from his thoughts.

“You too, Miss Harper,” he replied, his voice rougher than he intended.

As he walked back to his horse, he could feel her eyes on him, and for reasons he couldn’t quite pin down, that thought stirred something unfamiliar in him—something cautious, but not unpleasant.

When he swung into the saddle, he hesitated for a moment, his gaze drifting back toward the park. The sound of children’s laughter carried on the breeze, mingling with the faint rustle of leaves. Miss Harper was crouched beside a young boy now, showing him how to hold a piece of charcoal properly. She laughed at something the boy said, her head tilting back slightly, her expression open and genuine.

Arthur scratched at the back of his neck, feeling an odd warmth creeping over him. It wasn’t like him to pay much attention to anyone, let alone a schoolteacher in a quiet little town he had no real reason to linger in. Yet, as he turned his horse toward the trail, he couldn’t help glancing back once more.

The memory of her smile stuck with him, as did the image of her standing there with the sun framing her like some kind of picture. For the first time in a long while, Arthur felt a flicker of something he couldn’t quite name—something warm and unsteady, like the first rays of dawn breaking through the dark.

And as he rode away from Willoughby Creek, he found himself wondering if, perhaps, he might take a little longer to pass through next time.

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The ride back to camp was quiet, the sun dipping low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the trail. The gentle clop of his horse’s hooves and the occasional rustle of the trees were the only sounds accompanying him. Arthur kept his eyes on the road ahead, but his mind drifted back to Willoughby Creek, to the park, and to Miss Harper.

It wasn’t often someone stuck with him like that. Most folks he passed through towns barely left an impression. But her, with her calm voice and that unshakable, easy smile, had rooted herself in his mind like an itch he couldn’t quite scratch.

By the time he reached camp, the sun had sunk below the horizon, leaving the sky awash in hues of deep blue and purple. The gang was scattered about, some gathered around the fire, others tucked away in their tents. Arthur exchanged a few nods and muttered greetings but made a beeline for his own tent. He wasn’t in the mood for conversation, not with the thoughts stirring in his head.

Once inside, he lit the small lantern on his makeshift desk and pulled out his journal. The leather-bound book felt familiar in his hands, the pages worn and filled with the fragments of his life—sketches, musings, and bits of poetry he’d never admit to writing. It was his way of making sense of the world, of keeping a piece of himself in a life that seemed to take more than it gave.

He flipped to a fresh page and began writing, his hand moving slowly at first.

“Passed through Willoughby Creek today. Nice enough place. Kids were laughing in the park. Seemed like the kind of town that don’t see much trouble, at least not yet. Met someone too. A teacher. Miss Harper. She said I had an artist’s spirit. Can’t say I know what she meant by that, but she weren’t mocking me, I think. Funny how some folks can see something in you that you don’t see in yourself. Maybe she was just being kind.”

He paused, tapping the pencil against the page. His jaw tightened as he stared at the words. It felt strange to put her down in writing, like it made the memory of her more solid, more real. With a quiet huff, he set the pencil to the side, rubbing the back of his neck.

But instead of closing the journal, his fingers lingered, his mind drifting back to the way she’d looked, standing in the park with the sun on her dress. Without thinking, he reached for the pencil again, the movements of his hand slower, more deliberate this time.

The lines came hesitantly at first—a curve of her face, the loose strand of hair, the faint crinkles around her eyes when she smiled. Arthur wasn’t much for portraits, but there was something about trying to capture her that made him focus in a way he hadn’t in a long time. The memory of her dress, that soft blue, kept coming back to him, and he shaded in the folds, the light catching just so.

When he finally sat back, hours must’ve passed. His fingers ached, and the lantern’s light had dimmed, the flame flickering low. He stared at the page, at the image he’d sketched—a rough rendering of Miss Harper, caught mid-smile, with a faint outline of trees behind her.

He let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Damn fool,” he muttered to himself.

His gaze drifted to the small table beside his cot, where a worn, silver-framed photograph stood. Mary. The sight of her smile, frozen forever in that picture, made his chest ache in a way he’d grown used to but never truly stopped feeling. His calloused thumb brushed the edge of the frame, tracing the curves of her face. She had looked at him like that once too, full of hope and possibility, before it all fell apart. Before he let it fall apart.

A familiar weight settled on him, that dull ache of knowing how much he’d lost and how much of it had been his own damn fault. He swallowed hard, the lump in his throat stubborn and unmoving, and set the photo back down gently. For a moment, he just stared at it, the silence of the night pressing in around him.

Then his eyes shifted back to the open journal on the desk, to the rough sketch of Miss Harper. The lines weren’t perfect, the proportions a little off, but her smile—he’d gotten that right. It was different from Mary’s, lighter somehow, like a breeze instead of a storm. It wasn’t better, he told himself—just different.

He leaned back in his chair, letting out a slow breath as he studied the drawing. That ache in his chest was still there, but now it felt... tempered, softer, like a wound starting to scab over. For the first time in what felt like forever, the thought of tomorrow didn’t feel quite so heavy.

And just before he drifted off, he thought again of Miss Harper’s laugh, of the way she’d looked at him like he wasn’t just another shadow passing through. For the first time in a long while, Arthur felt the edges of hope creeping into the corners of his mind. And he didn’t hate it.

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The days passed in the usual rhythm of camp life—chaotic and loud when it needed to be, quiet and tense when it wasn’t. Thursday came and went with a botched supply run outside of Blackwater that ended in an argument over who’d gotten the directions wrong. Friday blurred into a long, cold ride through the mountains with Hosea, chasing down a lead on a gang of highwaymen. By Saturday, Arthur was back at camp, fixing a broken wagon wheel while Dutch rambled about their next big score.

Life didn’t slow down, not for a moment. Yet, in the quiet spaces between the noise, Arthur found his mind wandering back to Willoughby Creek. To her.

It wasn’t deliberate, at least not at first. He’d catch himself thinking about the way her hands moved as she worked, smudged with charcoal but still delicate, or the way the sunlight had lit up her hair, catching on the loose strands.

He’d been cleaning his gun Thursday night when the memory of her voice drifted in, unbidden. “You’ve got an artist’s spirit.” He’d chuckled softly to himself, shaking his head, but the words lingered. What had she seen in him that made her say that? Surely not the man he was now, the man who spent his days riding hard and his nights drowning out the sound of his own thoughts.

On Friday, during a break in the ride with Hosea, Arthur had found himself idly sketching in the dirt with a stick while they rested. The lines he drew made no sense, but his hand kept repeating shapes he didn’t notice until later—curves like the hem of a dress, the outline of a tree, even the faintest hint of a smile. Hosea had teased him about looking distracted, but Arthur just grunted in reply and went back to saddling his horse.

By Saturday afternoon, as he worked on the wagon wheel, he caught himself staring off into the distance. It was a fleeting thing, just a moment of stillness in the midst of camp chaos, but in that quiet, he wasn’t in camp at all. He was back in Willoughby Creek, standing under the shade of those trees, hearing the laughter of children and watching her crouched beside a boy, guiding his hand as he drew.

“Arthur! You listening to me?” Dutch’s voice snapped him back, sharp and impatient.

“Yeah,” Arthur replied, shaking himself out of it. “I’m listenin’.”

As the days passed, Arthur tried to push the thought of her from his mind. There was work to be done, things to keep him occupied—patrolling, hunting, keeping an eye on the camp. But in the back of his mind, she lingered, like a quiet hum, always present.

Monday morning found him sharpening his knife by the fire, his thoughts drifting once again to Willoughby Creek. He wondered if the park was still the same, if the children still laughed and ran through the grass. His hand paused mid-motion as he remembered how she’d looked at him, so calm and steady, and how he’d felt like just another drifter passing through. Yet, something about the way she hadn’t turned away when he spoke to her, how she’d seemed interested, had made him feel... noticed.

The sound of a twig snapping nearby brought him back to the present. He glanced up, seeing John and Bill coming back from the river with supplies. Arthur gave them a quick nod, but his mind was elsewhere. His hand returned to the knife, but it wasn’t the blade he was focused on. He found himself absentmindedly carving small, jagged shapes into the wood. Faint outlines of trees and curves that looked a lot like the one he’d seen on her dress.

Tuesday came, and with it, another long ride out to check on the progress of a deal with a neighboring gang. Arthur kept his focus on the job at hand, but as the hours passed, he couldn’t help but feel the distance between himself and the men he rode with. Their conversations felt distant, like noise he couldn’t quite tune into. The laughter, the insults, the stories of past misdeeds—none of it really reached him. He was there, but not fully.

He found himself scanning the landscape, the sparse trees, and distant hills, as if searching for something—or someone—that wasn’t part of the life he had. His mind was somewhere else, half-wishing he were back on that road to Willoughby Creek, wondering if she might be walking down the street, or sitting in the park again, perhaps drawing quietly in the afternoon sun.

By the time Wednesday rolled around, Arthur could feel the weight of it, the pull in his chest. The thought of returning to Willoughby Creek was on his mind constantly, as if his body had already decided. He told himself he was just passing through, that there was no harm in a quick stop—just another day of rest on a long journey.

But deep down, something had shifted. He wasn’t sure if it was the pull of her smile, or the way she’d spoken to him, or the feeling that there might still be something good left in the world for someone like him. But he knew he couldn’t keep pushing it aside.

The morning light on Wednesday was crisp, and the air smelled different—fresher, almost. He saddled his horse with the usual motions, but this time, they felt deliberate. There was a purpose in his steps that hadn’t been there before.

As the camp began to stir with activity, Arthur rode out, his mind already miles ahead, heading toward Willoughby Creek once more.

He didn’t know what he was looking for, exactly, or if he would even find her there. But the thought of seeing her again, of hearing her voice, filled him with a nervous anticipation that he hadn’t felt in a long time.

And for the first time in days, his heart beat with something resembling hope. He didn’t know where it would lead, or if he would regret it. But for now, he was content to let that small, foolish hope guide him toward something he couldn’t quite name.

°─────────────────°•❀•°─────────────────° The ride was long, the familiar landscape blurring past him, but Arthur felt none of the usual impatience. His mind wasn’t occupied with the weight of the past or the worry of what the future might bring. Instead, it was filled with thoughts of Willoughby Creek, the sound of children’s laughter, and the faint memory of her smile. Each mile felt like an unwritten story, one he wasn’t sure he was ready to live—but it was pulling him in anyway.

As the afternoon wore on, the town’s silhouette finally appeared in the distance. It looked just as he remembered—quiet, unassuming, with the same rows of buildings, the same dusty streets, and the same park tucked at the heart of it. The closer he got, the more he felt a strange flutter in his chest, like a bird trapped in a cage, beating against the bars. He’d come here once before, without much thought or expectation. But now…

Arthur slowed his horse as he rode into the heart of the town, giving the familiar buildings a cursory glance. His heart rate picked up as he approached the park, the place where he had met her. The children were still there, running around in the sun, their laughter filling the air. But he was looking for something else.

He dismounted, the soft thud of his boots hitting the ground drowned out by the noise of the bustling park. Arthur scanned the area, his gaze landing on the familiar figures of mothers, fathers, and townsfolk, but not her.

For a moment, he considered leaving, just turning around and heading back to camp. It wasn’t like he’d promised anything—hell, he hadn’t even told her he was coming back. But something told him he had to stay, even if it was just for a little while longer.

And then, as if by fate, there she was.

Miss Harper was standing near the edge of the park, crouched down beside a child, guiding his hand as he drew. Her soft blue dress fluttered in the wind, and her hair—loose and wild in the breeze—seemed to shimmer like sunlight through the trees. For a moment, Arthur just stood there, watching her, feeling the weight of something both familiar and foreign stir inside him. He hadn’t expected to feel this nervous, to feel his heart race like it did when he was face-to-face with something he wanted but didn’t know how to reach.

She looked up, her eyes catching his almost immediately. A soft gasp escaped her lips, quickly followed by a tentative smile.

“Mister Morgan,” she said, her voice warm and surprised. “I didn’t expect to see you again.”

For a moment, Arthur couldn’t find his words. He’d imagined this moment a hundred times over the past week, but now that it was here, he felt strangely tongue-tied. He cleared his throat, shifting his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other.

“Didn’t mean to surprise ya,” he said gruffly, scratching the back of his neck. “Figured I’d pass through.”

She smiled again, and it was like a weight had been lifted off his chest. “Well, I’m glad you did.” She gestured to the empty space beside her. “I’m just showing this young man how to make a proper tree. You’re welcome to join us.”

Arthur glanced at the child she was speaking to, a boy no older than eight or nine, holding a piece of chalk in his small hand. He looked up at Arthur with wide eyes before quickly looking back to Miss Harper.

“I’m no artist,” Arthur muttered, his gaze flicking back to Miss Harper, who raised an eyebrow playfully.

“Not yet,” she said, her voice light, teasing. “Come on. I already know you have a steady hand.”

Arthur hesitated, but the offer was genuine, and the warmth in her eyes made him take a step forward. He crouched down beside them, his large hands seeming out of place beside the small child, but he did as she asked, picking up a piece of chalk and tracing the outline of a tree on the pavement. It was simple, nothing special—but it was enough.

For a long while, they worked in silence. The child drew beside them, occasionally looking up at Arthur’s rough attempt at a tree and giggling. Miss Harper’s soft voice would occasionally offer guidance, and Arthur found himself listening to her without realizing it. Her words, like everything else about her, seemed to settle into him, easy and natural, like the feeling of home he hadn’t known he’d been missing.

The peace between them stretched on, the quiet hum of the afternoon blending with the sound of chalk on stone. Arthur’s mind was surprisingly clear, filled only with the image of the tree he’d drawn—a simple, crooked line, but something about it felt... right. He caught himself smiling, despite his usual grimness. It was easy here, in this moment, with her, surrounded by children and the laughter that filled the air.

But just as he thought he might finally relax, a voice cut through the air, sharp and unwelcome.

“That’s enough, Miss Harper.”

Arthur’s hand froze mid-stroke, the chalk slipping from his fingers and falling to the ground. He glanced up, his brow furrowing as a man in a long coat and flat cap approached them, his gaze fixed firmly on Miss Harper. The man was stocky, his chest puffed out like he carried the weight of the world, and his tone was anything but friendly.

Miss Harper looked up, her smile faltering just slightly. “Excuse me, sir?”

The man jabbed a finger toward the group of children, his face contorting in a mix of disdain and authority. “It’s improper, you know,” he said, his voice dripping with condescension. “For a woman like you to be out here, teaching them... especially teaching these girls. It’s one thing for them to learn how to read a bit of writing, but this—this nonsense, drawing and such—is no place for a lady.”

Arthur’s jaw tightened at the man’s words, something dark flickering in his chest. He could feel his muscles tensing, ready to rise and say something, but Miss Harper was already speaking, her voice calm but firm.

“I’m not teaching them nonsense,” she replied, standing up straight, her gaze unwavering. “I’m teaching them to create, to express themselves. There’s nothing improper about that.”

The man’s face twisted with outrage. “It’s unnatural,” he spat. “A woman’s place is in the home, not out here, teaching this kind of thing to young girls. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Miss Harper.”

Arthur’s hand clenched into a fist at his side, his eyes narrowing on the man. He knew the type—men who thought they had the world figured out, who believed they knew their place and everyone else’s. This wasn’t a man who saw women as anything more than tools for family and housework. It burned in Arthur’s gut, seeing her challenged like this, in front of the children who looked up to her.

But Miss Harper didn’t back down. Her voice was steady, though there was an edge to it. “You’ll have to excuse me, sir, but I don’t believe I asked for your opinion. I’m teaching them what they deserve to know. You’d do well to mind your business.” She glanced over at the children, her expression softening. “Now, go on, all of you. Let’s finish this tree.”

Arthur could feel the tension crackling in the air, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. But he admired her, how she stood her ground, her face resolute and calm even as the man’s anger bubbled up.

“Now you listen here—” the man started, stepping closer, his voice rising.

Arthur stood up slowly, the ground beneath him seeming to settle into place with each movement. He had no particular desire to get involved in this kind of fight, but something in him bristled, instinctively wanting to defend her.

“Is there a problem here, sir?” Arthur asked, his voice low, but unmistakably firm.

The man turned to face him, sizing him up, his eyes narrowing at the sight of Arthur’s broad shoulders and the unmistakable presence he carried. There was a moment’s pause, the man seemingly calculating whether or not to escalate things.

“I’m merely stating a fact, friend,” the man said, taking a step back, his bravado faltering slightly as he looked up at Arthur. “A woman has no business doing such things.” He shot a venomous glance at Miss Harper. “It’s a shame. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, teaching these girls such ideas.”

Arthur took a step forward, his hand hovering near his hip where his gun rested, just a reminder of who was standing here with him. “You’re mistaken,” Arthur said quietly, a cold edge to his voice. “Now you best be moving along, rather than standin' around, talkin’ down to women like you seem to enjoy doin’.”

The man’s eyes flickered to Arthur’s hand as it rested near his hip, a subtle but unmistakable warning. His bravado faltered for a moment, the cocky expression twisting into one of irritation as he took a half-step back. He seemed to reconsider his position, no longer willing to push things too far with a man who clearly wasn’t one to back down.

“Fine,” the man muttered, his voice dripping with venom. “I’ll go, but mark my words, Miss Harper—this isn’t over. A woman has no business teachin’ those girls how to think for themselves. I’ll see to it that someone puts a stop to it.” He shot a final look of contempt at her, eyes narrowing, then turned sharply on his heel and walked away, his heavy footsteps leaving a trail of tension in the air.

Arthur watched him go, his jaw clenched tight, but he didn’t say anything more. The man wasn’t worth the trouble, and Miss Harper didn’t need any more of his nonsense. She stood silently for a moment, the weight of the encounter pressing down on her, but she didn’t let it break her. Arthur could see that, see how she straightened her shoulders and took a breath, as if shaking off the shadow the man had tried to cast.

“Don’t worry about him,” Arthur said, his voice softer now, though the edge of anger was still present, a remnant of the tension in his chest. “He’s just talk.”

She glanced over at him, her eyes meeting his with a small, appreciative smile. “Aren't they all?,” she said quietly, though there was a subtle tightness in her tone. “Doesn’t make it any easier, though.”

Arthur nodded, his hand shifting away from his hip and resting at his side. He didn’t know what else to say. The kind of world they lived in—where women had to constantly fight for respect, just for being who they were—was one he didn’t fully understand, not like she did. But he could see it now, the quiet toll it took on her, the way she had to pick herself up every time someone tried to put her down.

She sighed, looking back at the children who were still drawing, their laughter slowly returning to the air. “Thank you for stepping in,” she added, her voice softer now. “You didn’t have to, but I’m glad you did.”

Arthur shifted uncomfortably, the weight of the moment pressing in. “I don’t take kindly to men talkin’ to women like that,” he said, his tone steady but firm. “You don’t deserve that.”

She smiled, a small but genuine curve of her lips that eased some of the tension between them. “Well, I appreciate it all the same. But you’re right—he’s not worth dwelling on. I’ve dealt with far worse.”

Arthur watched her closely, his gaze lingering on the way she carried herself, her shoulders squared, her face steady even after the man had left. There was a quiet strength in her, but it wasn’t the kind that he imagined she wanted to wear all the time. But what if she didn’t have to? What if she didn’t have to face it all alone, shoulder to shoulder with the weight of every fight?

The thought lingered in his mind as he shifted on his feet, watching her interact with the children, a soft smile lingering on her lips. There was something about the way she carried herself, like she was always poised, ready to meet any challenge head-on. But in the quiet moments, when the world wasn’t pushing in on her, she seemed so different. He wanted to see more of that side—the one that wasn’t always hardened by the world’s cruelty. The one that wasn’t always on guard.

Before he could dwell on it for too long, he felt her hand on his arm, a soft touch, delicate but warm. Her fingers rested there for a brief moment, and it was like the weight of everything else faded away. She looked up at him with a kind smile, her eyes reflecting gratitude, something soft and sincere in her gaze.

“Thank you again, Mister Morgan,” she said quietly, her voice gentle. “I truly appreciate it. You didn’t have to step in, but I’m glad you did.”

The simplicity of the gesture—the warmth in her touch—struck him more than he expected. For a moment, he felt his heart skip, something unexpected stirring in his chest. He wasn’t used to this kind of attention, especially not this close. His breath caught, and for a split second, he forgot how to breathe properly. His chest tightened, the way it did when he was caught off guard, like the world had tilted slightly on its axis and he hadn’t quite found his balance again.

He blinked, caught off guard by the sudden rush of warmth flooding his cheeks. Arthur opened his mouth to say something, but the words tangled in his throat, slipping away before he could form them properly. His usual gruffness, his tough exterior, suddenly felt inadequate. It wasn’t like he was a man who stumbled for words, but in front of her, with the gentleness of her touch and the softness of her gaze, he found himself out of his depth.

He shifted on his feet, his hand moving slightly as if he wasn’t sure what to do with it. His fingers twitched at his sides, the calluses from years of hard work suddenly feeling like they didn’t quite belong. He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, trying to find his footing again, but the warmth of her touch lingered, a constant presence that made him feel oddly exposed, yet strangely... safe.

“Ah… uh… yeah. Nothin’ to thank me for,” he muttered, his voice rougher than usual, a little quieter too, like he was unsure of how to match the softness she was giving him. “I just... I don���t like seein’ people talk to ya like that.”

His words came out a little jumbled, as if his mind wasn’t quite catching up with his mouth. He cleared his throat, trying to shake off the awkwardness that had crept into his chest. But it didn’t help. He still felt that strange flutter in his stomach, like he’d forgotten how to be around someone who didn’t look at him with suspicion, or fear, or just plain indifference.

She smiled again, a soft, understanding smile that only seemed to make him feel even more flustered. Arthur’s gaze dropped briefly, looking anywhere but directly at her face, though he could still feel the weight of her attention on him.

“Mister Morgan,” she said, her voice light and reassuring, “you’re a good man. I appreciate it more than you know.” Her hand lingered just a moment longer, a light touch on his arm before she gently pulled it back, though the warmth of it stayed, as if it had seeped into his very bones.

“Just don’t make a habit of it,” Arthur mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck again, his mind still racing as he tried to regain some sense of normalcy. “Steppin’ in for folks. Ain’t my place, and I... I ain’t no hero.”

She chuckled softly, and the sound was like music to his ears. He risked a glance up at her, seeing the twinkle in her eye, the gentle amusement that softened her features even more.

“I think you’re more of a hero than you give yourself credit for,” she teased, her voice light and playful, but with that same quiet sincerity. “Least, today, you can be my hero.”

Arthur’s heart thumped in his chest, and he suddenly realized he couldn’t quite remember how to stand properly. His hands shifted at his sides, his boots scuffing the ground beneath him, and he gave her a sheepish look—something close to a nervous grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. His mind wandered just briefly, noticing how her presence felt calming in ways he hadn’t expected. She had a soft scent to her, like wildflowers mixed with the faintest trace of lavender, and it lingered in the air around him as she stood so close. He wasn’t sure how he’d never noticed it before, but now it was almost impossible not to.

He blinked, his thoughts scattering a bit. It wasn’t just that though. There was something about the way she moved, the gentle fluidity in her motions, like the world around her didn’t need to be rushed. The way her hair framed her face, soft curls catching the light in a way that made him want to reach out and touch it—though he didn’t, of course.

"Maybe..." he said, his voice a little lower than usual, unsure of the weight of her words but feeling a strange warmth spread across his chest all the same. "Maybe just a little bit."

He cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure, but the smile that tugged at his lips remained, a little hesitant, a little shy, as though he was still trying to figure out what exactly it meant to be someone’s hero. The quiet joy in her gaze, the way her words hung between them, was enough to leave him feeling like he was standing on shaky ground—but for the first time in a long while, it wasn’t a feeling he minded.

Arthur stood there, still a little off balance from the strange warmth she’d ignited in him with just a few words and a simple touch. He had always been good at keeping his distance, but right now, with her standing so close, it felt like the world had suddenly gotten a little softer. Her presence was something he didn’t know how to handle, but he was starting to like the feeling of it.

When the moment stretched on, and the air seemed to hum with something unsaid, he cleared his throat, trying to focus on something—anything—other than the quiet fluttering in his chest. He looked over toward the path leading back to town, where the shadows were beginning to stretch long, the light fading as the sun dipped lower. The thought of her walking alone, that man possibly still lingering somewhere in the back of her mind, didn’t sit well with him.

"You know..." Arthur started, scratching the back of his neck, unsure of how exactly to word it. "I’d be happy to walk you home, Miss Harper. Don’t think I want that man bothering you again." He glanced at her, offering a quick but genuine smile. "I reckon you’ve got enough to deal with without folks like him getting in your way."

The suggestion felt strange coming from him—like he was trying to do something good, even if it didn’t come naturally. But it was the right thing to do. Besides, he found himself wanting to keep her safe, to make sure she didn’t have to carry the weight of the world alone, not when he could help.

He shifted on his boots, suddenly aware of how clumsy his words had sounded, and he added, “If you don’t mind the company, of course.”

Miss Harper regarded him for a moment, her gaze soft but searching, as if weighing his offer. Arthur shifted on his feet, suddenly self-conscious of the silence stretching between them. He didn’t know what he expected—maybe her to turn him down politely or give him a teasing remark, but when she finally spoke, her voice was warm, thoughtful.

"I’d like that," she said, her eyes meeting his with a quiet sincerity that made his chest feel a little lighter. "I appreciate the offer. I really do."

Arthur felt a small, relieved smile tug at the corners of his mouth. He nodded, more to himself than anything, before turning slightly toward the path that led out of the park. His steps were a little slower than usual, like he was reluctant to rush this, but at the same time, he felt a strange sense of rightness in walking beside her, not as a guard or a protector, but just... as two people sharing a quiet walk home.

They fell into step beside each other, a comfortable silence wrapping around them. The distant chatter of the children, still lingering in the park, faded as they walked away from the lively scene, the evening air growing cooler with each passing minute.

Arthur couldn’t help but glance over at her now and then, though he tried to keep his attention on the road ahead. He found himself noticing little things—the way the setting sun caught her hair, making it shimmer like gold in the last light of the day, or how the faint scent of lavender seemed to follow her with every step. It was subtle, but it was there, and for reasons he couldn’t quite explain, it made him feel like he was walking through some kind of dream.

As they neared the edge of town, where the dusty road met the outskirts, Arthur found himself thinking about how easy this felt. Like it wasn’t just a simple offer to walk her home—it was something more, something that felt right, like he was supposed to be here with her.

"So," he started, breaking the silence as he turned his gaze to the darkening horizon, trying to keep his thoughts focused on the conversation instead of how his heart seemed to be beating a little faster. "What’s it like... teaching these kids? I mean, I can’t imagine it’s the easiest thing, especially in a place like this."

He glanced over at her again, his expression curious. It wasn’t just the teaching that intrigued him—it was the way she’d handled everything, the way she’d stayed so composed even when people tried to tear her down. He wanted to know more, to understand more about her, about what made her the way she was.

Her eyes flicked toward him, a thoughtful expression crossing her face as she considered his question. “It’s not always easy,” she said after a pause, her voice carrying a quiet strength that seemed to come naturally to her. “But it’s worth it. These kids, they deserve a chance to learn, to grow up knowing there’s more out there than just what’s around them.” She smiled slightly, a soft, wistful look in her eyes. “I just wish... I wish more people saw that. Saw the potential in them, in me.”

Arthur’s heart tightened at her words, and he glanced down at the dirt road beneath them. He couldn’t imagine how hard it must be, always having to prove yourself to the world, to constantly be pushing against the current. He wondered what it would feel like to just be able to exist without that weight pressing down.

“You don’t have to prove a damn thing to me,” Arthur said quietly, his voice low but firm, though there was something almost tender in his tone. “Not for me, or anyone else.”

She looked at him, her expression softening, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. Then, she gave him that small, quiet smile again, the one that made something flutter in his chest.

"Thank you," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “That means more than you know.”

They continued walking in comfortable silence, the night growing darker around them as the stars began to twinkle overhead. Arthur couldn’t help but feel like this was a moment he’d remember, one that was almost too peaceful, too perfect, to be real. But in that moment, he didn’t want to think about anything else—just the quiet rhythm of their steps and the warmth of her company.

As they approached the small house at the end of the road, the comforting quiet of the evening wrapped around them. The flickering light from the window illuminated the soft, rustic simplicity of the building, a humble cottage nestled against the edge of the town. Arthur slowed his steps as they neared, not wanting the walk to end. Something about it felt different—like it had meant more than just getting her safely home. The idea of saying goodbye had an unexpected weight to it.

When they reached the front gate, Arthur glanced over at her, his voice quiet but tinged with curiosity. “Well, here we are,” he said, hesitating before adding, “You got someone inside waitin’ for you?”

The question hung between them, light yet weighted, and he found himself almost bracing for her answer. He wasn’t sure why it mattered to him, but it did. His eyes flicked to the house, then back to her, wondering if he’d be handing her off to a husband or another man, someone who might look at her the way he wanted to.

Her eyes softened as she met his gaze, and there was a faint amusement in her smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes in the same way it usually did. “No,” she replied, her voice steady but not without a touch of something else, something private. “No husband.”

A small, unexpected relief flooded through him at her words. He hadn’t even realized how much he’d been holding his breath until it was released. He hadn’t thought about it before, but in that moment, a part of him was grateful that there was no man waiting for her, no one to claim her, to take her away from the quiet moments they’d shared.

“Well, I—” Arthur cleared his throat, feeling a bit awkward. “I didn’t mean to... I mean, I just didn’t want to be handin’ you over to anyone. Figured if there was a man, he’d be worried, you know?”

Miss Harper’s smile softened, and she gave a little shake of her head. “I understand. But no, no one’s waiting for me.” She paused, as if considering something before her eyes met his again, this time with a hint of something more vulnerable, more sincere. “I appreciate you walking me home. I know I can handle myself, but... it’s nice to have someone watch my back, even for just a little while.”

Arthur shifted on his feet, a little caught off guard by the sincerity in her words. He opened his mouth to say something, but the words didn’t come right away. Instead, he just nodded, his heart feeling uncharacteristically light in his chest.

“Well, you take care of yourself, Miss Harper,” he said, his voice gruff but soft, the way he always spoke when the moment felt important. “You don’t have to worry about anyone botherin’ you while I’m around.”

She gave him a small nod, her smile more knowing now, as if she saw something in him that he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to acknowledge. But it was there, and it made something twist pleasantly in his gut.

“Thank you, Mister Morgan,” she said quietly, her tone full of unspoken meaning. “I’ll be alright. You don’t have to worry about me.”

Arthur hesitated for a moment, standing there in front of her small, quiet house. He wasn’t sure what to do next—whether he should say something else, or just leave it at that.

As they neared the small wooden porch, Arthur’s boots scuffed softly against the gravel path, and the quiet hum of the evening seemed to press in around them. They were standing at the base of the steps now, and without thinking, Arthur found himself stepping forward, his hand reaching out toward her.

"Here, let me help you," he said, his voice a little rough as his fingers hovered near her elbow.

She glanced at him in surprise, then down at his outstretched hand, her brows furrowing slightly, but there was a softness in her eyes that made something in him tighten. He hadn’t even realized what he was doing—he just knew he wanted to offer her something, some small gesture to make sure she got inside safe and sound.

He cleared his throat, suddenly aware of how ridiculous it might seem, but her smile, warm and gentle, eased the awkwardness in him.

“That’s kind of you,” she said quietly, her voice soft, like she wasn’t sure what to make of the simple act of him offering his hand. But without hesitation, she placed her hand in his, the warmth of her fingers sending a strange spark through him.

He helped her up the steps, not saying a word, but somehow it felt like the simplest, most natural thing in the world. He was conscious of the way her hand fit in his, the way her presence seemed to fill the quiet space between them, the sound of her soft breath just beneath the night sky.

When they reached the top, she paused, turning to face him with a small, appreciative smile. “Thank you,” she said, her eyes meeting his, and there was something in them, something unspoken that made Arthur’s chest tighten in a way he didn’t understand.

“Don’t mention it,” Arthur muttered, his heart beating a little faster than it should, his hand lingering just a moment longer than necessary before he pulled it back. “Just don’t go doin’ any more of that stuff, alright?”

She chuckled softly, a warm, genuine sound that made his heart skip a beat. “I won’t. But I’m glad you’re here. I truly am.”

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak for a moment, the words caught in his throat. He wasn’t used to moments like these, to soft touches and quiet smiles that lingered in the air.

"Well, you take care, Miss Harper," he finally managed to say, his voice a little rougher than usual, and as she stepped back into the doorway, he turned away, his mind buzzing with all the things he hadn’t said. As the door closed behind her, he hesitated, standing there for just a moment longer, before turning and heading back down the path.

Arthur walked a few paces away from the porch, his boots making steady crunching sounds against the gravel. He kept his gaze forward, not daring to look back. But the feeling in his chest, the strange warmth in his blood, refused to let him go. His heart thumped against his ribs like a wild thing, and the heat of her hand, where it had briefly touched his, still lingered on his fingers, as if it had somehow settled deep into his bones.

He finally came to a stop, his boots shifting slightly as he rubbed a hand over his face, the same hand that had touched hers. A low, frustrated groan escaped him, more from the feeling than the words he couldn’t quite manage to say out loud.

"Goddamn it," he muttered, shaking his head as he dropped his hand back to his side. His breath was a little unsteady, like he couldn’t quite catch it. He could still smell her—something sweet, something soft and natural, mixing with the crisp evening air. And for some godforsaken reason, it made his blood feel hot, too hot for the night.

His fingers twitched, like they were still waiting for her touch to return, and the thought of it made him grit his teeth. "What the hell’s wrong with me?" he grumbled to the night, kicking a small stone in frustration. His mind raced, chasing around the moments of the evening, the way her smile had made his chest tighten, the way her touch had felt like the most natural thing in the world and somehow, still, the most terrifying.

He stood there for a long minute, breathing deeply, his thoughts tangled with the heat in his blood, trying to make sense of it.

Finally, he gave a low, frustrated sigh and turned away from the house, his steps more purposeful now, though the unease in his chest lingered like a shadow.

One thing was for sure—he was far from done thinking about her.

°─────────────────°•❀•°─────────────────°

I haven’t edited this yet, but I’ve been craving to write something sweet and different from Bleed, Survive, Remember. I wrote until I was happy and giggling about it, and I’m excited to see where it goes. I’ll make sure to edit it later!

[exhelluvafan]

I’ve been hearing about infighting in the critical community lately. What exactly happened?

To summarize it:

User A proceeds to drop a "DNI if you support or are friends with User B", a perfectly reasonable post.

User A proceeds to literally turn around and accuse User B of being a pedophile and a zoophile, based on extremely flimsy evidence and not even taking into consideration that those accusations can be life ruining.

User A refuses to listen and settle the situation, staying in an echo chamber with other Anons shit talking about User B.

Turns out that User A has a trauma, and that they took out their trauma on User B, despite the latter didn't do anything against the former, while User A gets constantly trauma triggers from the situation they themselves started.

I purposefully censored the names and made it as neutral as possible, because this whole situation is just so fucking stupid and childish altogether that I'd rather for it to end as quickly as possible.

Also, gotta point out that User A could've easily avoided all this if they acted like a proper adult would and settled the situation immediately, but whatever man, idgaf about it anymore.

[npdkondraki]

[Sound of footsteps, followed by chair squeaking. Dr. [REDACTED] sighs, followed again by the sound of a chair squeaking.]

Dr. [REDACTED]: So. I touched the rock that makes you a girl.

Dr. Glass: Hm?

Dr. [REDACTED]: The rock that makes you a girl.

Dr. Glass: You- Excuse me, what?

Dr. [REDACTED]: You gotta hear about this rock. It made me a girl.

Dr. Glass: You.. You have to know that isn’t possible.

Dr. [REDACTED]: Dude, look at me. I’m a fuckin’ girl. And it’s cause of the rock, the one that makes you a girl.

Dr. Glass: There’s.. a million reasons you might look like this. I really don’t think it was a rock.

Dr. [REDACTED]: Wait. I don’t think it’s the rock itself. Like-

Dr. Glass: What?

Dr. [REDACTED]: I think it’s related to the gender of the person maybe?

Dr. Glass: I- [REDACTED], are you trying to come out to me right now?-

Dr. [REDACTED]: No! Just- Just- Okay, listen to me. The rock made me a girl.

Dr. Glass: …Yeah. I can tell. Okay, let’s say, purely hypothetically, the actual literal rock did, in fact, turn you into a girl. Why? Why would the rock make you, of all people, a girl? It just doesn’t make sense.

Dr. [REDACTED]: I don’t know what you want from me, man! I wasn’t a girl, and now I’m a girl, and it happened after I touched the rock that makes you a girl! It’s simple process of elimination!

Dr. Glass: That isn’t- That’s not what process of elimination is!

Dr. [REDACTED]: You wanna test it?

Dr. Glass: Sure. Why not.

Dr. [REDACTED]: It’s just gonna turn you into a girl.

Dr. Glass: It won’t.

Dr. [REDACTED]: It will!

Dr. Glass: It will not!

Dr. [REDACTED]: Fine! Fine. I’ll fuckin’.. have Diogenes walk you there. But I’m warning you, you will become a girl.

Dr. Glass: I doubt it.

Dr. [REDACTED]: Uh-huh. I’m sure you do.

[Tape recorder clicks off.]

[Tape recorder clicks on.]

Dr. [REDACTED]: Simon.

Dr. Glass: Hey..

[Pause.]

Dr. Glass: The rock made me a girl.

[coatree]

Initially I was just drawing them for fun but coincidentally I happened to finish this drawing on alt hermit day so

Late Wels and on time Hels let’s goooooo

Plus some doodles to explain the random bullshit lore I made up

[genderqueerdykes]

Another weird thing about the TME/TMA thing is that the people who push it often believe that any suffering or bigotry we face for being transmasc is by nature lesser. When like I can list on and on the social alienation and violence we face and have faced myself as a transmasc person.

And also it doesn’t fucking matter what intent a bigot has behind their violence, if they’re pointing their violence at me I’m still a victim of that violence! I had a friend almost got attacked while walking down the street cause he’s a trans dude who was wearing drag. Like aw man sorry you got attacked by violent bigots, it seems however your labels don’t match up with that bigots intent. Guess what happened to u doesn’t mean anything!!!! What a weird concept.

i'm sorry you experience it as well. it sucks ass, i'm so tired of people trying to weigh transmasculine oppression vs. transfeminine oppression on a scale to see which one's heavier. like stop that, why are we trying to compare situations to see who has it worse? why are we telling people who are also oppressed that their struggle is "lesser"? what does that accomplish? all it does is hurt the person being downplayed. it doesn't uplift trans women to put other people down. that's not how this works.

i really don't fucking understand this current mindset of "person who has it The Worst gets to talk all the time forever for as long as they want and be as rude as they want and everyone who has it Less Bad has to shut the fuck up and sit with rapt attention and listen and never speak or comment or have an independent thought of their own on what they got lectured on." those people still have problems even if they're ""less"" bad, why do only certain groups of people get to talk about them? everyone in the queer community has problems, it doesn't matter the "severity," they all deserve to be discussed. and yet.

i'm really sorry that happened to your friend, holy shit. that is terrifying. but it happens. you're dead on the money. it doesn't matter what their intent is. they committed an act of violence. it does NOT matter what was going through the attacker's mind. they chose to commit an act of violence. sitting there on your petty ass high horse going "well akshually, i have a transfem friend who got attacked by TWO bigots and it was way worse so be grateful and shut up," isn't helping a goddamn soul. please stop shutting people up when they talk about their pain and trauma.

i don't know how else to tell every other transfem and trans woman on this website that we are not the only trans people who suffer. like i really need every single one of us to step down off the damn horse already and admit that we aren't the only fucking queers that suffer because we're not. we can't keep controlling the narrative like this. that's what we're doing at this stage. we are COMPLETELY controlling the narrative, making it ENTIRELY about us and our suffering and how we have it bad. we DO have it bad. but other people do, too. y'all GOTTA accept that other people suffer. y'all GOTTA accept that trans men are assaulted and killed every single day for being trans men. y'all GOTTA accept that most trans men don't and will never benefit from patriarchy. y'all GOTTA accept that transmascs and trans men have it really, really damn bad too.

i am honestly just so sick of the victim complex already. can we finally discuss how these currently emerging transfeminine and trans woman victim complexes are just out of fucking control at this point. i've wanted to talk about this forever and it's just getting worse right in front of my damn eyes. i've been in transfeminine spaces for a long time, but lately i just don't have a single desire to spend time in them. way too much arguing. way too much hostility. way too much anger directed at the wrong people. yes we are miserable, yes we suffer, yes we are heavily oppressed, yes we ARE very much victims. but so many transfems and trans women make that their entire ass personality and it's gotta stop.

womanhood isn't about being a victim. i don't know if i like the idea of making "woman" and "victim" synonymous. that's not empowering. that's not feminist. if you only see yourself as a victim, that's what you'll be. you will never progress to being a survivor if you keep thinking like that. you can't turn being a victim into a personality. it's a state of being, but it's not an identity. you are relinquishing power when you voluntarily identify as a victim. you are surrendering your control voluntarily if you keep throwing your hands up in the air and giving up like this.

someone else talking about their suffering doesn't diminish ours. someone else talking about their pain is not somehow an attack on you. trans men and transmascs talking is not an attack on you or transfemininity or trans womanhood. trans men existing are not an attack on you! stop with the victim complex already! it's not empowering! not everything is an attack! the world sucks but not everything is an attack on trans women and transfems!!!

i don't fucking care how much it offends you that people other than you suffer, but they're not talking about their suffering to make you feel like yours is lesser.

so why are you doing it to them?

[bumblingbabooshka]

Thinking about marriage/women's rights on Vulcan Some may think that T'Pring not being allowed to divorce Spock was because he was going through the pon farr but if she were allowed to divorce him at all she probably would have done that a long time ago, confirmed by T'Pol when she's speaking with Koss, who isn't suffering from the pon farr. She says that he can choose another mate (without invoking a fight it seems: note the difference between a 'mate' and a 'challenger') and after he makes it clear that nothing she says will change his mind about marrying her, she finally threatens to declare a kal-if-fee. It's clear that Vulcan women cannot divorce/refuse to marry a man they've been betrothed to under any circumstances if A) He himself doesn't consent to ending their marriage or B) She doesn't have someone else waiting in the wings to be given to in his stead. Though, if the challenger she selects fails to win the fight, she'll have to marry her betrothed anyway unless (again) he decides he doesn't want her after the challenge. That seems like an incredibly unfair system, heavily biased towards men. SNW is an alternate universe in many obvious respects but most egregiously in that T'Pring has a lot of non-canonical agency over her relationship with Spock. It's interesting to me that Vulcan society has women in many positions of power and treats women as equal to men from what I've seen despite these laws. We don't really see Vulcans exhibiting a misogynistic attitude towards women in general but in TOS (perhaps because of its general writing style but it's still interesting to note) both Sarek and Spock take on patriarchal attitudes specifically regarding wives. Amanda says that 'of course' Sarek commands her because "he is a Vulcan and I am his wife." It's worthwhile in my eyes to note that she specifies 'wife' instead of attributing this attitude to women as a whole. Again, with TOS' writing style it wouldn't be out of place for her to say "he is a man and I am a woman." Spock, while in a pon farr induced irritation, states that it's "undignified for a woman to play servant to a man that isn't hers" - again implying that there's something specific about being a Wife in Vulcan society which is different from being a woman in general and demands subservience to a husband. This could perhaps stem from the extreme sense of ownership that Vulcan law has permitted men to have over women. A woman legally cannot point blank refuse marriage. There is no option which guarantees she won't have to marry her betrothed other than death. When T'Pau speaks of T'Pring she refers to her as being 'property' and Stonn, before being interrupted, states he's made 'the ancient claim' - we don't know what this is because he gets cut off but it's obvious they're both using the language of Vulcan law. Men are permitted true freedom to choose. If a woman wants to choose someone else to be with there is no option available to her other than the kal-if-fee which might result in the death of the one she wants to be with. And, if her lover fails, her husband can still just decide he wants to marry her and she'll be forced to. T'Pring gives two scenarios: One where Spock 'frees' her and one where he doesn't - it's still ultimately his decision which is clear when he ends the conversation with "Stonn, she is yours." This again isn't just because of the pon farr as T'Pol also goes through this. Koss can choose another mate and when the option is talked about there's no implication that this would result in any sort of fight (both by the casualness of its mention and by the fact that there's no formal word for it unlike the kal-if-fee.) Also, the fact that Koss does eventually grant T'Pol a divorce and it's all fine means that T'Pol isn't lawfully required to have another man waiting if her HUSBAND doesn't want her. It's ONLY required if SHE doesn't want her husband. Tradition must take precedence over individual desire UNLESS!!! You're a man. Then it's fine. Like, your parents might not be happy but legally you're golden.

[feelo-fick]

more misc au art... (the last two are unrelated but shh)

GAAAHHHH i promise ive got actual stuff cooking im just scared to post it/motivation to finish art Hard :"D clutching my head... always forever 24/7 thinking about them...

[coyle-and-co]

VERRRRRY quick sketches of franco and dolly, because i find it funny how drastically different he is between being in prison vs. being in murkoff HAHA and since i want them to smooch here u go

pre!murkoff dolly would used the fact he’s feminine to get what he wants from men (mostly their money) and speaks in a transatlantic accent (think hollywood)

post!murkoff dolly has none of the charm and prefers to just build bombs. He doesn’t understand that when people are hit with bombs they die

both versions would love franco for different reasons

also i’m so bad at showing their heights consistently but my personal head canon is that franco is 5ft while dolly is 6’3, so franco would see not-brainwashed-and-dumbass dolly and be like “woah big woman” when in fact its some twink with good makeup skills

#getfooled barbi!

[stardestroyer81]

So @retrobee drew a Ruby Spears take on an absolutenutcase162 comic...