#my usual trans identities for them

[arecaceae175]

Fishing tourney

Twilight

Found family

:)

"Fishing tourney time! The rules are simple. Y'all can keep one fish in the bucket at a time. Biggest fish in the bucket when the sun goes down wins," Twilight explained.

Wild raised their hand.

"No, you can't use bombs. Fishing poles only."

Wild lowered their hand.

Legend raised his hand.

"No magic. Just regular ol' fishing poles."

Legend lowered his hand.

Time raised xyr hand.

"No items or masks! Just fishing poles."

Time lowered xyr hand.

Twilight groaned and dragged a hand over his face. They sighed and went to the edge of the dirt in a prime fishing location. They held up their very normal, not enchanted, wooden fishing rod with very normal, not at all magic, bait on the hook.

"You stand here. You use a regular fishing rod. You catch a fish through normal, non-magical methods with said fishing rod. Nothing else. Are we clear?"

Wind raised a hand.

"No magical bait!"

"It's not magic! It's just... enhanced."

Twilight's groan was loud enough to send the birds fleeing from the trees.

[phagodyke]

in a hilarious turn of events my flatmate didn't even know I use any pronouns....

[crypt1dcorv1dae]

Apollo with thick eyebrows and freckles and body hair is my truth. He's a small tank also. Wide. He works out bc 1: he does not want to ever be called a twink and 2: it helps with stress and God knows he is STRESSED. Oh also he's trans. Also when his hair is un-gelled it looks almost exactly like trucy's, his lil bunny ears curl around his face all cute and he hates it which is why he gels it back so aggressively

[switchytransboy]

2nd message into a conversation w someone here and i was indirectly being asked what’s in my pants bc they wanted to know “what kind of person they were talking to”

… as far as i’m concerned i’m just a trans guy and that’s pretty obvious. but “what kind of person” just made me feel like more of an object.

i’m not one for call out posts unless it’s something REALLY bad so while i won’t be saying who this was, if it wasn’t already obvious, please NEVER ask not even just trans people but ANYONE what genitals they have.

i didn’t know it was necessary information to have in order to, not even just engage in tickles, but have a conversation first??? like damn.

[drchucktingle]

What do you think of people who are therian, otherkin, and alterhuman? Or, perhaps, the ideas of alterhumanity as a whole?

this is a good question had to look up what some of these things were, so bear in mind my understanding is limited and fresh, HOWEVER this one seems pretty easy for me to speak on philosophically because it falls under a BASE philosophy that i have always had

as far as identity and body, my trot is that everyone has the right to do whatever they want with their body, which includes of course things like gender affirming ways (or even humanity affirming or unaffirming aways). that also includes ways in which you identify yourself.

some otherwise well meaning buckaroos get wrapped up in things like 'well i am okay with the standard pronouns but what about neo pronouns of buds who say they identify as non human or a dang tree.' i mean WE ALL KNOW there is the old scoundrel joke about attack helicopters and the thing is this: i genuinely, sincerely, without any reservations believe you can legitimately identify as a helicopter.

who am i to say you are not one? how do we even define what a HUMAN or UNHUMAN is in this swirling mix of matter and energy? is there even really a point where i end and you begin? there are OF COURSE standard answers to this that help us get through the day in a material way, but i feel like once you start talking PHILOSOPHY AND EXISTENCE and really ZOOM OUT then you are opening things up to a grander perception of this timeline, where things like 'what even IS my body?' become very abstract

in a world where all i REALLY know is that 'i think therefore i am' i am not really ready to start imposing strict definitions of these things on other people

what i personally care about is RESPECTING others and showing them kindness. so if someone is identifying in a way that is unusual (not in the sense of bad but in the sense of literally not usual) i will always just say 'okay that is very cool and exciting thank you for telling me'. i mean HECK, as a non dysphoric trans person i identify in a technically unusual way.

it is SO EASY to just 'yes and' other buckaroos expression of themselves. it is SO EASY to just 'yes and' love and exploration. so i fully support and am excited about and whole heartedly believe in any way that buds see themselves fitting into this timeline

[v4mpyyr-exe]

DONT LIKE, REBLOG

so people who do this may see it.

The growing problem of "they" for trans people

Something I've noticed growing more common in my life recently has been people using exclusively "they" when referring to binary trans people who don't use "they"

Why is this a problem?

Using "they" when referring to someone when you don't know is seen as "better" in a lot of spaces now, which I can agree with as you don't know what their actual pronouns are. The problem I've noticed is that when meeting a trans person, a lot of people seem to default to "they" even after being told what pronouns they actually prefer. This can be for a lot of reasons, but the most common ones I hear are "I didn't want to assume" and "its not misgendering, they is neutral!"

Example situation

Person A meets person B, a trans woman. A doesn't know B's pronouns and so refers to B as "they." B corrects A, saying she prefers "she," but A continues to say "they" because its gender neutral. However, A does not do the same to cis women.

Do you see the problem now?

The use of exclusively "they" on trans people but not cis people, no matter your excuse, shows that you don't really see them as what they identify as and is quite transphobic since you're literally ignoring their identity and not seeing them as how they want to be seen.

"Okay, what should I do?"

Simple, just ask them their pronouns and then ACTUALLY USE THEM!! If he says he, DONT USE EXCLUSIVELY THEY! If she says she, DONT USE EXCLUSIVELY THEY! If they say they, well. yeah, use they, obviously. If xe say neopronouns and you don't know how to use those, just ask! If any part of someone's identity confuses you, just fucking ask them instead of assuming, for the love of god, and once they tell you, don't ignore what they said.

That's all. Just please stop calling people who don't use "they" by that.

Edit:

I got this comment and thought I should clarify and add on some MORE things you should avoid doing now that this post has aged a bit, and I've had more time to think!

Please do not attack this person, i dont think they meant it in any bad way

Clarification on the term 'misgendering'

While yes, 'gender' does not directly tell you someones pronouns or what terms they're comfortable with, but misgendering doesn't only mean calling a man a woman or a woman a man. Misgendering is usually thought to only mean using a trans person's assigned sexs' pronouns or deadnaming, but it's actually more than just that, it includes what terms you use for them, how you group them, and what societal expectations you put onto them based on their assigned sex, not just their gender.

Other things you should avoid

* These DO NOT apply to every situation! These are just general rules UNTIL YOU KNOW THE PERSON, then do what they ask

Calling all gender non-conforming people 'it' (again..not. universal.)

Deadnaming, obviously

Using gendered pronouns for a non-conforming person

Arguing with someone over the validity of their identity

Automatically introducing someone as trans

Assuming someone is out to other family or friends

Using incorrectly gendered terms, including when referring to a group

Exclusively using gender neutral terms/compliments

[doberbutts]

it's crazy how trans men said "it makes us sad when we're constantly bombarded with jokes about how terrible men are" and now every post is like "ugh why are we doing #notallmen again!"

As I said before, I only started talking about this when- in a queer-focused and trans-run facebook group- there were constant jokes from cis women about how attraction to men is a curse and why would anyone actually want to be with a man and how unnatural men are and why would anyone want to be a man, and when a couple trans men went "hey uhhh these jokes are pretty hurtful can we maybe... not do this in a queer group? I hear this enough from homophobic/transphobic people" they were told they were the ones at fault and promptly removed from said group by the trans man who was the admin.

I repeat, in a place that is supposed to welcome all queer identities, it was seen as praxis to continuously bash men and when queer men protested they were kicked out.

When my cis lesbian friend is complaining about a dude being a creep or having The Audacity, I'm not offended when she turns to me and says "Jasper, why are men????? WHY????" Because I get it. I also have dealt with creeps and male audacity. She's venting, she understands that there are also dudes that are not like this, and she's addressing a conversation that needs to happen about the way [usually white, cishet, abled, etcetcetc] dudes act especially towards women. She would not be friends with me if she felt I was acting this way, myself.

What I have a problem with is when venting transforms into politics- because at that point the logical "obviously she knows and does not mean every single man in this entire planet" stops being true when it becomes "no but for real I mean it, we should kill all men and start over as a society" which is a thing I have actually seen stated by radical feminists.

I think there's a big difference between two people having a private conversation that is perhaps not the most inclusive of all nuance and viewpoints, and blasting your personal opinions about how you think men are disgusting and and attraction to men is unnatural within a space occupied by people who A: are men B: are attracted to men C: have been told repeatedly by society that their attraction to men makes them disgusting and unnatural.

[agathasfamiliar]

hi!! I just found your blog, can I request g!p detective!agatha railing reader in a missionary position and has a bulge kink (poking the bear🤭🏃‍♀️)

thank you so much for this request it was very fun to write, i hope you enjoy it!

fuck the police:

detective agnes o'connor x fem!reader

You fucked up and finally got caught for your long-running streak of graffiti artistry. What's worse than being arrested, however? Being interrogated by the one detective in town who causes you to question your all out hatred for the profession.

word count: 6.2k

tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, agnes is trans/intersex/has a penis, penis in vagina sex, power bottom!reader, service top!agnes (but agnes still needs a little control of course), handcuffs, breeding kink, bulge kink, agnes loves reader's tits, smut

author's note: trans butch agnes, my beloved. also i probably could've done more research into a more realistic set up/i know this isn't how someone being arrested/interrogated would work but it's porn so...hopefully you can look past that

You never thought you’d find yourself here, arrested and waiting to be questioned for your crimes. Perhaps you should’ve seen it coming, your graffiti art has steadily risen in popularity over the last few months, ever since one particularly evocative piece got featured on the local news and allegedly inspired a number of protests throughout the city of Westview.

Not that you had anything to do with that.

The police department has issued several requests for information on you, even offering a pretty handsome reward for the proven identity of “Hex”, the name you tag every piece with. A rumor has even reached your ears about a copycat artist getting arrested over in Eastview. Serves them right for using your signature, but it at least has kept the feds off your trail for a bit. 

Admittedly, you’d gotten cocky thinking you could get away with tagging the squad car stationed at the busiest intersection in town. In your defense, it had looked empty. How were you supposed to know the deputy on duty was napping in the back seat? You’d made it halfway through the looping pink pig face you were sprawling across the windshield before he woke up and chased you down four blocks.

If you were wearing your usual running shoes instead of having slipped on an old pair of slides in your rush out of the house, you probably would’ve outrun the middle-aged cop chasing you, another mistake you won’t make again.

  Now, you sit shivering in nothing but a sheer white tank top and sweatpants so spattered in all the vibrant colors of your, now confiscated, cans of spray paint, that you can’t even remember what color the pants originally were. You weren’t an idiot, you had a black hoodie on when you went out to do your work, but the rookie cop that booked you at the station also insisted on taking your sweatshirt for “evidence”.

You’re pretty sure he just wanted to see you suffer in the refrigerator-like temperature they keep the precinct at, clearly only recently having graduated the academy and already taking a shine to abusing his power. Pigs, indeed. 

The interrogation room they brought you to well over 30 minutes ago sits at the very back of the building, a windowless box that somehow looks and smells both musty and sterile. A large one-way mirror covers the wall opposite the door, the only noise in the confined space being the tick-tick-tick of the clock above it that reads just past midnight.

You rattle the short chain connecting your handcuffed wrists to a bar on the heavy metal table in front of you, just to disrupt the suffocating silence. Have you seriously been forgotten here?

Just as you have that thought, as if summoning another person into existence with it, the door, opposite the corner where you sit, opens briskly. 

Twin sighs of irritation drop from both your mouth and the supposed detective’s as she enters. You can’t make out too many details of her appearance at first because of the dim lighting that mostly just illuminates the table you sit at, as well as the fact that she has her head down looking over what you assume is your intake forms. 

“I want a lawyer.” Are the first words out of your mouth once the woman has turned to shut the door behind her.

“Ha!” She laughs dryly and it has you simmering with rage already, but something about it also sounds familiar.

 “Well, sweetie,” The still concealed detective continues as she finally steps into the light, “not likely to find a public defender that’s available at this hour, but if you insist on staying overnight…” She trails off amusedly, finally stepping into the light and causing your prepared reply to die in your throat as you connect the recognition of the voice with the blue eyes that meet yours.

“Detective O’Connor.” You greet, trying to keep your tone even. 

Fuck.

Of fucking course, of all the detectives in the goddamn city, this is who had to come question you. The same detective you’ve served coffee to every morning for the better part of three years at your shitty cafe day job. The same detective who barely acknowledges your existence, but when her fingers brush yours as you pass her usual over the counter, you think about it for the rest of the day. The detective you berate yourself for fantasizing about, because she’s everything you despise and your friends would never let you hear the end of it if they found out, especially with how often you’re spouting your “radical” political beliefs (not that you see them that way.)

Detective Agnes fucking O’Connor…

This is not how you imagined it would look if you ever got her in a room alone.

“Huh? Do I know you?” She questions, almost offended, and now you’re the one to let out a dry laugh.

“Here, let me help jog your memory.” You say, picking up the small, paper cup of water that had been left on the table for you in one bound hand, holding it aloft and reciting her order.

 “One large hot coffee with two sugars and half a pump of vanilla.”

She looks unaffected at your display, only raising both eyebrows once in sudden recognition before sauntering over to the chair on the other side of the table and sitting down casually. 

“Impressive, that how you’ve avoided custody so long? Charming Westview’s finest by memorizing their coffee orders?” Her questions are laced with condescension.

“Nope, just yours. Why? Is it working?” You smirk despite your better judgment. You hadn’t planned to try the flirting route to get out your charges, but hey, the best schemes have an element of truth to them. Plus, if this is the only chase you’ll have to speak to the detective alone, you might as well make the most of it. 

She doesn’t answer, instead leaning back in the rickety metal chair that lets out a squeal at the motion. Her long brown hair is pulled back into a ponytail that’s tied low at the base of her skull. Blue flannel sleeves are rolled up to the elbow and it’s all you can do not to think about tracing your tongue over the veins that snake over her strong forearms.

The jeans she’s wearing strain with the way she sits, legs spread apart, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to stop from letting out a gasp when you notice how it puts the delicious outline of what’s beneath the denim on display. Fuck, you do not need to be thinking about straddling the woman where she sits and grinding down against her bulge right now, but you are anyway.

Mercifully, she leans forward again in the seat to ask another question and the view is gone. You need to focus if you’re going to get out of this without incriminating yourself.

“What were you doing tonight?” She asks flatly, getting down to business. You know better than to provide anything resembling an answer, true or false.

“This whole thing seems pretty excessive, all things considered. I mean, an interrogation? Really, Agnes?” Her first name slips out before you can catch it, but you don’t really care.

“Just answer the question. And it’s Detective.” The flare of anger in her eyes only spurs you on.

“Sorry, Detective Agnes,” you correct yourself, purposefully using her name this time, just to see that flash of heat again. 

“If you were so curious about where I was tonight you could’ve just asked me out.” Now that you’ve opened the floodgates, the suggestive remarks just keep coming out.

For Agnes’ part, she remains still and draws in an angry breath. Her blue eyes blaze with irritation at your lack of cooperation more than the intrigue you were hoping for, but that just means you’ll have to turn up the dial on this improvised plan you’ve laid out for yourself. What’s the worst that could happen, anyway?

“Listen, if you’re going to keep wasting my time I’ll just lock you up now and wait ‘til morning.” She threatens with a glowering expression, voice raising every few words in an attempt to intimidate. It’s kind of cute, actually. 

You think she might hear just how her phrasing comes out and anticipate your next response, because she almost looks remorseful. The slightest pink tone that rises to her cheeks and the way she pokes her tongue out to wet her bottom lip when her eyes flick down to your barely covered chest don’t escape your careful observations either. 

“Ooo,” you start, falsely scandalized, “now you want me to spend the night?” A slight giggle escaping you at your own words and the way you lift your handcuffed wrists in front of you playfully. 

With the action, you’re sure to press your biceps against either side of your body to even more obviously display your tits, and she can’t help but look down with the movement, eyes raking over your nipples that stand at attention beneath the thin fabric in the cold space.

Heat is practically rolling off her in waves and you can’t tell for sure if it’s arousal or fury that is threatening to boil over, or what will happen when it does, but you have always been the type to take risks. Why stop now?

“Can’t you just get me off with a warning? I mean- let me off…” You ask before she can recover from your last question, attempting a simper at the intentional slip up in your speech. 

It seems that this is what finally pushes her over the edge as she slams her hands loudly against the metal table and stands up, causing it to vibrate with the impact. Her chair goes clattering to the ground behind her, but she doesn’t seem to care. The satisfied expression you wear drops for a second at the forceful display, maybe this wasn’t the best idea.

“Alright, that’s enough!” She shouts, leaning over so you can practically feel her breath on your face before she rounds the table quickly.

“Do you really wanna keep poking the bear?!” She asks, furious, now standing at your right side and heavily folding at the waist to shout into your ear. 

You have to lean away slightly at the volume that threatens to burst your eardrum and it provides just enough space to look the detective up and down where she stands. 

That’s when you see it. 

Unmistakable and pressing against the zipper of her jeans so forcefully that it’s a wonder they haven’t burst; Detective O’Connor is hard. 

You can’t drag your eyes away from the tented fabric, so obvious that it nearly casts a shadow onto the denim in the odd light of the room. As you are still seated, you’re practically at the perfect level to just lean over and mouth the length through her pants. It’s all you can do not to let your head dip where it wants to most, as if you’re a magnet being drawn by its opposite charge.

“I- uh.” You stutter, unsure of your words for the first time since she walked in. The amount of saliva that has accumulated in your mouth at the sight in front of you forces you to swallow before you speak again.

“I think I’d rather have the bear poke me.” You breathe, sounding wrecked just at the thought.

When you finally drag your gaze back up to hers, her face is burning red, but this time you can tell it is much more out of embarrassment than anger. She looks self conscious in a way you’ve never seen and it’s so, so pretty. 

“It’s okay I c-” You start, reaching out uselessly in your confines, but you’re cut off from your attempt at a rare comforting word when Agnes seizes your right shoulder and lifts you to your feet. She then immediately folds you over and presses you against the table on your stomach, handcuffed hands pinned beneath your chest. You let out a grunt at the forceful action as well as the freezing cold metal that almost stings your skin that has warmed at your flirting.

The position is much like the one you were put in a few hours ago upon your arrest, only now it causes you to ache with desire instead of seeth with fury. 

“You think this is funny?!” She questions, but it sounds strained and unsure. Your own hesitance at her intentions keeps you from muttering out that it’s actually not funny, it’s really fucking hot.

It dawns on you then that she probably turned you over like this so you aren’t able to see the blush that’s probably still spreading over her skin, or the bulge in her pants that’s no doubt only getting worse, especially with how you purposefully arch your back in her grasp.

She has you pinned beneath her hands, one still on your shoulder and the other holding your waist, the perfect placement for her to pull you back against her. Instead, a shaky breath sounds from behind you. It seems like she’s deciding what to do next and you can almost feel the heat radiating from between her hips that begs her to choose the option you’re hoping for too.

You start pressing back yourself, impatient and using any amount of leverage possible to reach your destination. To help her decide.

“Come on, detective. Let me help you out.” You nearly whisper in the most convincing and sweet voice you can muster. Her hands loosen ever so slightly at the soft sound and you use the opportunity to slide the last inch backwards, your ass just barely brushing her front, aware also that if she had wanted to stop you she would’ve easily been able to.

You feel the hardness and heat of her cock against you through both your clothing and nearly release a whimper at the sensation, at the idea of her finally being inside you like you’ve fantasized about so many times. 

Just as quickly as it’s there, it’s gone again. Her hands release you entirely and she steps away without a word, leaving you feeling even colder than the steel table you’re slumped against. You drop your head to the metal in defeat. That’s it, you think. Your efforts haven't worked and you’re not only going to spend the night in a cell, but you’re going to do so while very uncomfortably wet and wound up. Plus, she’s probably going to try to add attempted bribery or harassment to your charge sheet. God, this was a dumb idea. Why couldn’t you have just gotten some old guy detective whose questions you would have dodged coldly and without a second thought?

All these thoughts flash through your head in the few seconds it takes Agnes to step away from the table and turn you by the hips to face her, the chain keeping you there being just long enough to allow such movement. 

You look down immediately, as if out of instinct, to find the large bulge still present, possibly even more so somehow. A bolt of desire strikes through your core at the small dark spot you notice has formed on the crotch of the already dark jeans. The evidence of your effect threatens to turn your legs to jelly. Finally, your eyes raise to meet Agnes’ with a curiosity, who stands less than a foot from you, hands still holding your hips loosely. The thrill of not knowing what she’ll do next makes your already racing heart beat even faster.

You find that she looks as weak as you feel, drinking you in like you’re an ice cold glass of water she’s found in the middle of the sahara. It’s clear that she’s used up every last thread of restraint she has to resist your offer, and it still has proven to be insufficient. Her blue irises have nearly been swallowed by blown black pupils that bore into you as she speaks her resignation to her rapturous fate.

“If I’m gonna fuck you,” she breathes the words out like she’s just run a marathon, “it’s gonna be while looking at those pretty tits.”

You lean back into the table in favor of collapsing straight to the floor at those words. How is this actually happening?

Seeing you stumble into the table, her right hand shifts down to your thigh and lifts, helping you to sit on the ledge as she steps closer to let your knees bracket her body. She looks so much more confident in this moment, and not in the same stone-faced way she had while you prodded at her before. It brings a soft smile to your lips and she looks away, somewhat coyly, at your noticing. It’s hard to decide if you prefer her shy or assertive.  

Blunt nails graze gently over your covered thighs, to your hips, then your waist, before finally settling over your scarcely contained breasts. Your own sharp intake of breath meets your ears as you lean into the warm touch and she squeezes them with a smirk playing on her lips.

  “I might not remember your face…” she rasps, leaning to speak directly into your right ear, “but I definitely remember these.” Both thumbs move to brush over your already pebbled nipples, causing them to harden further. You roll your eyes, both at the comment and at the thread of pleasure that tugs right from where she touches you all the way down to your pulsing clit.

For all the humor in it, you can’t help but notice just how sincere her comment sounds and flashes run through your mind of every low cut top you’ve ever worn to work, wondering which one’s are her favorite.

“Shut up and fuck me already.” You exhale with a chuckle against her cheek, momentarily forgetting your binds and trying to reach around her shoulders to pull her closer. The chain rattles loudly and you jerk with the reminder of your limited movement.

Agnes shakes her head and laughs at your needy but firm command as well as your inability to move.

“Here, let me.” She continues laughing gently as she reaches for the key ring you somehow hadn’t yet noticed swinging from her hip. 

“No.” You blurt before you can think better of it. 

“Leave them.” 

It’s a daring statement and you run your tongue across your teeth mischievously while the implication works its way through the woman’s mind. Her lower lip disappears into her mouth with how hard she bites into it, looking at you in disbelief and utter need. 

“Fuck,” is all she says, dropping the keys back to her side and moving instead to undo her belt with a clumsy haste. 

You would be scrambling to remove your own pants as well, not wanting to waste anymore time, but your own request has left you unable to do so. Instead, you’re left in awe as the black leather belt is unlatched and left hanging loosely open while Agnes works at her zipper. Even less is left to the imagination when denim is pulled aside to reveal cotton boxer briefs protruding with the tension of her arousal.

Her cock is pressing tautly against the soft, grey material and the way the underwear clings to her body causes you to gape at the implication of how much the secure garment is still concealing. 

The dark spot you’d noticed on her jeans is even darker and more centralized to its origin on the grey cloth. Saliva fills your mouth again at the sight, the only thing better than seeing her from beneath that last layer of clothing will be when it is finally removed.

As if reading your mind and wanting you to suffer a moment long, she pauses her motions of undressing any further. Before you can argue or make a snide remark, her hands are on your own waistband, tugging the paint-covered article down as much as she can while you’re still seated. You can’t very well lift yourself with your hands at the moment, so you slip off the table quickly to help get them the rest of the way down, hopping back up just as swiftly and letting her pull them off your legs, shoes falling to the floor one by one in the process. 

The cold table under your mostly bare ass draws the breath from you momentarily, only a black pair of boyshorts now protecting you from the metal.

“Do you ever wash these?” Agnes asks down at the rainbow vomit littering your clothing before dropping the pants to the floor, a real dry humor in her voice replacing the stern, mocking one from when she first entered the room.

“What’s the point?” You ask, because seriously, why would you wash them if you’re just going to get paint all over them again?

“Do you answer every question with a question?” She fires back, moving back between your knees from where she’d stepped back to help undress you. Her fingers play again at her own waistband, dipping into them slightly before meeting your eyes, waiting for your answer.

“Do you always stall like this when a girl wants you to fill her pussy?” You ask with an exaggerated expression of curiosity, as if you are genuinely awaiting the answer and not just communicating your impatience. 

Her cheeks pink again at the response, any clever comebacks quickly forgotten. You remove your gaze from her face and shift it back to her arousal to allow her to blush in private.

In your peripheral vision, you see her eyes flick up to watch your face as she dips her left hand into her underwear and grasps herself so gently, right hand pushing the material down to reveal what you’ve been waiting for.

You’re first met with a mess of dark curls that trail all the way up to her belly button, which you only catch a quick glimpse of with the way her shirt momentarily gets caught by her arm. You stifle a moan at the reveal of her thick cock; rock hard, reddened and still beading pre-cum, as you saw evidenced on the front of her jeans and underwear.

Now you slightly regret having her leave the cuffs on, as you long to reach out and take the length in your hands, or better yet, your mouth. Heat takes your face at the idea of getting on your knees before the detective and gagging on her length, and now you’re the one blushing and biting your lip.

Painfully tearing your eyes from the beautiful sight to catch Agnes’ expression, you find her still looking for your reaction. She finds exactly what she’s looking for in the way your eyes soften and you use one finger, your hands still bound at the wrists and settled in front of your chest, to beckon her forward.

Loose strands of brown hair that have escaped her messily tied back tendrils brush the side of your face as she leans in close to catch your message.

“I need your cock inside me, detective.” You husk, more than speak, into her ear, the lust dripping from the title she insisted on minutes ago causing a physical and auditory shudder through the woman. Looking back down, you see Agnes stroke herself once, as if your words have rendered her unable to resist.

Maybe she notices that you’re about to make a comment about it, because in one swift motion Agnes’ right hand flies up to your left shoulder, shifting you fully to your back on the table. You let out a gasp at the sudden movement, metal tabletop clattering at the impact and drowning out the sound. Just as quickly as you’ve adjusted to your new position, you’re being pulled by the thighs to the very edge of the table and towards exactly what you want, Agnes then guiding you to wrap your spread legs around her hips for support.

“You need this, huh?” She asks, hungrily looking over your body from her new perspective. You’re about to answer her question with your own when she slowly and teasingly drags the head of her cock from your clit to your entrance, over your underwear. Her timing is getting a little too convenient.

You groan at the feeling of your own wetness being pressed against you by her hardness. It makes you ache knowing it’s so close to being consumed by your heat, only a thin shield of fabric left between you. If you had full range of motion of your hands, you would have already ripped the rest of your clothing off, but the quick and dirty way you’re both still mostly clothed almost turns you on more. 

Desperate to maintain the dizzying contact, your hips grind upward as your legs become a vice, pulling her ever closer. The clear enthusiasm only spurs her on, gliding back up and down again, circling your clit three times with her cock on the last pass until you're squirming beneath her and hopelessly trying to contain your whimpering. You would rather wait a lifetime for your orgasm than beg a cop.

You’re so sopping wet, though, that when you look down between your bodies you can see the way her cock shines with your arousal despite not having yet made full contact. It’s almost too much to bear, your clit throbbing in time with your pounding pulse. Something has to give or you’re soon going to be a blabbering mess. 

“Just fuck me, Agnes!” You bark out, hips rising insistently and your voice verging on a whine.

The room goes still for a moment, even the clock ticking away on the wall seems to pause for dramatic effect as she quirks an eyebrow and tilts her head dangerously at your outburst. That same feeling from before washes over you, when you thought you might’ve really fucked up, but it only lasts for half a second before a hand is shoving your ruined underwear to one side and you feel the tip of her resting at your entrance.

Your eyes meet her blue ones, which are actually still mostly black, especially in this light. They burn into you like before and you don’t know whether her silence is a good or bad thing. 

You draw in your own shaky breath, waiting for her next move, and on the exhale she sheathes herself to the hilt inside of you.

Even she can’t contain her half of the guttural growl that comes from both of you at the perfect feeling. You don’t even have the wherewithal to feel embarrassed about just how fucking soaked you are that she was able to slide all the way in with one thrust, because the way her cock is filling you up so completely has rendered every other thought irrelevant.

A moment passes where you both breathe, adjusting to the stretch and squeeze respectively. You feel her throb once within you and think, at this point, with enough determination, you could come just from that small amount of friction.

You don’t need that determination, though. As if mocking that passing thought, Agnes skips any unnecessary build up and starts at a positively bruising pace. Just one moment ago she was panting over you, looking like she might not even make it two thrusts in before unraveling, and now she’s slamming into you with a literally breathtaking force.

No intelligible noises are able to come out of your throat at first, only broken, reedy gasps. Your eyes roll back in your head as the glorious, slapping sounds of your joining sexes fill your ears. Her length jabs over and over again at the perfect spot inside you, just where you need her. 

Doing your best to focus your vision, you look up to see the red face of a woman clearly holding on to her composure for dear life. Her finger nails are short, but still able to bite into your hips ever so slightly as she practically slides you up and down along the table while also moving against you herself, which deepens her thrusts even more.

This also seemingly provides quite the show for Agnes, who you observe is splitting her time between watching your face contorting with pleasure, her cock sliding in and out of your pussy, and most of all, the way your tits are bouncing considerably with her every movement.

“You like these? You should fuck them.” You make out between gasping breaths, nodding down at your own chest.

Agnes takes a moment to respond, her laser focus causing her to not even register your words at first. When she does however, and notices your gesturing, her thrusting falters only for a moment, as if the idea alone has made her nearly swoon with desire. Crystal irises scan you over again and you can tell she’s thinking about it by the way her eyebrows knit together in a desperate sort of way.

“Maybe next time.” She decides, smirking down at you and ramming herself into you particularly hard once before returning to her rhythm, while her left hand comes up to grip your right breast greedily.

“Mmn- next time?” You ask around a moan, trying not to sound too hopeful, but it’s also such an unexpected sentiment from the detective you can’t help but question her further.

“I’d bet good money this won’t be your last arrest,” is all she says to satisfy your curiosity. While it’s also a subtle dig at your evading skills, your imagination still runs wild with the unspoken promise of how a future slip-up might turn out for you. It almost makes you want to get caught again.

“Right, because you’d love to f-fuck, fuck! Oh my god!” Your response turns into a moaning curse when her hand shoots down from playing with your tits so her thumb can land firmly on your clit and press down with flawless pressure, never letting up consistently filling you in the process. 

“Oh fuck! Don’t stop! Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me..” The mantra spills from your lips while your orgasm mounts within you and you know you’ll be toppling over the edge any minute now.

If your hands were free you would be locking your fingers behind her neck and pulling her even closer to you to ensure you get what you want, but the burn of the metal chafing your wrists is a delicious alternative. The pain only sharpens the pleasure you’re feeling everywhere else and you throb at the idea of waking up tomorrow and seeing angry red and purple bracelets of evidence.

At your emphatic request, she doesn’t stop. You’ve never been so full before and when Agnes’ cock throbs within you after every couple of pumps, stars explode behind your eyes. There’d better be a next time because you’re pretty sure nothing and nobody has or will ever make you feel like this.

“I’m so, so close. Fuck!” You shout, unsure what possesses you to tell her, but her response only drives you closer to the edge.

“Fuck, yeah, fucking come for me. Come on my cock, come on my c-cock…” She huffs, the exertion that you were already impressed with her maintaining finally shows in her voice, but she still never lets up. It almost sounds like she’s begging, a “please” barely contained behind her lips, and that’s what makes you really want to come for her.

Chasing your orgasm, you redouble your efforts of rocking your hips up and it makes her length press even more fully against your front wall until you’re practically screaming with pleasure. The new angle caused by your rocking coupled with the way your walls are tightening around her in anticipation of your release is also clearly doing something for Agnes.

Her breaths are coming in short puffs and she is completely unable to stifle the loud whimper that bursts out of her when you clench around her even harder, your orgasm just seconds away.

That’s what finally does it, that mewl that you were able to pull from the tough detective. It sends you flying, every muscle tenses and wave after wave of pleasure causes you to buck against the table and Agnes, but she holds you firmly in place, fucking you through it and moaning herself the whole time as she marvels at your release. The aftershocks go on for what feels like forever while you float in your euphoria, never wanting it to end.

After your release, Agnes’ thrusts quickly become short and frantic, almost rutting into you with a fervor. The throbs you’ve felt are coming on every pump and you’re content to lie back in your blissed out state and let her take whatever she wants, until she starts to pull out of you, one trembling hand releasing your hip and clearly intent on finishing herself off. 

You’re suddenly more lucid than ever, quickly locking your ankles behind her from where they’d fallen limp, and shoving her back into you until she bottoms out. A surprised breath leaves her at the action, a sheen of sweat breaking across her forehead as she stutters out her reasoning.

“I-I’m gonna-” She can’t even get the words out and it’s the second time in so many minutes that you feel your heart squeeze at just how adorable this usually grave woman is. 

“I know, I know. Come inside me, baby.” Your voice is thick with desire and you’re still lingering bliss, the pet name slipping out like water, but you need her to know just how badly you want it.

Her eyes widen slightly as a deeper blush somehow takes over her already red face, unsure but so very full of want. You feel her twitch within you despite herself and her hips roll just at the words. 

You don’t break eye contact, making clear how serious you are to quell her doubt.

Tentatively, after a beat, she starts up a slower pace, pulling almost out of you before thrusting all the way back in, like she’s giving herself time to think again.

“You can do it baby, I know you want to. Fuck, you feel so good inside me.” You gasp out the words while she fucks back into your pussy and you think you could come again just from the way she looks at you when you say them.

You repeat your cooing encouragements and it doesn’t even take three more of those slow thrusts before she falters and stays sheathed inside you, rutting weakly. 

“Come on, baby.” You repeat, and you know she’s done.

More of those beautiful whimpers fall from her lips as you feel one stronger throb and then warmth explodes into your walls. You can’t help but moan yourself at the feeling of being filled by her. Spurt after spurt of her cum coats your insides while she holds you tighter and tighter, as if you’ll float away if she lets go. Her desperate moans die down eventually and she slumps against you, still inside, and draws in one big breath before releasing it slowly. Her eyes are screwed shut and her head is now resting against your restrained hands on your chest. 

It’s probably good they're restrained, you think, because if they weren’t you’d be having a very hard time resisting running your fingers through her long hair, tenderly scratching your nails against the nape of her neck.

Another beat passes where the two of you breath against one another and come down from your respective highs. The delicious mix of your and Agnes’ cum has started to drip out of you onto the table below and it’s a hot enough thought that your sensitive clit gives a weak twitch and you clench around Agnes unintentionally, causing her to crane her neck to look up at you.

Her eyes are clear again and softer than you’ve ever seen them; you let your coursing endorphins carry you away on a cloud of imagining leaning the six inches it would take to capture her lips in yours, but you don’t dare actually do it.

She starts to shift, maybe shaking herself from some similar thought, you can’t tell. Her soft sex pulls out of you slowly as she pushes up on her hands and waits for you to release her from the grip your legs still have her in. You unsteadily unravel yourself from her, shuddering slightly at the loss and trying not to think about how empty you feel without her.

Now free, she tucks herself back into her briefs and makes quick work of finally undoing your cuffs. Her hands rub at the raw skin absently, using her hold there to pull you into a seated position. She then reaches down for the balled-up mess you call a pair of pants and slides them back onto your trembling legs easily. After you’re relatively put back together, cum still leaking out and coating your already ruined underwear, she looks you over once more with hunger along with something else you can’t place. 

She looks thoughtful, like she wants to say something else but thinks better of it, instead letting a sly smile pull at her mouth and a different comment sneak through with a soft laugh.

“Consider that your warning.”

[luxiomahariel]

small rant, ive never really been a fan of the most popular transmasc and transfem flags tbh

these ones:

my biggest gripe with them is that they look too visually similar and i often get confused as to which is which

but my other problem with them is that they exclude intersex people, especially when i saw the original posts that they came from:

it heavily relies on a persons agab/asab and thats obviously gonna be a problem for people who are intersex to male/intersex to female, amab transmasc/afab transfem, mtm transmasc/ftf transfem, agab-less, agab-punk, etc.

gender-canvasser redesigned them here as a more inclusive variant:

and changing the meaning of the colors slightly as well:

the transmasc flag has more blue than pink to represent having more masculinity/transitioning to more masculinity and the transfem flag has more pink than blue to represent having more femininity/transitioning to more femininity. the colors of the outside stripes are the same as the outside stripes on the original transmasc and transfem flags. i kept them as one does not need to lose all of their femininity to be transmasculine or lose all their masculinity to be transfeminine. masculine transfems and feminine transmascs exist and are cool as hell and should be represented. there’s just more blue on the transmasc flag because transmasc people (generally) identify more with masculinity than femininity and more pink than blue on the transfem flag because transfem people (generally) identify more with femininity than masculinity. the center stripe is white for intersex and non-binary people, as a representation of something “different” from the usual norm (the norm being the binary that there and men and women, and that you’re either a trans man or a trans woman).

i really like the change, though i still find it a little difficult to differentiate the two

similary inspired to make a more inclusive variant of the popular transmasc/transfem flags, spoiledlbleach made these two which i really like as an alternative though theyre sadly not very well known:

recently a couple new transmasc and transfem flags have started becoming more popular, these four-stripe variants:

and i like these ones a lot, especially since they dont rely on an assumption of someones agab/asab or if that person still retains some femininity/masculinity as part of their transmasc/transfem identity

i just wish the original creator of these flags was known and what each of the stripes represent, if they have meaning that is

[mr-ribbit]

i have so many friends that already have little quirks about them like "everyone always thinks I must be really religious but I'm not" or "everyone always thinks I must be really good at math, but I'm not" or yes, even "everyone always thinks I must be gay but I'm not".

there's a million things people run into where they might have a minor misconception they have to correct about themselves here and there, and it's usually fine. pretending that the mere act of someone asking you if you might be trans is some terrible slight is JUST transphobic. every single cis person I know personally, who isn't already a transphobe, would just laugh a little and wonder what about them came off as trans. hell, some cis people LOVE to be told they look a little queer.

i think most people would be touched if you reached out to ask about their identity, give them a chance to talk about it, even if you were wrong. a lot of cis people I know love to be like "haha I'm not trans but you know, I've always kind of liked football, but my dad didn't let me play cuz I'm a girl. isn't that fucked up?" and then you get to have a nice conversation about what you have in common anyway.

but if you bring it up to your friend and they accuse you of "converting them" or "pressuring them" to be trans? those are literally dog whistles for their true fears and beliefs about trans people. trans people "making other trans people" through mere discussion is literally a fox news level bigotry callsign. it's what your transphobic relatives and peers are saying about YOU when you bring up your pronouns around them.

any sincere cis ally would not think a mere question from a friend is capable of spreading The Trans Contagion- they're getting that idea from something rooted deeper and I would be unsettled by it if I were you.

obviously if your friend told you kindly that they didn't like it when you asked if they would ever consider being trans, then you should respect their feelings. but if you're sitting out there right now with that straw man in hand, ready to argue with other trans people for the sake of your poor little cis friend, have you also considered why your friend is so offended at the idea? like, if you're trans and you're caping for a cis friend who gets mad if you say they have tgirl swag or whatever, have you considered that their anger might actually be kind of shitty and you don't need to defend it?

none of my friends would act like that, that's all I'm saying. and if they did I'd be uncomfortable.

[dailyhatsune]

miku as my babaylan oc who is trans

babaylan research dump (mostly from memory so it’s gonna be pretty distilled):

babaylans are the lead shamans of indigenous filipino tribes (mostly northside, the luzon and visayas area, rip mindanao) that are responsible for practically every spiritual aspect of the community. only women were allowed to be babaylans, since, according to local mythos, women had more affinity to the spiritual realm.

however, what i find notable about babaylans is that their requirements also include transgender women! one does not simply choose to become a babaylan, instead, she has to train under a senior and go through a ritual before the anito (local spirits) deemed her worthy of representing them. the only exception is if a girl went through something that confirmed to the people immediately that she had anito approval. notably, trans women were also among the subset of girls who got to skip the selection process. this is my speculation but i like to think it’s probably because the locals considered the realisation that one was trans as anito approval. assigned female by duende

usually, i’m very wary of putting modern queer labels onto historical figures (we don’t know how they would identify now), but spanish colonial records noted that amab babaylans, outside of their ritualistic roles, would live like women (down to having husbands), were treated like women and were simply considered women barring the ability to bear children. if she walks like a woman, talks like woman…that didn’t stop the spanish settlers from misgendering them, though.

that being said, in present day, while there are still people out there practising babaylan rituals, they’re mostly men who only take on feminine appearances during the rituals, and live as men in their regular lives. this stems back from the spanish colonial period and we are not getting into that now this read more is long enougb as it is

personally i find this fascinating because, at least for what i was able to look into, trans babaylans were the only time i could look at a historical indigenous gender identity and definitively refer to them as lgbt. most other indigenous identities are either meant to be their own thing (not native american, but i remember reading discourse over whether two-spirit should be considered nb or as its own thing) or far too complex to be described with the western modern lgbt terms (although they generally present feminine, the hijras from india classify themselves as a separate third gender and worship specific deities from hinduism). maybe i haven’t looked hard enough but it’s so interesting to hear about old communities where women, and especially trans women, were basically the most important figures

anyway sorry for rambling. sometimes i like to ramble.

[intersexcat-tboy]

Unpacking the Ethics of “Tboy Strap”: Challenging the Language of Delegitimization

[PT: Unpacking the Ethics of “Tboy Strap”: Challenging the Language of Delegitimization]

Hearing about trans men or transmascs topping and instantly thinking "strap" perpetuates transphobia and contributes to antitransmasculinity specifically.

While not an exact parallel, defaulting to the assumption that trans men topping involves a “strap” is similar to defaulting to the assumption that trans women's breasts involve breast forms. Both assumptions overlook how these can be achieved through HRT or surgical means, while also distracting from their true (desired, or) transitioned bodies, reinforcing the unnecessary, often dysphoria-inducing misconception that their gender affirming adaptations are not legitimate aspects of themselves.

Many trans people use language intentionally to reduce dysphoria, but being externally subjected to such framing can reinforce the disconnection from their bodies and identities. It's different when someone uses this language to describe themselves personally, as it reflects their individual relationship. Nevertheless, when this language is applied generally to others, we must think critically about the broader concepts it promotes.

Strap-ons are primarily marketed to those without penises and have strong historical ties to the lesbian community. They are not generally called “strap-ons” when used by cis men who don’t have or cannot use their penis for penetration. Instead, they are simply referred to as hollow dildos or recognized as prosthetics—designed to restore or improve functionality of a body part. It serves to replace a valued, personally integral aspect of their body that is necessary for their quality of life, rather than merely an optional add-on.

In some cases, when used alongside an existing penis for double penetration, it would be more aptly called a strap-on. However, this usage typically doesn’t apply to trans men, as they usually don't use their natal penis for penetration alongside; if involved, it is either stimulated, enhanced, or extended, rather than acting as a secondary penis.

Additionally, in certain dynamics (e.g. orgasm denial, men in chastity, or sissification) the term “strap” is often used to emphasize a rejection of the integration with their identity as men, meant to deny them recognition of their “true” manhood by highlighting their perceived failure to embody masculinity by not using what “truly” makes them a man.

Within chastity, sometimes referred to in kink communities as “reverse pegging,” the humiliation often stems from the implication that because the “strap” is superior to his own flesh—more effective, more satisfying, larger, and thus more aligned with what a “real” man should be able to provide—he is being denied recognition of his “true” manhood. His failure to satisfy with his own flesh renders him lesser; his use of an external object for penetration is framed as proof of his shortcomings in masculinity—a mark of failure to measure up to the patriarchal ideal.

The deliberate focus on performance, emasculation, and delegitimization seeks to humiliate and degender the cis man, framing penetration not as a natural extension of his body, but as an artificial external act performed for someone else’s pleasure.

This concept is similar to how some trans women, or others with dysphoria related to having more erectile tissue than desired, refer to theirs as a “built-in strap” to create distance from their anatomy to alleviate dysphoria. While both can be used roughly to mean “this isn't my real penis, so I'm not really a man”, trans women’s use of the term contrasts with these kink dynamics where "strap" is used to question the legitimacy of the man's manhood, disempower or humiliate him. Instead, trans women commonly use it as a coping mechanism for dysphoria management and as a term of endearment, turning it into a source of empowerment rather than an insult.

In certain contexts, the way “strap” is used in reference to transmascs risks reducing their gender expression to a fetishized, sexual, or kink-based act, framing their sexuality as a performance or role-play rather than an authentic and true expression of who they are. This positions it as something /on/ their bodies rather than /part/ of them.

When "tboy" and "strap" are used together in a mocking or belittling manner, it often carries an underlying implication of infantilization. The combination can evoke images that reduce the experience of trans men to something less serious—like that of children playing dress-up with toys.

For transmascs, these framings reduce their penises to costumes that are put on and taken off for sex, rather than as an extension of their body and identity. They either draw on historical and cultural contexts to position trans men as women, or impose kink dynamics, such as humiliation and sissification, onto trans men's bodies, regardless of whether that reflects their experiences or desires. Both are dehumanizing and deny trans men the same recognition and respect afforded to cis men in similar contexts. Either way, the issue lies in how “strap” frames it as a temporary addition for sexual purposes, suggesting that it isn’t an intrinsic part or expression of their body or identity.

When the tools that help trans people live as our true selves are treated as something “on” our bodies or worn to perform, it reinforces the harmful idea that our gender expression is temporary, artificial, or an act.

Through this objectification, it becomes a decorative, extra addition, or accessory, rather than something inherent to themselves or a necessary function for their quality of life.

If this idea persists—the framing of penetration with an extension of oneself, rather than flesh and blood, as a performative or artificial expression of body/sexuality—it suggests that their experiences are somehow invalid or less authentic. This forces them to navigate the harmful narrative that their bodies, sexuality, and experiences are only legitimate or recognized as real if they conform to external standards. From this continuous confrontation with language that invalidates their bodies or sexuality, internalized shame can cultivate and fester.

All of these ultimately diminish their ability to fully express their gender and sexuality in, and on, their own terms.

[queer-reader-07]

i think one of my spiciest takes is that i think cis people should be cis on purpose and not because it’s the “default”

ok hear me out before you go into the notes, i have reasons.

the main idea is that i think EVERYONE should explore and interrogate their gender identity and what their gender truly means to them. because 1) i don’t think any harm will ever come from wanting to understand yourself and your existence on a deeper level and 2) if everyone, including cis people, explored their gender it would be more generally accepted. thus, trans people or people questioning their transness wouldn’t be as othered when they start questioning and exploring their gender.

because here’s the deal. every trans person i know can tell you what their gender means. they can tell you what it means to be a man or a woman or neither or both or some other nebulous concept. they can describe it to you and explain it to you. they can tell you what their manhood or womanhood or neitherhood means to them, what it represents, how they knew that’s who they were.

every trans person i know (including myself) can articulate what their gender is in more words than “well i’m *insert gender* because i’m *insert gender*” (yes i know i’m always saying i can’t be bothered with gender but i do actually have a lot of feelings and words on my own)

i’ve talked to a lot of cis people about gender and they just simply can’t explain to me what womanhood or manhood is to them. so often it’s “well i’m a man cuz i’m a man. i look like a man i act like a man etc etc.” but what does a man look like? what does a man act like? and it’s usually people who consider themselves trans allies saying these things!

people should explore their gender. they should understand it more deeply. i don’t say “explore your gender” as a way to try and force anyone into a realization of transness, i say it because i want people to understand their gender. whether that be cis or trans or whatever.

to understand yourself more deeply is to understand your place in the world more accurately. learning more about who you are, and why you are, and how you are never hurts in the long run.

so yeah. be cis on purpose, be cis because you know deeply that you are cis, because you understand what that means to you.

and be trans on purpose. use the labels you like deliberately. dress in the way that brings you euphoria and mitigates dysphoria because you deserve that.

simply be on purpose. walk through life with deliberate steps, with solidified intent. because without doing so, how can we find our purpose on this earth and in this life?

[seeminglydark]

A look-book and little break-down of Caro’s style and fashion Journey. I didn’t include their cheer uniform or GasCo uniform because those really didn’t influence their actual style much, other than the Varsity jacket and work jacket. I thought it would be fun to set it up almost like a magazine article and I’m in love with the results. I hope you enjoy it too. (The cover is my fave thing ever, just so you know.)

Here’s the Text:

Caro Greene, Cheerleader to Ghosthunter! An exclusive look at superstar Caro Greene’s style evolution. From femme to them!

The Teenage Years! Caro has been aware the high-femme style their parents chose for them was not the look they wanted for a long time, but didn’t know how to address it. Pairing their best friends tee-shirt over their Prom dress was the first step in figuring out their own personal style! From there, they tested out the route of borrowed too-big sweaters whenever they weren’t under the watchful eye of their family.

GasCo Era! Years of emotional neglect build until Caro chops off their hair, an asset more important to their parents than their happiness, and finds themself abruptly homeless, with nothing but some jeans, shirts and an oversized jacket belonging to their long-gone boyfriend. They get a job at the local gas station, and are gifted a new jacket that fits, with their new name on it, in their favorite color! More gender exploration leads them to a better haircut, and their first time trying a binder, and starting to not hate how they look.

Thrift stores, Sneakers, and T! Now in a new environment with supportive people at the GasCo, Caro discovers thrift stores and the tacky ‘80s aesthetic of their dreams. After years of other people controlling their body and looks, starting on low T is a big step in taking back control. They start wearing crop tops and sleeveless tees to show off new body hair, but also love chunky colored sweaters since they’re always cold. Sneakers go with everything, and when you’re short, the possibilities are endless in the kids shoes section.

Mil-Liminal! Caro’s podcast Mil-Liminal goes viral, and they are given the choice of staying faceless and anonymous, or taking the stage in live shows. They decide to do a face reveal, and that means choosing an iconic ‘look’ for their live performances. They choose their favorite color, GasCo Purple, and a jacket that is a blend of their varsity jacket and GasCo work jacket, two clothing pieces that always made them comfortable. They wear their trans identity on their sleeve, and top it off with the snapback look they donned years ago on their first venture ‘out’ as a teenager. The rest is history!

Current Caro! Which brings us to the present! There���s been some small changes, oversized sweaters and tees with a cosmic theme, which is new for the usually spookified Caro. They’re sporting white hair instead of their trademark blond, and have added a cross earring and a pendant to their Mil-Liminal uniform. A black snapback shows up as often as the purple one, and there’s a new bounce in their step, but perhaps they’ve just been indulging in too much coffee these days.

Caro Green is from my webcomics Seemingly Dark and Mil-Liminal, and podcast Mil-Liminal.

[plaidos]

I know you’re not Google, but I don’t think Google would give me the answer I’m looking for. I can never keep the definitions of TME and TMA straight in my head, but I know one of them can be used as a synonym for trans women. So why not just say trans women? I’m incredibly confused and I want to make sure I’m understanding correctly. Thank you for your patience.

that’s because it isn’t a synonym — it’s a group that includes trans women, and plenty of people who share material realities with trans women but don’t necessarily identify as women (or fully as women) — “TMA” or “transmisogyny affected” is not just trans women, but “non-binary transfems” etc. a lot of us don’t identify as women. i’m a woman, but a lot of other people assigned male at birth, who are on E, and/or seeking feminising surgeries, and/or presenting femininely (and/or as women) in their daily lives might not identify as (the relatively modern) specific identity of “transgender woman”, who are still obviously the targets of institutional transmisogyny . heck, unless you pressed me for a conversation like this *i* don’t even usually describe myself as a trans woman. i know this is a complicated answer. it’s a complicated subject!

people who are transmisogyny exempt (TME) are people who aren’t the targets of institutional transmisogyny. they might occasionally experience personal disbenefits from it (like cis women being harassed in public bathrooms for being mistaken for trans women) but they aren’t the institutional targets of it.

[celestiamour]

since you asked for hyun-ju ideas, here am i 🙂

Imagine being her girlfriend and finally managing to hype her up to wear something more feminine for a date (like a dress or a skirt), only for that confidence to be shattered by some strangers on the street ;((

so, after a bit of comfort, you just need to prove how they were wrong, and show your sweet girlfriend how nice you think she looks on that outfit *wink wink*

ft. cho hyun ju x f! reader — squid game

╰₊✧ hyping her up to go out wearing a skirt for the first time┊0.7k words

contains: fluff with suggestive content at the end!! gender dysphoria & insecurity but mainly euphoria, established relationship, reader is shorter

➤ author's note: i went off prompt and didn’t do smut for this one because i really just wanted to focus on her gender euphoria moment, so sorry (also this is my first time writing for a trans character centered around gender identity! my knowledge mainly comes from having an ex girlfriend who was trans and told me about her experience, but if i got anything wrong or need improvement for something, please tell me so that i can improve and do hyun-ju justice!)

she stared at herself in the mirror, almost in disbelief at first at the reflection looking back at her. it’s insane how a little bit of makeup and stylized outfits could completely transform her appearance, the magic being something she’s heard about plenty of times but has only been able to witness at this moment. her fingers nimbly adjusted her hair, brushing it back before pushing the front stands forward to frame her face, and then flying to her pleated skirt to straighten it out. her heartbeat was all over the place, both from the happiness of finally feeling like herself and from the anxiety of planning to go out in public like this.

hyun-ju paused at the thought of that, looking back at herself and suddenly focusing on all of her insecurities again— the more masculine features that other people would point out and whisper about from her face to her frame. she looked at her bare legs and found the contrast with the dainty piece of cloth too stark to ignore, finding herself crossing her legs and wondering if she should just wear pants like she usually did.

self-consciousness started to consume her entire being and thoughts about it not being enough raced across her mind, taking in a deep breath and considering just taking it all off to stay in for the night. the last thing she wanted was to get harassed by some assholes on the street just for trying to be herself, especially when she knew you would yell back at them and a fight was very much possible as it happened in the past before ending with you in the hospital for a broken wrist (the other guy was in a much worse state, but she still didn’t like the idea of you getting injured or possibly even arrested for her behalf).

“babe, are you finished changing?” you called out and broke her out of her thinking, but you entered before she could say anything. she cringed slightly and closed her, feeling embarrassed until she heard you gasp in pure delight, “oh, you look so beautiful!”

the heat radiating off her cheeks from being sheepish quickly changed to that of being flustered, “r-really?”

“of course!” you took her hands into yours, spinning her around like she was a princess wearing the most luxurious ball gown ever crafted even though it was bought at a local mall, “i knew this outfit would look good on you, it really is your color!”

“right, i was just worried it looked weird…” she felt a little stupid expressing her concerns, but she knew you were understanding, “i just feel like… i don’t know, i feel like i’m too tall to wear something like this…”

“being too tall isn’t a problem! personally, i would kill to be your height and to have your legs, and i know plenty of other people would too. it’s a trait that lots of top models have, so you don’t have to worry about anything!”

your words made her crack a smile, feeling the initial confidence flood her and your arm wrap around her waist as her gaze returned to the mirror once again with both of you admiring her beauty. seeing herself in your light was always enlightening like she was a completely different person in the best way possible, and she was so grateful to have you as her girlfriend to pull her out of her negative thoughts. 

“well, we better get going. if we stand here always just staring at how pretty you are, i might not be able to control myself and we’ll be home all night,” you teased, standing on your tip-toes and kissing her carefully on the lips so as to not mess up the tinted gloss.

“i don’t think i would mind that…” 

“don’t tempt me now…” the fluffy atmosphere became charged with a familiar tension with your touch lingering on her skin, one of your hands traced up her thigh with sinful ideas forming on how you could mark up the unblemished skin and ruin the makeup you wanted to preserve a mere few seconds ago.

after a few seconds of heavy silence, you finally pulled her to join you on the bed, all teasing smiles and lust, “well, we can just order an uber instead of walking, we can spare ten minutes. that’s all the time we need, isn’t it?”