#transfem fresh

[justalittleguest]

Introducing my aunt / late 80s to early 90s dress-up doll / nightmare to color.

Based on this post by @wickjump

[raspberrywiskey]

requests, riz and gorgug gender stuff

[abstractdogwolfthing]

// Very suggestive implications and language lol

“Seriously, what do you lot see in ‘im?”

(use she/her on NM 🏳️‍⚧️🏳️‍⚧️)

“He makes me laugh,”

“He’s super duper wooper interesting!!”

“😏”

This was self indulgent, yes.

They aren’t even my top ships what am I doing with my life

[persondy-t]

Hoe lee fuck

I tried parting my hair in the middle and tucking the front chunks behind my ear. It solved 2 of my problems (I fucked 2 pumpkins with one transfem (2 birds 1 stone)). The bony part of my forehead sticks out like a sore fucking thumb and my hair gets unevenly distributed, hiding my pretty little (not actually very little) round face. I am becoming a transfem stereotype with brown split hair, cat ears, and the fucking IKEA sharks 💀

[seecretgamer]

Sometimes I wanna look like:

But sometimes I wanna look like:

[aleczkaden]

PROUD SHAPES

Not June yet but felt like making them reveal their flags<3

[hungdykes]

[atypical-transfem]

Welcome to dyadic adventures

It's a series that i decided to make after being so sick of dyadics not taking intersex people & our experiences into consideration.

On the first episode we have trans spaces who don't realize that not everyone is dyadic and therefore have different trans experiences then their run of the mill trans dyadic-ness.

Dear Dyadic trans people,

Some people are both a trans man and a trans woman; some people are both transmasc and transfem; and/or they're just have the experiences of being treated as a man and a woman in society or something entirely . It's not your place as a dyadic person, someone who will never understand how being intersex impacts some of our understanding of life & our complex relationship with the binary world. So please leave us alone with our labels. We're not "really a man" or "really a woman" We're fucking what we say we are. Yes, that means that some of us are only cis. Yes, that means that some of us are trans. Yes, that means that some of us are trans and cis. And that even means that some of us are both and more. And it even means that some of us are none of the above.

We all know and understand that gender is complicated; so why is it hard to see that being intersex may make it more complex?

Signed,

A tired transcis intersex person

[obnebulant-mogai]

Transfemneomasc - a term for one's transfeminine identity is best described by being a neoboy, or for when your transfemininity feels like being a boy in a "new" way!

Not inherently a xenogender, but it may be if the user wishes. Tagged as xenogender for reach.

[ID: A flag with eleven horizontal stripes with slightly varying sizes. In descending order, there is a thick hot pink stripe, a medium thickness bubblegum pink stripe, a medium thickness white stripe, a thin pastel blue stripe, an thin lavender purple stripe, a thick off black stripe, and the previous five stripes are mirrored under the black stripe. End ID.]

Flag by me. Colors inspired by the transfem and neogirl flags.

Alternate flag below the cut:

[Image ID: A flag with eleven equal horizontal stripes. In descending order, the stripes are hot pink, bubblegum pink, white, pastel blue, lavender purple, off black, lavender purple, pastel blue, white, bubblegum pink, and hot pink. End ID.]

[goldiipond]

underrated dynamic i think abt sometimes is ray and violet. they would be weird gender besties

[wildshadowtamer]

has anyone else noticed that its almost always the star sanses that are headcanoned as transfem, and no one else? like, why is it only the bubbly infantilised ones that get the transfem label, yknow?

[drthugitout]

Okay so like what if Al was Fresh and then Rosie was Horror? 🙀🙀🙀 or- what is horror was trans fem!?!? 😲😲😲

[abstractdogwolfthing]

Me and @wewawoomp’s drawpile :3c

‘Twas fun.

(Use she/her on Nightmare 🏳️‍⚧️🏳️‍⚧️)

[hollow-toy]

i love you puffy estrogen nipples i love you awkwardly growing in tits i love you pre/non e tits i love you small tits i love you tits with fresh stretch marks i love you sagging tits i love you breast forms i love you breast implants i love you transfem chest

[atypical-transfem]

Changing url

typical-transfemmasc to atypical-transfem

I originally made this blog to explore my transfem identity, but i was too afraid of intersexist people insisting that “I have no place in the transfem community”. Since my last post, I’ve been seriously debating whether I was “transfem enough”. It wasn’t until yesterday I realize that I’ve been trying to force my queeress so I didn’t make dyadics uncomfortable. 

Yes I’m still transfemmasc, but I’m tired of making my transfem identity palatable for dyadics; I’m tired of trying to be comfortable with compromises to my labels. This ends now. Hi, my name is Minty/Mint and I’m a transfem multigender man. 

[emchant3d]

modern au, exes to lovers, transfem stevie harrington

Stevie Harrington is not having a good day.

By all accounts, she should be. Robin woke her right on time by pressing a perfectly made brown sugar shaken espresso into her hand. Nancy and Chrissy got to the venue earlier than expected. The hair and makeup people were on schedule. Their boozy charcuterie brunch during their prep time was perfectly served, the mimosas delicious and the food fresh and light enough to put on her nervous stomach. 

Everything’s gone off without a hitch. She looks gorgeous. She’s got her something old, her something new, her something borrowed, and even her something blue. Her hair’s done in a soft blowout, framing her face but out of the way, ready for the combs of her veil to slip into. Her makeup is elegant, not too showy and not too dramatic, neutral and warm and sweet. And her dress. It’s what she always dreamed of, clingy and silky with a dramatic leg slit and a long train, off the shoulders, perfectly white. She’s staring at herself in the mirror knowing that in forty-five minutes, she’s going to hold the world’s most beautiful wedding bouquet and walk down the most perfectly decorated aisle in the quaintest, sweetest church she could find, and she’ll stand across from her fiancé and take his hands and say “I do” and all of her dreams will come true.

So she should be having a good day.

Because it’s her wedding day, and Stevie Harrington is about to become Stefania Hagan.

Maybe that brunch wasn’t so perfect after all, because she thinks she’s about to puke.

“I can’t do this,” she says, but her voice is so soft it’s barely a whisper and the girls don’t even glance at her. “I can’t do this,” she repeats, and Robin - bless her, her favorite person in the world, her soulmate, her other half, her maid of honor - glances up. 

“What’s that, Evie?” she asks, and the others look over at her, and Stevie stands there beneath their gazes and knows if she just says it again, says I can’t do this, don’t make me marry him, get me out of here, all three of them would drag her to an exit and get her the fuck out.

They don’t even like Tommy. Robin actively hates him, actually, and that should have been enough for Stevie to never look at him twice.

But it wasn’t. It wasn’t enough.

She thinks back to a few days ago, drunk in a bar with a white sash wrapped around her torso, a tiara on her head, and mascara running down her face as she desperately sobbed on Robin’s shoulder during her bachelorette party. That little meltdown wasn’t enough. And she thinks back further, to when Tommy proposed - in public, at a fucking baseball game, on the goddamn jumbotron. Dread had settled in her chest at the sight of the ring (huge, gaudy, she hated it on sight) even as she pasted on a smile and said yes. That hadn’t been enough.

But somehow standing here done up head to toe, about to walk down the aisle in her absolute dream wedding - that’s enough. Because everything about today is right. Everything’s in place. Everything’s gorgeous and going to plan and she should be so, so happy - but it’s the wrong man waiting for her at the end of all of it.

She can’t do this. 

She looks up and meets Robin’s eyes and forces a smile. “I said I need to get my veil,” she lies, and she slips into her shoes (red bottoms, a gift from Tommy’s mother, perfectly white and pointed and it’s her dream day, how can she be throwing this away?) and walks into the other room where her garment bag is hanging, and her veil is there with its delicate detail and it’s scalloped edges and it’s all so fucking perfect she’s going to scream, she wants to rip it to pieces and she wants to tear this dress off and she wants to sob, she doesn’t want to do this, she doesn’t want to get married - not to him. Not to Tommy. 

She could ask for help. Robin would have her out of here in five minutes flat, Nancy would craft an excuse to tell everyone, and Chrissy would cause a distraction. But even that’s too long of a wait. Even that’s too much attention, too much suspicion. She needs to move faster than that. She needs out now.

She quickens her pace as she crosses the room, dress dragging along the carpet, and she snags her phone where it’s sitting on the end table next to an overstuffed love seat, and in three long strides she’s out the door and in the hall and the church has been busy and packed all day but somehow, miraculously, there’s no one here.

No one sees Stevie as she gathers up the fabric of her dress in her hands and starts to walk towards the exit. No one sees as her walk speeds to a jog, and then a run, and then she slams out of a side door and she’s on the sidewalk and she’s sprinting, her heels are going to get scuffed by the pavement but she can’t care, she’s running as fast as she can and dodging people on the sidewalk as they turn and gawk at her and she cannot give them a thought, cannot focus on them even a little bit because she has to get away, escape is the only thought on her mind as she gasps for air, her dress is so heavy and it’s not made for running that’s for goddamn sure, and the last few years with Tommy flash through her mind - every time he’s undermined her or given her a backhanded compliment or policed her, told her she wasn’t feminine enough, told her she wasn’t trying hard enough to pass, told her to just keep it all to herself so no one would know she wasn’t cis, wouldn’t embarrass him by making a scene, all the times that come together to a glaringly obvious conclusion that he doesn’t really love her and she kind of hates him a little actually, and obviously she can’t fucking marry him and–

There. 

A beat-up four-door with an Uber sticker in the window. 

That’ll do, she thinks, and she changes course, shoulder-checking a man and not apologizing for it as she makes a beeline for the car. She pops off an acrylic wrenching the door open and tossing herself into the backseat, and she yells “DRIVE!” at the top of her lungs and somehow, through some miracle, they listen, swerving into traffic with a loud curse and a myriad of honking horns and a quaint, sweet little church growing smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror.

She’s gasping for breath, chest heaving, staring out the back window like she’s waiting for someone to follow her - and maybe she is, maybe Tommy is hot on her trail, or maybe Robin is coming to kill her for not including her in her mad dash to freedom and instead jumping in a stranger’s car going God knows where.

“So uh,” a voice says, and she whips around, staring wide-eyed at the brown eyes fixed on her in the mirror, and no, no fucking way– “where to, ma’am?” 

“Um,” she says, and her voice is shaky, cracking a little, she brushes her hair out of her face and stares and– wait.

There’s a beat. The driver’s eyes widen. Recognition flashes over his face at the same time it registers for Stevie. 

“Stevie?” Eddie Munson, her ex-boyfriend of several years, the man she hasn’t spoken to since that fateful night they went their separate ways, is staring at her in shock, not even looking at the road, and the only thing she can think is how he’s just as averse to road safety now as he’d been way back when.

“Eddie,” she croaks out. 

Too many emotions are overwhelming her at once and it feels like the biggest cliché in the world, but honestly, Stevie feels like she’s entitled to some dramatics. It’s her goddamn wedding day, after all.

Her failed wedding day.

Where she just left her fiancé at the altar.

“Oh god,” she manages. Her lower lip wobbles. Her vision blurs.

“Stevie,” Eddie says again, like a warning, and that’s enough to push her over.

She bursts into tears in his backseat.

“Hey hey hey!” he says like she’s a fucking spooked horse or something, which only makes her cry more, ugly sobs that shake her shoulders and drip tear drops onto her dress. “Stevie, honey–”

“Do NOT call me honey right now!” she manages, and he raises a hand in surrender before flipping on a turn signal and finding a parking lot to pull over in. 

“Okay, okay! No comforting pet names, you got it,” he agrees, and he shuts the car off, turning in his seat to look at her, concern painted all over his face and that’s just really not fair, she thinks, that he still looks so earnest and sweet and fucking worried about her.

“Are you hurt?” he asks, urgent and serious, and she shakes her head quickly.

“No! No, I’m - I’m fine, really,” she insists and he proves that he is a gentleman after all, because he doesn’t call her out on the blatant lie.

“Okay,” he says, level, his hand hovering in the space between them like he wants to touch her. “What do you need?” he asks, and she wipes at her face with her hands, swallowing down yet another sob.

“Get me out of here,” she pleads, and he searches her face for - something, she doesn’t know what, because she’s sure all she’s showing him is how much of a fucking mess she is, but he must find whatever he’s looking for.

He gives her a sharp nod. “Anywhere in particular, sweetheart?” he asks, turning to start the car again. She doesn’t call him out on the pet name this time.

“Anywhere but here,” she says, and he puts the car in reverse, pulling back onto the road.

“You got it,” he says, and some of that old charm must kick in - he winks at her in the rearview. She resolutely ignores the spike of emotion it gives her. 

Then she takes a deep, shuddery breath, and opens the group chat to break the news to her wedding party.

part 2