#and she had never heard the terms afab or amab at all

[totalspiffage]

Had passive transphobia and fatphobia at my gyn appt today woooooooo love to be invalidated while someone is literally rooting around inside me lmao

[raitrolling]

was thinking abt my trans/nb/gnc trolls on the train home

zotick: cis male, happily wears fem clothing (primarily miniskirts and crop tops) but is very comfortable with his gender and does not use a gnc descriptor. finnster gender

soroll: gnc male, identifies as male and uses he/they pronouns because male is a close enough descriptor to how he feels. will wear both masc and fem clothes, and presented more fem when he was younger because he loves scene fashion and found secondhand womens clothing from that subculture easier to come by

ananta: amab agender and uses any pronouns. could not care less about gender or presenting in any particular way, and has no opinions as to how other people perceive them. theyve been called a man and theyve been called a woman, neither of these words have any meaning to them

ashell: trans male, uses exclusively he/him pronouns. socially transitioned at a young age (presenting as male, going by a new name, starting vocal training to speak at a lower register, etc.), then sought out trans-affirming healthcare (top surgery and T) when he was older but stopped taking T after he died because it no longer had an effect on him. presents exclusively masc and is uncomfortable wearing skirts or dresses

ariete: trans woman, uses exclusively she/her pronouns. also transitioned at a young age (socially + medically), and since her lusus has seen so many qurioes discover that they're not cis knew exactly how to help her seek out all the resources she needed asap. generally presents fem but also enjoys masc fashion with a feminine flair

celise: afab non-binary and uses they/he pronouns. the most theyve really thought about their gender was 'well im definitely not a girl' and then got top surgery in their late teens/young adulthood. presents androgynously, leaning more towards masc but in a sickly victorian man way

fannar: afab agender and exclusively uses they/them pronouns. has only transitioned socially as theyre concerned that their weak immune system may cause further complications. experiences dysphoria, and binds their chest + wears a lot of layers to present as androgynously as possible. their mask both protects them from the cold weather and helps to muffle their voice. detests being referred to with any sort of gendered term

lusien: gnc male, identifies as male and uses he/they pronouns. like soroll, male is just the closest identifier to how he feels about gender as he doesn't feel like a cis man but also doesn't feel particularly nb/queer either. however he still does present masc and has no inclinations into trying out more fem or androgynous styles, gender is just a vibe to him

glasya: afab non-binary and uses they/she pronouns. considers their gender to be 'yes im a girl yes im not a girl', and has no desire to go on hrt or get top surgery. they may bind if they feel like an outfit would look better with a flat chest, but more often than not this is not the case. no preference towards presenting masc/fem/androgynous, though in a formal situation theyre more inclined towards wearing dresses

sigrun: amab agender and uses any pronouns. whats a gender theyve never heard of it. no opinion on their body whatsoever, it is just a vessel used for swimming and hunting animals with. presents masc just because thats how theyve always been, but would not be opposed to feminine styles in the slightest

linnae: gnc male, identifies as male and uses he/they pronouns. literally only identifies as male because thats what everyone else calls him so that's what he's the most used to. will wear whatever they want with no regard as to whether its masc- or fem- presenting and would find the concept of gender presentation to be strange (and then worry that theyre the strange one for not being taught these things), as its just pretty clothes to them

[angry-geese]

My Neighbor The Sorcerer

Gojo Satoru x Reader

Warnings: shameless smut. neighbors au. oral (masc receiving), creampies/unprotected sex, couch sex, amab reader. reader is a top

a/n: i wrote this for an afab reader a while back and thought it would work well for an amab reader. you can read the afab reader version here

Word count: 6.2k

jjk masterlist

Very few people anger you more than your neighbor.

Your few, short interactions with him gave you a good enough glance at who he was. That being self-centered, and an overall asshole. Satoru Gojo was a litany of issues wrapped up in one person. Your personalities clashed in what might be the worst way possible. You found him to be irritating, and a bit of a prick. He found you to be stuck-up, and downright hostile.

It was safe to say you weren't exactly on good terms with your neighbor.

The man seemingly never slept. Which at first doesn't seem like a problem; you don't have the best sleep schedule yourself, who are you to judge? But staying up half the night because your neighbor couldn't keep his dick in his pants wasn't good for your sanity, or your social life. The walls of your apartment were thin, you could hear everything. Everything. From his shitty cooking to his arguments with his friends (friend, singular, and from what you’ve gathered his name is Nanami) to him railing some random woman until the early hours of the morning.

It seems like it's a different one each night. The voices change. Some are high and whiny, and grate against your ears, others are lower and a bit more tolerable. You’re not sure you've heard the same one more than once. But they’re all absolutely screaming. Screaming like their internal organs are being rearranged and put back together.

They must be faking it. They have to be. If there’s one thing you’re certain of, he can't be that good in bed.

You, a very normal human being, had work. Your friends are beginning to notice how tired you look. It was only recently that they started commenting on it. Your lack of sleep is leaving you irritable. At work you’re irritated and hostile. Your coworkers are beginning to notice your poor mood, and are just now commenting on it.

Something has to give.

You’re not quite sure what job he could hold down. Supposedly he has work. From the little you’ve seen of his apartment through his cracked door, he has money. Lots of it. Though you try not to gawk too long. And it's not like you mean to look. He’s gone at all hours of the day, only to return late into the night, usually with some woman. Sometimes he’s gone for days. Which is a little worrying when he has a kid running around. You’re not quite sure if he's his son, or his brother. Either one is worse than the last. They’re similar in age, but the resemblance stops there. You suppose they could be related, but saying so feels like a stretch. He seems to be quite different from Gojo, which is a little comforting. The thought of a mini-Gojo running around is oddly terrifying.

Aside from running into each other occasionally when grabbing your mail, you didn't talk often. You didn't have a reason to. When you ran into him in the hall, or if you were outside on your balcony at the same time as his, you mostly ignored him. You were usually curt, and he got the impression you didn't like him. He was right. You don't like him. People who interrupt your sleep are usually people you don't like.

You don't usually find yourself out so late.

Your friends had invited you out to bar hop with them. Reluctantly you agreed. There’s not a whole lot you have to say about your night. Bars aren't really your thing, but you would be lying if you said it wasn't fun. You wanted to get home and sober up so you wouldn't go to work hungover.

It was still well after midnight by the time you decided to head home. You made sure your friend got back to her apartment safely. She, being far more drunk than you, insisted on staying out until well into the morning. You had to pass. You left her on her couch, with a glass of water and some tylenol for when she inevitably wakes up hungover, making sure to lock the door behind you on the way out.

The walk back to your apartment is short. Despite the late hour, this part of town is well-lit. Taking the train would be faster, but this is easier. Though you had a few drinks, you were mostly sober by the time you got home. You always could handle your alcohol well.

You’re about a block away from your place when you hear a familiar voice call out to you from behind.

Your neighbor.

Speak of the devil; that one specific prick who kept you from living a good life. Satoru fucking Gojo.

You fumble with your keys more than usual. You blame it on the alcohol. There’s no pretending you didn't hear him. You gave that away when you turned. Gojo called you out by name, so you can't play it off and pretend you thought he was talking to someone else. If it’s any consolation, he doesn't look sober. He reeks of booze. Since there's no avoiding him, you decide to greet him back.

"Have fun last night, neighbor," you ask. Not that you care about the answer.

"Yeah."

Jesus. He didn't even try to deny it.

Internally you roll your eyes.

“I didn't expect to see you out here.” He says.

“I live here.” You say. “Of course you’re going to see me.”

“You never leave your place,” he leans against the wall, propping himself up by his arm. “It makes me wonder what you do with all your time.”

Nothing that concerns you, you can't help but think.

“Go sober up,” you say, trying to dodge his arm, “you’re fucking shitfaced.”

"You and me both it seems," he says, "where were you getting off to tonight?"

"Nowhere that concerns you."

"I always liked you," he says, "you were always… something else. Usually an asshole, but I admire that in a man."

"Keep it in your pants," you say, "and go shower while you're at it. You smell like a distillery."

He feigns hurt. “I get the feeling you don't like me,” he says.

“I don't! And I’m sick of hearing you fucking random people through my walls!” You say. “I live here too!”

He leans in real close. The scent of whiskey on his breath makes your eyes water. It's not the most pleasant smell. “So you do hear us,” he says, his face splitting in a grin, “do you like it? They sure seem to. I bet you wonder about all the different things I do to them."

“Like hell I do,” you say.

"You're great at denying it, neighbor, but you and I both know the truth." He says. "I bet what you're feeling is jealousy. You want me to make you let out all those noises. You wish it was you I was doing that to.”

Your mouth opens like you’re about to say something, but snaps shut rather quickly. You bite your tongue. Your lease doesn't end for a few more months. In the meantime, you still have to live with this guy. You feel heat rising to your cheeks. There’s little you can do to hide your embarrassment. Gojo isn't really your type, but he’s attractive, you won't deny that. His charms might work on you if you didn't have to live right next to him.

He leans in real close. The skin of his cheeks and neck are flushed. His tongue runs across his glossy bottom lip, which is now mere inches from yours. You can feel the heat radiating off of his skin.

“The walls are rather thin, if you haven't noticed.” He says. Your mouth opens in shock. “Do you think about what I do to them? Do you touch yourself while you do it?”

The force of your palm connecting with his cheek is enough to make his eyes water, and to sober him up a bit. You’re certain someone has heard the resounding smack! His cheek turns red in an instant, a welt the shape of your hand forming on his skin. His hand moves to cup his stinging cheek.

“You’re a disgusting little man.” You spit.

Your saving grace is his son, who looks just as horrified as you. Megumi opens the door and shouts something at him. Drunkenly he stumbles into his apartment.

He does keep it down from there on out.

He keeps his distance too. Though he never apologized, this works. You take his silence as solidarity. That's the best he’s going to get. He stays out of your way, and you stay out of his.

A few days later you’d run into his kid in the hall, who’d apologize for him.

You learn that his name is Megumi, that he’s a freshman at some religious school in Tokyo, and that Gojo is his old man. Kinda. Gojo teaches there, apparently. You can't tell if that's better or worse. Part of you feels bad for his students. You try to imagine him in a classroom, writing down questions on the board, or sitting at home grading papers. You can't. The image feels too absurd.

In solidarity you send the kid home with some pastries. There was far more than you could eat. The extras would only end up going bad. You liked baking, and you tolerated Megumi. So why not send him some?

Turns out Satoru Gojo has a sweet tooth.

You felt bad for the kid. There’s a certain agreement between you two. You both have to deal with Gojo’s shit, building a strange, but strong bond. Despite him nearly being an adult, and very capable of caring for himself, your help was something he reluctantly accepted. In return, you got all sorts of material you could use as blackmail against Gojo. Or just embarrassing information about him in general.

It only took a week for Gojo to ask where all the food was coming from. You always made more than enough for one person. You liked cooking, and you were good at it.

Megumi could only make up so many excuses before Gojo got suspicious. More food kept appearing. After days of poking and prodding, he finally caught you in the act. Though the meeting was awkward, he didn't refuse, and rather gladly accepted the food.

The next day, Gojo took it upon himself to return your dishes. Why he couldn't leave them by your door is beyond you. Maybe he felt the need to say something.

When there’s a knock on your door, you don't immediately answer it. You’re not expecting company. None of your friends drop in unannounced, they usually text you first.

You’re surprised to see Gojo on the other side of the door. He’s not wearing his uniform, and his normal blindfold (or maybe it was supposed to be a headband??? You don't know, the guy is weird. Who wears a blindfold out in public???) has been replaced with a pair of round, dark glasses.

“You don't have to keep feeding Megs, you know?” He starts off with that. No ‘hello’ or anything.

“I usually end up making more than I can eat,” you say, taking the stack of plates from him, “and my leftovers just spoil in my fridge.”

He lets out a soft “oh”.

“Where is he, anyway?” You ask.

“He’s staying the night at a friend’s.”

“Do you want to come in?” You ask.

He nods.

He acts like he’s going to say something else, but doesn't. You’re curious. Possibly dangerously so. Gojo, for the first time in ages, is flustered.

He makes sure to take his shoes off at the door. Your apartment is undeniably you. From floor to ceiling, each thing was definitely picked by you. It smells heavily of baked goods; vanilla, maybe strawberries too. Plants sit on the balcony, soaking in the late afternoon sun.

The plates land on the counter with an audible thunk. You put some water on to boil for tea. The tv drones on in the background as the two of you talk about nothing in particular. He asks about your work, you ask about his. He finds a seat on the couch. You return with your tea. He’s as attractive as he is insufferable.

He’s in your lap before either of you realize it.

The kiss he pulls you into is warm, and soft. He tastes sweet. The smell of his cologne is heady, and though you’ve touched no alcohol, it makes you feel drunk. Spicy and sweet. You don't know a whole lot about cologne but it must be expensive. Just like everything else of his. Your hands trail up his body, cupping his cheeks. Your skin burns under his touch.

Gojo finds himself paralyzed. Though he made the first move, you’re taking the lead. He straddles your lap, grinding his growing erection against one of your strong thighs. One of his hands moves to grope appreciatively at the muscles of your arms. You feel so much better in his hands than he expected.

When you pull away, a strand of saliva connects your lips to his. His face is red and his neck is white. His lips are swollen and bitten pink. On the side table his phone buzzes. He cracks open one eye, only to pull away once he sees who’s texting him.

“Shit-” his hands are on your hips, gently shoving you off, “it’s Megs. I'm sorry- I gotta go.”

You weren't about to make him stay. Megumi had gotten sick before dinner, and was frantically calling Gojo to come pick him up. It was a family emergency, and you know how kids can be. Gojo made sure to apologize to Nobara’s grandmother for the vomit, and offered to help clean, but she refused. As soon as a sick Megumi was fed some soup and tucked into bed, Gojo went to his own. He considered heading over to your apartment, but if Megs woke up and needed him in the middle of the night, he didn't want to be the next apartment over rearranging your guts.

It's not often he finds it so hard to sleep.

He finds himself consumed with the thought of you. How you feel, how you smell, how you taste.

His cock twitches at the memory of how you sound. How low and needy your voice got as he sat in your lap, rubbing himself against your growing erection. How your shirt clung tightly to the muscles in your shoulders and back.

Gojo lifts his hips just enough to shove his sweatpants down to his thighs. His hardened cock springs free. The tip is red, and leaks precum all over his toned thighs.

His hand only pales in comparison to the real thing. He hasn't been able to take his mind off you since that night you came home from the bar. There’s a lot of things he wants to do to you. He wants to take his time. He wants to admire every inch of your body, the hard planes of muscle, the soft curves of your body. You felt so strong and sturdy under his hands. He wants to learn every inch of your body, memorizing it under his fingertips. He wants to know just what makes you writhe.

It feels pathetic, jacking off to you like this. What would you even say? Big scary Satoru Gojo is down bad for his neighbor.

What you don't know can't hurt you.

He tries to imagine what your hand would feel like wrapped around his cock. Yours are smaller than his. Softer too.

Tension pools low in his stomach, only furthered by the movements of his hand.

The vision of you on your knees feels wrong. You’d find some way of regaining control over the situation. You’d find some way to make him beg. He thinks of all the things you’d do to him. How you’d pin him down. How you’d make him plead with you. How you’d stroke his cock until you’d milk him dry and he was overstimulated and whining for more.

With all the others he was in control. He wants to know what it’d be like to be at your mercy.

Your name leaves his lips in a broken moan. Hot ropes of his cum pour over his fist, dripping onto his stomach. A groan escapes him, far louder than he intended. For a moment he goes silent. There’s no noise coming from the hall. But the walls are thin and he doesn't want to wake anyone up.

He gets up once to clean the mess. And not once does he fall asleep that night.

He’d go on to beat himself up about that for weeks. In turn he would avoid you.

For the longest time you worried you had done something wrong, but it felt too awkward to bring it up. You still made sure to pass food their way whenever you had leftovers, but Megumi was always the one to return your plates.

He began to notice the tension between you two, and eventually asked you what gives. Part of you suspected Gojo put him up to it. No matter how much Megumi pried, he wouldn't get an answer. Your business didn't involve him. Nothing happened between you and Gojo.

Things were left at that.

With everything that was going on at work, those two completely slipped your mind for a while. You were busy, and they were the least of your worries. The busy nature of life completely swept you away. It wouldn't be until nearly two weeks later when you were finally able to catch a break.

In the nearly three years you’ve lived here, you’ve never had this issue. You usually have your key in your pocket. Or you remember to prop your door open.

You’re locked out.

Internally you curse yourself for forgetting. You sit on the steps in defeat. You’re cold, shoeless, and irritated, clad in only some boxers and a shirt. It’ll be an hour before your landlord can let you in. She’s out of town, and not exactly happy you called her so late at night.

All when Satoru fucking Gojo decides to make an appearence.

If it's any consolation, he looks just as awful as you. His eyes are bloodshot, hair a mess, his shirt reeking of booze. He sits next to you on the steps, groaning like his joints hurt. For once you let him join you. Rain clouds gather, and though it’s not raining hard, you feel your mood take even more of a nosedive. Not only are you cold, but you’re wet and miserable too.

“Don't ever let me drink again.” He says, resting his face in his hands.

“Your hangover will go away if you keep drinking.” You say.

“Really?” He asks.

“No. But when you’re drunk you don't notice it.” You say. “You got any booze?”

He nods, pulling a flask from his pocket. You uncap it and down the last half in one swig. If you plug your nose, hard liquor doesn't burn on the way down.

“I don't get how you can stand that stuff.” He says, his nose wrinkling with disgust.

“Pussy.” You say.

“Bitch.” He counters.

There's a moment of silence before a grin splits your face wide open.

“Megs’ gone again?” You ask.

He nods. “Sleepover. Mrs. Kugisaki wasn't exactly happy the last time, but she allowed him back.”

You can't blame her. Mopping up vomit isn't fun.

You pass the flask back to him. He frowns as he realizes it's empty.

Your landlord doesn't seem too mad when she lets you back in. It's the first time this has happened, and hopefully the last.

You’ve never been so glad to be back in your own place.

You invite Gojo in for coffee, and to sober up. He gladly accepts. It makes you feel slightly less nervous. Maybe he wasn't avoiding you after all. Maybe it was just a coincidence.

He takes his tea plain. You join him on the couch, flopping on the free seat. It's too small. Now matter how much you shift, you’re left nearly sitting in his lap. You’ve been meaning to get another one, but this one works fine and you can't justify buying a new one.

“I’ve gotta admit,” you say, “I thought I scared you off for a while there.”

“I thought I did the same.” He lets out a small laugh. “I kind of missed you bossing me around. Things have been boring without you around.”

He makes the first move this time, leaning in close. One of his hands finds your thigh. Your skin is cold. Goosebumps raise along your thigh as his fingers brush across your skin. Warmth radiates off his skin like a furnace. Unconsciously you huddle a bit closer to him, trying to steal his warmth. His presence, at the very least, is intoxicating. The smell of his cologne is so inviting you hardly notice yourself closing your eyes and leaning in.

You don't see him move away, but you sense the sudden empty space in front of you. When you open your eyes, the first thing you see is his grinning face.

“What?” He asks. “D’you think I was going to kiss you?”

“Yes!” You give his shoulders a soft shove. “Asshole!”

"Fine," he presses a quick kiss to your lips, "I guess I'll have to make it up to you."

He leans back in to deepen the kiss, your fingers tangling in his hair.

You pull away for a moment to say: "I'll get you back for that."

And he's certain you will.

You follow his lead. His hands find your hips, groping appreciatively at your ass. Yours find his arms, tracing the well-defined muscles of his biceps, and chest.

He's flushed from his forehead to his chest when you pull away, his lips bitten pink.

“Do you trust me?” You ask.

He finds himself nodding.

You look him up and down in deafening silence. The look in your eyes has drastically changed. It's turned predatory.

“Get on your knees.” You order.

Gojo’s embarrassment at your request is only lessened by the dark look in your eyes. You practically leer at him. Your gaze takes him in eagerly, and all at once. He feels like prey; like some small creature cornered by a big cat. For someone who’s normally so calm and collected, he wants to shrink while under your gaze.

"Do I have to ask again?" You say.

His throat has gone dry.

Slowly he gets on his knees, hands folded neatly in his lap.

Your eyes trail down the little 'V' made by muscle and his hip bone, only visible as his shirt briefly lifts up. It's strange seeing him without his uniform. He was attractive before, but you never realized just how fit the guy is. He must dye his hair. It can't naturally be that white. But then again, why would he go through the trouble of dyeing his eyebrows and eyelashes?

“Don't be getting shy on me now, neighbor,” he says.

“I'm not getting shy,” your fingers grip his chin, tilting his head up to look at you, “I’m just deciding what I want to do with you.”

He swallows hard. Your thumb traces along his bottom lip, before briefly dipping into his mouth. His tongue swirls around the digit, hot and wet. You’re almost embarrassed about the twitch this sends right to your cock.

“Strip.” You say.

His hands move under the hem of his shirt, pulling it up and over his head. He takes it slow, making a show of it. There's the soft sound of it hitting the ground as he tosses it aside. Next goes his belt. His pants are next to come off. He sprouts a tent in his thin boxers, his cock painfully hard, leaking precum against his thigh.

Your shirt and shorts seem to cling to your body in a way he never noticed before. The hardened nubs of your nipples are visible through the fabric of your shirt. Your face flushes when you’re aroused. It makes him wonder how hard you’re getting, and all the things you plan to do with him.

He finds himself giving in. Not slowly. He wants to give you all of him all at once. But he’s not going to. You’re going to have to take it from him.

You guess it doesn't surprise you that he would want someone to boss him around.

“You look cute when you're all focused like this,” he says, in a desperate attempt to regain control of the situation, “I do wonder what's going on in that head of yours.”

"I always wondered if that was your natural hair color. Or if you go through the trouble of dyeing it." You say.

“My… hair?” He asks. “Of all things, you want to know about that? You're a strange one, you know that?"

His breath catches when you grab his hair, tilting his head up to yours. You lean down just enough for your face to be near-level with his.

The kiss you pull him into is uncharacteristically soft, and needy. Mostly it's so he’ll shut up. His eyes screw shut, his hands reach out, finding your hips, tracing up the curves of your body, groping greedily at your ass. You nibble at his bottom lip until he allows your tongue to explore the wet cavern of his mouth. He tastes of something sweet. His fingers press under the hem of your shirt, coaxing it up and over your head. His eyes widen at the sight of your bare chest.

When you pull away, a strand of saliva connects your lips to his.

“Boxers too.”

Your fingers press under the waistband of his boxers, shoving them over his hips. His cock springs free, slapping against his toned stomach. It's long and pale: built like the rest of him. It's big, but not big enough to be intimidating. It's pretty, like a pornstar’s, and curves in a way that nearly makes you drool.

He’s clean shaven.

“What? Not what you expected?” He asks, clicking his tongue. “Better luck next time, neighbor.”

“Next time?”

“There's gonna be a next time.”

He lets out a sharp gasp as you nip at his ear.

“I’m starting to think you like it when I boss you around.” You say, giving his hair a gentle tug. “Don't you?”

His response is only a grunt.

"Answer me," you say, tilting his chin up so his eyes meet yours.

"I- I like it," he huffs, "I like it."

"Good boy."

He hates the twitch this sends right to his cock. If he wasn't hard before, he certainly is now.

You practically sink into the couch. You beckon him forward, and he complies, crawling so he can sit in your lap, your hardened cock pressing into his thigh. His fingers press under the waistband of your boxers, pulling them down your hips.

“Please,” he says weakly.

“Please what?”

“Please can I suck you off?”

It's not the answer you were expecting, but you’ll take it.

You nod, beckoning him to come closer. His arms hook around your thighs, his hands kneading greedily at the plush flesh. He trails wet, open mouthed kisses up your thighs. Three up one leg, three up the other. Goosebumps raise along your exposed flesh.

He does nothing short of worshipping you with his tongue.

You’re starting to understand just why all those women were screaming. That doesn't make you forget about all the nights you were kept up, but you get it. And he’s eager to please, watching every reaction your body has to him. He may not be the best with words, but he’s good with his mouth. Gojo picks up on things even you didn't notice. He gives the head of your cock an experimental lick, his tongue swirling around the head. Your hands bury in his white locks, urging him to take you deeper. Aside from your soft moans, the only sound is that of a man very content with what he’s doing. Tension builds in your stomach like a rubber band being stretched tight. With each skilled movement of his tongue he sends you closer to your release.

He leaves you on that edge for what feels like ages. Climbing that hill, walking the line between release, and coming undone entirely. So close to orgasm but never falling off the other side. Just as you’re at the brink of release, you push him off. His lips release your cock with a soft pop! Bits of saliva and precum dribbles down his chin, which you wipe away with your thumb.

You motion for him to join you on the couch. He complies, all too eager to be at your mercy.

He sits cross legged on the couch, with you in his lap. Your chest presses against his, the hardened pebbles of your nipples pressing into his skin. There's no space between you two. Neither of you will allow it. Your head falls into the crook of his neck. From the drawer of the side table he grabs a bottle of lube, pouring some into his hand before working it over the length of your cock. The slow, methodic movements of his hand send shocks of pleasure up your spine.

You shift so he can sit in your lap, his knees on either side of your thighs. You grab the bottle of lube, pouring it into your hand, working it over your pointer and middle finger, trying to warm it up a bit. He leans back, your free hand nudging his legs a little further apart.

The sudden intrusion of your fingers makes him gasp. It's not an unpleasant feeling, just strange. It's been a while since he’s done this. You give him a moment to adjust, before adding in a second finger, which he takes with no resistance. The moan that escapes him as you begin pumping your fingers is unintentional, but sends a throb right to your cock. His face is flushed, his lips bitten pink. He grows a bit more red at the feeling of your hard cock pressing into his thigh.

Once you deem him prepped enough, you guide your cock into him. Inch by inch he takes you deeper. Gojo lets out a truly sinful moan as you bottom out. His breathing is shallow. His hands find your waist, arms wrapping around it to steady himself. There’s no sting as you push in.

It's another moment before you move. Every cell in his being is crying out for you to move- to thrust up, or for him to pin you down and ride you there. He manages to restrain himself, to hold back this once. You may sit there for a few minutes longer than intended, squirming a bit just to mess with him. You’re only trying to get comfortable, after all. He lets out the cutest gasps and moans when he’s desperate.

Gojo is used to getting what he wants. You’re going to make him fight for it.

Your hands find his hips, guiding his thrusts as he proceeds to ride you. The sounds of your hips slapping on his fill the room. Gojo can't tear his eyes away from the way the muscles in your shoulders and arms move in rhythm with him. Your teeth find the junction where his shoulder meets his neck, sinking into the flesh. Gojo has a crescent shaped bruise to show for it. He lets out a small pained squeak. You shush him, pressing a quick kiss to his lips, softly saying “good boy.”

“Fuck,” he says, “fuck, I want you so much!”

“Really?” You coo, and though your face is buried in his neck, he can hear the wicked grin on your face. “Then show me how much you want me.”

The tension returns to your stomach, building in intensity faster than you expected. Gojo throws his head back, moaning desperately, his eyes screwing shut. Broken fragments of sentences pass his lips, barely intelligible, mixing with curses and what sounds like your name. He’s practically seeing stars, each of your thrusts sending him further to the point of no return. You're certain your neighbors can hear. At the moment you don't care. Maybe that makes you a hypocrite. If your neighbors complain, then let them complain.

You can tell by the frantic stuttering of his hips that he must be close. A bead of sweat rolls down his forehead. His head falls into the crook of your neck, sucking dark marks into your collarbone. His hands find your breasts, kneading and groping the soft flesh. Gojo trails kisses down your neck, sucking hickeys into your skin, leaving a path of bruises in his wake. His mouth latches onto one of your nipples, rolling the sensitive nub between his teeth. This elicits a sharp gasp from you, earning a chuckle from him.

He’s less vocal when he’s nearing orgasm. He clenches around you in a way that pulls you back in. The feeling of your skin against his is too warm and inviting. He finds himself giving in entirely. Your arms wrap around your neck, shoving his head into your neck.

“Don't you dare get off my cock,” you say, “you’re taking all of it. You’re gonna take all of my cum.”

Gojo can't find it in him to refuse.

His only response is a groan. He pulls away from your neck with a pop, a strand of saliva connecting your skin and his. Gojo’s lips are swollen, and bitten a nice shade of pink. Your hand tangles in his hair, tugging his head so his eyes meet yours.

When he cums, he cums hard, hot ropes of his semen spilling into your lap, and across your stomach. Your name leaves his lips like a prayer. All he can focus on is you and only you. How you sound, feel, taste. What sends you over the edge is how he sinks his teeth into your flesh, marking the soft skin of your collar. The mix of pain and pleasure is enough to send you toppling over that edge, the tension in your stomach snapping. You cry out his name, pulling on his hair hard, painting his insides white.

You slump against him, completely spent, chest heaving. Your skin is sticky with sweat. His lips brush against your forehead as he pulls you to rest against his chest.

It's another moment before you pull out, your cum leaking down his thighs.

You slide out from beneath him, putting great care into not disturbing his body. He props himself up on his elbows, watching as you disappear into the bathroom, before returning with a dry washcloth.

You motion for him to put his legs in your lap.

There's something oddly intimate about the way you clean him up. You make sure to take your time, going over every inch of his body with the cloth.

He’s never really done this with any of his dates before. Most he kicks out before morning. Don't want Megumi to run into them. He finds himself wanting to stay. He finds himself wanting more. For once in his life, Gojo is speechless. Part of him desperately wants to talk, but another part of him doesn't want the moment to end.

He guides you to sit back, using the clean side of the cloth to clean you up. His touch is gentle, and far softer than you’re used to seeing from him. It’s like he’s trying to memorize every curve of your body.

Once he deems you cleaned up enough, he tosses the washcloth with your discarded clothes.

You stretch your arms out towards him, making grabbing motions with your hands. He pulls you into his lap, and as if by instinct, your arms wrap around his neck, shoving his face into your chest. Idly he presses kisses to the dark marks he's left. He’s rather proud of them.

“How’s it feel, neighbor,” he says, “now that you’re the one disturbing everyone’s sleep?”

“I think I liked you better when you weren't talking.” You say, rolling your eyes hard. “It's not like we were that loud.”

He clicks his tongue. “I dunno about that… maybe next time we’ll go long enough we’ll get a noise complaint.”

“Maybe.” You say. “Maybe next time I’ll gag you.”

“Ooh, I’d like to see you try,”

Your fingers tangle in his hair and tug hard. The look in your eyes is burning in intensity.

“I should get you a collar.” You say. “A leash too. I'm thinking red. Or maybe blue? Something to match your eyes.”

There’s no hiding the way blood rushes to his face. And there’s even less hiding the blood that rushes to his cock. His eyes meet yours with the same intensity.

“Maybe next time you’ll finally get to see if the carpet matches the drapes,”

You audibly groan, and flop back down on the couch. The moment’s over. As usual, he can't be serious for very long. You shove his face back down into your chest in hope that’ll distract him, and hopefully keep him from talking. It’s a very nice chest, right next to an even nicer neck, he has to admit, even nicer that you’re the person they’re attached to. His chin rests in the crook of your neck, his hands idly toying with your hair.

“There will be a next time, neighbor.” He says.

[jallegro-grc]

I am a nonbinary individual. I hadn't known about it for quite some time. I only realized about half a year ago, officially coming out over the summer. I am also biologically a man, which in terms of representation, is incredibly slim. The public image of a nonbinary person is still a fairly feminine person. And, as much as I'd love to look like Misato Katsuragi, the reality is, I do not. Much of the discourse around trans women revolves around the baseless fear of them. There are very few trans men represented in the media. Gay men make up a majority of the publics' perception of AMAB members of the LGBTQ+ community. This is wholly untrue, with there being countless bisexual, trans, and nonbinary people who are AMAB. And knowing that in the public perception of queer and gender-nonconforming people, you make up such a small minority that you aren't even thought of as being nonbinary, hurts. There are still a WHOLE lot of gendered expectations for those that identify outside of the gender binary, and most of them revolve around the assumption that most queer people are AFAB. Nonbinary people, who identify outside of the gender binary, are still expected to look a certain way. The gender expectation for nonbinary people is "androgynous" (which usually means somebody whos AFAB with dyed hair, a septum piercing, and lots of Hawaiian shirts) or feminine. But, as we know, gender expression and gender identity are two different entities altogether. The freedom to identify how you want is a great thing, and the freedom to dress and look how you choose is even greater. By identifying as nonbinary, you are freeing yourself up to express your gender however you want (not that you can't otherwise). The only requirement for you to identify as nonbinary is to feel that you should identify as nonbinary, but still, these gendered expectations exist for people who live, eat, and breathe outside the gender binary Take, for example, Dutee Chand. A runner from eastern India who had won gold at the 200m sprint and the 4-by-400m relay at the Asian Junior Athletics Championship in Taiwan. Unbeknownst to her, her performance at the competition had been so impressive that competitors took note of her masculine body. Because of this, the authorities at the International Association of Athletics Federation wished to perform a "gender-verification test" on her. The I.A.A.F found that Ms. Chand's androgyne levels were too high to compete in the women's class. She was banned from running in the future. This poor woman, who until this point, had never even heard the term intersex was now at the center of a legal case protesting these policies. This poor woman, who was raised as a woman, who never had any reason to believe any different, was suddenly forced out of her own body and gender. The expectations of what a woman should be, and the realities of what women are, are wildly different. Quite often, real women will be born without a uterus, born without a womb, or even born with a penis. Women often grow hair on their arms, legs, and faces. Women exist, and there are about as many different kinds of women as there are women in the world. And to expect them all to have the exact same sort of genetic, anatomic, and even aesthetic makeup is an incredibly foolish thing to do.

[actuallyrandomperson]

I wanna ramble about how I experience dysphoria as a genderfluid person for a bit, and my identity in general, so I figured Tumblr was a good place to do it.

So, for starters, I should probably clarify how I'm fluid, as all of us are a little different in how we experience gender. I was assigned female at birth, and, to be completely honest, I wish I was amab. This shocks some people, especially as I tend to sit on the female/demigirl/nonbinary side of things, but it's true. Realistically, I know my life would be a lot different if I had been, and I would have experienced a different set of struggles, but in an idealistic world, where nothing would change about me except the way my body looked and what pronouns were used for me, I'd want to be assigned male. I could not care less what genitals I have, especially since I'm ace so it has no real effect on how I'm gonna live my life, this relates back to the two other most obvious issues with being afab: Periods, and boobs.

I hate getting my period. As most people do. I don't even have particularly painful ones, just some semi-bad cramps on the first day or two, but I hate it anyway. 9 times out of 10 I'm non-binary on the first day of my period. Whether that's related to hormone levels or some subconscious part of my brain whispering "hey periods suck being a girl sucks why were u born a girl", I do not know. I just know it happens.

I also hate my boobs whenever I'm not female. Including when I'm demigirl. I don't hate the idea of boobs in general when I'm demigirl, and don’t think I need to be completely flat-chested to feel happy when I’m non-binary (but that could come back to me doubting I’ll get fully flat without surgery), I just hate my boobs. That is because I am incredibly busty, especially for someone who is 5'1/155 cm tall. I'm an Aus 10G/US 32I, I have small shoulders (my straps slip down no matter how tight we pull them), and a large part of what made figuring out my gender identity hell was the constant question of whether me hating my boobs was an ace thing (not wanting to be constantly sexualised) or a gender thing. My best fitting bra actually helped me figure that out, as reportedly it made me look smaller (i.e. technically less likely to be sexualised) but it had the side benefit of making my boobs, well, actually look like boobs, and when I looked at myself in the mirror I wanted to claw my eyes out. So. 90% of the time I hate my boobs because they're so big, and 100% of the time I hate my period.

You might be sitting here, reading this, and going "but Em, are you sure you're genderfluid? Not just demigirl or nonbinary or agender or any of the other non-binary identities?" My answer to that is, well, sorta no. And sorta yes. No, in the fact that I've never been sure about anything in my life. Maybe time will go on, and I'll begin to identify with some other label, or no labels at all. Yes, in the fact that genderfluid feels right right now, and that's all that matters. Humans change. In turn, labels can change too. Hell, as a genderfluid person, my labels technically change on almost a day to day basis! That doesn't make my feelings and my identity at any single moment any less valid. It also doesn't mean that long term, I'll wake up one day and realise that I actually just identify with x gender. It just means that it could happen, and that’s ok, just as it's okay that my identity is changing constantly at the moment. Side note, while we're talking about labels- you also don't need to identify with one! I personally like to use them, as they bring me comfort, but everyone is different, and y'all who choose not to use labels for whatever reasons are entirely valid.

I have 4 main types of day, gender-wise. Days where I feel like a girl, days where I feel kinda like a girl, days where I feel non-binary, and days where my gender is that 'women' shrugging emoji (that I use all the time because long hair babeyyyy also their shirt is purple on iOS and purple rules). Day 4 I mostly lump under demigirl, as with day 2. Day 3 could probably be most accurately described with agender, or a similar identity label, but I find it personally easiest to just refer to myself as non-binary on said days.

In a hard to explain way, I feel as though I experience less dysphoria on days where I am demigirl than on days where I am fully female. This is not entirely accurate, and is almost certainly as a result of me having unintentionally put in place coping mechanisms for said days in terms of how I present myself for years now, and probably isn’t the right terms for me to use, but it's true.

You see, I dress in a fairly gender-neutral way. My presentation has still always come off as feminine, as I love my long hair and enjoy nail polish, but I've always hated shaving, and I avoid wearing dresses and skirts as much as possible in my day-to-day. I don't mind wearing dresses etc when I'm demigirl, I just don't gravitate towards them, and when I'm demigirl I generally present as a not-overly feminine girl whose a little uncomfortable with their body shape and likes to be comfy, and wears heels in an effort to be taller rather than as a fashion statement.

But when I'm fully a girl, I often love being feminine. I usually want to wear dresses/skirts, and jewellery, and lipstick (not any other makeup though, years of dance and stage makeup ruined me- if someone puts it on for me and it's not heavy/powdery I'm not actively adverse, though), and have my hair braided, and generally just to Get Prettied Up. But that’s not 'me' to other people. That’s not the person I've presented myself as for years. I've spent my entire life catering to my demigirl and non-binary days because they're more common, and whenever I do lean into my feminine self on girl days my family and a lot of my friends are kinda surprised. I wore lipstick and nice clothes to two separate movie hangouts with two different friends, and one of them (who I hadn't seen in a while, to be fair) commented on how it was unusual for me while the other looked visibly surprised. It's not a coincidence that the two irl people I'm out to outside of my schools lgbt+ club are my brother and my best friend- both of whom complimented me (in a non-creepy way with my brother slvjfk) when they saw me wear lipstick for simple things last year, without making a big deal out of it. My mum still acts shocked and gets excited about me being feminine when I express an interest into buying clothes from a particular brand (Princess Highway/Dangerfield in general, for my fellow Aussies, as I don’t think they exist in the US) even though I've been getting presents from there for a few years now. She's talked about slowly starting to replace my clothes with 'fashionable stuff' from places like Dangerfield as the years go on now that I've 'expressed an interest in nice clothes' and I feel anxiety start to ball up in my stomach, because I don't want to wear fashionable clothes all the time, because fashionable for me, closeted and big-chested as I am, means feminine. When I present or show interest in presenting in a more feminine way on my female days, my mother and a few people I'm surrounded by unintentionally make me feel guilty about not wishing to present like that all the time, make my dysphoric for my future and past self, and make me doubt myself as a genderfluid person because I wish to present as my birth gender on one day.

So rather than dealing with all that, I don't present in a more feminine way unless I'm going out, and even then, avoid wearing lipstick if my mum is home, or coming with me. If I can, I'll stick a tube into my bag to apply when I get to wherever I'm going, but it's not always possible. I have Safiya Nygaard’s colourpop collection hidden away in my room. I continue to present myself in a way that aligns more closely in my mind to my demigirl days, with the slight change of being able to actually look at myself in the mirror for extended periods of time, being ok with my slightly more tight-fitting tops, and being chill with wearing my best bra. And I feel, as a whole, dysphoric on these days. I am not happy with how my gender presentation is, because it does not reflect how I want to present. Dysphoria is probably not the exact right term to use to describe these feelings, given I'm afab but it is the easiest way for me to put it, as it most closely reflects the unhappiness I feel with my presentation on my non-binary days, it's just my non-binary days come with a whole lot more body-related dysphoria piled on top. A song I like to listen to on female days is Platform Ballerinas, by MIKA, as it helps remind me that I am a girl, and the way I'm presenting as a girl is valid even if it's not exactly how I want to (it doesn't actually fully come back to societal expectations placed on women because I might shave my armpits but my leg hair still stays, and I genuinely want to get prettied up rather than feeling like I should to be seen as a girl, it's just something I want to do and not being able to makes me feel whack, but the song is definitely more focused on the whole 'societal expectations suck y'all are all valid' thing).

Non-binary days suck in the same way I've heard a lot of trans people of all varieties discuss. I hate walking past mirrors, if I have to wear feminine clothing for whatever reason I feel like I'm going to cry, she/her pronouns kinda make me want to die (generally I'm chill with she/they, and on female days they/them is okay, but she/her on nonbinary days makes my dysphoric as hell), and I generally Do Not Have A Great Time dysphoria wise. But hey, one day I’ll have enough money for a binder. Eventually. I always feel weird about entering giveaways given there are people who experience extreme dysphoria around their chest every day, I can deal on my demigirl days and survive on my non-binary ones.

So, that’s been me rambling into the void about gender for almost 2000 words, how are y’all doing? Also, if anyone actually read all of this I’d appreciate like,,, a like. Or something. I kinda want to know if people have actually seen and read this.

[bootyprince999]

a conflict between a person's physical or assigned gender and the gender with which he/she/they identify. People with gender dysphoria may be very uncomfortable with the gender they were assigned, sometimes described as being uncomfortable with their body (particularly developments during puberty) or being uncomfortable with the expected roles of their assigned gender.Okay uh, sorry this has been rattling around in my brain for too long, and i already kNOW when some certain people read this they’ll probably spam me with reasons why i’m wrong but i can’t help but notice a trend in the people policing trans people and as a trans man i think i have to right to voice my opinion about it yes? no? Well it doesnt matter im doing it anyway.

(fair warning, if my wording is off or if sentences et confusing; the word im using is not the right definition, i apologize im just cranking this out and have a hard time with words getting mixed up anyways, gomen)

Alright so uh

I’m sure people who aren’t truscum have probably heard of truscum right? Trans-exclusionary feminists (usually) saying what trans people (predominantly trans MEN , this is important) must do/feel/think in order to really be trans. If they dont they get called transtrenders and cis women ‘crying out to  feel important’

well alright theres lots to dissect here but just uh, its overwhelming at first glance. I mean, cis people telling trans people what to do in order to ‘really’ be trans is about at the same line of white people trying to tell really any poc how to be their race or something. Its asinine and just confusing?? I thought we were past this??

But most of these ‘truscum’ people are only really targeting trans-men. To say they’re targeting the trans community is a bit off because from what i’ve seen of them, (correct me if im wrong it’d make this even more interesting if they were harassing trans women too with their similar rhetoric) they’re creating terms for and attacking feminine presenting trans-men, calling them ‘tucutes’ (which im still fuzzy on the definition for mostly cause its just stupid) and also then again calling them just cis women trying to be cool or something. But i feel i should note not all truscum are just cis-women, some of them are trans-men as well which is surprising to me but also, with my experience as a trans-man im also kinda not surprised. I’ll get into that later.

So to start just, these ‘truscum’ people seem to have their main targets being trans-men but also nonbinary people as well, claiming that nb people are not trans and claiming that effeminate trans-men are not real men because men are not effeminate and to even be trans you have to have ‘dysphoria’ (which is technically right but, the definition truscum give is not really correct? pls stick with me on this ill explain) and how HRT makes you hyper masculine and so femm trans-men and nonbinary people should not try to or have any acess to it at all and it should be reserved for REAL trans men who wanna be very manly because HRT can and will only make u super masculine and theres absolutley no way you can use hormone therapy or reconstructive gender therapy to be androgynous as some nb people seek. (even though AMAB NB people haves used hormones to do this, and AFAB NB people have used hormones and surgery to do this as well. But you know, theyre really only attacking trans-men when they do this anyways so they probably dont know or care to know about that.)

Well lets sorta back track a second here on like, the basic definition of trans you get when u first tell kinda any doctor/counselor/therapist that you feel like youre a different gender. “Some trans people undergo hormone replacement or sexual reassignment surgery to help themselves align their bodies to their real gender, but some trans people don’t because they dont want to change their bodies and thats okay!” So yeah, even the oldschool mid ‘2010′ era definition doctors and people used made room for people who were okay with their bodies but still felt trans! Still felt like the classic “man trapped in a womans body” thing of whatever (even though thats a gross metaphor but you get my point)

So when did people suddenly decide that the definition was different? that trans people now should be uncomfortable and change their bodies otherwise their not trans? I don’t know when it started or why though i suspect with the few trans-men who are truscum it could have maybe started with things like this;

-the reddit term of transtrender coming up to invalidate trans people (again predominantly trans men) for their identity.

-the few trans people who do undergo transition and either through maybe doctors not giving them enough information and giving them a higher dose, their body not reacting to it well, or somehow getting acess to transitioning fast enough that they really were actually in a transitional period of their lives where perhaps they were feeling they were trans but were maybe going through something during that point in their lives, or perhaps the changes the HRT gave them were unsatisfying and they wanted something different. (This is usually pretty rare though considering most trans people have to undergo usually at least 4 years of waiting for any hormone treatment, which involves going through lots of doctors and therapists and having to really talk about how trans you are for years, and any sign of even being slightly loose in your definition of gender “i feel liek guys can like cute girl things too” can often get you pushed back for treatment. IDK where these people are getting fast acess to hormone treatment cause ive never found any)

- Trans-men who perhaps have internalized a lot of the toxic masculinity that can sometimes get pushed onto you trying to prove you’re enough of a man for people. Before the definition of truscum even exsisted i’ve had to deal with people like this face to face and it made me get a lot more aggresive standoffish and downright rude with people because i was just trying to act like what i thought men should act like. And given this was in my early teen years, what early teen males are fed of what men act like, i was a fucking nightmare yeah. I’ve seen some transmen who sorta internalize this stuff and get the woman-hating too, I had a time sort of in middleschool era where i was really gross about girls and their bodies and just, I can totally see transguys maybe buying into an idea of hating on feminine guys the same way cis guys hate on femm cis guys.

-the above could also include cis women so just, in general people with internalized misogyny because again, this is all so targeted at calling DFAB people not good enough and not trans enough

So yeah, theres obviously been some people unhappy with people and sort of misunderstanding things about being trans. But to be fair, a lot of the definitions of things relatng to being trans, esp the ‘dys-’ words have been left pretty confusing. So lets try to go over them and maybe now i can clear up why these ‘truscum’ people are both somewhat correct in saying you need to have dysphoria to be trans,  but also not really because they sort of have their terms wrong...

dysphoria:”a state of unease or generalized dissatisfaction with life.” -Google

dysmorphia/body dysmorphia: “the obsessive idea that some aspect of one's own body part or appearance is severely flawed and warrants exceptional measures to hide or fix their dysmorphic part on their person.” -Wikipedia

Gender dysphoria: “a conflict between a person's physical or assigned gender and the gender with which he/she/they identify. People with gender dysphoria may be very uncomfortable with the gender they were assigned, sometimes described as being uncomfortable with their body (particularly developments during puberty) or being uncomfortable with the expected roles of their assigned gender.” -Psychiatry.org

So, according to the main definition of Gender Dysphoria, it can encompass both the feelings of dissatisfaction and almost detachment to life of Dysphoria and the detachment and detest of Body Dysmorphia.  Also to have Dysmorphia you sort of have Dysphoria inherently with the way your quality of life and enjoyment of your own goes down with the fact you cant change something thats such a part of your being. Dysphoria and Dysmorphia playing in art with one another is especially common with trans people.  So I think that these ‘truscum’ people are sort of confusing the definition of Gender Dysphoria. Theyre implying and pushing that it’s all about the “being uncomfortable with their body” when its both that and the “being uncomfortable with the expected roles of their assigned gender.”

So by definition, to be trans you do have to have Dysphoria, or particularly Gender Dysphoria yes. BUT,  Gender Dysphoria does NOT mean hating and wanting to change your body for lots of trans people! Not liking being reffered to as a certain gender, or partaking in the behaviors expected of it, clothes, activities, jobs, items, milestones, if you feel detached from it and like its really not you that by definition means you have Gender Dysphoria and so you are trans. And yes NB are trans, tons of them relate to the definition of Gender Dysphoria both the Dysphoria and Dysmorphia parts of them.

I also feel like adding that to say that trans men or trans women need to be aligning completely with the gender they identify with (as both truscum and some doctors still do), there are plenty of cis-gender people who feel that gender is a bit fluid and that cis-men and cis-women can have traits of the other and behave sort of in the middle. So for trans people to not be able to do the same, when trans men are and often feel in the same ways that these cis men do, and vice vera for trans women, its kind of transphobic man. You’re putting up unreasonable and downright unnesesary ideals for trans people to uphold to prove themselves that cis-people don’t even have to. If cis-people can have a looser idea on gender expression and can have diff gender expression (expressing/dressing in a different gender while still feeling like the gender you identify/are born with) then trans people should to.

Like me, i’m a trans men who has feminine gender expression! Truscum would probably call me a trender or a ‘tucute’ for that. But, I have hORRIBLE Body Dysmorphia because of my Gender Dysphoria. Have since i was like 11, And i want to undergo both top and bottom surgery to alleviate it all. So, hows that for “fem trans guys are just tucutes, you have to have dysphoria to be trans” I have it and im still fem bitch.

But yeah, i just keep seeing so much of this, even from people i used to consider friends and just, i wanted to put my 2 cents in on it. If you have Gender related Dysphoria or Dysmorphia, you’re gonna know about it best. And if you dont want to have to have the scary part of de-transitioning because medical transition wasn’t right for you because you identifying as one thing was wrong and you actually identify as something different, I reccomend maybe sitting on those feelings before doing anything for like 5-7 years. Sounds like a long time, but i mean from when you first start getting the feelings of Gender Dysphoria and Dysmorphia. It’s still honestly so rare for people to detransition though and feel like a whole diff gender, ppl usually detransition when they feel like their hormones are going further than they want (and then later fix their dose with their doctor) of to avoid public shaming and are still trans so yeah.

Hopefully no ones too upset with this (unless theyre a terf or truscum) but yeah, thats my word on it.

[adventures-in-transmania]

Story time #1, the beginning

So, unlike media tends to represent trans people, I didn't know as a kid. I had no problem being called a tomboy in middle school, from what little I can remember. I do remember getting along far easier with boys than girls, but I also had almost every girl I tried being friends with at that age pull some backstabbing, gossipy, clique-y bullshit and who has time for that?

That being said, I don't think I ever had that phase in which I tried to be overly feminine to fit in, which some trans people go through. I wore dresses and skirts in elementary school without any feeling that it wasn't right. I also grew up in a house with a mentally ill biological mother (BPD) who was also a lesbian. I grew up with my bio father out of the house (saw him occasionally, not all that important tbh) and my mother having girlfriends. It's just how life was. I didn't need it explained, I didn't even realize it was different. It wasn't a big deal.

Fast forward to what I CAN remember, my coming out story. Somewhere around 10th grade I stumbled upon the term transgender. I'd been supportive of LGBT+ for quite a few years by then. I thought about my sexuality occasionally. For the most part, I was into men, but I remember not caring if I ended up with a woman. I remember the whispers of my classmates, calling me a dyke when they thought I couldn't hear them, the rumors about my mother being gay, therefore I had to be gay. They really didn't bother me. The people I considered friends didn't mention it or even care from what I gathered. I didn't really discuss lgbt issues with people from school. My friends were teenaged boys and would squirm if you even mentioned anything queer.

Luckily for me, I had friends online. One was a very mature for her age girl who provided a very positive light in an otherwise dark time. I loved her as a best friend and wouldn't trade my time with her for anything. The other was a boy from the deep South living with a religious family. They both met me as a guy character on a website of which I spent a lot of time on during high school. At some point I told them I wasn't born a guy. They didn't care. Online I was a guy.

That's not to say I knew for certain. I was still figuring things out. I didn't have dysphoria at the time. I had no qualms with people using she/her pronouns.

Sometime in 10th grade, I came out to my parent (my bio mother), thinking someone who identified as a lesbian would at the very least understand, talk, maybe even support their child coming out as trans.

Here's a plot twist, they didn't. Here's an even bigger plot twist. They also came out as trans. So, you'd think a trans parent (haha, jokes to be made here) would support their trans child. You'd be wrong. This has caused me much pain, much grief, just 'much' over the years.

There was six years of silence on the issue. We just didn't talk about it.

It wasn't really an issue that bugged me until a couple years into college. Well, other than the issue with my cousin's wedding. I think It was during either my junior or senior year, my cousin got married. I was in the wedding as a reader of some poem. I grew up with her in my life, she lived with us for some time. My parent made me wear a dress. Maybe that was my phase of trying to be overtly feminine, because I went all out. I wore the dress, 6 inch 'coral' heels, painted my nails, and probably wore make-up (which I never really bothered with, even as a girl). I wasn't happy about wearing the dress at this point in my life, I would have much rather been in a suit. My parent, who at this point had come out to me as trans, was able to wear a suit. No one in our family questioned it. It was a sore spot for me for a while. Maybe that was my first experience with blatantly dysphoria, but I can't say for certain. What I saw at the time was my parent, a trans man to me, a cis lesbian to everyone else, was able to wear a suit, but I was made to be uncomfortable in a dress.

I've talked about this since then (8 years after the fact) with both my parent and my cousin and the reasons make sense, according to our society. I'm now willing to accept it was necessary and I'm pretty much over it.

The other instance that I'm not over and will probably always regret is prom. My senior year, I got into this thing with someone who had been a very, very good friend. It was hard, probably based on senior class nostalgia. I liked him, his intelligence. I don't know what he saw in me. He was traditional, conservative, as most people were where I grew up, with it being a small town with 3 churches in 2 square miles.

We spent a lot of time in the library after school. I stayed to spend time with him, mostly. Over Christmas break during our senior year, I confessed that I liked him, which turned out to be reciprocated for whatever reason, or at least he said. A few months after, we discussed prom. I don't recall either of us being entirely enthused about it, but seeing it as something one should experience in high school, as well as the idea that most of our friends were going.

I believe I mentioned once about my thought to wear a suit to prom. A friend of mine who identified as a cis woman at the time, a lesbian, had worn a suit. I wanted to, also. He said he wouldn't go with me, then. I gave in, as I did at that time. I didn't have many people who actually wanted to be with me in any capacity (there's a bit more to this story, but I'm trying to be concise), so to experience something so paramount to the high school experience, I wanted to be included.

At the time I still identified as a woman to anyone who knew me offline. I wasn't dysphoric, I was just a tomboy. I had started to go by Riley online but couldn't really do so in school or anywhere else. I didn't really discuss anything with anyone offline so the two friends I mentioned earlier online really helped. They may not have completely understood but they let me talk about it and accepted me no matter what.

Another major thing I remember from high school was this one instance with my friend and guidance counselor. I had been 'turned in,' for a lack of a better word for attempting to cut at school (yeah, fucked up thing to do, surprise surprise. I wasn't good at coping with emotions, so sue me). I tried talking to my guidance counselor about potentially being trans and having a bit of a rough time with it, which took a lot of courage to do. The only other person I even thought I could go to had been my parent, as misguided as that was. The guidance counselor hadn't even heard of the term and even after explaining it, didn't have any sort of advice (to be expected after first hearing about it). There was no follow up, no conversation, nothing. Any sort of research would have revealed that trans people (teenagers especially) are at a higher risk of committing suicide and higher risk of being bullied. But it's easy to fall through the cracks when you're not a face or name people remember.

Here's one of my favorite memories from high school. Sometime during my senior year I took a psychology class. It was offered as an elective and I had free time. I would have rather been in a class than having a study hall. The class was taught by someone who had only taken a psychology course in college about 15-20 years ago, which explains a lot. She was certainly not qualified in any capacity to be teaching this class. I had several run ins with this particular teacher, but I kept my head down and did my work for the most part. One of her classes led to a discussion on gun laws and ownership. I was naive at the time, but she made a comment about how she should be able to own a gun so if someone came onto her front lawn, she could defend her property. That was the mentality of a lot of people in this small, conservative town. Great stuff.

So, another class we were talking about biased and unbiased studies. I don't remember the specific topic, but it had to pertain to something hormonal. I brought up the idea that to have a completely unbiased study, you would need test subjects that were AFAB on testosterone and AMAB on estrogen. She couldn't even imagine the concept. That night, I wrote an entire paper on why AMAB people would take estrogen and vice versa. I didn't mention being trans as a reason until the very last line. My biggest regret in life, just before that prom fiasco, is never giving her the paper.