#so we had a little talk about both our struggles with dysphoria and gender and wyv

[dilfsuzanneyk]

.

[treeofnonsense]

So I'm going to preface this by saying: I am cis as all hell. I'm not any form of trans or nonbinary, I have never been any form of trans or nonbinary, and thus I tend to stay pretty quiet on that front over here. Ain't my place to tell people who know better what to do, and I'm not trying to do that here. However, after having made a lot of friends under the trans umbrella, after being lucky enough to have some of those friends share with me some of their struggles, their joys, their lives, and after noticing a couple of patterns in their journeys... I think there is one message I would like to share that may help some of you to hear, if you'll give me a minute of your time, and I think it may have to come specifically from a cis person.

The message is this: If your cisgender friends are good friends, you being your true self is not a burden to them.

For the people in the back: If your cisgender friends are good friends. You being your true self with gender. Is not a burden to them.

I didn't know my friend in high school was trans until he transitioned socially and I heard his new name. He didn't tell me first because I was raised fundamentalist Christian and probably did not look like a safe person to tell; when I pulled him aside in class so no one else could hear us, told him he could tell me to buzz off if he was uncomfortable, and politely asked for confirmation on pronouns, I remember the surprise and joy on his face. It took me about five minutes of chanting his new name and pronouns in the shower to get it to stick in my brain. That tiny amount of effort was nothing compared to seeing him pull himself out of the depressive funk dysphoria had put him in, of celebrating senior year when he legally changed his name, of drawing him a snowflake dragon for Christmas and hiding the trans flag colors in the shimmer of the ice so it would get past our conservative school's radar. We became closer friends after he came out because I knew him better and he knew he could trust me. He got me my first ace ring. I was not only supporting him, but learning from him, and sharing in his joy.

The genderfluid roommate in college took me a little longer to adapt to, I'll be honest, I was still learning, but hey - it turns out it's not really that hard to check the pronoun pins on a lanyard before you address someone. It's pennies when that person comes along to teach you the wonders of thrift shopping and takes you to meet a drag queen for the first time. I've met so many people online whose identities I do not always intuitively understand, but who I support anyway, and who have made me consider so many new things. It's not a burden to know about my friends' journey when it comes to gender, it's a privilege to know them more deeply and be trusted in that way. It's a new dimension to this person I already love, that's all.

Look, I am not saying that all your cis friends are going to be perfect, that we're not going to fuck up occasionally because we don't know better or we had a bad day, that we understand everything - we're not, we will, and we don't. I am not saying that everyone is a safe person to talk to either - god knows that's not true, unfortunately. But. If your worry about expressing yourself is of being a nuisance, of burdening someone with your problems or needs, of being too much or too out-there or too confusing, consider this: Your friends may not only be willing to learn and help you, they may be happy to. In a true friendship, both people benefit from one person's joy. If you're happy because you're able to be your honest self, they'll be happy too. Suddenly that weird shyness and sadness they saw from you but didn't know the cause of has gone away. Heck, maybe they'll learn from you and start following in your genderfunky footsteps. Or maybe you'll just have a cis friend who texts you celebration emojis when you have a good gender day, or is there when you wake up from surgery, or goes shopping for new outfits with you, or even brings over ice cream when you're having a hard time. And then you both get ice cream. Come on. This is what friends do.

Be safe, of course. Trust your judgment when it comes to sharing information. But if you're simply scared, try to balance out the fear of what you may lose with the thought of what you may also stand to gain. Don't let the anxiety beast turn your identity into a problem. It's not a burden, it's a part of you, and the people who love you will love to meet it.

[mistymeow69]

This is your reminder that my account was created to share my "alternative" personal views. I will take little to no criticism, I will not change based off of what the majority tells me to, even if it's already a minority. I will always honor myself and what I believe in. This account is to talk about the things that normally wouldn't be socially acceptable to.

I'm getting attacked for my last post, but honestly idc lol. (Rant kinda)

if you wanna be a safe space for creeps, baits, and overall people who mock our community and diminish our struggles so they can use a label they don't understand, go ahead, but not everyone wants to be associated with that. Just proves what kind of person you are, someone who doesn't understand us at all.

Paralleling me to transmeds is crazy. Just because transgenderism and other transids are similar, doesn't mean they're not completely different in many other ways. Gender is a subjective thing. You can't be hypothetically disabled.

Things such as gender and race ARE social constructs, so you can interpret your identity with them as you please. It's not real, after all. Things such as transabled, however, are based off of real things that people struggle with daily. I'm not saying it's wrong to transition to it, but it's not something to be taken lightly. There's a very thin line between minimizing disabled peoples experiences and mocking them vs. actual transabled people who know what they're talking about, and I'm sick of people mixing them up and referring to them both as the same.

Disabilities are a VERY real thing. You can't just transition to it for the labels and an inner feeling that doesn't even match the transition like you can gender and race. There's literally no way to host an identity like that WITHOUT feeling at least a little dysphoria and wanting to transition, even if you can't. I don't care how much you ostracize me for this, we need to stop being a safe space for bad people. This is why the respectful radqueers still get judged so heavily.

Transharmed is one thing, it's your body so it's your choice as long as you know what you're talking about, doing, and respecting people who were born with it, but transharmful? I genuinely don't get it. Like transna/zi and transgro/omer? Do people seriously think these identities are okay? Identifying with ra/cism and eu/geni/cs and overall harming others goes COMPLETELY against the original rq ideology.

Call me a fake radqueer, call me a transmed, call me an exclusionist, but I will never ever support people who are harming anyone intentionally.

Transitioning to anything isn't something to be taken lightly. It's not a joke, it's not something fun, it's not aesthetic. It's a grueling, painful experience that, if any of us had the option to not have to go through it, we wouldn't. It hurts. So I wish people would stop pretending like our suffering is just something they can do for a week for fun.

We're a community that was built off of our unusual dysphoria and being ostracized out of our own communities. Please don't continue the cycle by ostracizing people who have their own views.

Anyway, because of all of this drama, and a lot of my personal ideologies and morals not fitting the standard radqueer ones, does anyone know of any similar labels? Should I make my own?

[fujoreads]

To Strip the Flesh // Review

To Strip the Flesh is a short tales collection in manga format, containing 5 stories in total—the main one going by the book’s title.

I remember someone mentioning this in a book-related podcast I listen to, but I don’t remember which one. I found it at a bookshop when I went on a little date last year, and I just had to buy it! It took me a while to finally read it, but I’m glad I did.

CW: Gender Dysphoria, Explicit Nudity; Organs; Hunting; Animal death; Sexism; Transphobia; Body Horror

This manga was something else. I may not have the exact same experience as our protagonist Chiaki, but I related so hard I cried—thrice, in fact. I got such a headache from crying I had to end the day that evening. Powerful stuff.

I knew I would probably enjoy it because of the art and the topic of trans issues. I myself am a transmasc bastard, so it’s always nice to see manga talking about these things.

When I finally finished it, I had to pause for a minute or two. For the first half, I read many scenes where I felt dysphoric together with Chiaki, but the way the story ended made me actually try to be stronger and fight for my right to happiness, even if I have to face transphobic doctors on the way.

Chiaki Ogawa has never doubted that he is a boy, although the rest of the world has not been as kind. Bound by his mother’s dying wish, Chiaki tries to be a good daughter to his ailing father. When the burden becomes too great, Chiaki sets out to remake himself in his own image and discovers more than just personal freedom with his transition—he finds understanding from the people who matter most. (The StoryGraph)

Although the main story is this one about Chiaki, there are many others who are also just as enjoyable, albeit shorter.

This tale is condensed in about 100 pages, but packs an emotional punch enough to leave you in tears. It made me realize that I have my own found family and I don’t need to keep living a lie.

The flow of the story may have been somewhat rushed due to its overall length, but it still felt neatly presented. I do wish I could have seen more of Chiaki and the rest of the cast, especially his late mother.

This manga’s artstyle is interesting. It feels very anime, but it does feel different in some aspects, like how soft the eyes are. I really enjoyed it.

As someone with a big chest, I personally related to Chiaki’s struggles and the way it was visually presented was just wonderful.

Chiaki is the son of a hunter (who also butches his own kills). He lives as a closeted trans man and desires not to betray his parents’ wishes for him—to be a bride—hurt as it may. He struggles with trying to impose his masculinity to his father, who refuses to see him as anything else but his daughter, saying how “women don’t hunt”, and never letting him get hurt, seeing him as a frail girl. However, we also see his weaknesses: how he never lets his father know his true feelings, even when his father clearly shows he cares for what he thinks is best to Chiaki. It’s understandable, but also what strains their relationship at some point, even if from Chiaki’s perspective.

It’s so sweet to see Chiaki’s growth after a big moment where he has to make an important decision, both for him and his father, and how that improved their overall relationship.

His father was an interesting character to follow as well, even if we see less of him, and usually accompanied by Chiaki. I wish we could have had more moments with him.

I enjoyed Takato as a friend of Chiaki’s, but while he is sweet and supportive, he’s also a bit annoying. Maybe having him grow more throughout the story instead of a last-minute development would have made him more justice.

This was a lovely read, and not just for the main story. Personally, the Hot Watermelon short story was my second favorite, followed by David in Love.

I got even more excited seeing how Oto Toda, the author, worked as an assistant for Tatsuki Fujimoto on Fire Punch—one of my favorite works ever, as despair-inducing as it was.

If you care about stories centered around trans issues, you’ll certainly like it. It’s also a tale of father-son love, and how old wounds can be treated, even if it seems all too late.

This is a very short story, followed by other even shorter stories, so if you desire a more detailed and lengthy tale, you might not enjoy this. It’s a powerful narrative, but it’s rushed at times and unless you personally relate to Chiaki’s struggles, you might feel less emotionally affected.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Thank you for reading it all to the end! Hey, kind stranger! Would you be so kind and consider giving me a little tip? It can be as low as 3 bucks and it’d make a huuuuuge difference!! If you tip 10€ (or higher), you can dictate my next read and be credited (if you’d like) on that review! Have a nice day!!

[allthecreepsofthecosmos]

A Trick and a Treat: Post-Release Thoughts

Hey everyone! Our short, free Halloween visual novel, A Trick and a Treat, has been out for a while now, so Sadie and I thought we'd share our thoughts! We posted this in a devlog earlier, but thought it would be great to get our thoughts out on here as well!

Some small details are spoiled about the premise one of the two short stories, Vamp Me!, are below, so you might want to play the game first. It's just a quick 20 minute read! Now, without further ado...

Post-Release Thoughts

First, Sadie's going to talk about her short story, Dead Letters! Take it away, love!

"Dead Letters is my tribute to 1920/30s style weird fiction. I find the kind of pulp, hard-boiled with a side of purple prose style extremely fun to write in. Probably the biggest inspiration for Dead Letters is H. F. Arnold's The Night Wire from 1926, a deliciously creepy little tale. If you liked this, be sure to check that one out.

The other big pulp inspiration is from that great font of inspired horror and insipid opinions, H. P. Lovecraft and his great early story The Statement of Randolph Carter. This is a style I definitely intend to revisit in the future. Like the opening says, Weird Tales is a problematic fave, but there's real magic in those yellowed old pages, and I hope I resurrected some of those old spells for you here. Happy Halloween."

Sadie DeForest

And now, I wanna talk about my short story, Vamp Me!

We found out about the Spooktober VN Jam pretty late. About two weeks after it started, in fact! But it sounded so fun that we had to make SOMETHING for it. We decided to do separate short stories as a sort of compilation title, and Sadie figured out hers pretty quickly. I struggled with my idea at first. Did I want to do something serious, or something lighter?

Some of the ideas I had included a darker story about a trans woman's dysphoria manifesting itself into a physical form, and a lighter story about a "cis boy" caught summoning a demon to "become a girl". I wasn't sure if I wanted to make something dark for the jam; to me, Halloween is something that's happy and fun, so I ended up going with the second idea. But it was still missing a key bit of Halloween spirit. This was where Girl Dracula came in.

Who is Girl Dracula? Well, she's actually a character I played for a tabletop game. When I thought about the idea I had, and replaced the "Summoning a demon" with "Summoning a Girl Dracula to trans your gender", it added a sort of playfulness that I felt was essential to the project. And so I wrote my first primarily comedic piece of writing! I was very nervous about it, but it made all my friends I showed the early draft to smile!

Some of you who've read Vamp Me might feel the ending was abrupt... but don't worry! That cast of characters is going to be making a comeback in another title we have planned, so stay tuned! ;)

That's about it! I hope that you give our little VN a read on a cold, windy October night, just as a little treat before bed. I think you'll find it'll give you both of those essential Halloween flavors; something eerie, and something sweet!

Crystal DeForest

[cazort]

One thing that I don’t hear people talk about enough, when it comes to the experiences of trans people, is the fact that some trans people have body dysphoria but choose not to medically transition because of constraints that, to them, might be worse than their dysphoria.

These constraints could be dislike of or discomfort with the medical system, which can be related to medical trauma, not wanting to deal with the medical gatekeeping (this can be especially hard for GNC trans people living in conservative areas), technological constraints that make it so that the medical treatment cannot actually give us what we most want, lack of insurance and/or other funding, not wanting to go through the experience of and recovery from surgery, not wanting to navigate the problems associated with traveling and/or moving to new regions where the same medical treatments might not be available and/or legal.

I myself have a great deal of emotional trauma associated with the medical system, so just seeing a doctor and getting a prescription for something even once for a short-term thing is difficult for me. It angers me that there are people out there who tell me that if I choose not to medically transition, then I’m not really trans, because these people are downplaying or erasing the trauma that I have experienced through the medical system.

I also have seen other trans people struggle with problems when traveling and living long-term in another country. Sometimes they’ve had to change and/or discontinue treatment, which can be, at best a major inconvenience, and possibly really dangerous. It angers me that there are people out there who would tell a trans person that they’re not really trans because they would choose to delay or not pursue treatment, rather than deal with these types of constraints, constraint which, I might add, in some circumstances might put their safety, health, or even life at risk.

Medical transition is also expensive, especially when surgeries are involved. It angers me when people assume that medical transition is available to everyone, like they assume that people have insurance and/or are able to pay for out-of-pocket costs. Beyond this there is also the assumption of living close enough to providers that can give adequate care, and having the resources to get to that care, which involves both transportation and available time. There are so many different levels of privilege. People without insurance, people without money, people with many responsibilities and little free time, and people with transportation challenges, are only a few examples of the sorts of people left out of the dialogue. I’ve spend many years of my adult life without insurance, and I’ve also spend many years not living in a major city, so I would have to travel quite far to get many of the common treatments, even something as basic as gender-affirming therapy.

We people who choose not to medically transition still need support and acknowledgement. Our choice is valid whether it is forced, or simply a balanced decision in which we are weighing pros and cons. Our choice has no bearing on our identity. We are no less trans because we choose not to medically transition.

We need representation in the dialogue and in depictions of trans people. We are still trans. We often face additional discrimination. We are less likely to have our gender recognized or acknowledged by others. We are often excluded not only from spaces for people of our gender identity, but excluded from trans-specific spaces, by other trans people who do not recognize the validity of our identities and experiences. And, because we do not seek medical transition yet many of us experience just as strong dysphoria, we need additional tools to manage and/or overcome our dysphoria (both body and social) without medical transition.

This is the reality that I live every day. It is not easy and I want it to be acknowledged.

[royalberryriku]

// Half a vent, half a political thihg

TW: body stuff, gender dysphoria, talk about blood

I feel extremely nauseous and like I'm gonna throw up because of my stupid ass period which only came back because I stopped taking T to save money for a little bit ughhh. Like I'm ok and il survive, I'll be taking T again in January, but still. This sucks and like...

Ok not trying to act like or say "oh no being a trans man is so much harder than being a cis woman blah blah blah" here, but I do just wanna saying having a period as a trans man just really sucks a lot. Not only do we have to deal with a period the same way a cis woman does; feeling sick, digestive system fucking up, the pain and cramps, mess and how it can make you feel really down, etc. but we also can have the whole gender dysphoria side of it as well which can absolutely get worse with the emotional stuff that happens during periods.

I feel very very depressed during my periods already, it's fucks with my already not great mental health and makes me think in darker places than I'd usually, but on top of that?? It makes gender dysphoria all around feel more extreme plus it causes gender dysphoria itself. The the other things about it also can cause gender dysphoria as well, so there's like. 3 added issues that come with my period purely because of gender dysphoria.

This doesn't even over the societal issues and how hard it is to be a trans man with a period when you're out and need to change your pad or tampon. I usually just don't and do it at home since I can luckily get away with that but there are so many trans man who can't do that and it suckks. No wonder so many trans men I know are on birth control, esp if they're pre t/ not planning on taking t.

Overall it just kind of sucks and it highlights, ironically, how different it is to be a trans man rather than a cis woman and is yet another example of how the terf argument "ooh but we have the same body so it's a shared issue" just really doesn't work and actively just erases all these issues and ignores the differences in our struggles; namely that it's just different both literally and socially to be perceived as a man who also had a period and who finds that everything about it causes a secondary, separate type of distress.

[gaylorvader]

Their Boy

WandaNat x ftm reader

[Word count 1,670]

A/N:this is my first fic so contrective criticism is welcome

Summery:getting back from a mission Wanda and Natasha find their boyfriend struggling with his gender dysphoria.

(Y/N Pov)

Today was supposed to be a good one. Your girlfriends had been on a mission for a month,and you couldn't wait for them to get back. But today you quickly noticed how you felt a little off,you shrugged it off thinking nothing of it and went on with your day.

You decided to get flowers for them since you knew they loved them,even if Natasha would deny liking them if anyone asked.

You always got your flowers from a kind old man who had a shop at the open air mall a little ways away from the compound. When you mentioned being trans he got you some blue,pink,and white potted flowers. You still have them.

When you got there he was getting someone's flowers ready on the side of the counter.

"Hi,what can I get for you?" The woman behind the counter asked.

"Um, I'll get some asters and chrysanthemums,if you have them." You weren't sure about the meanings of different flowers but from what you did know those sounded appropriate.

"Ok, that'll be $24 ma'am." 

You felt a sting in your chest,not a painful one but a one that you know well. It happens when you get misgendered whether they meant to or not,it still hurt.

The kind old man,Tom,overheard and quickly said "Sir".

The woman was very apologetic about the whole thing,but not being too much just correcting herself and moving on which you appreciated. 

You got home and put the flowers in a vase after filling it up with water. You made sure they looked pretty and put them on the kitchen island by the door so Wanda and Natasha could see them when they got back.

You realized that dysphoria was the off feeling you got because it hit like a truck after the accidental misgendering. You didn't blame her or anything,it happens,but regardless it still hurt.

You quickly changed into your comfort clothes that help with dysphoria,you knew you should take off your binder but you felt like you couldn't. So here you are just laying in bed watching Netflix to try and distract yourself from the awful feeling in your chest.

(Wanda Pov)

On the jet Natasha and I couldn't wait to get back. The mission was a long one but went smoothly.

"Can't wait to get back to the boyfriend,huh?" Pietro asked,seeing me check my watch for the tenth time in the last five minutes.

"Yes. We talk on the phone and text whenever we can but it's not the same." I replied to him, seeing him smirk and playfully roll his eyes.

"Such a romantic." He joked.

From the front of the plane Natasha replied "Yeah, I'm stuck dating two of them. Y/N probably is doing something romantic for us like he always does when we get back from long missions."

"Don't act like you don't like it Nat. We both know you do." I teased her. I couldn't see her but knew she was rolling her eyes.

"How has Y/N been doing by the way?" Steve asked.

"He's been good. He still struggles with his dysphoria though sadly." I told him.

Natasha and I always hated seeing him so sad knowing there wasn't much we could do,and on more than one occasion he'd cry because of how bad it got.

"Does he have an appointment set up yet?" Steve asked me.

Natasha had set the jet on autopilot and came to sit beside me kissing the top of my head. Which Peitro playfully rolled his eyes to.

Natasha answered Steve this time. "Yeah we got an appointment set up to see about him going on T."

To this Steve looked very confused. Pietro chuckled, "They mean testosterone old man. T is the short version."

"Oh, I see. I'm glad he has something set up."

"So are we Steve." Natasha said smiling. 

The rest of the flight went smoothly. Luckily we were debriefed on the plane so we all said our goodbyes and went our separate ways in the compound once we landed.

We noticed Y/N wasn't already there like usual,but figured he was getting something or fell asleep,as it wasn't unusual for him to be too excited for us to get home, he couldn't sleep then passed out during the day.

"I hope it's not one of those days." Nat sighed.

"Yeah,he's always so happy when we get back. He would hate feeling like that today."

Stepping out of the elevator to our floor the first thing we noticed was flowers on the kitchen island.

"Told you he'd do something romantic." Nat said smirking.

"Yeah yeah" I smiled, "Where is he though?"

"My guess,bedroom,since if he was in the living room he would have come running by now."

(Y/N Pov)

Hearing footsteps and talking, you knew they were home. You still felt awful but them being home made you feel better,if only a little bit.

You got up and stretched,regretting laying in a binder for so long. You could already hear the earful you were gonna get about it from them but right now you just wanted to be in their arms.

You met them in the hallway jogging up to them and hugging them. Burying your face in Natasha's neck.

"Hey baby, happy to see us?" Natasha said softly. You knew they would know something was wrong and you had no intention of trying to hide it but,right now the group hug was nice.

"Yeah. Missed you." 

"We missed you too dorogoy." Wanda said rubbing a hand up and down your back.

You knew they were gonna ask about the binder first,never wanting you to wear it too long.

"How about we go sit in the bedroom?"

"Sounds good Nat." You replied.

Sitting down you could tell they knew by the looks on their faces. Natasha was better at hiding her emotions,but after knowing each other for so long she trusted you both to not do it when it was just you guys.

Natasha was the first to speak after a moment of silence between you three. "How long have you been wearing it baby?"

You looked at the clock and realized just how long it'd been. Muttering a "Shit" under your breath that they both caught.

"Too long huh?" Nat said.

"Y-yeah. Sorry."

With her hand still on your back Wanda told you "It's ok love,but you know it's dangerous to wear for too long. Just try to keep a better eye on the time ok? How about you go take it off and then we can cuddle and talk about it?"

"I will, and that sounds good." You said, giving her a small smile.

In the bathroom you heard Nat joke, "I think we jinxed it." Which made you chuckle a little bit.

Stepping out you saw them laying on the bed patting the spot in between them,you of course layed down in it.

Wanda rubbed your arm after asking if it was ok, knowing you didn't like being touched sometimes,while Natasha was playing with your hair.

"You wanna talk about it handsome boy?" Natasha asked knowing when it got like this you preferred handsome to pretty. 

After thinking for a minute you replied "I just woke up feeling a little off and then when I was getting your flowers the florist accidentally misgendered me. She corrected herself and apologized,but it still hurt."

"Asters for love,contentment,and patience, with the chrysanthemes for excitement was fitting." Wanda told you. "Thank you baby" she said, kissing your cheek.

"I knew you were gonna do something romantic for us." Natasha chuckled, "I love them." She kissed the top of your head.

You smiled, a small one but they were happy you smiled at all. There was a moment of silence with them rubbing your arm and playing with your hair,while you played with Wanda's rings. You always loved the way they looked on her.

"I just" you paused and they waited patiently for you to find your words. "I wish it wasn't like this. That I was born the right way." You sniffed tearing up a little bit.

They both looked at each other then you.

"We know baby,but we have that appointment with the doctor set up." Wanda told you.

"I know,but it just,it still hurts." You mumbled trying not to cry.

Natasha held you closer and Wanda moved closer as well singing a Sokovian lullaby to you. You didn't know what she was saying but it always calmed you.

"How about I go make some popcorn and we can watch some sitcoms or whatever you feel like watching,even if it's just youtube?" Wanda asked after a minute.

Not trusting yourself to speak quite yet you nodded accepting her offer. Kissing you on the cheek she left to get the food.

This time it was Nat's turn to speak "You'll always be our man Y/N, you know that right? No matter what."

"Y-yeah,I know Nat." You said looking up at her. She kissed you gently and started humming making you laugh.

"Hey what are you laughing at?" She asked, chuckling.

"Nothing" you giggled "it's just you always hum Miss American Pie, when Wanda or I are upset. You and Yelena really like that song huh?"

She rolled her eyes at you smirking."Yeah,yeah." 

Wanda came back in then with the popcorn and some water,overhearing the last bit of your conversation smiling.

"You know now that you mention it she does always do that, doesn't she?"

Natasha groaned "Not you too Wanda." Making you laugh again, this time with Wanda. They were both happy you were smiling and laughing again,even if it came at Natasha's expense.

Getting the tv set up Wanda asked, "So,what do you wanna watch baby boy?"

[a-dragons-journal]

i dont "kin for fun" but through tiktok i found out about the whole kin for fun vs actual otherkin... situation ig? im having a really hard time taking it seriously... maybe im just burnt out and bitter from dealing with the worlds current events, and maybe its because on tiktok the only people i saw mad about it were white people, but you're the most reasonable person ive seen talking about it (a lot of other posts have this odd tone that 12 year olds on tiktok saying kin is the worlds greatest opression and it weirds me out) so ig my question is just... why exactly does this matter? why does it matter enough to post about and care about and not just ignore? /gen

Hey! I don’t blame you for being a bit weirded out by it, we’re a weird subculture and we’re well aware of it! xD I appreciate you taking the time to actually look into it past your first knee-jerk reaction, especially considering burnout and the state of things.

I’m not totally sure if you’re asking why otherkinity matters or why the “kin for fun” being wrong matters, so I’ll answer both - they’re pretty well tied together anyway.

The short version:

Otherkinity is an identity. It’s who we are, we can’t choose to pick it up or put it down, and it comes with struggles - though no, ‘kin are not systematically oppressed (though we are pretty badly bullied and, at this point, pushed out of our own words and spaces).

What people calling roleplay/relating to/projecting onto characters “kinning for fun” does is steal our words, make them meaningless, and in doing so, make it difficult or impossible for us to find each other. If someone says “I kin [x],” I no longer know whether they mean “I am [x] on an intrinsic level” or “haha I relate to this character a lot”. I no longer know whether they actually share my experiences or if they’re going to turn on me and call me “crazy” as soon as they realize I’m not exaggerating or joking or roleplaying. It’s done massive harm to the community as a whole because it’s become difficult to tell whether someone is actually ‘kin or if they’ve misunderstood the whole thing - and because antikin rhetoric, which I’m seeing more and more in KFF spaces, hurts far more when it’s coming from inside what you thought was a community space than when it’s coming from self-labeled “antikin.”

There are other words for roleplaying and relating to and projecting onto characters. Hell, there are words for strongly identifying with-but-not-as characters/things, though usually KFF people don’t even seem serious enough for those to fit in my experience. I’m really not sure why these people are so determined to steal and misuse our words, words that were specifically created to mean something else, when they already have their own and are just refusing to use them. (Or, hell, if you don’t feel like those fit, make your own. We did. It’s your turn to put in the work. (General you, not you-the-anon, of course.))

An analogy, if that still doesn’t quite land for you:

Consider, for a moment, the transgender community. I am aware this is a dangerous thing to say, but bear with me. Obvious CW for hypothetical transphobia up ahead is obvious.

Consider if you were part of the trans community (I don’t know if you are or not), having finally found a word to explain why you feel the way you do about yourself, why your experiences don’t seem to match up with those of everyone else around you. Having found a community, a home, full of other people like you, people you never would have met if not for words like “transgender” and “gender dysphoria/euphoria” that were created specifically to describe your experiences.

Now consider if people suddenly stumbled across your community for the first time who were not trans themselves. They see community jokes and lighthearted posts out of context, because Tumblr and Twitter aren’t exactly conducive to making sure people find the Transgender 101 information posts first. They don’t bother to do further research, assuming they understand: ah, these people like to crossdress! They like to pretend they’re a different gender! This seems like a fun hobby, I want in!

They begin to post things like this. They post photos of them crossdressing and caption them “hi, I’m [name], and I trans men!” and things of the like. Suddenly the concept of “transing for fun” seems to be everywhere - and it’s not at all what being trans actually is, but these people either don’t know or don’t care. When actual trans people try to politely correct them, they’re accused of “gatekeeping” - and to be clear, this is not “nonbinary people aren’t real,” it’s “transgender means you identify as a gender other than the one you were assigned at birth, and you’re self-identifying as the gender you were assigned at birth 100% and telling us this is just a fun hobby for you, therefore you’re not trans, you’re crossdressing or doing drag or being GNC. That’s fine, but it’s not being trans - you have other words to describe that, use those.”

(Yes, I am aware these things have a history with the trans community - please just ignore that for the sake of the analogy and bear with me on the slightly simplified version of this. “Kinning for fun” does not have that same history with the otherkin community.)

...And then the response to those attempted corrections, in some corners, turns into “wait, you ACTUALLY think you’re another gender? idk that sounds pretty unhealthy, maybe you should see a psychologist or something :\” and “you’re taking this too seriously.”

I imagine, in this hypothetical scenario, you’d also be pretty fuckin peeved.

(Obviously, in this hypothetical scenario, systematic transphobia would be an issue as well, which isn’t the case for otherkin - again, you’re gonna have to bear with me on the simplification for sake of analogy there.)

(EDIT: this is not an anti-MOGAI/exclusionist argument, this is “you’re literally telling me you don’t fit the definition,” explanation on that here)

The long version, which is probably still worth reading if you have the time and energy:

Otherkinity is... pretty core to who I am, who we as a group of individuals are. We live with being otherkin on a daily basis. Many of us spent a long time feeling different and disconnected and not understanding why until we found the otherkin community. Even people like me, who don’t share that experience and still had social connection - I’ve still had to live with weird differences that I had to learn to mask when necessary; instincts that don’t line up with human society well, feeling body parts that weren’t there and that no one else ever seemed to have, things that other kids grew out of because it was just make-believe for them and I... didn’t, because it was never make-believe for me to begin with. Oh, sure, I played make-believe too - I played warrior cats and house and all those things with the other kids, but there were things that weren’t play-pretend for me too. I didn’t have an explanation for it for a long time - it was just how I was, I was weird, and fortunately for me personally I was okay with that (many of those with species dysphoria or more trouble connecting with humans have more problems from that than I did).

And then I found the word “otherkin.” And suddenly everything fell into place, and I had an explanation for the things I’d been experiencing, and there were other people like me. Something I’d assumed didn’t exist. I found others who shared my unique experiences, who were talking about how to cope with the instinct to growl or snap jaws at people instead of expressing annoyance in a human way instead of just saying “that’s weird, don’t do that”, who were talking about dealing with phantom wings and tails, who understood me. I wasn’t weird, I wasn’t broken, I was exactly what one would expect from a dragon living in human skin. I found an explanation for myself. I found a home.

That is why otherkinity matters - it is who we are, it’s not something we can walk away from (certainly not most of us, anyway), and it’s something many of us need the support of the community to help deal with on a daily basis. Being a nonhuman in human society isn’t always easy, but it’s not something we can just magically stop being - it’s core to who we are, we (generally) didn’t choose to be this way, and we (generally) can’t choose to stop. Which is fine - the vast majority of us can cope with it just fine, with a little advice and help and space to be our authentic selves in. We found each other, we built this community from the ground up to make a space and words to make finding each other easier - or possible at all.

Thus we come to the second half of our story.

It was only a couple of years ago that the “kin for fun” trend started getting big. It had existed before that, of course, but it only started going mainstream two, maybe three years ago, from what I can tell. Suddenly people were treating “kin” like it meant relating to, projecting onto, roleplaying as, or just really really liking a character or thing - not being that thing, which is what it actually means. Not long after that, it became hard to tell whether someone saying “I kin this” meant they were that thing, that they were actually part of our community - or that they really really liked that thing and either didn’t know or couldn’t be bothered to learn that that wasn’t the case for us.

Not long after that, it became relatively commonplace to hear phrases like “otherkin are ruining kinning!!” and “you’re taking this too seriously” and “idk, if it’s that serious for you that sounds unhealthy. maybe you should get some help :\” (all directly quoted, or as exactly quoted as I can remember, from things KFF people have said to me or people I know).

It is a special kind of hell, I think, to be told “you’re taking this too seriously, that’s unhealthy” by people who are taking words created to describe your experiences, not theirs, and misusing them to mean something that you do for fun on a weekend instead of something that’s intrinsic to your being.

Perhaps more importantly, like I’ve said, it’s making it almost impossible to know whether someone who says “I kin [x]” is actually ‘kin or if they’re misusing our words to mean something else entirely. The entire point of words is to communicate ideas, and once you start misusing words to mean something totally different than what they actually mean, that communication falls apart and suddenly we might as well not have those words at all. Especially when the community is small enough and obscure enough that we’re starting to be outnumbered by the misinformation. We’re being run out of our own words, words we created to describe our experiences specifically - because we’re a small community that the wider internet can easily drown out by sheer numbers of people who either don’t know any better or don’t care to learn.

That’s the harm it does - the harm it is doing, right now. That’s why it’s important enough to post about. That’s why it matters - because we’re fighting desperately to hang onto our own words so that others like us can actually find us. Because we’re seeing young nonhumans go “this isn’t a kin, I actually am this” and screaming “No, I’m so sorry that this is what the misinformation has done to you, that’s exactly what otherkin means, you have a place here, please don’t let these non-’kin misusing our words drive you away from the very community you’re looking for and that you belong in.” Because we can’t even communicate effectively about our own experiences anymore except in semi-closed spaces like Discord servers and forums (and the number of Discord servers overrun with KFF people is absurd).

......This got very long. Hopefully it at least explained why it matters so much to me and others a bit better ^^; Thanks for hearing me out, and thank you again for looking into this beyond your initial knee-jerk reaction - I really do appreciate it.

(For further reading, if that text wall didn’t blow you out of the water completely, I recommend my “kin for fun” tag, which has more posts like this in both short and long form.)

[nothorses]

heyy! first of all i hope you're doing well. thank you for taking the time out to read and respond to this (if you choose to). this has been bothering me for a while and i'd like your opinion on it.

i read these two articles recently - the first one is about a lesbian professor of gender studies + sexuality arguing why women should be allowed to "hate men"; the second is an interview with her about the article in which she addresses some of the negative responses she got to that article.

https://www.washingtonpost.com/opinions/why-cant-we-hate-men/2018/06/08/f1a3a8e0-6451-11e8-a69c-b944de66d9e7_story.html

https://outline.com/ttKscw

i have a lot of questions about this.

firstly, i cannot tell whether this is the sort of reductionist, radfemmy, "fuck all men" feminist you've been talking about. i understand her sentiments but i disagree with her statement, and i want to get better at identifying shallow feminism. i don't think my personal opinion is credible enough (yet) to draw any conclusions right off the bat. are there any 'tells' or signs that indicate what sort of feminism someone is speaking about (in the same way that there are certain idenitifiers of TERF ideology even when it is not explicitly mentioned)? for example, in the interview, she explicitly says "Where is discrimination? Where are men being excluded? Where are men being abused? Oh, come on." as well as her implied praise of kamala harris as 'the feminist we need in office'. are those things indicators of whether her position on feminism is credible/an appropriate portrayal of how Feminism™ should function? in short, do i take this woman entirely seriously about all this?

secondly, how do you feel about gender being a social construct, as she states? does that not contradict the very real physical dysphoria that a lot of us experience? doesn't it invalidate almost all the experiences of struggle against transphobia and cissexism, as well as our identities, by painting gender identity as 'not a big deal' or 'fake' by virtue of being a social construct? also, is gender identity not influenced by biology to some extent?

thirdly, along a similar vein, how do you feel about gender abolitionism? i don't exactly have a v specific question about this one, i just want another trans person's opinion on how that sort of society would affect them. i do not wish to be stripped of my identity, and i am opposed to gender abolitionism because of that. is this sentiment a product of some misunderstanding i have?

if you have any other thoughts at all about the articles, i'd love to hear those. thank you!

Oooh, anon, these are such good questions.

Why Can’t We Hate Men? by Suzanna Walters

Follow-Up Interview with Walters

Walters does a weird sort of dance in both articles: her argument is that “hating men” is okay and even good, but she has to completely misrepresent what “hating men” is, does, and means in order to make her point align with what she actually believes is defensible.

“Hating men” is not actually about hating men, she says; she doesn’t hate men at all, in fact. She knows they’re not the problem, but rather the systems of patriarchy in place. She knows racism and other intersections make “hating men” complicated at best, and harmful at worst. She just wants men to “lean back” and understand the power they hold; to be feminists. She thinks it’s a good thing to welcome men into feminism.

So then what the hell does “hating men” actually mean, to her? Why make that the hill to die on, if nothing in her argument has anything to do with that hill?

I don’t think she really believes any of the arguments she’s making in the first place. Walters pays lipservice to racism and intersectionality in a brief comment, then never brings it up again. Her view of feminist issues is narrow and shallow, dealing mostly with “the safety of women” and the representation of women in positions of power; both of which fail to address the structural issues of the patriarchy and how it functions, and prioritize Making Women Powerful over dismantling the systems of oppression giving people power over each other in the first place. She believes that all men are universally and inherently benefiting from the patriarchy, and that men in fact are the system to be fought.

Some of this pings as TERFy, too. Walters never really argues against radical feminism. Her argument against gender-essentialism is, as you said, that gender shouldn’t exist at all- but she claims the patriarchy discriminates based on genitalia.

You caught that as well; “where are men being oppressed/abused?” she says, after her performative gesture toward intersectionality. Walters also compares the oppression of women to racism at the same time, which... holy shit.

I’d personally peg her as a mainstream liberal feminist. She’s a successful white professor who sincerely believes that her experiences as a woman are universal. Her takes are surface-level and shallow at best, and edging dangerously close to radical feminism and quiet TERFism at worst.

TL;DR: The Author

She’s a mainstream liberal feminist who makes a string of confused, contradicting arguments because she chose to die on a hill she doesn’t really understand. Her arguments stray TERFy and racist on multiple occasions.

RE: Gender questions

What gender is and where it comes from is a complicated question, and I don’t think there’s a simple answer to it. The major arguments are that it’s social, biological, or psychological; either it comes from how you’re socialized, what your genitals look like, or it’s something built into your brain chemistry (think “wrong body” trans theory).

I personally think it’s a bit of a mix, leaning toward the social and psychological, and that where gender “comes from” is a little different for each individual. Biology has a bit to do with it; we’ve had somewhat consistent ideas "man” and “woman” across various cultures.

But what gender means in each society is different, and how people conceptualize it has been different. What gender someone feels they are may be influences by their culture’s gender expectations. Some indigenous cultures even have anywhere from two to five distinct “genders”, and I can say personally that my conceptualization of my own gender relies pretty heavily on how other people perceive and treat me.

Not to mention that trans people have existed for as long as people in general have, even in societies that lack any formal gender concept for trans folks. So psychology must play a role, too.

So if we strip away all social expectations of gender, we’re still left with psychological and biological influences on gender. Which is part of why I don’t think we can abolish gender to begin with; people will always have internal understandings of gender to some extent, and they’ll always express them, and therefore there will always be a social element to gender. We can, however, work toward abolishing restrictive, binaristic, oppressive gender structures that limit and punish expressions of gender.

And as a sidenote, the whole “gender is just a social construct, but genitals are real” and “we should abolish all concept of gender” thing is extremely TERFy. There are thoughtful and trans-inclusive ways of approaching the question, but usually we’re talking about gender as part of a system of power and oppression. Walters is using the TERF framework that their “gender critical” comes from: gender isn’t real, therefore trans people aren’t real. Patriarchy is just based on biological realities and sex, and we should abolish the idea of gender (as code for abolishing trans rights and theory).

TL;DR: Gender

I personally believe that gender is a synthesis of biological, psychological, and social influences that is highly unique to every individual. There’s no real way to “abolish” it, only systems of power and oppression that rely on and enforce it. Walters’ way of discussing it is extremely TERFy, and her arguments should be heavily scrutinized.

[writefinch]

Dear Dairy, Pt.1 (cn: noncon, Mm, kidnap, emphasis on *forced* feminization, induced lactation, milking, bondage, drugging, induction of gender dysphoria in a cis guy, things of that nature)

7th July 2018

Cold day today. I dusted off my scarves for the first time this year. Not literally, they'd been vacuum sealed and packed away when the weather turned in October. I threw out the red and yellow knit scarf, something I should have done last year, as it's far too Harry Potter. I was going to pick out the UMIST scarf but that felt a touch dull for the first scarf of the year. In the end I picked out the green silk paisley, which I felt provided a contrast with the pink shirt. I wore them with the second-hand grey Armani that I've yet to have tailored; I haven't yet decided if it's worth the trouble. I'm leaning towards yes, as I received two compliments today, one from Jason's database administrator, a charming and flirtatious--to say nothing of attractive--lady from Perth. We've talked about the possibility of meeting up for drinks at some point, and I'm increasingly inclined to take her up on the offer.

Experiment C2 is adjusting to his newfound freedom since his release last week. It was sad to see him go, and I'll cherish the time we spent together, our first night especially when he violently objected to the idea of servicing me. Oh, how he kicked and fought, clawing at his neck chain, scratching me, biting, swinging wildly. He bloodied my nose rather viciously and left me in no mood for sex that night, to the extent that I almost let him go entirely.

Of course, his demeanor changed altogether after I bagged him. A clear plastic bag over his head, taped around his neck, watching him gasp and writhe for air that isn't there, screaming his silly little head off until he's sure that he's taken his final breath, then tearing a tiny hole over his nostrils. I let him suck in four generous lungfuls of air before I bagged him the second time, and I went through seven bags before allowing him a rest. After that he became such an agreeable and solicitous cocksleeve you'd have thought he was raised in a merchant marine!

Still, he was unsuitable both physiologically and psychologically for the experimental interventions, and I only have so much space in the cellar, so I had to let him go. Some of my social acquaintances are keeping a close eye on him. He's been told that running his mouth will lead to nothing but the cold grave, and I believe he's a bright enough lad to take that to heart.

I'm beginning the search for his replacement tomorrow.

20th July 2018

I've found him! I've found him I've found him, he is everything I've been looking for, he is perfect, it is as if God placed that boy on earth for no other purpose than my need for him. I can barely contain my excitement.

He is an itinerant surf bum, twenty years of age, single, underemployed, estranged from his family. He has flowing blond hair, a few wisps under his chin that can barely be called a beard, deep brown eyes, and a lithe, rangy figure that seems to be slowly growing into the top-heavy carrot-shaped build of a classic surfer. He's been living in town since May, surfing most days, doing temp jobs, lodging in the spare bedroom of a friend of mine.

What a perfect physique! His body is accustomed to being dashed over rocks and whipped by surf, what fun I will have finding and surpassing his tolerances for pain! Oh, to restrict and ration out air to a boy who has trained himself to hold his breath underwater since he was a young teenager, to see those taut muscles stretched over a rack, I cannot wait, I can't wait.

I won't speak or write his name. I now take every action with the foregone conclusion that he is mine, and that he is already Experiment C3. In my mind, he is already in my cellar.

My friend has kindly allowed him to get behind on his rent, and C3 apparently plans to move to Sydney in ten day's time, driving out across the country in his decade-old Ford Ka, surfboard strapped to the roof. When he disappears a few days before that, people will assume he left to avoid paying his rent.

They won't be wrong, in a sense. C3 won't be worrying about rent for a long, long time...

26th July, 2018

It hasn't been an easy choice, and it is in fact a decision I've been struggling with for some time now, but I've decided to let my hair go grey. I'm almost forty for heaven's sake, and I noticed my first grey a year before the financial crisis. Ever since then I've been religious in my application of dye and toner, carefully concealing each and every one of the pale little buggers that pops up, but it's gone from something I'd do after a haircut to something I'm doing twice a week. I won't rush it, I'm going to ease off the dye over the course of the next year or so, but by next July I'll be au naturelle salt and pepper.

Work remains dull but tolerable. I know I'm blessed to be able to do most of my duties from home given my hobbies, but there's a certain sense of removal from everything, as if it's not really a job at all and I'm back at university doing a coursework-intensive compulsory module. On the other hand, I do enjoy going to the office in a way that I did not when I was going there five days a week!

Experiment C3 is screaming his head off again, I think. It's very faint, and I've turned off the air conditioning in the sitting room so I can hear it coming up from below. I suppose I can't blame the boy, given the circumstances. He hasn't seen me since the drugs wore off, and he's in the same configuration I first kept C2 in: his feet are in snowboard boots and locked into clips in the floor, his neck is in a steel collar connected to an eyebolt on the floor by a one-metre chain, his wrists are cuffed and pulled up towards the ceiling by another chain, he has noise-cancelling headphones strapped over his ears blaring white noise, and he's wearing a blindfold snug enough to prevent him from even blinking underneath it.

He's been there for seven hours now, since three in the morning. He can neither stand nor sit nor lie down, he cannot turn around, he cannot see--though it is pitch black in the cellar even if he wasn't blindfolded--he cannot hear his own voice, and I very much doubt he has any idea how he got there.

As I said, I haven't been down to see him properly yet, so I'm monitoring him at a distance via CCTV and also his pulse and blood oxygen readings. I'm keeping him watered through an IV drip and I'm not at all worried about feeding him just yet, though I'm sure he'll be getting hungry given that I emptied out the contents of his guts with an enema while he was still unconscious. I want him properly good and woozy from sleep deprivation before I introduce myself, either forty-eight hours or until his vitals get a tad skiffy, whichever is shorter. By my word, I am not an impatient man!

Of course, given the close monitoring required, I'll only be getting a few more hours sleep than he will. I suspect I'm getting the better half of the deal. Ah, the poor thing just wet himself. He needn't worry, it's all going into the bucket between his feet, and it'll go to good use later.

I've calmed myself down since his capture, for practical reasons as much as anything else, but I am still abuzz with energy. I am already looking forward to writing my next entry!

28th July 2018

I introduced myself to C3 today.

He spent an impressively long time in the stress position before he was unable to push his legs and instead dangled from his wrists, almost twelve hours, at which point I let the wrist rope go slack and allowed him to collapse. To prevent him from sleeping I intermittently blasted him with high pressure cold water whenever his pulse dropped below 100, for about a further four hours until I decided he'd had enough rest and strung his wrists back up.

He lasted five hours that time, so I let his wrists down again and stood sentry with a paintball gun, giving him a good and proper three-round burst whenever he stopped whimpering. Up again, barely an hour, down again, where I pinned him to the floor with wiring from an electric fence, set to deliver low-intensity zaps across his arms and chest whenever it seemed as if sleep was a possibility. He only got a few shocks, I think the first few put him in such a state of alarm that he didn't dare relax enough to be given another.

I strung him up a few more times, sometimes combining the motivators--his quivering thighs made a delightful target for paintballs as he tried to hold them in a crouching squat--until we reached the forty-ninth hour. I then played my recorded introduction tape through his headphones. It was identical to the one I'd played for C1 and C2, which was itself similar to the one recorded for B4 through B9.

Of course, as the deaf and blindfolded boy was crouch-squatting in place hearing my voice tell him that his old life was forfeit, that he was livestock now, that he would be used as a sex slave, that disobedience would only lead to misery, and the details of the hormone treatments he would be on, I was standing in front of him, masturbating.

My timing was impeccable. Just as the last lines of the recording said "if you're wondering when you'll meet me, I'm right in front of you," I came all over his whorish face. I'm afraid I'm no Peter North, I've no more than four spurts and the first one is always rather watery, but I nailed him right between the lips with one burst and smeared the rest over his face with the tip of my cock. He froze up rather delightfully during the whole ordeal, barely flinching as I cleaned off the tip in his hair.

I took the microphone and spoke directly into his headphones. I told him he'd been in his predicament for two days so far, that he was to obey my simple instructions, and that if he did he would be allowed food and allowed to rest. I told him that I would not require him to speak at any point during these instructions, and that if he so much as whispered I'd keep him strung up without food for another two days. He nodded in agreement, which earned him a hard slap, as I'd not asked him to nod or shake his head. I told him then to nod if he understood, which he did.

I freed one of his arms at a time, telling them to keep them in place and move them only as and when I told him to move them. He obeyed--a far quicker learner than C1--and I put him into the straitjacket. I unlatched his boots one at a time, putting him in ankle cuffs with a short length of heavy chain between them. I injected him in the buttocks with his first dose of anti-androgens, a painkiller, and his hormonal cocktail, and I removed the IV from his arm.

At that point I led him to his cage, a 2x3 metre cell, 1.5 metres high. I removed his blindfold, though it did him little good as it was pitch black in the entire room--I'd switched off the lights and was working via a set of light amplification goggles--and pushed him onto the wipe-clean bedroll.

"Lie still like a good little boy until the lights turn on, and then you can help yourself to some food," I said to him. He made a sound as if to respond, then silenced himself, lying still in his bonds.

The lights were on a timer, and they came on harsh and bright when I was upstairs, watching him through the CCTV on my desktop with a fresh pot of coffee. Three of the walls of his cage were walled off with a tarp, allowing him to see about a fifth of the basement through the remaining wall. Inside his cage was his bedroll, a doggie bowl full of oatmeal and bananas, a small plastic trough filled with fresh water, and a litter tray.

I considered staying up and watching him, seeing the fear grow in his eyes, his first attempt at eating cold food without the use of his hands, the humiliation of pissing in a litter tray, but I was exhausted. As soon as I've finished writing this entry, I'm going to take a well-deserved nap.

4th October 2018

The truffle salt from Coles is a waste of time. Don't misunderstand me, it's useable, it's palatable, and it has the necessary truffle aroma. "Has" is the key word there, it's got the half-life of Fermium and after a week in the cupboard it's now just table salt with black specks in it. I think I'm going to invest in some decent truffle oil at Christmas.

C3 is coming along marvelously. The combination of injections and a high-fat, high-calorie, vitamin-rich diet have had a visible impact on his physique. His skin has softened even further from a clear and healthy surfer's complexion to almost peachlike smoothness and he now has visible jiggle on his thighs, stomach and buttocks. Most importantly, he's now the not-at-all-proud owner of a set of A-cup breasts, complete with sensitive, pebble-sized nipples.

His breasts are extremely sensitive. He's told me as much directly, but I've confirmed it through experimental means. A few light stripes under the nipples with the cane used to bring a wince to his face when he first came under my care, now it brings him to his knees, and the mere sight of the thing leads him to cry and whine rather prettily.

He did have some issues with portion control, in that he wasn’t eating the full servings of food I had prepared for him. This was unreasonable and short-sighted on his part: while plain, I have not asked him to eat anything that I wouldn't willingly eat myself, and while I am not a professional cook I am certainly a talented amateur.

The solution was a simple one: if even a smear of food remains in his dish, I do not feed him for the next two to four days. I only had to enforce this rule twice, and he's finished every meal I've put in front of him for the past two months.

He's gone without sleeping for the last forty-eight hours, he's gone without speaking for the last three weeks, and I've added a low dose of LSD to his drinking water. Tonight he should be somewhat tractable for the induction of a hypnotic state. I am not trying to control his behaviour--there's nothing I want him to do that I couldn't compel him to do through more reliable means--but for an in-depth interview. In concert with a lie detector and a regulated dose of barbiturates, I am going to make him bare his soul to me.

There are a few specifics I'm interested in, such as confirming my assessment of his sexuality and gender identity, and it never hurts to shore up my security by inquiring of any planned means of escape or rescue, but in great part I am doing this for morale effect: I want him to have no respite from me, even inside his own mind. He will learn that he has no more control of his thinking than he does of his eating, sleeping or exercising.

Speaking of which, I had to leave him in an armbinder for a few nights when he insisted on doing press-ups in his cell. The additional restraints distressed him greatly, and he's seemed afraid to even move lest I restrain him further. That was back in August, and I have since acquired an elliptical trainer which I allow him to use daily, good behaviour permitting.

I will write again tomorrow with details of tonight's interview, and I only hope it's more productive than C2's interview was.

5th October 2018

Well, that was elucidating.

I left C3 unrestrained for the interview. It was his first time free of shackles and cuffs outside of his cage since he'd arrived, as I wanted him to be relatively comfortable and I was confident that his drug cocktail would prevent any serious escape attempts.

He is not a natural hypnotic subject and I was only successful in inducing a semi-trance state. I don't think he achieved a trance, but I think he believed he was in a trance, and for my purposes that was more than sufficient. He talked for hours and provided an unabridged history of his life so far. His parents, his brothers, his schooling, his love of surfing and camping, his romantic attachments and rejections, his childhood friends and bullies, his fear of dogs, his earliest memories, his deepest shames, enough to fill a short memoir.

The interview lasted for ten hours, with breaks every two hours to allow him to pee (as I'd also allowed him to drink lime cordial from a cup while he spoke) and to adjust his dose of drugs and deepen his trance state. He cried frequently and easily. He bears a great amount of shame and guilt for someone so young and so relatively innocent--raised by Catholics, naturally--and spent half of the fifth hour in uncontrollable hysterics. I let him rest his head in my lap and stroked his hair as he cried, and he clung on to me like a man drowning. Once he ran out of tears he had a bout of cathartic laughter, and after that a calm passed over him, and he remained in a state of detached, cooperative calm until I ended the interview.

Of course, most of this was filler and background information for the parts that truly interested me: his sexuality and gender identity. Both were perfect. His sexuality is less important but still delightful. He is entirely heterosexual and repulsed by men. He still has nightmares about the one time I have molested him so far, when I coated his face with cum shortly after his chapter. You wouldn't believe how hard I got as he told me that!

He sometimes masturbates in his cage, which he tells me is mostly from boredom than any sexual desire, and he fantasizes about sex with women. He has little interest in sadomasochism, no interest whatsoever about taking a submissive role, and aside from a weak interest in pegging he is plain vanilla. He has fantasies about sex in public, fucking multiple women, being woken up by receiving oral sex, and seducing older women.

His gender identity is much the same: male, through and through. He has insecurities about being slight and physically unimposing--related to bullying in school--and about being insufficiently masculine. He takes pride in the callouses in his hands and the scars on his body from surfing, and wishes that the thin, pale stubble on his face was thicker.

It's of little surprise then that he finds the changes from the hormones to be a cruel and unwanted imposition. His breast growth makes him feel powerless and disgusted with himself, he can feel his muscles weakening, the tenderness in his breasts is terrifying and degrading, and even the topic of penile and testicular shrinkage made him choke up and sob. He says that even when I allow him to sleep, his mind feels clouded and he finds it increasingly difficult to identify the particulars of his emotional state, which swings and changes in ways he is not used to.

Again, I must reiterate how promising this is. My experiments concern the induction of sexual neuroses and physical development on non-consenting subjects. C1 was unsuitable because he--well, she, more likely--was a little too keen to embrace the role I had planned for her.

C3 is sleeping now. I haven't actually left our impromptu "therapy room" and he's drifted off with his head in my lap. He needs the rest. I have big plans for him, after all.

24th October, 2018

I took a trip to the cinema today. Specifically the single-screen cinema in the back of the adult bookshop. C2 is turning tricks for the manager. I don't think it's his first career choice but for some reason he's been unable to get a job anywhere else in town. He tried being an independent streetwalker for a while, which didn't work out well for him as he was quickly picked up by the local police and treated rather roughly. Almost as if they were keeping an eye on him!

The manager of the adult bookshop got in touch with him, I believe he was waiting for him outside the local lockup in fact, and informed him of a safe, reliable means of plying his trade. Now he sucks cock in the back room cinema along with a handful of other whores in exchange for a roof over his head and ten percent of the ticket sales.

He was apparently given a second tour of the police cells for not handing his tips over to the manager in a timely and honest manner, so his left eye was still swollen shut when I saw him today. His garb was delightful: pastel pink yoga leggings with the Adidas stripes down the sides, and a duck egg blue midriff-cut t-shirt with "BOY" on the chest, with a female gender symbol in place of the O.

I sat down next to him in the otherwise empty cinema and flashed him my ticket, which had set me back $84--worth every penny--and he flashed me a charming smile. There was no glimmer of recognition in his eyes, like all of my experiments and side projects he'd never seen me without a mask. He put his hand on my thigh and told me his name, which I've already forgotten. The feature began, a rather energetic video from the noughties with Kelly Wells, Hillary Scott and Layla Riviera, prompting C2 to get on his knees in front of me. He gagged a little when he unzipped my jeans, not because I was unwashed but because I'd applied a generous quantity of deodorant and aftershave so that he would not recognise me via scent.

I enjoyed a slow, leisurely blowjob for the next hour, where he displayed all the basic techniques I'd so painstakingly taught him as well as a few new ones he'd picked up more recently. There's something to be said about consuming porn this way, not just the oral service but also watching the film from the beginning, without skipping forward to my favorite parts or switching between videos, letting myself slowly build towards my climax at the same pace as the on-screen action. I came just before the money shot, pulling out to cum all over C2's face as Kelly Wells guzzled piss on the big screen, and let C2 lick and suck my balls until the credits rolled.

Before he or I got up, I took out $20, waved it in front of his eyes, and then used the notes to wipe cum up from his face. He flinched at the roughness, scowled, told me to cut it out, and put his hand on my leg as if to push away from me. I said three words.

"Punishment position three."

It was as if I'd reached inside him and squeezed. He let out a pitiful squeak, straightened up on his knees, pushed out his chest, put his hands behind his back, closed his eyes, opened his mouth, and let his tongue hang out. I stuffed the cum-soaked banknotes between his mouth.

"Be good, C2," I told him as I stood up. He didn't move a muscle as I walked out of the cinema, and as the door closed behind me, I heard a single muffled sob. It was an enjoyable experience and I certainly needed it after the last few days because C3 has really been a handful.

It began on the weekend when the first signs of lactation appeared. C3 has been getting increasingly upset with the changes to his body, his widening hips, his weight gain, his shrinking musculature, his shrinking genitalia, and his C-cup breasts. The breasts are especially upsetting, he complains that they ache constantly and are tender to the slightest touch. In any case, when the first droplets of milk dribbled out of his nipples something snapped.

Through tears, he told me that he refuses to eat, that he cannot live with the things I am doing to him, and that I should either let him go or kill him. Obviously this is unacceptable. I told him I was not treating his request with any seriousness, and that if he did not eat his meal, he would go without for the next several days. He nodded forlornly, but still refused the food.

I strapped his hands into leather mitts to prevent him from improvising methods of self-harm, and continued as normal. For the next three days, he refused to respond to commands or obey orders, remaining silent and going limp. He wailed in pain when I caned his soles and slapped his tits, but he continued to wallow in self-pity.

He was ravenously hungry by Wednesday, but when I gave him the opportunity to eat, he would not. I left the bowl of food in his cage overnight, and in the morning it remained untouched. He had not thrown it out or despoiled it, he had simply ignored it in an admirable, if misplaced, display of willpower. I gave him one final warning that there would be serious consequences if he did not eat now. He refused, so I applied the consequences.

I fitted him into a padded restraining board, on his back, his arms, legs, chest, stomach, forehead, chin, wrists and ankles held in place by canvas straps. He could not move an inch, not that he was trying particularly hard. A hollow dildo gag with a breathing hole went into his mouth, principally to prevent him from trying to bite off his own tongue. I catheterized him and inserted a hollow plug into his backside, not overly gently in either case, much to his consternation.

Then, intubation. I fed a heavily-lubricated silicone hose into his left nostril. He thrashed and twitched, as is expected when such a procedure is performed without the aid of benzodiazepines. Undeterred, I asked him to start swallowing, lest the tube end up in his lungs. He did as much gagging as swallowing, but after a few eventful minutes I felt the tell-tale glide of it being pulled down his esophagus and into his stomach.

Once the tube was taped in place under his nose, I attached the free end to a pump until it drew fluid out from within him. A few drops of this fluid onto pH paper revealed it to be stomach acid, which hopefully meant that the hose was not in his lungs. I then attached the hose to the feeding machine, and explained to C3 exactly how it would work.

He would have his meals and water combined into a slurry, kept at a cool four degrees celsius, and injected into his feeding tube. The pressure inside the hose would make breathing difficult or impossible while the food was being pumped, and the volume of his meals--around a litre and a half of slurry--meant that each feeding would be spread out in thirty second bursts, delivered semi-randomly over the course of an hour.

As I told him this, I undid my belt and began to masturbate. Despite the obvious temptations, I had not molested C3 in an overtly sexual manner since that first facial at the beginning of his captivity. By combining molestation with removal of autonomy, I wished to impress upon him the importance of obeying me with whatever autonomy I allow him to have.

I pressed the button on the feeding machine as I approached my climax. C3 squealed and gurgled like a drowning cat from the sensation of ice-cold sludge pumping through a tube in his sinuses and down into his throat, choking as the diameter of the tube expanded enough to cut off his breathing. He thrashed in his restraints with such force that he almost moved the gurney beneath him!

Seeing tears stream from his eyes was too much, and his eyes were precisely where I aimed. I landed a good few ropes on each eye, which he scrunched shut in disgust. When the tube stopped pumping I pried open his eyelids with my fingers and made sure a good quantity of my burning, stinging cum got in each eye, then smeared the rest across his face. He tried to blink it out, with little success, and before he could do much else I applied the padded blindfold. He hates and fears the eye-shutting pressure from the neoprene padding at the best of times, and wasn't overjoyed to wear it with his eyes gunked up with sperm.

He's been like that for the last three days, unable to move, speak or see, fed three meals a day through his nose. The only interaction he's had is when I've unrestrained his individual limbs and allowed them some movement, one at a time, to prevent bedsores and deep vein thrombosis, and when I come down to grope his sensitive tits. He is only able to relieve himself through the catheter and through enemas.

After a few days of stick, he's almost ready for the carrot. Tonight I am making pork carnitas with soft tacos, which he has told me is his favourite meal. I have also purchased one of the Harry Dresden books, which he told me he is an avid reader of. When dinner is ready, I will make him an offer: he will ask me for normal food and apologize for forcing me to use the feeding tube. In return he will be allowed out of his restraints and returned to his comfortable cage, along with his favourite meal and a good book, which he will be allowed to read during his spare time as long as he behaves himself.

I hope he accepts, for his sake and mine.

16 November 2018

C3 had his first true milking today! I've been teasing dribbles of milk from his nipples with my fingers for weeks, but today the volume was so high that I had to deploy a handheld breast pump. He whimpered for the duration but was obviously relieved by the reduction in pressure. It was as if he found the whole ordeal rather humiliating.

The milk is rich, a touch gamey, and less sweet than expected. I don't think the taste will be anything to write home about while his stress levels are so high, and I think that will be the case for some time. I've taken half for myself, and I'm mixing the other half into his food.

He's been docile since the force feeding. The intensity and inevitability of the punishment is part of it, but the rewards are equally important. My deal is that he can ask for anything once. Obviously I laugh at certain requests--he's not getting a phone or a two-way radio--and some things require compromise, but otherwise I have been accommodating. His cell now contains a lamp he can turn on or off, two dozen books and graphic novels, an old mp3 player, and a box of wet wipes. His relief from the constant boredom of being confined in a cage for twenty hours a day is palpable, and he has chosen the comfort that obedience brings over the misery that stems from disobedience.

He has asked if he'll ever be free from this basement and I truthfully said yes. One day he'll be walking around outside free of physical restraints and he will sleep at night in a bed he can truly call his own, though I'm unsure if he'll ever truly be free of me. He takes comfort in the fact that he has not yet seen my face or anything that might identify me, as he reasons that I am therefore not incentivized to bury him in a shallow grave to protect myself. His conclusion is correct but his premise is wrong; he'll know who I am eventually and I still won't fear him.

I'm currently milking him once per day regardless of his feelings on the matter, and I think this has hidden from him the fact that he now needs to be milked. Without his daily milkings the pain in his breasts would become unbearable, and soon he will develop mastitis if he's not milked. This will form another important part of his development: begging for things that are distasteful but necessary. With the exception of the wet wipes, there is nothing inherently humiliating in the things he's asking for. I believe he'll find begging to be milked intensely humiliating, and more humiliating still because of the tolls I'll extract from him when he goes down that road.

A brief note on his physical changes: his breasts are bigger but they remain C-cups for the time being. There are now a striking set of stretch marks on the sides and undersides of his breasts, along with some smaller, subtler ones on his thighs and buttocks which have also thickened up nicely. At some point I'm going to give him a regular schedule of retention enemas until he gets stretch marks on his belly befitting a pregnant little broodslut. His skin is delightfully soft and I'm shaving his face daily until the home electrolysis kit arrives. The combination of hormones, daily exercise bike sessions, and a lack of any upper body resistance training has changed his physique from a surfer's build to a more bottom heavy one.

As soon as I have finished writing this entry I am going to give him two gifts. The first gift is an ear piercing. It will be home to a yellow plastic tag, a miniature version of a cattle tag. The second gift is his name. He's not C3 anymore, and he's certainly not whatever stupid name he called himself before I acquired him. He has lovely tits and he's a milk cow, so his name will be Cowtits.

Cowtits. I think it suits him.

[mimssides]

One Spade for five Hearts: Chapter 1

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___

Warning: Talk about transition, periods and dysphoria.

___

A usual Tuesday.

 ■ Waking up 07:30.

□ Leaving the house on 08:30.

□ Math from 08:30 to 10:00.

□ Break from 10:00 to 10:30.

□ Spades History from 10:30 to 12:00.

□ Lunch break from 12:00 to 13:15.

□ Chemistry from 13:15 to 14:45.

□ Break from 14:45 to 15:00.

□ Fencing from 15:00 to 16:30.

□ Arrival at home 17:00.

□ Doing homework until dinner at 18:30.

□ Finishing homework until 21:00.

□ Getting ready for bed 22:00.

□ Going to sleep 22:30.

Logan Ward was as organized as ever. He had to be. He was a Ward after all. Which was why he looked over his list again before crossed off the second checkpoint.

 ■ Leaving the house on 08:30.

He called his mother goodbye over his shoulder and left the house. Quickly, he walked down the driveway, waving to Virgil who was already waiting with his bike for him. As usual he looked tired, was slightly bobbing along the music of his headphones, music Logan couldn’t hear, and only after a few seconds returned the wave of his oldest friend.

As usual Logan joined Virgil and they silently walked to school. As usual Logan thought that Virgil was ridiculous for taking his bike with him even though he wouldn’t drive it. As usual Logan didn’t mention these thoughts because, despite it being illogical, he was happy to walk alongside Virgil.

 ■ Math from 08:30 to 10:00.

His first class in the day. Virgil was in a different course than him, so they parted before the class started and Logan found himself in the company of Remus Butkus. A terribly smart Club, who had no sense of decency and tact. And while he liked algorithms and geometry well enough, he had to admit that with kæm they were expansionally more interesting with the freckled redhead by his side.

 ■ Break from 10:00 to 10:30.

Meeting up with Virgil again and telling Remus goodbye until lunch.

 ■ Spades History from 10:30 to 12:00.

Usual class. They were to do a group project about the history of Spades before the equality treat had been signed 600 years ago. Virgil was his partner, as usual, and they would meet up in Thursday after class to talk about the details, as they usually did when they had a group project.

 ■ Lunch break from 12:00 to 13:15.

At lunch Logan and Virgil re-joined with Remus. Kæ had brought kæs boyfriend Patton along. They smiled at the two Spades before they kissed Remus and started talking about their day. As usual they asked Virgil how his day went and Logan greeted N (apparently going by Janus today judging by the bowler hat on their head) and Roman, Remus’s twin.

As usual Janus made a snarky remark about Patton’s all too positive attitude and Remus laughed at kæs boyfriend’s pout but helped them defend themself against Janus’s bickering. As usual Roman –

No, Roman did not get involved into the quarrel for once. He was uncharacteristically quiet and Logan shot him a look. The otherwise always boisterous boy looked figuratively down and almost seemed to have waited for Logan to acknowledge him. Confused Logan was about to ask what was going on, when Roman pointed to Logan’s phone. Logan looked down to it and unlocked the screen. On the lock screen a message from Roman was showing and Logan silently read:

Roman Butkus:

you have pads? frogt mine at home

Logan looked back up to Roman. Gave him a short nod and stood up from the table. Virgil shot him a funny look and Logan simply said, as he took out his little necessity bag from his satchel: “I need to go to the bathroom.”

“I’m coming too!” Roman announced immediately and was already on his feet following Logan leaving the cafeteria.

Logan walked quick and did not look back, knowing perfectly well that Roman could keep up with him. And not a moment later, the shorter boy walked next to him, arms folded over his chest. He looked uncomfortable and Logan suspected that he might have been wearing his binder too long or that he felt more sensitive during his period or in the worst-case scenario both.

Finally, they made it to the bathroom and entered. Logan quickly walked along the stalls and checked if they were alone, which was the case, and then took out a pad of his little necessity bag and handed it to Roman. Grateful Roman took it and disappeared in one of the stalls, as Logan leaned back against the wall waiting for Roman to finish.

They didn’t need to be secretive about having periods. Everybody knew and they were generally accepted. But Logan understood quickly after getting to know Roman that he tended to struggle with some parts of his body when he didn’t feel like he was a woman. For himself that was not the case but he understood that gender was different for everybody and he would do anything to support Roman in the way he could and needed to.

“Fuck.”

Logan’s train of thought was broken. Roman’s tone sounded watery and Logan got alarmed.

“What is it?” Logan asked not quite certain if he was approaching this the right way.

“I – I uh, fuck.”

Roman was definitely crying and Logan walked up to the closed stall door. He just stood there and waited, not knowing if there was anything he could even say.

“Blood got onto my jeans. I – I -”

Roman broke off and Logan heard some small sobs. He sighed and opened the little necessity bag again. Silently, he crouched down and slid a little package through the slit close the stall door.

“It is okay, Roman,” Logan said trying to sound soothing. “It happens. It happens to me too sometimes. If you open the package, you’ll find a cleaning cloth. It’s enhanced to get blood out of the fabric, so no one will notice.”

Logan listened to the movement inside the stall, heard the package being opened and how Roman apparently cleaned his jeans. There were still some sniffles but Logan felt himself relax.

A minute went by and you could hear Roman flush. Logan awaited him coming out but Roman let him wait.

“Thank you so much… I’m sorry for making you wait here with me,” Roman finally said.

Logan frowned and looked at the door as if he could send a look through the wall. But knowing that he could not do that he instead said: “It is quite alright, Roman. Periods are not the most comfortable topic among our peers, even if they are cis girls. It is okay to struggle with it. Just try to remember that is normal and that you do not have to be ashamed of having the parts you have.”

A sniffle.

“I’m trying. But dysphoria is mean… You don’t have to answer but do you have it sometimes? Do you sometimes think your body is wrong a little? Not really you?”

Logan looked up to the ceiling and mused for a moment.

“I don’t think so. I am fine with how I look. But that might also be because I never had to wear things I did not want to. That my parents didn’t had me have long hair or anything. It does have its perks to have an older sibling who came out as nonbinary when they were twelve, I guess.”

“You wear a binder, though?”

“I do sometimes, yes. I do so today and I probably should change out if it now, but I do not do so because of dysphoria. I just like how I look with a flat chest. Which is not that hard to accomplish with my cup size, I presume.”

A little snort.

“You’re quite lucky, Ward. Quite lucky indeed.”

The stall door was opened and Roman washed his hands. Looking at Logan through the mirror he continued: “Not that I’m jealous of you. It’s not like we could influence it. And quite honestly, some days I have the feeling that I am way more into being trans than you are. Like, it’s so fun to tell teachers that they are actually wrong and I use she/her or he/him today. Still, I’m stoked for when I finally evoke my powers and get to transition. It will be awesome!”

Logan grinned a little and shrugged his shoulders before Roman fully turned around, leaning against the sink and asked: “Do you wanna transition once your powers show? Like top surgery and stuff?”

“I don’t think that I want top surgery, but I am thinking about hormone magic, so my voice gets deeper. I think, that would be the one thing that sometimes puts me off a little. Also, I might grow a beard and that sounds pretty appealing to me.”

Roman laughed and the tiny gap between his front teeth was showing just in the way Logan liked it. It suited Roman far more than the sad expression from before. And then he suddenly stepped closer to Logan, his heart skipping a beat, and he tapped on Logan’s shirt with a grin.

“And don’t you think, I didn’t notice you trying to manipulate me to take off my binder, smart cookie!” Roman teased with a grin. “I will change out of it after the next period and you don’t have to change out of yours just to make me do it. I feel fine. Promise.”

Logan cleared his throat and scratched the back of his neck. A little flustered he looked to the side and mumbled: “That is reassuring. Thank you.”

And then Roman gave him a hug, took him by the hand and led them back into the cafeteria, talking about some nice outfits he had seen the last time he had been in the mall. It all went down a little too quickly for Logan but in the end he didn’t care. Roman was in good spirits again and that was all what mattered to Logan. When they joined back at the table Janus asked Roman if he was alright, which Roman confirmed and gave Logan a little wink.

“Flirting with the shovel knight? That will work out perfectly fine, won’t it?” Janus teased and Roman laughed but hit them on his upper arm.

“Since when are you playing video games, Mx. Technology-Has-Its-Limits-And-No-Flair?” Virgil inquired deadpanned and a series of mocking insults got exchanged between Janus and Virgil until their lunch break neared its end.

 ■ Chemistry from 13:15 to 14:45.

Virgil, Remus and Logan left the lunch table together and got into one of the few classes they all shared together. Nothing unusual came to be, expect for Remus somehow enhancing one of the mixtures they made so it sparkled and smelled terrible. At least it did not explode this time.

 ■ Break from 14:45 to 15:00.

Virgil broke off the group to get to track training, while Logan and Remus went to change for fencing practice.

 ■ Fencing from 15:00 to 16:30.

The usual training. Remus got closer beating him today. But not yet.

 ■ Arrival at home 17:00.

Virgil had met up with Logan after training and the two said goodbye to Remus and leisurely walked towards their respective homes. They arrived at 16:52 in front of Logan’s house, as usual and talked for a few minutes before Logan needed to get inside and wished Virgil a pleasant evening despite knowing fully well, they would text later tonight.

 ■ Doing homework until dinner at 18:30.

Taking a shower after fencing practice. Then homework. Finishing up an essay for Common tomorrow.

 ■ Finishing homework until 21:00.

Dinner was fine. They had noodles and green salad. Father wasn’t coming home today and Grey was staying out later due to a trainings exam he had. Logan didn’t mind. He managed to finish his homework around 20:34 and began to prepare for the night.

 ■ Getting ready for bed 22:00.

Logan had sent the last text to Virgil for the night and laid out his clothes for tomorrow. Comfortably, he packed his backpack and then went to brush his teeth, and clean whatever had been stuck in his braces before heading to bed.

 ■ Going to sleep 22:30.

Finally, Logan took of his glasses and turned the light off. It wasn’t entirely dark in his room though. There were stars glowing at his ceilings, playful little gadgets, his father had hung up there for his seventh birthday. Logan didn’t feel like taking them off yet and closed his eyes.

A usual day, he thought. Well, maybe not, he corrected himself. Since the twins, Patton and N had bullied their ways into his routine, had become part of his routine, he was never as sure as he used to be that his days would follow a certain pattern. A clearly laid-out path that he had thoughtfully created for himself over the years.

But maybe unusual, was not so bad after all, Logan Ward thought as he fell asleep.

___

@varthandi

@sammy-is-obsessed / @exhaustedfander

@alexisrealgay

@softie-sushi

@wolfs-feder

@just-a-neoclassical-painting

@winter-jay-official

@a-ghostlight-for-roman

[daisukekaza]

Being trans and pre surgery is one of the most frustrating things.

The dysphoria is the obvious part, for those that are. We struggle daily with how far our body is from what would be comfortable and it can be present all the time. Getting surgery is both expensive and disruptive to the flow of your life, and it seems impossible to find the time and funds to get it done.

The less obvious parts, though, often go unspoken.

I'm a little over 6 months away from age 30. I've dated a few people, discovered my sexuality, my kinks, my quirks, but I don’t have a partner and it's been ages since I've been in a committed relationship.

I long for the companionship, but I also want to live independently first. I long for that love that comes with knowing someone that well and for a long time, but I'm not comfortable enough with my body to even open a dating app.

I struggle to figure out which name and pronouns I should give to a job in order to be hired without compromising myself too much. I struggle with which family members are safe to talk to about this in order to avoid "intervention".

I wake up every day with depression trying to keep me in bed, trying to make me go back to sleep.

My body necessitates wearing something designed for my birth sex just to avoid making my back hurt (and sometimes my back hurts anyway).

The clothes I wear for a job interview are designed for my birth sex because they're what compliment my figure enough to make a good impression. Even when I'm wearing pants.

I struggle to stay hydrated when I'm wearing the things that make my mind quiet about my body, because they keep me from staying a comfortable temperature (and I'm comfortable in 80° F weather) and don't breathe.

I have to constantly remind people my preferred pronouns because I both look and sound like my birth sex and can't find a good way to practice the voice of my actual gender.

I have supportive parents who still struggle to use my pronouns even when they always get my name right. I have extended family that dead name me because we only see each other once a year.

I worked in retail under my dead name for 6 years because I didn't want to have to correct customers and the last boss I had told me I couldn't wear a subtle "feminist" pin because it was a political statement that might bring arguments.

The struggle doesn't stop at your mind rejecting your body. So don't stop your support at using the right names and pronouns to a person's face. It goes so much deeper than that.

[herandhearelove]

Coming out.

TL;DR: I am genderfluid. All of my characters will remain the same, except for Ashley/Halsey*, who will now go by Ash/Halsey— NOT Ashley, regardless of gender. Current pronouns will be in my username and easily visible.

I will be continuing to do primarily lewd roleplay, and because this is a fantasy where I can be free of dysphoria, Ash will anatomically match whatever his/her current gender is, which will also be whatever my OOC gender as a writer is. My writer tag will continue to be Sooki, as it is gender neutral.

I very, very, very strongly urge you to read the rest of this post so you may understand me better— ESPECIALLY if you do not believe gender fluidity exists.

If you wish to interact with me however, especially in any long term capacity, reading this is mandatory.

* edit: this also works exactly the same for my portrayal of Loki. I wrote this believing Ash would be the only genderfluid character I played, and the post is so large that I cannot be bothered to update it. Works exactly the same way though!!!

Overview.

Hey guys.

So, this has been a very long time coming. My understanding of gender has been called into question over the last few months, and I have had a very rapid period of change and self discovery. Roleplay has greatly assisted this. My friends have been accepting, my life has evolved, and I have even chosen a new name to go by out of character with the help of my friends in this community.

I am genderfluid. This means my gender is in flux, to the point that I feel extremely uncomfortable being referred to as a Female or as a Male at times, as well as experiencing shifting dysphoria against the parts of my body that assign me to the gender I am not associating with. My jawline, on some days, is a celebration. On others, it’s a reminder that the world perceives me one way, and that I have to work to change it. Some days, I feel pained that I am so flat chested, as I feel like less of a woman. On others, I count myself blessed, because a tank top and a lack of a bra can transform me into a man.

I have been friends with trans people before, and when they came out, I remember feeling like I suddenly didn’t know them. This could not be further from the truth— the Me on the inside, that you are friends with, that you write with, that you occasionally say hi to? They have always been genderfluid. Only now is that being brought to the surface. If you are friends with me, then you have always loved a man without knowing. Nothing about who I am has changed, apart from the fact that I am bringing myself to the surface.

I can think of no other way to explain how I came to this conclusion than to tell my story. I hope that you can all recognise that this part of the post should be unnecessary. I hope that, if I were to end my post here, that you would be able to respect me for who I am, and who I am now realising I have always been. That said, I know that many people do not recognise gender fluidity as legitimate, and I am aware of the fact that simple exposure and explanation is one of the best ways to move towards acceptance. There is a reason many people who live in cities tend to be more accepting of others as a whole— exposure to diversity inherently breeds acceptance.

My story, through the lense of roleplay.

I began to roleplay when I was 17, and joined the lewd community less than 2 weeks after my 18th birthday. My story, however, begins earlier than that, with a brief insight into my real life. I shall be as vague as possible. I am a minor public figure out of character who makes a career off of public perception, and as such, my roleplay accounts being linked to my real life identity could derail my income source. Therefore, detail is impossible. I hope you understand.

When I was very young, I came to the conclusion I was bisexual. I was apparently the last to know this— my coming out was mercifully uneventful. Several years later, I realised that my bisexuality was me still holding onto the patriarchal view that I needed male fulfilment in my life. I coined myself a lesbian. That much has not changed since— although I suppose, after this change, I am now sometimes a straight male. I haven’t thought of myself as straight in a very long time. It is... unusual, after so long.

By the time I joined roleplay I was confident in my sexuality. I thought I was as confident in my gender— I was a “Woman”, capitol W. I did not see the already beginning signs of my gender identity shining through, such as the way I was very stereotypically a “dyke”, but crucially, only sometimes. I felt increasingly like something was wrong. Like I was just a brain, trapped in a body. I didn’t link this to gender issues at all. I assumed it was existential restlessness.

Very early on, I began to play “hung” characters. I found comfort in them, in the idea that I wasn’t less of a woman for wanting a dick, in the fact that I could actually have one! My characters have been varied, but I have returned to this many times. I have only recently realised that this was a projection of my gender issues. I also suffered from “penis envy”, which I would later discover was the beginning of dysphoria. One of my closest friends (Mila, aka @/NYMPHVILE for those who know her) is bisexual, and every time she spoke about sleeping with a man, I felt this pain in my chest. Someone made her happy— and I could never provide that same feeling for her. This should have been a sign long ago about who I was.

One day, I was speaking about these feelings with another of my friends— Mew, aka @/mew_writes, who has too many characters to list here. He suggested, almost nonchalantly, that I might be non binary.

Oh boy.

What followed was a several week long panic. I struggled to believe I was non binary— how could I be, when I associated so strongly with gendered features on both sides of the spectrum? No, I could not be. I talked to non binary people, researched it in my own time. No. It didn’t quite fit.

It was Mila who suggested genderfluid. I told her how I felt and that I might be non binary, and she responded with “that sounds like gender fluid to me.” Truthfully, I didn’t believe it could be possible at first. I didn’t believe gender could fluctuate like that— the people who did that were just making stuff up! In our current world, where women and men can dress as they want, you weren’t gender fluid— that was just your fashion sense.

This was, of course, tied to my views, due to a lack of exposure to gender fluidity. It took time to move past it— but I did, and I stopped gaslighting myself and trusted my instincts.

Once I accepted my gender fluidity, I still rejected masculinity, believing instead that I just fluctuated between female and non binary. With retrospect, this was a fear thing. I had always been gay. Always loved women. Always been a woman. If I was a man? I was a straight guy. I was the same as the men who had denied me so many freedoms, just some guy. It was foolish, of course. Straight men are as diverse and different as every other demographic, and besides— I’m not even a cis man, and I’m not male 100% of the time by a long stretch. This patriarchal worry kept me questioning for weeks longer.

I came to the final conclusion almost unceremoniously. Me and Mila agreed that it was likely an aversion to men, and because it was a masculine day, she began to use male pronouns and we continued as if nothing happened. It didn’t feel right until later that night. I’ll never forget when she called me a good boy for going to sleep on time. It was— dare I say— life changing, and it’s likely she didn’t even realise how much so. I am very lucky that she is bisexual.

A minor tangent.

This part is specifically addressed to those who believe hung accounts are wrong. If you do not feel this, there is little point to you reading this tangent. Feel free to skip ahead.

Here is the part where I very slightly preach at you. Many of the people within the trans community dislike hung characters, feeling like they are being fetishised. There is a large part of me that understands and agrees with this sentiment. If you are playing a hung character but disagree with trans rights or deny trans existence, please educate yourself. Seriously.

Howver, I also urge the trans people within the community to not be too harsh on these characters. I myself would not have discovered my own identity without playing these characters. It’s also worth noting that these characters normalise the idea that a woman with a dick should still be treated as a woman. I am, on an increasing amount of days, a man with a vagina. I have never seen a character portray this, and I would love for it to be normalised.

As part of this point, I also ask you to consider how roleplay functions as an escape. Almost every character in roleplay is what in any other circumstance would be considered a “Mary-Sue.”— a version of the author that represents a desire and encapsulates that feeling. I desperately, desperately wanted a dick, and I couldn’t explain why. Now I can. Not everyone is so fortunate— it has taken me years to come to this conclusion. If a “cis male” is playing a female character but still playing hung, consider what that means. They desire being identified as female so much that they enjoy being thought of as one in the eyes of other people. If a “cis woman” is playing a hung character, she may well be like I was— someone who has not found themselves yet.

These people may also find comfort in the idea that they would be accepted as their preferred gender, without being demeaned within that acceptance because of what is beneath their clothes. That is why many may call themselves hung instead of trans: an escape from that label may be appealing. In my case it was the opposite— legitimising my feelings of dysphoria while being able to continue feeling like a woman made me feel legitimate and happy. I could explain away my feelings while remaining a Cis woman. For so long, I lied to myself— but a part of me doubts I would have ever come to this realisation if I had not had that in-between step.

Many may not even realise this, and it may take time for them to discover whether or not they feel as such. I know many trans women in particular flock to the roleplay community for that very reason— escape from the discomfort of the realities of their physical form.

Then again, perhaps I am reading too much into it. However, in my case, these characters have helped me become who I really am. I urge hesitance with these accounts from the trans community. Not everyone is at the same point in their journey, and ultimately, roleplay is a way that we can become whoever we desire, whether we do so in a lewd way or not. If you disagree with that, I understand why, but that is how I feel on the matter, and I feel like now more than ever I have a degree of authority, however small and insignificant. Every time another account told me I was wrong for the character I played, it felt like a blow to the stomach, and I had no idea why. Turns out, it was the reminder that my outward appearance was reason enough for society to not accept the idea of me having a dick, even in a fantasy world where having one was physically possible.

Why I’m Genderfluid, and other realities.

Many people may wonder why I feel this way. This answer is unfortunately the least complicated, and the most unsatisfying.

I don’t know.

I wish I could give you a medical reason. A brain scan that showed how hormones are flipping me back and forth. But I just... can’t. I question my own sanity regularly, but I am coming to realise that this question is not a part of the real answer. The reality is this:

I’ve spent 19 years NOT being gender fluid. And I can’t spend another day living like that. It’s not that I know for certain with any of this. It’s simply that this is me, and I cannot change it, any more then I can reconstruct my face or delete my memories and upload new ones.

Many people also wonder if this is permanent. This is once again an answer that is painfully disappointing. I simply do not know. This may change— in fact, it is a difficult reality that it is likely. I know more than most that gender is a fickle and fluid thing. Maybe this is a middle step, like my non binary phase was, where I am running from the reality of being a trans man. Maybe this is a phase, where I feel I cannot love a woman while being wholly female, due to internalised homophobia.

But there is another reality worth addressing. No state of being is permanent. Whether I am genderfluid forever or not doesn’t matter. The fact is that now, in this moment, that is my best understanding of myself. If I discover another reality about myself, this does not erase this period of my life from my history. It also will not erase the memory of who was ok with me being who I really am, and who was not. I have tried being cis. I have hidden behind masks all my life. Sooki, my real life persona, Ashley, all my other characters— all masks to a certain degree. Cis was another mask I wore. Now it is off, and I will remember those who screamed and ran away when they saw what was beneath.

What happens with your roleplay characters?

Finally, an unashamedly fun party of the topic.

My characters have always felt just like that: characters. I act in ways that I would not on them all the time. All of my characters will remain as the gender they are, and will continue to well into the future. If I make a new character, I will specify their gender identity, and that will be that. They are not the same as me out of character.

Except for one.

Ash has always been a surrogate for me. Since the moment I made them, they have felt like a character that I can put myself into. They have diverged greatly from Halsey’s real life (although perhaps ironically, I have ultimately ended up following Halsey into a non cis life, as she came out as she/they non binary earlier this year). Me and Mila, along with a host of my other friends, have expanded her into a character with a rich backstory.

As such, I will be making Ash genderfluid to match myself. I understand the urge to make her just like me physically as well. However roleplay is an escape for me, and I quite enjoy the lewd community. Ash is an idealised version of myself, and this will hardly be the first time I have explored something that is not physically possible. And as such:

Ash will physically match my gender identity of the time. This means the whole 9 yards— when female, she will be as she has been up until this point. However, when he is male? No boobs, wider shoulders, maybe even a little bit of body hair, and a cock. It will be large too— I’m a size queen/king and I have no shame in doing such. The stereotypical masculinity of it is a fantasy I could live in forever, a positive pool in which I am able to swim in through my phone. I am able to present with this character as I wish to be one day— and although this is unrealistic with current technology, it is what I dream of. To be very clear— I would be doing this within my mind whether or not it was public and whether or not I was a lewd account. However, I am fond of the lewd community, and to me there is no greater affirmation of my gender than sexual affirmation. I am sure of this decision.

I am lucky to have chosen such a good FC. Halsey speaks to me as a person, and that connection, with retrospect, is not for naught. Halsey presents very masculine at times, giving me material of the same person presenting as both genders and allowing me to keep my FC. I will not be changing character in any way.

For example:

Female presenting:

Male presenting:

This transformational ability will also have an in universe explanation. I will be detailing this more in Ash’s updated backstory, which, if you are seeing this post, is updated and can be found here.

It will involve a little bit of magic, and be tied in with the story of Zia, aka @/NYMPHQUEEN, who helped me craft the story behind it.

So how do I act?

This part is simple! My pronouns will be in my bio. When role playing with me, treat me as a writer and Ash within the scene as you would a cis person of that gender. It’s really that simple.

Some more specifics, for those who would like them.

If we are within a scene and naked, or anything like that— feel free to continue writing within that gender even if I change. I will simply respond when my gender matches the plot and the roleplay will not make me feel dysphoric. No need for mid-story transformations. Easy.

Casual terms like bro, dude, darling, ect ect? All fine regardless of pronouns. My mind considers them gender neutral and I am not fussed about them.

If you slip up, don’t stress. I’m still getting used to this too, and I’m a forgiving person. However, if you disrespect me by deliberately avoiding using the pronouns very obviously displayed in my name, that will be when we have a problem. Then you’re just deliberately being a dick.

Conclusion.

I would like to thank my friends for helping me realise this about myself. In particular, the 3 mentioned in this post: Mew, Mila and Zia. You 3— plus all those knew about this before I went public— have helped me become comfortable enough in this decision to make it public.

And lastly: thank you to you, who has stuck through my long rambling to the end. I hope I have changed your views on gender fluidity if you did not believe in it before, and I hope that, whoever you are, you can respect me as a person and allow me to be myself.

But, I digress. I have rambled for far too long. In the words of Marcus Tullius Cicero:

“If I had more time, I would have written a shorter letter.”

Thank you. I love you.

Sooki (He/She)

[nonbinaryresource]

Hey so I lately had this problem. A friend is helping me figure things out (she is doing so much research I love her) and she found this thing called dismorphia. And like I cant stand my chest, its feels like its a seperate thing thats not part of my body, but stays there. So I'm like struggling to figure out if I'm actually genderfluid or if I'm just dismorphig about my chest and like dressing masc. Cause the rest of my body is like ok and even tho i want top surgery I dunno if i wanna take T

So, standard disclaimer that a) I’m no in way a medical professional, and b) strangers over the internet cannot diagnose you, but I do have to say that your very short description here (”And like I cant stand my chest, its feels like its a seperate thing thats not part of my body, but stays there“) sounds 100% like dysphoria. It doesn’t even sound like comorbid dysmorphia to me.

It’s very easy to get overwhelmed with too much (and often very extraneous and unnecessary) information when researching something personal that you’re desperate for answers for - and even more so when someone who can’t personally experience what we’re actually experiencing is helping us find information. So I just wanna help clear up some confusion as to some meanings here.

Gender dysphoria - unease/dissatisfaction/discomfort/unhappiness/disconnect regarding being referred to as/thought of as a certain gender(s)

Gender dysphoria can be split further into different categories of how they experienced, such as physical (unease/etc. regarding aspects of one’s body, such as feeling some body part doesn’t belong or that some body part is missing), social (unease/etc. at the name/pronouns/titles/gender people use when they refer to you in social circumstances), and mental (one’s own personal disconnect/unease regarding thinking of themself as a certain gender/s or having to act as a certain gender).

Gender dysphoria can manifest through dissociation/depersonalization, anxiety, depression, unhappiness, physical discomfort like itchiness or the feeling of wanting out of your skin, and the like.

Body Dysmorphia - a mental illness where one obsessively fixates on some aspect(s) of their body which they view in a negative, distorted light

This often involves spending large amounts of one’s day stuck looking in the mirror and/or taking (often harmful) action to “fix” the body part one is fixated on

Important differences to note here are that dysmorphia is a mental illness (considered a part of the OCD type disorders) while dysphoria is not (it’s largely a result of societal treatment towards trans people).

As well, an important distinction is that in dysphoria, the person has a fairly human, realistic view of their body/gender/how they’re read and how that doesn’t align with how they actually feel/identify and that’s what causes the unhappiness. Ex. “I don’t/have [body part] and that’s not how I expected my body to grow/wanted by body to grow”In dysmorphia, the fixation object is seen in a distorted, unrealistic way. They are unable to see the body part how it actually appears no matter how many people - including doctors - describe it differently to them. There’s also often a component of feeling like something is so medically wrong, there’s an obsession with fixing it, which could be through things like unhealthy amounts of time working out, eating disorders, and multiple trips to the doctor to get their “physical issue” diagnosed.Ex. “I have the biggest, most crooked nose I’ve ever seen; I must have some deformity or growth issue a doctor should address”

I do understand how it can be easy to conflate these two experiences considering both can take up a lot of headspace and involve going to great lengths to fix/modify the object of unhappiness. Things can be further confused by the fact that dysphoria and dysmorphia can exist comorbidly. To help, here’s a bunch of personal accounts of these experiences.

What it’s like to live with dysphoriaDysphoria essayIllustrations of dysphoria

What it’s like to have dysphoria and dysmorphiaBody image with dysphoria and dysmorphiaDysphoria vs Dysmorphia

What dysmorphia is actually likeHow I realized I have dysmorphiaList of multiple dysmorphia experiences

Okay, ALL that being said, there’s a larger “issue” I see in your ask that I think is holding you back. Don’t worry! This is extremely common, especially in the asks we get here about questioning. No doubt it’s because focusing on something concrete and non-abstract like body parts seems so much easier, less confusing, and less overwhelming.

But remember: gender =/= your body configuration. Gender is not defined by your genitals nor your pronouns nor your name nor your amount of suffering (hey, cis people can also experience dysphoria and not all trans people do experience dysphoria) nor whatever medical intervention you desire or not.

Gender is much more innate and abstract than that. Gender is a gut feeling. Gender is a mental and psychological experience. Gender is something within you and so much bigger than something as simple as what body you have or want. Gender is something you do introspection on and look within and trust how you feel. Gender is impacted by the society you grew up within in that society influences our view of what gender is and what it looks like, and that can make it hard to sort out our own, inner feelings, but it’s something you have to look within to determine.

Instead of trying to pin down [x] and [y] and [z] aspects of yourself to plug into some equation to determine if you’re [gender], give a shot to trying out a label, sitting in it, and connecting with how you feel about that.

What does it feel like to identify as genderfluid to you? Do you want to identify as genderfluid? Do you think you want to identify as genderfluid? Does it make you happy? Comfortable? Safe? Does it make sense to identify as genderfluid to you? Does genderfluid help you communicate how you feel to others? Do you connect with the shared experiences of other genderfluid folk? Do you feel a connection to or sense of community with other people who identify as genderfluid?

If you answered yes to any one of those questions, that’s an excellent sign that you’re genderfluid! Sometimes it can take days to weeks to months even to years to come to a final decision about these feelings, but it often does require giving yourself just a little time to come around to the idea of identifying as [gender] so you can truly explore what it means to you beyond the possible initial, defensive reaction of “it can’t possibly be me” due to cisnormative and cissexist reasons (like “I didn’t know when I was young, so I can’t be trans” or “I’m obviously just trying to feel special”, etc.).

It’s confusing, but give yourself time and space to think about it - you’ll sort it out and figure out what makes you most comfortable! It’s also awesome that you have a good friend to talk things through with. =)

~Pluto

[sanderssidesfanfiction]

Royal Growing Pains - Chapter Nineteen

Thank you all for being patient waiting for this update! I was in the hospital yesterday, so I had no Internet access. :') I'm much better, though, now, and I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Warnings: Homophobia, transphobia, misgendering, sympathetic Deceit

Royal Growing Pains Tag

Roman spent the walk to the library in silence. Damien wasn’t exactly silent, but he wasn’t talking, and he wasn’t forcing Roman to talk, a fact which Roman appreciated. Damien was just nodding to people in the hallways, offering little greetings here and there as they went to the library.

Once there, Damien led Roman to a back corner which held beanbags and some children’s toys, no doubt leftovers from Damien’s years as a child. Damien sat down in one and Roman fell into another, and they looked at each other for a long moment, a silent challenge to see who would speak first. “My dear,” Damien said eventually, “Please, will you tell me what has been bothering you?”

Roman took a breath. “I’ve been struggling with my dysphoria,” he said.

Damien waited a moment, before he sighed. “Roman, I cannot help with whatever is ailing you if you don’t reach out to me first,” he said. So much pleading and desperation was in his eyes, and Roman felt worse because he knew he was the cause of it. “Please. Let me in.”

Roman sighed. “No one will ever be able to love me,” he said softly. “Or at least, no gay man will be able to love me.”

“What?” Damien asked.

“Don’t you understand?” Roman threw his hands in the air. “My body is female. No matter what surgeries I get, I’ll always be stuck in the body of a woman. I might be lucky and some man who’s bisexual might love me, but no man who only feels attraction to the same gender would ever love me.”

Damien opened his mouth, before closing it with a click. He looked furious, his entire body trembling. “No,” he said simply. “Roman, you’re wrong.”

“How can you say that?” Roman asked. “We both know it’s true! I’m doomed to be in this body for the rest of my days! I can’t just magically get a male body with everything I want from it! And if I don’t have that body, who in their right mind would love me?”

Damien shook his head. “Roman, you’re wrong,” Damien insisted. “What even possessed you to think this?”

“That joke about loving each other? Why else would you look disgusted if not at the thought of loving me? And scoffing at being gay with me around Remy? Like, I get it! You don’t want to marry me! I’m not desirable! But you don’t get to behave like that and then immediately after say I’m wrong!”

“That’s not what I did!” Damien exclaimed. “I already told you! I simply wasn’t expecting your joke! Scoffing around Remy wasn’t at the thought that I might like you!”

“Then what was it?!” Roman asked. “Because that’s what I heard from it!”

“It was the accusation that simply talking and joking around could be romantic attraction at work! Not at the notion that I might love you, but the notion that two men can apparently not be friends if they’re both gay.” Damien continued to shake. “And you are a man, Roman. Your mind is what determines your gender, not whatever you might have between your legs at the moment.”

“Oh,” Roman said. “But I’m not...I don’t have...”

“Not having a dick doesn’t make you any less of a man, you dumbass,” Damien said firmly. “And you are a dumbass if you think that you can’t be a man just because you can’t stand and pee.”

“Damien...I appreciate the peptalk, but the fact of the matter remains that I can’t be a man. Not in the way I want to be,” Roman said, tears falling again.

“I’ll get you a binder. A packer with the ability to stand and pee while you use it. My dear, I will help you purchase a strap-on if you think that it will help you feel more like a man. Because you deserve to feel like your gender,” Damien said. “Please trust me. I’ve loved men my whole life, Roman. I know one when I see one. And I see one in you.”

Roman honestly didn’t know how to respond to that. “Why?” he asked. “Why do you see a man in me when I’m...not?”

“My dear,” Damien said, moving to sit next to Roman with a gaze so intense Roman was scared to look him in the eyes, “You are a man. The voice you have telling you that you’re not is not your own. The confidence you’ve shown when you are yourself, when you are free to be Roman, and don’t have to cater to your mother, that cannot be faked. You are at your strongest when you are allowed to be yourself. And I don’t want to presume that I know you better than you know yourself, but I have seen you, my dear. I have seen you happy. And you’re at your happiest when you can be the man you want to be.”

“Okay, so I’m a man,” Roman said. “That doesn’t mean that any gay man will love me. I’m still undeniably feminine in figure. Have you seen how many gay men will say, ‘No fats, no femmes’?”

“That is not every gay man, my dear,” Damien said. “You can find a gay man who will love you for who you are.”

Roman just continued to cry. “Like who?” he asked, scoffing through his tears.

“Where do I begin?” Damien asked. “Roman, any man with half a brain in this castle would fall for you.”

Roman’s stomach flipped. He couldn’t possibly hope that included Damien...

Could he?

“Like who?” Roman asked. His heart pounded in his chest. If Damien included himself in the list...

“Patton. Logan. Virgil. I know Remy was taking his time with you. Like I said, my dear, anyone with half a brain.”

“What, you don’t have a brain?” Roman joked weakly.

“Well, first of all, I don’t have half a brain, I have one singular brain cell, so jot that down,” Damien said. “Second of all, my dear...could we not make jokes about loving each other?”

Roman felt his heart shatter. “What?” he asked faintly.

“I know we’re to be married, my dear, but the love jokes make me uncomfortable, and you seem to spiral soon after making them. I think it’s in both of our best interests if we try to keep those jokes to a minimum.” Damien scratched the back of his neck. “I’m truly sorry, but I just...”

“No, no, I understand,” Roman said, feeling his hopes be torn into shreds.

“This doesn’t mean you’re not worthy of love, my dear,” Damien said, giving Roman a tight hug. “Understand? I just don’t want either of us getting more hurt.”

And the heartache Roman felt could only mean one thing: he was definitely in love with Damien. And he had no idea what to do about it. “All right,” Roman said softly.

Damien offered Roman a smile, but Roman couldn’t bring himself to return it. Instead, he sighed and mumbled, “We have to go back out to our mothers, don’t we?”

“I’m afraid so,” Damien said simply.

“Do we have to do it right this second?” Roman asked. “Or do we have some time to rest?”

“I anticipate we don’t have to leave immediately, but we don’t have more than ten minutes before everyone comes looking for us,” Damien said.

“Ugh,” Roman muttered. His mood was souring fast, and he couldn’t help but feel resentful for the situation he had been put in. Made to be married to a man who wouldn’t even want to joke about love. “This stupid castle isn’t going to give me a second to rest until I’m dead, is it?”

“Hey, I know it’s not the best situation for you to be in, but this castle is better for you than the other one you had the misfortune of calling a home,” Damien said, defensive.

“At least there my mother wasn’t as aggressive about my not being trans as she is here!” Roman snapped.

“She didn’t know that you were trans! She’d react just as badly whenever you told her in the future, and who knows, she might not have been able to try and pin you to me that time! At least I’m accepting of your identity!” Damien huffed. “I know I’m a royal pain in the ass, my dear. I also know that I’m willing to do whatever it takes to keep you safe. I don’t trust anyone else with that job.”

And yet you don’t love me? Roman thought, but didn’t dare say.

Damien pinched the bridge of his nose. “Neither of us are in a great mood. Should we just...agree to move on and head back to our mothers? Continue this discussion at a later date when we feel like it?”

“Yeah, probably,” Roman agreed, and they both left the library.

They didn’t say anything for a minute, until Damien lightly poked Roman in the shoulder. “Poke,” he said softly.

Roman frowned and turned to look at Damien. “What was that for?” he asked.

“Conversation starter,” Damien said with a shrug.

“Lousy conversation starter,” Roman said.

Damien smirked. “Ah, and yet, we’re still conversing after it.”

“That’s how low your standards are?” Roman asked.

“That’s how conversations are started. I’d say my expectations for conversations are on par,” Damien defended.

Roman shook his head and muttered, “You’re a ridiculous man.”

“Thank you, my dear, I do try,” Damien said with a pleased little smirk.

Roman poked him back, significantly harder, and Damien yelped, scowling at Roman when he giggled in response. Damien retaliated by running his fingers up Roman’s sides and Roman shrieked in response. “Hey! Tickling is illegal!” Roman protested.

“Says who?” Damien laughed.

“Says me!” Roman said.

“You’re not the crown prince of this kingdom!” Damien said smugly.

But Roman had too much experience with Remus using this line to just back down. “Oh, well, then. I suppose tickling is legal,” Roman sighed, before his hands darted to Damien’s sides.

Damien yelped before bursting into laughter and Roman grinned wickedly. “So you think you can do this, huh?” Roman asked. “You think you can beat me at my own game?”

“Stop...stop! I yield! I yield!” Damien exclaimed, holding his hands up and out in surrender. “You win! I yield!”

Roman backed away and Damien panted. “That was...far too much for me to handle,” Damien gasped. “I’m a little bit dizzy, now.”

“Oh, no, are you okay?” Roman asked, hands moving to Damien’s shoulders.

Damien took a deep breath and swallowed. “I’ll be fine, my dear. But I’m starting to understand the phrase that my mother always told me when I was younger. I truly am too mischievous for my own good.”

“Right, because I take that mischief as a challenge, right?” Roman asked. “And combined our forces are almost unstoppable.”

“I would think so,” Damien said. “It’s why I’m not allowed near paint, and why we should probably agree to a truce when it comes to tickling.”

“Agreed,” Roman said.

They shook hands and moved further down the hall, before two voices called Damien’s name and Roman’s deadname. They both turned and found their mothers rushing up to them. “Is everything sorted?” the Queen asked before Roman’s mother could start anything.

“Everything’s sorted for now,” Damien agreed. “We might be talking later but the bulk of the issue is resolved.”

Roman silently nodded. He couldn’t say that the bulk of the issue was resolved himself without sounding unconvincing. Damien being so passionate to Roman about his masculinity meant that Roman loved Damien a lot, perhaps too much for his own good. And that was a pretty huge issue. He wasn’t supposed to catch feelings for this man he was doomed to be married to for the rest of his life. He was supposed to just...suffer silently, or at least be friends with this man who was the key for him getting HRT, and the surgery he needed. Catching feelings was not part of the plan.

Their mothers herded them out the front door and Virgil was standing there with a car, and all four of them got inside. Damien’s mother drove, and Roman didn’t fail to notice another car following them down the hill. “My mother insists on driving everywhere,” Damien murmured to Roman. “She says that no assassin worth their salt would try and kill her from a distance. Virgil makes sure all the guards’ cars have bullet proof glass anyway.”

Roman laughed a little. “Frankly, I don’t blame her,” he said simply. “I wouldn’t want to be stuck with someone else escorting me everywhere. Half of the fun is the journey, and someone else will nine times out of ten take the shortest route from point A to point B. Me? I like adventure.”

“I can see that,” Damien said with a soft smile.

Roman lapsed into a comfortable silence with Damien after that. The initial awkwardness and the subsequent irritation of their earlier interaction was no longer there. Either he was too tired to care, or he just happened to be in a better mood and it was difficult to get him down today. Although judging by the dysphoria debate, Roman’s money was on too tired. Dysphoria always took it out of him.

They travelled through the nearest town to the outskirts of the south side, where a jewelry store sat, a little simplified but undeniably charming. All four of them got out of the car, and when Virgil pulled up, he hopped out and led them inside.

The jeweler seemed to be expecting them, as the store was mostly empty, save for a few staff members. “Your Majesty,” the one who Roman assumed was a manager said, “It is wonderful to see you again.”

“You as well,” the Queen said with a smile. “And I presume you have everything ready for our children?”

“Yes, right this way,” the man said, gesturing for Roman and Damien to follow him.

Roman did so, Damien trailing behind. “May I see your ring finger, Your Highness?” the jeweler asked Roman.

Roman obliged, and the jeweler fit a small device over Roman’s ring finger, tightening it. “Hm. Size six,” he murmured. “And you, Your Highness?”

Damien offered his own hand out and the jeweler did the same to Damien. “Size eleven,” he said. “And I assume you want the rings to match?”

“That would be ideal, yes,” Damien said. “We are getting married, after all, it would make sense to have matching rings.”

The jeweler nodded. “Of course. Just making sure we’re all on the same page, Your Highness.”

The jeweler brought out an assortment of rings in their sizes and Roman looked them all over. “See any you like, my dear?” Damien asked. “I’ll be honest, I’m a little overwhelmed.”

“This may seem odd, but I do like the black ones,” Roman said.

“Black zirconium?” the jeweler asked. “I would not have assumed you liked that. Would you like to see more?”

“Please,” Roman said.

The jeweler nodded and brought up a small selection of black rings. Immediately, Roman’s eyes lit up as he saw one of the specific rings. “Oh, that one is gorgeous!” he exclaimed, pointing.

The jeweler picked it up. “You like this one? It’s black zirconium with strands of rose gold throughout the ring.”

Roman nodded. “I like the contrast between the zirconium and the gold.”

“Mm, I agree, my dear. You have quite an eye for jewelry,” Damien said softly.

“Shush, you,” Roman said with a mock glare. “But if you like it as well, then I guess we have our wedding bands.”

“We have our wedding bands,” Damien said with a relieved smile. “That’s a weight off my chest.”

“I wasn’t nearly as worried about it as you were, but I agree. It does feel better to have one less thing to worry about,” Roman agreed.

Damien grinned and the jeweler asked them questions, getting their exact ring sizes and there was a minor bustle trying to find rings that they liked in that style in their size, but they found two rings and the jewelers promised to have them ready the day before the wedding, at which point they left the store. Roman took a deep breath of fresh air and said, “I like it down here. It feels a little less lonely. Even if we have to be supervised, it’s nice to be out and about.”

“Agreed,” Damien said with a slight nod. “I do like going on small errands into town every once in a while, just to feel the fresh air, the sun on my face, and a sense of purpose it’s hard to find when you’re at home all the time.”

“As much as you two may like to be out, we do have to head back. Logan wants you to do more dancing, he just texted me as much when I told him we found the wedding bands,” the Queen said.

Roman groaned and Damien laughed, wrapping an arm around Roman’s shoulders and guiding him back to the car. Roman sat in the back with Damien and let the Queens talk up front. Damien poked Roman’s shoulder and whispered, “Any particular dances you’d like to learn for the reception?”

“Not really,” Roman whispered back. “I’m surprised I can handle the waltz, I’m pretty sure if I tried a foxtrot I’d twist my ankle.”

Damien laughed, clapping a hand over his mouth as his shoulders shook. “I’m sorry for laughing, I just see that being entirely too plausible,” he said.

Roman’s phone chirped and he looked at it. “Is that Remus’ text alert?” his mother asked from the front.

“No, Mom,” Roman said, checking the text and seeing it was from Remus. “It looks like it was just spam.”

can you send a picture of fh? the text read.

not right now, with mother. you nearly got your hide tanned Roman responded.

He didn’t get a text back after that. They reached the top of the mountain and Roman and Damien got out of the car, and Roman sighed. “Hey, Damien. Mind if I get a picture with you?”

“Why?” Damien asked.

“Just thought I might share it with some of my friends whenever I can see them next. Maybe show Remus, too,” Roman said with a shrug.

“Okay,” Damien agreed. “Why don’t we head to the ballroom and take a picture there?”

Roman nodded.

Damien and Roman walked inside, their mothers trailing behind. “Was that really your brother?” Damien asked lowly.

“Yeah. He’s the one who wanted a picture,” Roman said.

“Can I have his number?” Damien asked. “We could have a group chat the three of us, with a different text alert, so that your mother wouldn’t know.”

“Oh, that’s genius!” Roman said, trying to keep his voice down so his mother wouldn’t hear.

Damien took Roman and Remus’ numbers, put them in his phone, and, when they got to the ballroom, took a picture of himself and Roman, sending it to both Roman and Remus. because you wanted a picture of me, remus Damien sent.

Roman laughed as Damien showed Roman that Remus was typing. This day was certainly about to get far more interesting.

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