#back when I pretended to be a cis woman

[koa-z]

I like girls.

I wish I didn't.

#queer #lgbtq #not art #status update #vent #ftm #I don't even know. Am I straight? No straight girl would ever agree with that descriptor #a family member told me that nobody would ever love me if I got top surgery #I believed them but also knew that it was worth it because I needed it to live #but every day that's all I think #and I knew it before too #there are people that I'll never see again because of my sexuality #prior to my transition #back when I pretended to be a cis woman #and now when I have a crush on a girl sometimes I forget #that I'm #that I'm what? #a ghost with a body. #gods above #transgender #trans

[snekdood]

i hope all the terfs looking at my blog rn are able to grab me a beer and maybe make me a sandwich perhaps while they’re at it

#im sorry its so hard to not want to be misogynistic to them in a jokey way about it #i mean- if they're gonna keep pretending im a woman i gotta keep reminding them im not /jk #its just that so many of them are white cis women who have no real problems. its hard to not want to remind them that oppressing ppl like #me isnt about to change the fact that plenty of cis men still only see them as objects #like idk bitch maybe if you actually shut up with your transphobia and worked with other oppressed minorities we wouldnt have red pillers #out and about. but naw. your attachment to your womanhood is too important ig. #more important than stopping your actual oppressors. #yall would rather uphold white supremacy than do any meaningful change for women. #otherwise maybe you'd actually listen to us when we talk about shit that effects BOTH os us- trans people and women alike. #its almost like enforcing the binary is entirely counterintuitive to your actual fucking goals of equality #its almost like reinforcing the binary back to cis men and pretending its valuable only reinforces to them their misogyny and idea #that men and women are entirely different species #its almost like your insistence that theres a binary actually doesnt serve you at fucking all and actually only AIDS in your oppression. #whatever happened to 'gender equality'? or is that too trans friendly for you now #ig women cant do everything men can do #imagine calling yourself a feminist and genuinely believing this

[emma-needs-attention]

I don’t shave every day. It’s not that I don’t “need” to; I have very dark, dense facial hair that grows quickly and remains pretty visible after shaving. When I do shave, I don’t try to cover it with makeup (beyond some powder to reduce redness). In most other ways I present very feminine, but I always have fairly obvious facial hair.

And it makes me feel terrible.

I started electrolysis a couple months ago. It’s excruciatingly painful, expensive, and it takes forever. In an hour-long session, my electrologist is able to remove hair in only a small region (about 1 square inch). A few weeks later, much of that hair comes back. I am told that it will take two to three years of regular treatments to remove it entirely. On top of that, I apparently have a condition called Post Inflammatory Hyperpigmentation, which causes the skin in affected areas to darken after treatment. For nearly two months after completing a single pass over my upper lip, my mustache was more visible than it had ever been, despite having significantly less hair.

And it made me feel terrible.

I know this is the best way for me to permanently remove my facial hair, but I just canceled all of my upcoming sessions and at the moment I have no plans to begin again.

If I could pay to have my facial hair instantly and completely removed I would empty my savings account. I am intensely aware of it any time I go out in public. If it makes me so uncomfortable, why do I not do more to hide it?

I feel incredibly privileged for a trans woman. I have a loving, supportive family. I have a well-paying job. I live in a very accepting area. I have never had a single person say anything negative to me about my gender identity, which was certainly not what I was expecting when I came out. It is important to me that I be visibly queer, and in my privileged position I am able to do that without fear. A year ago I didn’t think I would ever transition; now I want people to know that I’m trans.

I am disappointed with myself for wanting to remove my facial hair, for changing my voice. I am determined not to have to do more work than a cis person does. Cis women don’t have to shave their face every day. Cis men don’t have to shave their face every day. Why should I? This is who I am, what my body does. Shouldn’t I be proud of that? Am I not supposed to love myself the way I am?

But by that logic, why am I even transitioning in the first place?

I am doing more work than a cis person does. Cis people don’t transition, and transitioning takes effort. I know that there are cis people, both men and women, who do shave every day. Am I lying to myself? I’m a trans woman; aren’t I supposed to want to get rid of my facial hair? Shouldn’t I be trying harder? Doesn’t this give me dysphoria? Am I pretending not to have dysphoria so I don’t have to put in the effort? Does the fact that I’m not trying harder make me… I don’t know, less trans? Non-binary? Is it ok for me to call myself a trans woman? Am I lying to myself?

As a woman who was a man until thirty, there are things about my body that I must accept, that I won’t be able to change no matter how much money I dump into my transition. I’m tall, I have broad shoulders, I have large hands. No amount of surgery or hormones will change these things.

But there are many things that I can change, and while none of them are requirements for being a woman, they may still be changes that I want to make. Where do I stop? Am I finished transitioning when I’ve done everything that is physically possible? My goal isn’t to “pass,” at least not in the way that word is generally used. In a time when cis women are being assaulted because people think they’re trans—because they don’t “pass” as women—the idea of what it means to pass becomes blurry. Often when we say that we want to pass, what we really mean is that we want to be conventionally beautiful.

I am a woman. Therefore, I look like a woman. My transition goal is to pass as myself. I’ve spent the last year trying to figure out who I am so I can look like her. I don’t care whether people see me and think “that’s a woman.” I want to be able to look in the mirror and think “that’s me.” But it can be extremely difficult to separate your own image of yourself from society’s idea of what you should look like. Am I self-conscious about the size of my body because it doesn’t feel like me, or because I’ve been told that women should be smaller? There are tall cis women, there are broad-shouldered cis women, there are cis women with large hands. Those traits don’t make them less womanly.

For the aspects of my body that I do have control over, I am stuck wondering whether I am changing things to become myself, or changing them because I have internalized that the way I am is wrong. At the moment, facial feminization surgery is something that I think I might like to do. But how do I know that I want to do it for the right reasons? I don’t hate my face, but when I catch a glimpse of myself from certain angles I can’t help but think that it isn’t feminine enough. What I should be asking is if it’s Emma enough, but how can I know that? How do I know who I’m supposed to be?

I feel like I was supposed to be a cis woman, but… why? Who am I to say that I wasn’t supposed to be trans? That I wasn’t supposed to transition at thirty, to have both a male puberty and a female one? Being trans has made me more self-aware, more open-minded, more empathetic. The totality of my experience is what makes me who I am. Maybe there’s a world in which I was assigned female, maybe there’s a world in which I was put on puberty blockers as a kid. But the girl in those worlds isn’t me.

Loving yourself and wanting to change are two feelings that can coexist. I tend to think of body positivity as simply accepting yourself as you are, but it is more nuanced than that. As a trans person, who I am inside is not the same as who I am outside. Which one am I supposed to love? I do love myself, but I also love who I could be. I’m transitioning so that someday they’ll be the same person.

Over the past year I have become both my biggest supporter and my biggest critic. I constantly tell myself how pretty I am, how brave I am, how fucking cool I am (hey, nobody else is saying it and it’s true). This forced positivity has been fantastic for me. I can confidently say that I truly love myself for the first time in my life. But I sometimes feel guilty that I don’t love myself more.

I can’t help but stare at myself in the mirror all the time now. I actually bought a new mirror so I didn’t have to walk as far to do so. I’ve taken more selfies than I did in my entire pre-transition life. After many months on HRT, I finally see myself in my reflection. But my eyes refuse to focus on my stubble. Sometimes I catch myself thinking “I’m going be so beautiful once I get rid of this facial hair,” and it feels like a betrayal. Fuck you Emma, I’m already gorgeous.

#trans #transfem #transgender #lgbtq #comics #essay #art #cw dysphoria

[chainmail-butch]

I only experience transmisogyny within a very narrow set of circumstances.

I'm loud. I'm masculine. I'm fat. I'm muscular.

I'm also a leader. When I speak, my voice is heard. When I speak, my opinion is valued. In my boots and my armor I swagger through the world with my chin up and my shoulders back. In short, people very rarely smell the tranny on me. If they do, they assume I'm a trans man.

In my day to day life I benefit from masculinity.

Transmisogyny happens to feminine transwomen. It happens when they claim their feminine gender. It happens when they step into a feminine role within public society. Transmisogyny happens when you assert your womanhood in a way that the transmisogynist can understand.

Most people don't understand my womanhood.

I don't need most people to understand my womanhood. As I've said elsewhere, it is unreasonable of me to expect a cis person to understand who I am without a lengthy explanation and at least one book. I'll enforce my pronouns all day, but respecting pronouns and recognizing gender are two different things.

I experience transmisogyny only when I need to be recognized as a woman. This, therefore, happens exclusively in queer spaces. It happens behind closed doors. It happens on dating apps. It happens in intimate moments when I let my guard down.

It happens when someone is capable of recognizing me as a woman.

That is not very many people.

Most of the transmisogyny I experience is, in fact, self-inflicted. No one is more aware of the "pervert man trying to invade women's spaces" narrative than I am. No one is more aware of the actual cis men who pretend to be trans butches in order to hit on young lesbians than I am.

In my head, there is a daily war. Desire fights propriety. Pride wars with humilty. Self-defense battles with self-expression. I wrestle with my own recognition of my own womanhood until I'm bloody and exhausted.

Like so many of my sisters, I am Guarded. Selective. Afraid. I must wade through the morass of myself before I can offer my womanhood to someone. Consequently, I have a lot of time to think.

Is intimacy worth it? Is trusting you worth it?

Is it worth it to take my armor off for you? Is it worth it to let you hurt me in a way that is so uniquely painful that the scar will stay with me for the rest of my life?

No. It's usually not.

Do I experience transmisogyny? Yes. But I don't think I experience it in the way most would understand it.

#archive #you can reblog this but im not tagging it until tomorrow morning

[thelesbianpoirot]

People who don't seem to get why trans deceptive rape is bad need to watch the infamous clip from the movie revenge of the nerds. A 80s movie about a group nerds that exact revenge on fraternities and sororities for bullying then using nerdy "pranks". One of the pranks was one of the nerds wears a mask, pretending to be someone else, to have sex with (rape) a hot woman who he knows would reject him if she knew who he was. Even though I was probably 15 when someone online explained that was rape, I didn't doubt it for a second! No matter if the guy was the underdog hero of the film before, he had violated that woman, it is played off as humorous in the movie, but it clearly is wrong and would in real life end with that woman feeling disgusted, outraged and violated. I believe so many trans people, especially the straight men calling themselves lesbians, but also inclusive of ("gay" trans men, and "straight" transwomen) have a very "revenge of the nerds" mentality to dating "cis" people. They are the oppressed underdogs everyone else is their evil bully, so any and everything they do to get back at cis people, or get their way is justified in the end. Even rape! And there is also a level of sadism to humiliating the person if they find out your actual sex, like laughing at straight guys who fucked a post-op trans male, or laughing at the gay guy you gave head to or the lesbian you sexted. In their heads violating someone is them overcoming adversity and sticking it to the man. "But staying stealth is to protect ourselves," Dating and Fucking bigots is not an activity someone in physical danger should do. If you are upfront to everyone you're interested in right away, you would more easily weed out violent bigots before they get invested and feel humiliated by your deception. Putting it on your dating profile, telling the person over the phone or on video chat to gage reaction, literally anything else but tricking them will have a better outcome. Maybe they are angry because you violated them, so don't.

#thelesbianpoirot

[memeticallyengineered]

currently playing dgs 2-1 so NO SPOILERS PLEASE but. man. ryutaro and susato.

person whos been forced to consider her gender for the first time. not even in a gender-questiony way, she's just suddenly forced to consider the fact that people see her as a woman and that affects how they treat her

so when rei treats her like a man for the first time in her life, she sees how different it is and things just. kinda start to unspool in her mind. the treatment from everybody ever is ENTIRELY DIFFERENT from when they see her as a woman, and it's frustrating

like people respect ryutaro more. they listen to his opinions. but the only thing that's changed is his appearance. just. auchi hates taro but in an entirely different way than he hates susato. auchi looks down at taro because he's from the countryside and a bumpkin and whatever but still sees him as an equal opponent. someone on the same level as him. if he defeats this man then he's won glory in his eyes

auchi just doesn't even CARE about susato. he sees her and goes who the fuck even are you who let a little girl in here "never before in my life have I felt so frustrated at having been born into this body" indeed cuz i'd want to scream!!!

susatos thing is about having to change yourself i think. she’s so mad because she can’t be accepted as herself.

ryutaro changes his outfit and all of a sudden he can stand in court and be a lawyer and shout at the prosecutor he hates so much. and if you add susahao into it as well he can also only court haori openly as a man as well and that ALSO must be frustrating

theres probably more layers to it if susato isnt cis but also isnt a man. she can be susato or he can be ryutaro but she cant be both. but if he wants to have a career he has to be ryutaro ALWAYS and its miserable because she'd be squishing a part of herself down, but he doesnt want to NEVER be ryutaro because ryutaro is a part of him. both parts of him need room to breathe.

but as it is… she can be accepted as susato or he can be accepted as ryutaro and there is no room for them to coexist. and. that’s a horrible thing to put on a 16 year old. like susato is in. 10th grade?? 11th grade???? based on current standards like, this is when youre supposed to be figuring out Who You Are. but no she’s backed into this corner. and it's awful

she can be a polite demure judicial assistant or he can be a dashing loud lawyer. but just. pretending to fit into only one of those is suffocating.

which just. oh SUSATO….

#aesop answers #tgaa #the great ace attorney #dgs #dgs 2 spoilers #specifically for 2-1 atm? #susato mikotoba #GOD i love her so fucking much

[talisidekick]

Thanks for being so compassionate! As someone who's had to defend himself from assault pre transition and assault and attempted trafficking during transition which has contributed to some agoraphobia centered on thoughts like "damn, wasn't safe off T not safe on it", it's been rlly scary seeing ppl shrug off how transmascs are endangered in real life in service of discrediting transandro discourse. Cool seeing who's really real I guess????? anyways hope you're well and warm. Srry about my run on sentence lmao

There is absolutely nothing to apologize for. We only get to see one side publically, and that's pretty much just trans women issues. Media likes to cover just us. I rarely see news stories about just trans men. We don't see the stories about trans men getting stalked or followed around in stores by total strangers, getting attacked in public, rarely a mention if a trans man gets killed. It's happening but you don't see it. You don't see a flood of forum posts about the constant dismissal of, unique brand of hatred around, or the types of dangers faced by trans men.

My introduction to questioning my gender was actually FROM transandrophobia. The reason for this is I've had more of a curvy figure since ... well forever, even though my body was producing T on it's own. I got A LOT of compliments on it by pretty much all my friends (which were mostly girls, and yes that probably should have been a sign but I'm a bit thick sometimes, okay?) because I was "unconventionally sexy" because of it. I'm now remembering I do have a shirtless picture somewhere from before I was on HRT ... I'll work up the nerve to show that at some point to prove that point. Anywho, because of this, a random ass stranger had been following me as I went to grab a few things from a walmart after my shift. It was weird as fuck. Uncomfortably close, constantly looking at me but not what they were pretending to, and I kind of knew this dick was waiting until there was no one in the aisle before pulling something. I'd been mugged before at 14 and 15 so at 24 I was kind of like "I'm not getting stabbed in a damn Walmart" and just made sure to be quick. I got out of the store and met up with some old work friends and just let them know someone was following me and I wanted to wait them out. Props to my friends at the time, they bullseyed the dude (to be fair he wasn't being stealthy) and called him out. And he yelled back "You'll never be a real man" to me. My friends laughed at him because as far as we all knew, I was cis. But this would happen two more times in the same week. A lady would tell me I shouldn't be doing "this" to myself with a full body gesture, and that god "loves" me; and a college colleague flat out dismissed my concerns on something because "only a real man would need to worry about that". It got me wondering if this was a new fad, to hate on someones manliness, and upon looking that up I learned about what exactly transgender meant, the experiences of trans men and women (just a bit on women, my concern was on trans men at the time), and thought it was kind of cool there were people who'd know two sides to the gender spectrum. But it must SUCK to have to go through the bullshit I did and actually be affected by it. Like, no one has any right to tell another man they're less of one.

This whole situation would actually come back to help me 2 years later in finding myself. I'd only really looked up trans men and curiosity mid covid lock down would lead me to look up non-binary and then trans women. However, transandrophobia is how I, a trans woman, got her start. So it boils my blood when I see people talk about T being toxic or trans men having it easier. It shows a complete lack of understanding and a lack of acceptance and willingness to empathize. Trans men and trans mascs have different issues, that doesn't make them lesser, and while those issues may not affect me, it doesn't make it less of my problem to help deal with where I can. I know certain issues I'll have no experience on, no idea how to help, but that doesn't mean I can't still offer to be support. Everyone should be doing the same, and shame on those who aren't.

You deserve equal treatment and support in your fight for it, not dismissal. Those that dismiss the issues of trans men aren't allies, they're transphobes. And fuck transphobes.

#trans #transgender #transandrophobia #my asks #2slgbtqia+ #ftm #mtf #trans positivity #transphobia mention #trans men

[ventbloglite]

Some of you really need to step back a little bit and acknowledge how ignorant you are towards how misogyny affects trans mascs and how you yourself may be perpetrating said misogyny when speaking ill of trans mascs.

Which is not something you should be doing at all, fyi. You can talk about individual shitty trans mascs and certain community issues you dislike which involve or are perpetrated by trans mascs without just being transphobic towards trans mascs in general.

So many times I've seen the sentient of 'AFAB's have it really easy, everyone accepts AFAB's as trans, everyone loves AFAB trans people, the world caters to you, there is basically no problems for you if you're AFAB unlike AMAB folk' shown in a variety of ways from a variety of people including just outright saying it. Not to mention the belitting of trans masc experiences with transphobia and misogyny + the way those interact because they identify as men even though transphobes still consider them to be women and don't give a shit about their actual gender.

A main crux of transphobia (though many other factors which result in hating us come into play, too many to go into now) is that trans people are seen as and treated as their AGAB and punished for not identifying as it or portraying it 'correctly' by society. So tell me why so many seem to 'forget' about how misogyny impacts trans masculine people. Could it be because you believe that advocating for trans women and trans femmes and fighting transmisogyny somehow must involve being transphobic towards trans men due to that radfem influence you've absorbed? The world will never reach gender equality of any kind if everything is 'men versus women' so can we just fucking not bring that into trans spaces please.

Examples!

I saw recently a post which perfectly pointed out the potential risks associated with someone considered 'male' growing out her hair but OP clearly knew absolutely nothing about the same risks associated with someone deemed 'female' cutting his hair. Instead of not making that post or doing some research, OP thus assumed there weren't really any risks likely due to already believing that AFAB trans people have it easy.

The ignorance! Misogyny heavily impacts the way hair is treated on those perceived as women (including body hair) and women/those perceived as women have no end of people policing what they can and can't do with their bodies often taking things to the absolute extreme to do so. Short hair on woman may seem 'more accepted' but AFAB people of any gender could quickly tell you multiple situations where it's not and results in the same violence, abuse, homo(lesbo/butch)phobia and yes possibly even death depending on the situation even if you still identify as a woman. Pretending this doesn't happen is straight up misogyny btw.

'AFAB's pass easily by doing basically nothing' is another frequent one which makes me laugh. 'Passing' for most trans people is so situational and so dependent on what you do or don't do to strictly conform to gender stereotypes if you're even able to do that at all. To suggest that the world ignores feminine gender markers the moment someone's hair is short and their chest appears mostly flat ignores both the complexity of how humans perceive gender and how misogyny comes into play whenever a woman/perceived woman shows any masculinity let alone maleness. Considering the same misogyny comes into play frequently against trans women you'd think it'd be easy to remember.

This general sentiment of 'Being born with a vagina means your life is easy and everything you do will be loved and supported because society adores you. You don't and will never have any real problems, not like anyone born with a penis.' isn't magically okay and absolutely super different to when misogynists say it about cis women because you're using AGAB language and cite 'because you're men and blah blah patriarchy' as the actual reason you're saying it. It's very clearly same shit different coat of paint. The pool is there, your toes are in, stop preparing to dive for Gods sake.

#transandrophobia #anti transmasculinity #transgender

[pillarsalt]

hi Im the same ex transmasc anon who sent you that aask about rhe tumblr ban thing, I did a lot of reading without forcing myself away this time. (I used to look at radblr sometimes bc I got curious, but when it started making too much sense i would make myself stop reading and tell myself I was being manipulated and try to forget about it..looking back that probably wasnt normal haha,)

I have mixed feelings tho. I don’t regret looking closer, the amount of sexism in the trans community was horrible. I think even radfems don’t understand how bad it was because it was all subtle styff. But seeing it constantly irl and online was terrible for me as a female. It gave me so much internalized misogyny, it made me hate myself and I felt worthless and stupid! and whiny! and annoying! all the time!! unless I was able to be perceived as a man. I felt like I had to be a man to have any respect in the community. I remember being so amazed to see abortion be covered by trans people I followed in even a reblog because it was the first time I saw people in the community talk about female issues at all. Even then it was covered with disclaimers and terfs DNI banners. male,opinions were always prioritized.

I thought this was dysphoria and a sign I was really a man. then I started reading radfem things and its like that feeling instantly lifted. I felt respected, listened to, even though I wasn’t speaking. It was also like all this stuff I’d internalized from being female, all the trauma around sex based oppression, was actually being addressed. in trans circles you get called a terf for acknowledging females face any kind of oppression (they acknowledge sex when it’s to talk about how hard male loneliness is on young trans women, and how the incel to trans woman pipeline happens, though…)

but the reason I have mixed feelings is bc I now feel….dumb? And afraid. And angry. I spend well over a decade being part of this community, half my friends are in the community, I’ve been trans since I was 9. My typings not the best… dyslexia sucks lol. But I like to think I’m smart. Now I don’t know,

And it makes me think totally different of these people I saw as progressive cis male allies, who were so loud about trans rights and hating JKR and terfs. Now they just feel like the same flavor of anti-feminist man I hate.

And the community is so huge and it’s so widely accepted and I don’t know how to deal!

But I am happy to be a woman now. In a healthy way I haven’t been for a long time. thats all that matters.

I'm sorry for everything you were put through. Many girls and women have been sucked into this thinking it will provide a solution for their distress at the social ramifications of the body they're born in, only for more people, namely men, to take advantage of their distress and gain power over them. As you mentioned, even "cis" men get in on the action when they justify intimidating and threatening women with violence in response to perceived transphobia. It's a terrible situation to be in. Made worse when you can't openly talk about with people you're close to for fear of alienating them.

I think you should give yourself more credit. You ARE smart. You questioned what you were told was never allowed to be questioned and realized you were being misled. And what you said about trying to make yourself forget the realizations you've had, that is normal. It's a difficult and scary thing to hold opinions that conflict with those of the majority of your peers. I think it's like the climax of cognitive dissonance -- when what you know is true clashes so hard against what you want to believe, you find it impossible to justify anymore, so you just resort to pretending you never learned the information in the first place. Been there.

I'm just being a stereotype now, but there's a classic Dworkin quote for this:

"Many women, I think, resist feminism because it is an agony to be fully conscious of the brutal misogyny which permeates culture, society, and all personal relationships."

Anyway my point is, don't beat yourself up. I'm really happy to read that you're accepting your womanhood, it's a hard journey but it's worth it to have a good relationship with yourself. And in my experience (at the sage and wisened age of 25) that it gets easier as you get older. You work through mistakes, and that prepares you to handle the next mistake better. You're right, your health and happiness is all that matters, keep striving for that and it will steer you right.

I wanted to give you some reading recommendations, you mentioned you have dyslexia but I believe these two are available in audiobook form if that's up your alley:

Delusions of Gender: How Our Minds, Society, and Neurosexism Create Difference by Cordelia Fine

Invisible Women: Exposing Data Bias in a World Designed for Men by Caroline Criado Perez

There are tons more great books on feminism but these two are my go-tos for hard facts on gender, socialization, and the systematic discrimination against women worldwide through biases that are built into society.

Well uh; TLDR thanks for gracing my inbox, anon :) Hope you keep well.

#ask

[emperorofinfinitespace]

What if Viola were a trans woman and Twelfth Night was her coming out story.

She gets shipwrecked in a strange country. She's not sure she's safe as a visibly trans person. She goes back into the closet. She struggles. She's all alone. Olivia is in love with the man Viola is pretending to be, which makes her feel dysphoric and even more isolated. Viola is in love with Orsino and wants so badly to come out to him and tell him how she feels, but he's in love with Olivia, a cis woman, and Viola is insecure. What if he rejects her because she's trans?

Then at the end of the play she comes out when she's reunited with Sebastian and she's accepted! She's loved! She's finally completely truly herself and she's so happy. Orsino immediately says "let's go get you some women's clothes" (which I always thought was a weird line, but in this context it could be interpreted as if he's saying "you are safe to present as a woman and be feminine with me".) She's safe. She has Sebastian back. She gets to wear her clothes that make her euphoric. Orsino loves her and affirms her identity.

I want more queer stories with happy endings. Also I think David Tennant would agree with my little head cannon.

#trans #shakespeare #pride #twelfth night #quinternalmonologue

[demonir]

cringe culture is dead and I killed it Here's my TF2 self insert ( •̀ ω •́ )✧ He/she only please She's hired as an assistant to deal with miss Pauling's ever growing list of tasks and slowly learns to love the job

more detailed info right over here ↓

After spending all his savings into moving to America in an attempt to start a new life he becomes desperate trying to find a job searching even amongst shady places for anything that could save her, luckily she finds just the thing, and with a really good pay too. Her goal is to be able to live on her own as well as support her mother back home so this job was perfect, he lied like crazy on the interview though but what he didn't know is that he was the only one that applied so he got the job instantly. He is very scared of anything and everything and not ready for what this job is gonna throw at him. For his own safety he pretends to be a cis woman until he knows if he can safely come out to everyone or not, he hates it though

After realizing that amongst all the freaks of nature he is not the odd one out, he becomes a lot more confident! Comes out to everyone and is very warmly welcomed and accepted, he might have cried a bit over it Opens up to everyone and becomes friends The guys and Pauling teach him how to use weapons and defend herself and she starts to get the hang of having to kill someone sometimes and then hiding the body She asks the guys to cut her hair so that she could feel more masculine and they are all more than happy to oblige. He starts getting crushes like a LOSER Besties with Scout

Medic like the true bestie that he is did his top surgery for FREE (might have taken one or two organs out of him tho) He's so happy with the top surgery that he's GOTTA show off his chest every moment he can Might be going a little loco after spending so much time amongst cray men Has gotten so used to fighting it becomes second nature by now, lowkey wants to become a mercenary himself but they wont let him Sometimes uses aviator-like goggles because he doesn't like when his glasses go flying off Combat boots let's goooo Might be dating one of the mercs who knows ヾ(≧▽≦*)o Is more muscular after training with everyone 💪

#team fortress 2 #tf2 #tf2 self insert #tf2 fanart #self insert #demos art #tumblr is the only place id dare post this i feel like id be laughed at anywhere else #so yeah ill use these as reference for future self ship art lol #artists on tumblr #art #digital art

[venus-haze]

What Is It About Men (Austin!Elvis x Reader)

Summary: When your best friend and college roommate Jenny Presley returns from spring break your junior year with the news that her mother has left her family, you end up taking on the responsibility of helping her power through the rest of the semester. At the end of the semester, she invites you to spend the summer with her at Graceland, and the last thing you expect is to get so deeply entangled with her father, Elvis, as the season heats up.

Note: So I’m back after a month with the longest fic I’ve ever written. I got some inspiration from the incredible Amy Winehouse song of the same name. The reader in this fic is a cis woman but no other descriptors are used. I also made a fictionalized Presley!daughter for this scenario since I’m kinda doing an alternate timeline type thing which I’ll expand on in the fic. Please do not interact if you’re under 18 or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 10k

Warnings: Age gap (Elvis is in his early 40s and reader is in her 20s), angst, substance abuse, toxic relationships, sexually explicit content. Do not interact if you are under 18.

As soon as you stepped foot in your dorm room, your nose scrunched at the smell of what you knew was mold—again. You hoped in the two weeks you’d been gone for spring break the university would have taken care of the maintenance request that you and your roommate Jenny had submitted at least ten times a piece by then. Still, it had been a good excuse to get out of class when the two of you just wanted to watch TV in the dorm’s common area all day. You and Jenny would take turns pretending to sound sick on the phone to whatever department secretary was on the other line, explaining you couldn’t make it to class because of some reaction or another to the mold in your room, send my regards to professor whoever.

When you first arrived at college your freshman year, you were dreading having a roommate. Though you knew plenty of people who’d become lifelong friends with theirs, for some reason the handful of horror stories you’d heard about nightmare roommates played through your mind, especially when the university wouldn’t tell you the name or contact information of your roommate so you could at least try to coordinate who was bringing what. By the time you got there, she’d already been neatly moved in but was nowhere to be seen until later that night when you met your completely normal roommate who would, in fact, end up being your best friend.

For the first few weeks of the semester your freshman year, Jenny was secretive about her personal life, and you figured it was best not to pry—though you did notice her forced laughter when you said ‘Presley, is your dad Elvis or something?’ Only later to find out that yes, her father was in fact Elvis Presley. She was worried it would change your friendship, her being the daughter of the most famous man in the world. It wouldn’t, though, because through the years, before anything else, Jenny was your best friend, practically your sister, which was why when she arrived back at the dorm from spring break, a blank expression on her normally cheerful face, you immediately began to panic.

She didn’t greet you as she trudged over to her bed, dropping her duffel bag on the floor and sitting on top of her covers. You’d never seen her in such a state before. Unsure of what to do, you cautiously approached her and asked if everything was okay. As you’d quickly learn, it wasn’t.

“Mama left,” Jenny answered, her voice hoarse. “Said she couldn’t do it anymore.”

You sat next to her on her bed. “Do what anymore?”

“Bein’ a Presley, I guess.”

“Jesus, Jenny, I’m so sorry.”

You put your arms around her, allowing her to cry into your shoulder. The wall on her side of the room was covered in a collage of posters and photos, some of you and her together, others with your larger group of mutual friends at events on campus or parties, but mostly of her family. While you knew they were close, Elvis made a point of that from his mother’s untimely death and his increasingly strained relationship with his own father, you didn’t know very much about them besides that. They never came to campus, whether by their own choice or at Jenny’s request as to not draw unnecessary attention to her as she worked to get her history degree. 

Despite having just about every resource at her fingertips, Jenny was just as dedicated as any student at the university. She studied hard and took the occasional less than stellar grades with more maturity than some of the people in your own program who didn’t have money and a big name behind them. You were drawn to how down to earth she was, crediting some of that to her parents, who she said tried to give her as normal of a childhood as possible, mostly at the insistence of her mother. 

“Half her stuff was gone. I found the note she left us on the kitchen counter that mornin’. Dad had fallen asleep on the couch and didn’t even hear her leave,” she choked out.

“Jenny, don’t–”

“I mean I knew since I was young that he cheated on her, and I can’t fault her for bein’ mad about that. But in the note–she said she wanted her life back. Why weren’t we good enough for her?”

You were at a loss for words. From what details you’d managed to pull from Jenny about her family life, her parents had known each other before Elvis became famous and married just ahead of him receiving his draft notice. A couple of years later, Jenny came along, and you assumed the rest was history. After all, Jenny was always excited to visit home during breaks in between semesters and would receive regular care packages from one–or both–of her parents throughout the year that she’d always share with you. 

Surely being married to such a busy and famous man like Elvis must have taken a toll on Jenny’s mother, especially knowing him before all of it, but it was unfathomable to you that she could leave Jenny like she was nothing. It wasn’t like any of Elvis’ vices were Jenny’s fault.

Any attempts to get Jenny to calm down and rest were futile, as she somehow powered through her sorrow to explain how the rest of her spring break went in the fallout of her mother taking off. Her father was a wreck, drinking and rarely leaving his room–though you didn’t want to be rude and point out that’s what tabloids said he did anyway in the wake of his public and messy break from his exploitative long-time manager, Tom Parker. He’d sent most of his entourage away, TCB, the Memphis Mafia, whoever the hell they were, making Graceland emptier than ever. This especially distressed Jenny; she’d refer to them as her uncles more often than not. You were shocked she even returned to campus, but understood when she said she needed space away from home, unable to stand the constant reminders of what just days ago was her happy family life.

Jenny didn’t seem to blame Elvis for the situation. After all, he wasn’t the one who left the family in the middle of the night, throwing in the towel of over twenty years of marriage and motherhood. You’d listen to Jenny’s rants about her mother and the subsequent sobbing sessions too. After all, she’d done the same for you when Billy, your boyfriend of two years, had broken up with you just a year prior.

You began to resent Jenny’s mother too, as you found yourself having to pick up the maternal slack. You loved Jenny, but balancing your studies and social life with making sure she got out of bed, took care of herself, and went to class every day was becoming overwhelming. The selfish part of you wanted your best friend back, but with you being the only other person privy to the situation, the damage control fell on your shoulders. 

Things began to get better as the semester came to a close, yours and Jenny’s late night study sessions before finals bringing glimpses of her old self back. You did have to give her credit, she was looking at ending yet another semester with a near perfect GPA. You wouldn’t have been surprised if she managed to snag the title of your graduating class’s valedictorian. 

The two of you were packing up your shared dorm room after your last finals of the year, excited to be out of the crappy room and moving into an off-campus apartment for your senior year. You’d been worried about how close you and Jenny would stay after graduating and going your separate ways, but she had decided after a meeting with her advisor that she was going to apply for the university’s graduate program, so the two of you would be roommates for the foreseeable future.

“Y/N, I hate to ask this. I’m sure you’re itchin’ to go home for the summer,” Jenny asked with an uncharacteristic hesitancy as you decided which notebooks you were going to keep and which to throw away.

“What is it?”

“Will you spend the summer at Graceland with me? I don’t have any friends in Memphis really–”

“No, Jenny, I don’t want to spend the summer with my best friend in her giant mansion.”

This pulled a laugh from her, so rare those days that you felt a sense of accomplishment at hearing the sound. “Shut up. I’ll let dad know to expect you.”

“I do wanna spend a week or two at home, though, just to see my family.”

She nodded. “That’s perfect, actually. Gives me time to assess the damage.”

You weren’t sure if she meant physical damage to the house in her absence, or emotional damage as her father dealt with her mother’s leaving on his own. Deciding it best not to pry, you instead began excitedly planning the summer with her. You would miss having time with your friends from back home, but you knew you wouldn’t be at Graceland all summer anyway. Every year from the end of July into the beginning of August, Jenny volunteered at a sleepaway camp in the Smoky Mountains for underprivileged kids, so you’d have more time with your friends when she left to go there before the semester started and you headed back home.

The visit with your family the first two weeks of your summer break was short and sweet, ending comically with just about the entire household trying to help you fit a summer’s worth of clothes and toiletries into a suitcase and carry-on. Jenny had told you to pack light, promising she’d take you shopping, but the last thing you wanted to do was seem like you were taking advantage of your rich friend. After all, she had your first-class flight to Memphis billed to Elvis Presley Enterprises, despite your insisting that economy class was fine. 

Memphis was bright and sunny when your flight landed, and you were glad to be one of the first people off the flight, excited to see Jenny again. She’d called you a few times while you were home, you suspected partially to try to convince you to get to Graceland earlier than agreed upon, but knowing you had limited time at home, you were busy catching up with as many people as you could before what your family jokingly referred to as your vacation. 

You shook your head upon seeing Jenny standing in arrivals, holding up a white poster board with your name written in thick black marker across it. You grabbed your luggage from baggage claim, failing to suppress your smile as you walked over to her.

“You’re so lame,” you laughed, giving her a hug.

She jokingly hit you over the head with the sign. “I was tryin’ to be thoughtful.”

As you and Jenny walked arm and arm out of the airport, you almost stopped in your tracks at the limo that was waiting at the curb for you. You didn’t know what else you expected, but the reality of who your best friend was finally hit you after three years of knowing her. She thanked the chauffeur who put your bags in the trunk of the limo and ushered you inside the luxurious car.

“You hungry? We can stop somewhere,” she offered.

You shook your head. “I’m nervous. Is it normal to be nervous?”

“Don’t be. Dad’s dad,” she said, as if that were supposed to make any sense.

Except your dad isn’t dad, you wanted to argue. Your dad is the most famous man in the world, the king of rock n’ roll. He’s not just some dad, Jenny. Hell, you grew up listening to the man’s voice on the radio or on your parents’ record player. As far as you were concerned, you may as well have been meeting Jesus Christ himself. Maybe what you were feeling in the back of that limo was how old people felt as they neared death, legs bouncing and bile rising in their throats as they neared the pearly gates. In your case, however, it was the music-note adorned gates of Graceland where at least two dozen fans were standing vigil. What’s more, Jenny recognized some of them, asking by name how they were doing. You slunk down in your seat, suddenly considering if agreeing to spend the summer at Graceland was a mistake.

Jenny turned back to you when she finished catching up with the people outside her home. You’d read a few articles that detailed how Elvis was dedicated to his fans, taking more of an interest in them than many other celebrities. He’d stop everything to sign autographs and get to know people, feeling that it was the least he could do for the people who made his career possible. Although it was a foreign concept to you, you thought it sweet that Jenny took on that attitude as well.

An elderly woman stood on the front porch, who Jenny practically jumped out of the car to greet. You figured it must have been Grandma Dodger, Elvis’ grandmother who Jenny was just as close with as he was. She was kind, giving you a hug and asking polite questions about how finals went and what your plans after college were. Dodger could tell you and Jenny were about to melt from the heat when she waved the two of you inside to follow her. 

Despite knowing exactly whose home you’d be spending most of your summer in, you were starstruck upon seeing the man in person, standing frozen in awe as Elvis Presley himself walked over to the foyer, a bright smile on his face when he saw the group of you. He gave Dodger a kiss on the cheek as she settled into an armchair in the living room. 

Growing up, you’d always thought Elvis was handsome, from the photos you saw of him in magazines and handful of his movies you’d seen, but he was younger then, not quite mythologized yet. Meeting him in that moment, with his evident age and maturity, he was gorgeous.

“You must be Y/N,” Elvis said, his voice deep and smooth as he greeted you. “I do hugs ‘round here, hope you don’t mind.”

You shook your head, because who the hell were you to say no to a hug from Elvis Presley of all people. His arms were warm and strong as they wrapped around you, pulling you close as if he’d done this a million times before—maybe not to you, at least. You returned the gesture, a bashful smile on your face when the two of you broke from the hug.

“You’re all Jenny talks about,” he said. “I call her and ask ‘How’s school?’ and I get an earful about you. Feels like I already know ya.”

“Dad,” Jenny groaned, rolling her eyes before shifting her gaze to you. “He’s exaggerating. He likes to embarrass me.”

He laughed. “That’s what I’m supposed to do.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you,” you said. “Thanks for letting me stay here. Your house is beautiful.”

“It’s your house for the summer, too,” Jenny said. 

“That’s right. Y’all girls got the pool, the horses, go-karts. Hell, Memphis is jumpin’ most nights. I used to go to this club on Beale Street called—“

“Club Handy, yeah dad.”

You almost laughed at the situation. For how much you had built up the Presleys in your head all these years, especially Elvis, it was a relief to see Jenny get just as embarrassed by her dad as you did at your own parents sometimes. Still, you didn’t understand what she had to be embarrassed about, Elvis had been nothing but nice and funny so far. You nearly protested when she began pulling you up the stairs with her, your suitcase in her other hand.

“Alright, don’t want the ol’ man crampin’ your style, I get it,” Elvis said as he noticed Jenny leading the escape.

Jenny smiled. “Love you dad. We’ll see you for dinner.”

“Love you too, kiddo. How’s hamburgers sound?”

“Perfect!” Jenny called back from the top of the stairs.

As the two of you walked down the long hallway to the guest room where you’d be staying for the summer, you couldn’t help but finally blurt out your thoughts at meeting Elvis for the first time.

“Your dad’s like—“

“He’s a lot, I know.”

“What? No, I was gonna say normal. I mean, except for the whole ‘being Elvis Presley’ thing.”

She huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, except for that.”

The guest room was at least twice the size of your room at home, and you couldn’t imagine what the other bedrooms in the house must have looked like. The decor was a bit outdated but in pristine condition. If anyone had stayed there before you, you couldn’t tell as you walked around to observe the large bedroom.

Jenny stood awkwardly in the doorway, clearly unused to having guests of her own over. “I guess I’ll leave you to unpack. Bathroom’s right through that door, and my room is two doors down. Come find me when you’re done, and I’ll give you the tour.”

“Okay,” you said.

You opened the closet door, finding empty hangers for your clothes. It didn’t take you very long to unpack, hanging up some of your clothes and putting others in the drawers of the nearby dresser. The bathroom was just as elaborate as the bedroom, its pink tile walls and floor looked like it’d just been installed. You set your toiletries where you usually kept them at home.

Jenny’s bedroom door was open, and you found her laying on the floor, reading a magazine. Her room wasn’t much different from the dorm room as far as decor went, except the bedroom was naturally far bigger. You wondered how she even survived in the cramped shared living space, growing up with such an incredible room of her own.

She was surprised to see you walk in, not expecting you to finish unpacking so soon. True to her word, she gave you the grand tour of Graceland. She had a story for just about every room in the house, something funny she or her dad had done, but you noticed mention of her mother as scarce. Still, the woman’s presence lingered throughout the mansion like a ghost–family photos that were still on bookshelves, the wallpaper and furniture she’d picked out in some of the rooms.

By the time Jenny had finished showing you the house and just how much there was to do outside, your stomach began rumbling, and you couldn’t ignore the smell of whatever was cooking in the kitchen. 

“Dad, what’re you cooking for?” Jenny asked upon seeing Elvis standing front of a cast-iron skillet on the stovetop.

“Changed my mind about burgers. This is one of Dodger’s recipes, I wanted to do somethin’ special for your friend’s first night here.”

“Food poisoning isn’t special.”

“C’mon, that was one time, and I got just as sick as you.” He turned to you. “Don’t listen to her. It hasn’t happened in years.”

You laughed, sitting at the table, amused by their banter. Dodger walked into the kitchen, taking the seat near you and giving you an exasperated glance. Apparently this was a regular occurance.

You hadn’t realized how hungry you were until you started eating, but it didn’t faze them, as you noticed where Jenny had picked up the habit of talking while chewing came from. The whole situation was almost normal, which made it all the more bizarre to you. You hadn’t expected to be catered to hand and foot by butler and maids or whoever they may have employed at Graceland, but having a regular, home-cooked meal with the Presleys wasn’t what you had in mind for your first meal there. 

The food was good, and Elvis was especially pleased the next morning when no one showed signs of food poisoning, as he so kindly informed a half-awake Jenny over breakfast the next morning. You slept well in the guest room, the bed was more comfortable than the one you had at home, and having your own bathroom to take as much space as you needed to do your nighttime and morning routines was something you knew you’d savor throughout the summer.

Your first week at Graceland was mostly spent in the house, either in Jenny’s room where the two of you listened to music and planned the rest of the summer.

“Y’all can’t spend all summer inside. We got a nice pool out there, and y’all ain’t even used it yet,” Elvis said. “And those poor horses are neighin’ for you, Jenny.”

“Oh my god,” she groaned, covering her face with a pillow in embarrassment.

Elvis winked at you, and you smiled in return.

“You bring your swimsuit, Y/N?” Jenny asked when she lifted her head.

When you changed into your swimsuit in your room, you looked at yourself in the mirror, admiring how well it looked on you. It flattered your figure perfectly, so much so that you’d bought different patterns and colors in the same style. A brief, foolish thought raced through your mind, what would Elvis think?

As you made your way downstairs, you took a detour to talk to Dodger who was watching TV in the living room.

“Hi Dodger,” you greeted cheerfully. “Are you gonna go swimming with us?”

She scoffed. “I went enough of my life without air conditionin’, I’m not givin’ up bein’ comfortable now.”

You nodded. “I don’t blame you. Do you need anything before I head out?”

“Jenny just got me a Coke before she ran out the door. Thanks for askin’, sweetheart,” she said, smiling.

Jenny was already in the pool by the time you got there, climbing out to head to the diving board. You set down your towel on an empty pool chair and applied your sunscreen, watching as she jumped from the board and into the pool. The sun was unforgiving as you could already feel yourself sweating off the sunscreen. Still, you knew you needed to wait at least a few minutes before heading in.

Sometimes you and Jenny would swim at the pool in the campus gym, but it reeked of chlorine and on more than one occasion had to be cleared out because some hungover asshole threw up in it. The pool at Graceland looked immaculate, though.

“You’re not swimmin’?” Elvis asked, startling you a bit. You hadn’t noticed him walk up.

“I’m waiting for my sunscreen to dry first.”

“I’ll keep you company,” he said, sitting next to you on the towel.

Neither of you spoke as you watched Jenny do a backflip off the diving board, Elvis jokingly calling out a score when she emerged from the water. She stuck her tongue out at him before swimming over to the ladder out of the pool, making her way back up the diving board.

“Did she dive competitively or something?” you asked.

He laughed, shaking his head. “Nope, just likes jumpin’ off the thing. We signed her up for just about everything else she wanted to try. Really is a miracle she ended up alright, Lord knows I let that girl get away with murder growin’ up.”

“Jenny is the best friend I’ve ever had,” you said softly.

He turned his head to look at you, squinting a bit from the bright summer sun that was shining from behind you. Your breath caught in your throat at the sight of him—his tanned skin almost gold in the sunlight with his black styled hair, the faintest hint of laugh lines beginning to show in the corners of his mouth as he gave you a kind smile. “I’m real glad to hear that. She thinks highly of you too.”

Before you could respond, he said, “I’ve spent a lot of time readin’ the Bible recently. Lots of strong friendships in there, people who get through trials and tribulation together. We’re all sinners, but the Lord gives us strength in each other. Seein’ how good Jenny is doin’ thanks to you makes me think maybe I shouldn’t have pushed away all the people I did when her mama left.”

If that was his way of calling you heaven-sent, you’d take it. Jenny had told you he was religious, not obnoxiously so, but had a deep, personal faith that he cherished. People often turned to religion when they felt lost or troubled, seeking comfort that their experiences weren’t meaningless and there was a higher power looking out for them. Regardless of how you felt about it, you weren’t about to tear apart something that gave him peace.

“Isn’t that why God made Eve? So Adam wouldn’t be lonely?” you asked.

You couldn’t read the look he gave you as his expression shifted just enough for you to notice sitting so close to him, yet he answered, “That’s right.”

“Y/N, are you coming in or not?” Jenny shouted from the diving board.

You smiled at Elvis before getting up and taking a careful step into the shallow end of the pool. Standing in the waist deep water was refreshing, and you floated for a bit, talking with Elvis and Jenny who’d taken a break from diving to unsuccessfully convince her dad to join the two of you in the pool. He simply brushed her off, claiming he was fine despite the sweat dripping from his forehead in the Memphis heat. 

It wasn’t until you expressed that you felt bad he was sitting out in the sun, he finally relented. To your disappointment, he didn’t take off the t-shirt he was wearing when he got into the pool. You were slightly embarrassed that you even wanted to see him shirtless, especially with Jenny around. It made you feel acutely aware of how much you were talking with Elvis, even though Jenny had become preoccupied with diving again.

The next few weeks were mostly spent poolside, except for the day Jenny stayed out too long and ended up getting heatstroke, confining you inside the house while she recovered. Elvis offered to have a car bring you into Memphis to go shopping or do some sightseeing, but you decided to stay with Jenny instead, watching the TV in her room and bringing her food and drinks, even though she told you that someone else could do it. 

When she recovered, she brought you on a shopping spree, ‘To thank you for playing nurse,’ she had joked. She told you not to pay attention to the price tags of anything, but you couldn’t help it, putting back items you deemed too expensive and claiming you didn’t like them that much anyway. Of course, Jenny would go right back behind you and grab whatever you’d left, buying it for you anyway.

You enjoyed Memphis a lot, and Elvis seemed excited when you returned from the shopping trip with Jenny, telling him as much. It was nice to switch things up from the normal pool days, something that you never thought you’d find yourself thinking. As Elvis had pointed out, there was a ton to do in Memphis. Although, on the handful of nights you and Jenny went out to a local bar or club, he waited up until the two of you got back to Graceland. Jenny apologized each time, as if embarrassed by Elvis’ concern. Each time, you brushed off her apologies. Sure, you and Jenny were adults, and her dad didn’t have to wait up by the window for the two of you, but it was sweet.

Apparently, the nights out you’d experienced in Memphis would be nothing compared to the annual Presley Fourth of July party, which Jenny grew more excited for as the day got closer. Every year they had a party that raged on from the height of the afternoon well into the next morning. Though she told you that it wouldn’t be as extravagant as past celebrations, it would be a good time nonetheless. Still, Elvis had apparently invited the “Memphis Mafia” whom you’d heard so much about, the first time they would all be together in months.

She had assured you it would be a casual barbecue type of event, so you decided to dress comfortably for it, figuring you’d be spending most of your time outside in the pool or hanging out with Jenny. You certainly hadn’t underdressed, as when you got downstairs, just about everyone else was wearing some kind of t-shirt and jeans or shorts. You noticed Elvis dressed down in a t-shirt with your university’s logo on it and a pair of jeans that made his ass look fantastic—not that you were looking.

The first hour or so of the party consisted of getting drinks from the open bar and going through introductions to the four dozen or so people in attendance, most of whom Jenny introduced as “uncle” or “aunt” so-and-so. Luckily Dodger knew everyone, and in the two instances Jenny asked you to get someone in particular, she gladly pointed you in the right direction. 

At some point in the afternoon, a football game started, unsurprising as Jenny had told you how much her dad loved football. In fact, he’d wanted to attend some of your university’s football games but knew it’d cause a scene if he showed up. You helped Jenny referee the pickup game, not knowing much about football yourself, but it seemed like they were making up rules on the spot anyway. 

The game was fun to watch and a good excuse to stare at Elvis, until a football went flying in your direction. Just as it was about to hit you square in the face, you landed on the ground with a thud. You were dazed for a few moments before noticing Elvis was on top of you, looking at you in concern.

“Y/N, you alright?” he asked.

God, he felt nice pressed against you, but as so many eyes were on you, you had no choice but to answer, “Yeah, thanks for saving my face.”

He laughed. “‘Course, darlin’.”

“Sorry about that!” a man shouted from a few feet away.

Elvis helped you up off the ground, brushing away some of the stray dirt that’d gotten on your shirt. 

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked once again, a steady hand on your shoulder as he searched your face with his ocean blue eyes.

You felt your face heat up at being the focus of his attention. “I’m fine, really.”

He nodded, but still jokingly said, “Jenny, you watch her. Keep her out of trouble.”

The football game didn’t go on much longer after that. Jenny had forgotten what the score was, and you hadn’t been much help. Not to mention with how hot it was out, everyone was getting tired and hungry. You and Jenny talked as you balanced the paper plates filled with food on your lawn chairs, but your mind kept wandering to Elvis being on top of you earlier. So close to him, you could have leaned up for a kiss, pressed your lips against his and found out what he tasted like, something sweet yet masculine you supposed. 

You were startled from your daydream by Jenny asking you where you wanted to sit during the fireworks. Jenny. You felt horrible for the crush you’d developed on your best friend’s father and foolish for even considering he’d be interested in you in the first place. After all, you were at Graceland to spend the summer with Jenny. She was the one who’d invited you and extended such generosity that you didn’t feel like you deserved, especially now that your mind was wandering to thoughts of her father.

As soon as the sun set, the elaborate fireworks show began, you and Jenny sharing an old picnic blanket she’d found and sitting on Graceland’s lawn, watching the bright blues and reds light up the night sky. You could hear Elvis laughing and hollering with some of his buddies as they lit the fireworks, each one more dazzling than the last. 

About halfway through the palette of fireworks that the guys were going through, Elvis turned to you and Jenny, a big smile on his face as he extended his arms out, raising his eyebrows. You responded with a thumbs up, and Jenny nodded enthusiastically in agreement. Your ears were ringing by the time the fireworks show was over, but there was no denying they were the best you’d ever seen.

The smoke from all of the fireworks left the air hazy, so you and Jenny laid out on the blanket, looking up at the stars while waiting for everything to settle down. You loved how no matter the situation or how long the two of you were around each other, conversation with Jenny always flowed naturally. No matter what, you could tell her anything. Well, almost anything.

At around two in the morning, when nearly everyone else had left or called it a night, as Jenny had, you found Elvis sitting alone at the empty bar, a glass of melting ice next to him. You sat down next to him, your knee touching his as you turned on the bar stool to look at him.

“I wanted to thank you for the party. It was incredible,” you said. “I mean the food and the fireworks, just everything. Also, you know, saving me from an emergency room visit.”

“I’m glad you had a good time, darlin’. Seemed like Jenny was havin’ a lot of fun.”

“She was happy to see everyone. I don’t think I remember all of their names, though,” you said. “She’s got a lot of uncles.”

He laughed. “Yeah, she grew up with all of ‘em. They’ve been part of the family for, well, since I got back from the service.”

“Did you like Germany?”

“No, I was homesick and lonely the whole time. Jenny’s mama was back here, and it didn’t help that—“ he sighed, shaking his head. “I was ‘bout Jenny’s age when my mama died. That ruined me, it really did. Then the same thing pretty much happens to her. It’s like we’re cursed or somethin’.”

“I—I’m sorry.”

He shook his head. “You got nothin’ to apologize for, darlin’. You’re bein’ a good friend to my baby girl right now.”

“She’s been a good friend to me. She deserves it,” you said. “I know it’s not the same, but when my ex dumped me, I didn’t think I would ever feel okay again.”

“Can’t believe anyone would dump a lady like you.”

“I could say the same about you,” you flirted back without thinking, horror washing over you as you realized your faux pas. “Elvis, I—“

“I’ll take it as a compliment, comin’ from you, darlin’.”

You gave him a nervous smile, assuming he was just saying that to be nice. It was a ridiculous thing for you to say, after all, hardly knowing the man besides what little your friend had told you and the month or so you’d been at Graceland. His faults were glaring, the repeated infidelity toward his wife—soon to be ex-wife, you supposed—as well as his substance abuse issues, the latter of which you understood he’d been working on, to at least be fair. Still, he was a loving father to your best friend, and he’d been nothing but kind and charming toward you, a near stranger staying in his home for the summer. 

Upon speaking with him further, he revealed that the reason he cast out so many of his trusted friends, the people who made up TCB, was that almost all of them, in one way or another, could see Jenny’s mom leaving from a mile away. Meanwhile, Elvis and Jenny were blindsided by her abandonment. He was hurt that no one gave him a heads up, at least so he could try to make things right with her. He did admit, however, that as her husband, he should have noticed something was wrong and she was reaching her breaking point.

About an hour later you excused yourself to go to bed, and didn’t wake up until late the following afternoon. The mood in Graceland shifted after the Fourth of July party. Despite the heavy conversation you had with Elvis that night, things seemed lighter. He had his old friends over more frequently, which Jenny was glad about, expressing that she felt like her dad was slowly getting back to his old self again. 

Most notably, Elvis sought you out more. Though you and Jenny were practically attached at the hip, he began occupying the spare moments you had to yourself. You couldn’t even say that you minded too much, but the way he regarded you felt more intimate than before, deeper conversations and fleeting touches punctuated your time with him. 

One evening, when you decided to cook an old family recipe of yours for the Presleys, Elvis insisted on helping. He chopped and grated as directed, but when he needed to get past you to grab something, he put his hands on your hips, squeezing them a bit as he moved in the space between you and the counter. Your breath hitched at the action, and when you looked over at him, he appeared preoccupied with what he was searching for. 

You tried to burn the feeling of how his hands felt on your hips into your memory. Perhaps it was a reflex, a holdover from domestic moments with his wife. Your heart raced at the thought. Filling the maternal role for Jenny was one thing, but the prospect of inadvertently providing Elvis the intimacy that was absent since his wife had left made your head spin. 

You and Jenny already looked after each other, and though helping her push through the last few weeks of the spring semester was a struggle, spending the summer keeping her mind off of her mom was far easier. There were still some nights when she’d knock on your door, tears streaking down her cheeks as she asked if she could talk to you, not wanting to be alone, knowing you would always say yes. They weren’t nearly as frequent, though.

Elvis didn’t seem to have someone like that, who he could be vulnerable with and not have to worry about being judged or taken advantage of. You supposed he gravitated toward you because you were already there, convenient, within reach, and well aware of the situation at hand. The more you spoke with him, the deeper your attraction to him became. For all of the things you’d read and heard about him through the years, none of them mention how smart and sensitive he was. 

At that point, it shouldn’t have surprised you that Jenny’s affinity for history came from him. He read a lot in his free time on a variety of subjects and was interested in the details of your major. He told you how proud he was when Jenny expressed a desire to go to college and get her degree. It definitely didn’t surprise you when he said that she’d always gotten fantastic grades, graduating in the top ten percent of her high school class. 

You were glad Elvis supported Jenny so much, even if she did regard him as a bit overenthusiastic at times. There were plenty of people you knew with terrible fathers, and Elvis’ dedication to Jenny made you admire him that much more. Of course, Jenny was incredibly important to you too. You liked your other friends, but they weren’t her.

When Jenny approached you toward the end of July, standing in your room and shifting from leg to leg with an anxious expression on her face, you were sure you’d been found out. She knew about your crush on her dad and was going to confront you over it. Send you packing and leave you shit out of luck for a roommate just a month before the semester was going to start.

“I forgot to tell you,” she began, “that summer camp I volunteer at every year is coming up next week, the one in the Smokies.”

You nearly sighed in relief. “Yeah, I know, Jenny. I’ll see you in August.”

“I was wondering—can you stay? I really don’t think dad should be alone, and Dodger needs to rest, not worry about him. He was a mess the week before you got here, Y/N. Just check on him, that’s all.”

“Are you sure?” you asked, taken aback by her request. “I don’t want to impose. I’m your guest here.”

“He trusts you. He has a hard time trusting people. I swear I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t know he trusts you.”

Fuck, why can I never say no to Jenny, you found yourself thinking as you agreed to look after her father during the three weeks she was away. It was only three weeks, and you liked Elvis a lot anyway, maybe more than you should have considering he was your best friend’s father. Still, you figured there was no harm in the small crush you were harboring, certain it would fizzle out by the end of the summer when you and Jenny returned to campus.

The week leading up to Jenny leaving was hectic on her end, and you got a bit of a trial run on how spending three weeks by yourself with Elvis would be, especially since Dodger was understandably doing her own thing, though she knew how to play just about every card game in the book and could kick your ass at just about every one of them. When you informed Elvis that you had to call it quits on a game of Go Fish of all things with Dodger, having lost all of the Hershey’s Kisses you’d been betting with, he laughed so hard you thought he was going to fall over.

“You’ll get more kisses, I’ll make sure of it,” he said when he finally caught his breath, unaware of how your heart jumped at his statement. 

Jenny cried when she left for her volunteer camp counselor position, giving you a long hug and thanking you for being such a good friend through everything. You couldn’t help crying too. Of course, you’d miss her, but the guilt you felt in regards to Elvis allowed itself to peek through at her sincerity.

Elvis was lonely, achingly so, and you weren’t sure if it was because he genuinely cared for you or as you suspected, you were just there already, but the time you’d been spending with Jenny was quickly occupied with Elvis’ presence instead. He’d sit in on your card games with Dodger, not playing despite his competitive streak because he hated to lose, which was almost always a guarantee when playing against her. During the day, the two of you would spend hours in the pool, talking and horsing around. When the weather wasn’t great, you’d hang out in the jungle room, listening to music, or if you were really lucky, he’d sing for you. 

You got into a comfortable routine with Elvis, a little too comfortable, you realized, when you’d settled in to watch TV with him after dinner and his arm was around your shoulders, his fingers absentmindedly brushing up and down your forearm as the latest episode of Columbo played. It didn’t matter. No one else was around, which was just the trouble—despite his entourage slowly making their reappearances at Graceland throughout the summer, it was almost as if he reserved his evenings specifically for you.

At the very least, you’d be able to tell Jenny when she returned from her stint as a camp counselor that her dad was doing fine and she had nothing to worry about. That’s how things seemed as the first week of her being away came and went. She sent you, Elvis, and Dodger letters along with some Polaroids of her with her cabin playing baseball, painting, and tubing down a river. You were glad she was having fun. 

Elvis did too, until you noticed his face fall as he studied one of the photos intensely for a few moments.

“She looks just like her mama in that one,” Elvis whispered, putting it on the coffee table.

You walked over, noticing that the angle of her leading the painting class did make her resemble her mother, at least from the few pictures you’d seen of her. 

Elvis disappeared after that, and neither you nor Dodger saw him the rest of the day. When dinner rolled around, your spirits lifted when Dodger taught you one of her old family recipes, the one Elvis had made the first night you arrived at Graceland. She said she only trusted family members with her cooking secrets but figured you were just as part of the family as you could be, which brought you to tears.

After dinner and chatting with Dodger for a bit, you went to check on Elvis. Graceland being the mansion it was, it took at least twenty minutes of checking rooms and admittedly getting lost at one point before you found him in the jungle room, sitting on the couch with a glass of something amber in his hand. The record player was on, but whatever he had on the turntable had long since stopped playing. You broke the unsettling silence in the room, letting him know that there was still some leftover from dinner if he was hungry.

He didn’t answer you or even acknowledge your presence, simply staring straight ahead, deep in thought. You tapped your fingers against the door frame, letting a few moments pass by before turning to leave. Just as you were about to do so, he finally spoke.

“You give your whole life to a woman, and then she just throws it away,” he slurred.

You did cheat on her, you almost said. You understood what he meant, if it had bothered her so much, why did she wait so long to leave. Perhaps she felt as if she didn’t have an opportunity to before, that spring night she left being the only time she had the chance or the nerve to do something she’d apparently been considering for some time. Maybe it was years of built up resentment or countless confrontations that resulted in empty promises. There was no way of knowing what had been the final straw for her, but she certainly hadn’t chosen the least painful option.

You wondered if she had any idea the fallout that was left in her wake. Neither Elvis nor Jenny had any contact with her in the months she was gone. It probably hadn’t occurred to her that your life would be so drastically changed too.

Sighing, you approached Elvis, your hands on your hips as you took stock of the situation. The last thing he needed to be doing was drinking and overthinking, and while you would have preferred he eat a solid meal, the best option was to just make sure he got to his room okay.

“Elvis, let me get you to bed,” you said softly.

He made a grunting noise that startled you. “Ain’t too bad to hear from a pretty thing like you.”

“I’m sorry. That isn’t what I—” you stammered. “I mean, you should go to sleep.”

“Christ, seein’ you all summer in those swimsuits—like you drive me crazy on purpose.”

“C’mon, let’s go,” you said, helping him up from the couch. 

“Shame you’re Jenny’s best friend,” he mumbled. “Ain’t many girls like you ‘round anymore that know how to take care of a man. I’d shack up with ya in a heartbeat.”

You froze in your tracks. He was drunk, that was all. Unable to utter anything coherent in his inebriated state. Still, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of misplaced pride upon hearing Elvis say that he wanted you, that he found you attractive, even. 

Taking his hand, you guided him into what you knew was the master bedroom, though you’d never been inside of it before. The dark decor sent a shiver down your spine, even when you turned on the lights to illuminate the way to his bed. You’d never seen a room so ornate before, truly fit for a man like him—the king.

As soon as Elvis hit the bed, he was out like a light, and you pushed his body so he was laying on his side, just in case. You went into his bathroom, finding a bottle of aspirin among the other bottles that were on the counter. After filling up a glass of water, you brought both to his bedside table. 

Quickly, as if at risk of being caught doing something you weren’t supposed to, you turned off the lights and left, shutting the door behind you. Padding down the hall to the guest room, you sat on the edge of the bed, your head in your hands. You found yourself wishing Jenny was there, but it wasn’t like you could discuss what had happened with her anyway. 

You woke up with a headache the following morning despite not being the one who had been drinking. Slowly, you made your way through your morning routine before heading downstairs to get something to eat. Dodger had made breakfast, so you offered to clean up for her in thanks after you finished your meal. 

While scrubbing one of the pans Dodger had used to fry up eggs in, you could hear Elvis’ familiar footfall. You’d already decided not to acknowledge what had happened and hope the rest of the summer would go on without a hitch.

“Morning,” you said, looking at him over your shoulder. “Dodger left a plate for you in the fridge.”

He sighed, making his way over to you and leaning against the counter. “Y/N, I wanted to apologize for last night. I made a damn fool of myself.”

“It’s okay,” you said. “We all have off nights.”

“Let me make it up to you?” he asked. “It’s the least I can do.”

You hesitated, wondering what exactly he had in mind as far as making it up to you. Ultimately you agreed, finding yourself more anxious than excited over what Elvis had planned, simply telling you to be ready and meet him in the foyer around six. To pass the time, you tried reading some of the magazines in Jenny’s room, but couldn’t focus on any of them long enough. Your headache from earlier was still just barely noticeable, so you took a nap in hopes it would go away before whatever Elvis had planned for the night.

You awoke a little over an hour before you were supposed to meet Elvis downstairs, with no idea as to how to dress. He probably didn’t have a t-shirt and jeans type of thing in mind, but formal wear wasn’t anywhere on your list when you packed your suitcase at the beginning of the summer. You’d brought one nice dress with you, as you knew Jenny wasn’t the type to go to high-end clubs or parties that had a dress code. The only heels you had were a pair Jenny had bought you on your shopping sprees earlier in the summer, and while they didn’t exactly match the dress, they looked nice enough together. 

Satisfied enough with your appearance, you rushed downstairs a few minutes past five. Elvis was already waiting for you, as expected. At least you weren’t underdressed, as he wore a tailored blue suit, foregoing a dress shirt underneath the jacket so his chest hair was on display. You tried not to stare at him, but all dressed up, he looked like a dream. 

“I was startin’ to think you stood me up,” he joked.

Stood him up–like a date? “I’m sorry, the time got away from me while I was getting ready.”

“You look beautiful, darlin’. You always do,” he said, putting his hand on the small of your back.

He led you outside to the limo that was waiting for the two of you, opening the door for you to get in first. Almost as soon as he joined you in the back of the limo, the chauffeur drove off, and you still had no idea where you were going, probably dinner, considering the timing, but there was no way Elvis could go anywhere without being noticed.

“I was able to pull some strings last minute, but this is my favorite restaurant in Memphis,” he assured you. “I booked the whole place out. I didn’t want anyone botherin’ you.”

“Thank you. That’s really sweet.”

“It’s the least I can do. I’m embarrassed you had to see me like that, Y/N.”

“I’m just glad I was able to help,” you said, sincerity in your eyes as you looked at him. 

Before he could respond, the limo stopped, and the chauffeur got out to open Elvis’ door. You noticed that the car was parked in front of the restaurant’s service entrance, although you wondered why even bother with the limo if he was trying to be discreet. You supposed you’d never exactly understand how the other half lived.

You could see why the restaurant was Elvis’ favorite. The place was chic yet charming, and you quickly found that the food was incredible. Not to mention, being the only people in the place meant that the service was great. The owner even made an appearance during the meal, talking up Elvis and saying how lucky he was to have such a beautiful date. Neither you nor Elvis corrected him, which sent a thrill through you. So it was a date.

The night went on perfectly, and the way Elvis looked at you, with an intense adoration, made you feel warm. You wanted to be more forward and flirty, but he simply made you melt into a bashful mess without even trying. He’d been kind and respectful, nothing short of a perfect gentleman, as opposed to how crass he’d been toward you less than a day earlier. You were more than happy to brush the incident off as an isolated thing if it meant you got to see this side of him more.

The date ended far too quickly for your liking, but you and Elvis talked all the way back to Graceland. You found it funny when he walked you upstairs, as if walking you up to your front door.

“Is this where we call it a night?” you asked, standing in the hallway near his bedroom door.

“We don’t have to, but I don’t want to overstep, Y/N,” he said. “I don’t remember much of what I said last night, if I’m bein’ honest.”

“Last night you said that if I weren’t Jenny’s best friend, you’d have sex with me,” you said boldly, looking him in the eye. “Did you mean it?”

He shook his head. “No,” he answered, and a lump formed in your throat as you held back tears at his response. You knew it, just drunk nonsense. How could he ever want— “No, I’d make love to you. ‘S’what you deserve.”

You could only manage a whimper in response. 

“You can say no, darlin’. I won’t hold it against ya none,” he whispered.

Your chest tightened as you could tell by the intensity of his eyes that he was being truthful, but you were too when you whispered back, “I want you to kiss me.”

His lips were soft against yours as he kissed you tenderly, one hand cradling your face as the other pulled you closer by your waist. The care he handled you with made you want to cry as nearly a summer’s worth of pent-up emotions filled your chest. Steadying yourself on one of his arms, you squeezed his bicep. In response, his teeth grazed your lower lip, and you parted your lips, allowing his tongue to slip inside your mouth. He tasted of whiskey and tobacco, and you wondered if he noticed the cherry chapstick you’d put on just half an hour earlier in the restaurant’s bathroom.

He opened his bedroom door behind him, just as quickly shutting it and turning the lights on. He undressed you, gingerly removing each article of clothing from your body and pressing warm kisses across your skin. When you were fully nude, you did the same to him, in awe of the man who stood before you. Your eyes widened a bit at his length, already hard as it sprung free from the confines of his tight pants. 

Just like that evening in the kitchen, his hands were firm on your hips, giving you a squeeze as he guided you backward onto the king size bed. As soon as you made eye contact with yourself with the mirror on the ceiling, you just as quickly averted your eyes. He noticed your hesitation, as a man with a mirror on his bedroom ceiling and extensive sexual experience would, you supposed. Gently, he used his fingers to tilt your head up, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

“You’re gorgeous,” he whispered. “Don’t be shy, darlin’, look at how perfect we are together.”

Darlin’. You wondered, as he kissed and sucked on the tender skin of your neck, if he meant it, if you truly were darling to him. He threw around the pet name so often, especially toward you. A burst of possessiveness sprung from within you at the thought of him calling another woman that, even in passing. He was yours, fuck everything, he was yours.

When you looked up at the mirror again, you realized your initial discomfort came from seeing a woman unrestrained, unhinged. You met your own gaze with one of lustful determination and pulled his head away from your neck, pressing your lips to his once more. Threading your fingers through his messy black hair as you deepened what could hardly be considered a kiss at that point—teeth and tongue and the eventual tang of blood as you bit his lower lip a little too hard in your frenzy.

A sense of pride bubbled in your chest as you smugly watched him consider you with bewilderment. He returned your expression with a smirk of his own, his hand slipping between your thighs. You spread your legs farther open, having no intention of playing the ingénue. You weren’t lying in his bed to pretend you didn’t want him to ruin you.

He wanted you. He wanted you. You repeated this mantra in your head as he slid two of his fingers in your pussy. You couldn’t be bothered to stifle the moan that came from your lips and filled the room. This stirred something in Elvis as he worked his fingers, rapidly pumping them in and out of you, using his other hand to rub your clit to elicit more moans from you. 

“Fuck, darlin’, you keep doin’ that and I might come before I’m even inside ya,” he groaned.

You could feel your pussy tighten around his fingers as you were pushed closer and closer to climax. He leaned down, pressing kisses to your stomach and thighs while whispering something you couldn’t hear. Your ears were ringing, mind hazed—no one had ever made you feel so good in your life, you weren’t sure if anyone else ever could. 

The cry that escaped your lips when you orgasmed was nothing short of primal, your fingers clawing into the satin sheets as your hips bucked against his hand. What was more, he kept at it, using one hand to hold down your hips as he made you cum again with his fingers. It was almost too much, yet you whined when he pulled his hand away.

You could do nothing but lay still as you attempted to steady your labored breathing, but that didn’t stop Elvis, who seemed intent on devouring you.

“I need you,” he mumbled, his desperate prayer repeatedly whispered into your skin that burned at his touch. “Y/N, I need you.”

“I’m right here,” you breathed. “You have me.”

He pressed his lips to yours fervently, holding your face in his hands with a passion that left you even more breathless. You gripped his bicep, kissing him back with a desperation you couldn’t even pretend to be ashamed of.

You gasped as you felt the head of his hard cock against your pussy, digging your nails into his skin as you brought him closer. His chest pressed against yours, he slid his cock inside your still sensitive cunt that immediately responded to being filled. 

His thrusts were slow and steady, taking his time with you in contrast to the messy finger-fucking he’d given you just moments before. You looked up at the mirror on the ceiling again, your lips curling in a smile at the sight. His face was buried in the crook of your neck, your hair wild and eyes wide as you clung to him as he had his way with you. A high-pitched moan escaped your lips as he lowered his head to take one of your breasts in his mouth, the other bouncing in rhythm with his thrusts. You and Elvis looked ethereal, immaculate, a Renaissance painting that would put the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel to shame.

“Elvis, oh my god,” you choked out, throwing your head back as you felt your third orgasm building up in your core.

“I’m close, darlin’,” he moaned. “You take me so well—I don’t think I can last much longer.”

“I want you to cum inside me, Elvis,” you confessed, voice strained as you tried to form words. “Please.”

Upon hearing your plea, his thrusts became more erratic. It didn’t take much after that for him to climax, and you jolted at feeling his cum inside you, especially when he rubbed your clit again, sending you over the edge yourself. His name emerged from deep within your throat, as your eyes watered and toes curled when you came.

He’d marked you, claimed you, obliging the request you made in the heat of passion. There was no turning back, no undoing what had just been done. Just as much as Elvis was yours, you were his. 

He settled next to you, taking one of your hands in his and kissing the top of it before asking, “Darlin’, you feel alright?”

You nodded, although alright was such a gross understatement. You felt beautiful. You felt loved. You felt guilt pool in the pit of your stomach at the thought of Jenny and allowed yourself to drown in it when Elvis pulled you against his chest, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head and whispering that he loved you.

Taglist: @eliseinmemphis @crash-and-cure @kittenlittle24 @im-lame-irl @loudwombatmugkid @rxsesss @roseymary04 @queendelrey @jovialladyaurora @positivitylane112 @moonknightswif3 @holy-minseok @datsavageavenger @21bruhs @luckyevansstan @djsjs13949​ @butlerslut​ @ash-omalley​ @powerofelvis​ @sad-bisexual-bitch​ @peachy-deaths​ @kibumslatina​ @adoreyouusugar​ @raefoxiegirl​ @ilovehobi101​ @donnamarie23 @memphis-menace​ @animeketsu-yander​ @phhistheloml @dkayfixates​ @austinstyles​ @ophelia-writes-stuff​ 

#elvis x reader #austin!elvis x reader #elvis presley x reader #elvis smut #elvis 2022 #elvis #austin!elvis

[transexualpirate]

because i think this deserves it's own post: ive seen the rhetoric that because marsha never outright referred to herself as a trans woman (that i know of), lots of cis people tend to try to erase her identity or at least make it seem like she was a cis gay man, which if you've read anything about her at all you know she wasn't.

while labels do change and i cant find any record of marsha outright saying "I AM A TRANS WOMAN", she did refer to herself as a woman quite often like, for example, on rapping with a street revolutionary: an interview with marsha p. johnson when she literally straight up says "Lots of times they tell me, “You’re not a woman!” I say, “I don’t know what I am if I’m not a woman." (actual quote copy pasted DIRECTLY from the s.t.a.r. survival, revolt and queer antagonist book). can we say for sure that if marsha was alive to this day she'd identify as a trans woman? no. can we make a pretty fair assumption, considering she's definitely not cis and tended to call herself a woman? i think so.

and either way, even if she's not a trans woman, again, she is definitely not cis. she reportedly desired gender reaffirming surgery, back then more commonly referred to as sex change surgery. she presented femininely. she used exclusively she/her pronouns. she called herself a woman. she used feminine terms to refer to herself. if she was or wasn't a binary trans woman is pretty much meaningless at this point - marsha was absolutely trans, and so was sylvia rivera, and saying otherwise is just trans erasure, plain and simple.

don't pretend that trans people that are important to queer history are actually cis. there are cis people important to queer history. focus on them if you want. leave marsha and sylvia alone and respect their memory by respecting their identity.

⚠️do not pretend ex cop fred sargeant is a reliable source on my post or i will lose my shit⚠️

#mine #not to be taken seriously #personal #cw discourse #discourse #sylvia rivera #marsha p johnson #trans erasure #lgbt #queer history #star #s.t.a.r #trans #transgender #trans pride #transexual #fred Sargeant

[nothorses]

sorry to bring this to your inbox but i got nowhere else to bring it and i need a yell. I was going through the transgender tag for more information on the CEO's transmisogyny debacle and came across a post that started out by stating that transmisogyny has been on the rise on tumblr as a whole; reasonable and true. but they started their list of examples with "1. The entire concept of transandrophobia" and I just.

What the goddamn hell is wrong with you*? (not YOU you THEM you) Why the fuck are you throwing your trans brothers under the bus for the actions of a pissbaby CEO? There's a wave of false reports and deletions - TARGETING TRANS WOMEN - and your response is to try and shift the target to transmascs for... talking about their experiences? Your response to outside harassment is to try and spark more infighting? What's your fucking problem????? We need to be coming TOGETHER not picking a fucking target to spit on!!! Christ alive. And people wonder how it's so easy for terfs to turn us against each other. God.

Ok rant over thanks for listening

I just want to challenge your wording here a little bit; did you check this person's blog and how they identify? Do you know if they're a trans woman, a trans man, nonbinary, etc.? Even what they might have said on their blog about how they identify should be scrutinized- we don't actually know who this person is, and they could for sure be lying. It's really, really useful for people outside of our communities who want to stir shit up to pretend they're not outsiders at all.

The post you're describing is horrible either way, and you're 100% right that it's stirring up harmful infighting. I think it's really easy to see that kind of thing and think, "oh my god, people are falling for it! they're actually fighting each other now!!"

It's a scary thing to see, and it's incredibly hard to ask critical questions when we're afraid, or otherwise emotionally activated like that. And there's nothing wrong with being emotionally activated, either; of course you are! That's some really hateful, really wrong, and really dangerous shit! Sentiments just like that one have caused so much harm to our community, and so much harm directly to individual, vulnerable people- probably people you know. Certainly people I know.

But it's reactions from that state of emotional activation that lead to the success of these kinds of infighting campaigns. We get activated, we make assumptions and act from that activated place, other people get activated and do the same, and the cycle continues.

What's worse, you're the only person who saw the post in question; I can only react to what you're telling me. I can't go look at the post, check OP's blog, and answer any critical questions about the nature of the situation. I have no way of knowing whether this person might be transfem, or just a TERF trying to stir shit up. I don't even know if the OP was an anon ask sent to someone else. I don't know how many notes the post got, or how big OP's audience is; I can't really conceptualize the amount of harm the post has done. I don't know if anyone has debunked it in the notes, or if OP has since posted an update denouncing that original sentiment.

Again, that's not to invalidate your emotional response, or even really question how honest you're being here. For all I know, you did check all of those things, and this is worse than I think it is. It certainly seems pretty realistic to me, just based on my own experiences with these kinds of conversations.

I just want to push back on that wording a little bit because like... as much as it is a real problem that a lot of transfems really firmly believe that Transmascs Talking About Cis People Being Transphobic To Us is the most serious & urgent form of transmisogyny facing the transfem community today, it's also a real problem that transmacs will jump on that same line of thinking in an effort to paint themselves as "one of the good ones".

Cis women will often throw transmascs under the bus in the same way in order to avoid Cis Guilt, oftentimes avoiding talking about their cis positionalities- which leads people to assume that, because they're talking about trans issues so much, they must be trans themselves! Which, again, perpetuates this illusion that "the trans community is full of infighting" and that much more dangerous to various trans people.

(Granted, this is a complicated issue; I don't think it's wrong for cis people to talk about these things, and I don't think trans people should have to out themselves in order to do so, either- but I have absolutely seen this pattern taken advantage of by hateful anons, TERFs, radfems, and cis women who revel in being called "honorary trans women" for bashing transmascs frequently enough.)

Is this post demonstrating the success of cis people's efforts to stir up infighting in the trans community, or is it just an example of cis people trying to stir up infighting? And if you know it's the former, how do I know? How do all of my followers know? Is it better to understand it as one vs. the other?

I'm sorry this got so long and off-topic; I'm sure this isn't what you were looking for when you sent me this ask, and I'm sorry for criticizing your wording over providing the emotional reassurance you probably needed a lot more than this. And also, I do feel a responsibility to think about the people reading asks before I think about the people sending them (particularly if they're on anon), and I felt this was the message that most needed to be received from anything I could say in response. I hope you're able to find the emotional reassurance you need regardless, and I appreciate you bringing this to me in the first place. 💙

#transunity #trans unity

[olderthannetfic]

re: https://www.tumblr.com/olderthannetfic/724959298787131392/to-the-person-in-the-replies-of-the-one-ask-saying

it’s always been a feature of the people trying to claim that 101 feminist statements like “men are a privileged class in the same way white people or straight people are, yes not every man benefits from sexism or in the same way and men can support feminism, but as a class they benefit and are privileged over all women including trans women” is somehow “terf rhetoric.”

terf rhetoric? not necessarily. radfem rhetoric? absolutely. partly because it strips the conversation of all possible nuance and relies heavily on a lack of intersectionality (something of a cornerstone to entry-level White Feminism tbh) for it to make even a lick of sense.

privilege is not actually a zero-sum game. a black man may have 'male privilege', but a) it does not function for him the same way a white man's male privilege does, and b) it does not actually trump white privilege, so you can't say that he has privilege over any given white woman who could pretty easily get him killed with a phone call and some crocodile tears.

similarly, trans men do not access male privilege the same way cis men do, so pretending that you can just use 'male privilege' as a catch-all ("i meant trans men too, obviously!") without examining the way it intersects with other identities or marginalizations to claim that 'all men are privileged over all women' is ignorant at best. that's why you'll see people calling such statements radfem rhetoric--because it is.

in a lot of people's minds, terf and radfem are interchangeable terms. while i admit that this is not accurate (all terfs are radfems but not all radfems are terfs), i will also push back against the idea that 'tirfs' (inclusive as opposed to exclusive) actually exist, because radfem rhetoric is, at its core, hostile to trans people given that one of its major tenets is bioessentialism, and pretending that it's inclusive of trans identities to be like 'when we say men are inherently evil oppressive forces of women we mean trans men too!!!!' is a deliberate obfuscation of reality.

--

Yeah. There are forms that remove the overt "Trans people are bad" statements. That doesn't make them actually friendly to trans people.

[len-the-neverending]

For cis people, on writing trans stories

So, I just spent roughly an hour looking at the trans tag on Goodreads, and hoo boy, the things I saw. Ten books in I'd compiled a list of red flags, and pretty much everything I saw from there on out (except for the ones written by trans people) had at least one. So here's my list of red flags, or, What Not To Do if You're Cis and Writing About Trans People. (For context, I am nonbinary, have a lot of both binary and nonbinary trans friends, and read all the angry reviews by trans people on Goodreads.)

Centralizing your trans story on a cis character. A solid 75% of the stories I saw were stories, primarily about a trans person being trans, centered around their cisgender sibling or love interest. This is problematic because it portrays trans people, simply by virtue of their identity, as a "burden" or "conflict" on the cis people in their life, and trans people don't need that. It's also just really icky to write about a marginalized identity from the point of view of someone who is not of that identity: it's why stories about allistic people "dealing" with having autistic people in their lives, or stories about white people witnessing racial discrimination, are so frowned upon. I don't believe that cis people can't write good trans stories-- generally, I don't believe in gatekeeping who can write about what-- but a good start would be centralizing the actual trans character.

Misgendering the trans character in any way in the title, blurb, or third-person narration. I'm not going to go into full detail on when to misgender your trans characters-- @scriptlgbt has some good posts on that if you want to check it out-- but it should only be done very sparingly and should never be done where you can use the character's chosen name and proper terms instead. This includes all cases of the title, blurb, and narration by a third-person narrator. I should not see any misgendering in the blurb or in the title, and I really don't need to know your character's deadname from reading the back cover. This also includes gender-bendy titles such as "My Brother Is Named Jessica" and "She's My Dad" (both of which are real ones I saw). They misgender the character no matter how you slice it and are a really gross way to talk about trans people (especially considering all of these characters are binary trans-- some people might be okay with any pronouns or terms, but with a few exceptions you should really refer to your binary trans woman as "she", "her", "mother", "sister", etc. with no gender-bending gimmicks). It also includes language such as "boy who wants to be a girl" or "girl who thinks she's a boy", which is incredibly misgender-y and ignorant of the reality of transgender identities.

Cis people pretending to be trans. I can't believe I saw this one three separate times. Just stop. It's still centering cis characters in trans stories, and it creates an unnecessary link between transgender identities and deception, which is already a major issue in society and one that leads to violence against trans people. I don't care what your idea was. Just cut it out.

There are most definitely more, but these are the three I saw the most on my Goodreads Journey of horrors. I'm a little iffy on cis people writing trans stories, but cis people can and should write about trans people, and I think they can do it well, as long as they avoid the red flags. Stay safe and happy writing! - Lenni

#writing #books #writing advice #what not to do #red flags #tw transphobia #tw misgendering #trans #nonbinary #transgender #goodreads