tubbs-is-my-friend · 6 months ago
As a genderless person, it’d be nice if people could remember that not everyone is transmasc or transfem—that some of us are neutral, that some of us aren’t even on or anywhere near the male/female and masc/fem binaries.
It’d also be nice if more people would acknowledge that HRT and surgery isn’t exclusive to transmasc and transfem people. Like, a GQ/NB person who wants phalloasy, top surgery, or testosterone isn’t necessarily transmasc. And a GQ/NB person that wants vaginoplasty or oestrogen isn’t necessarily transfem. Wanting to transition when you’re neither a man nor a woman isn’t necessarily about identifying with masculinity or femininity, it’s about wanting a body that’s the most comfortable, a body that’s the least dysphoria-inducing.
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infiniteinoblivion · a month ago
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Made these for my bestie. Use if you want🥰
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haberdashing · a month ago
My mom just accidentally called me “sir- uh, ma’am- uh, yes” and in addition to being a heartwarming attempt at affirming my nonbinary identity and a hilarious summation of my actual (lack of) gender, I’m struck by the fact that this is almost identical to the genderless dialogue option in Fallen London.
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friends-call-me-snow-miser · 2 months ago
feminine urge this masculine urge that what about the genderless urge to go absolutely feral
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chubbology · 10 months ago
Getting Big
prompt: someone discovering they're a feeder as their feedee partner gets bigger
Sometimes you’re both in bed, distracted and ignoring each other on your phones or laptops, when you notice. Your eyes lift from your phone and notice your partner’s relaxed belly, rising and lowering with calm breath, stretching the fabric of their shirt. Really stretching it now, not just with every inhale, but by default. Not just pushing the seams a little with chubbier hips, but forcing the cotton to bow out close to its limit, forcing the stitching to cave into a belly button deeper and softer-looking than you remember. And your eyes inevitably take in the rest: thicker thighs, more shapely chest, less defined arms, softer jawline.  
You’re aware that your partner’s gained a little weight. More than a little, but it’s fine. Probably thirty or so pounds, not a big deal, and you absolutely don’t judge them for it. Have they mentioned it at all? No, they just keep tugging at their shirts and pants. And underwear. Their underwear is getting too small for them, with weight gain making them a bit of a pear and all, but you don’t say anything. You don’t say they need bigger underwear. You don’t tell them how much you appreciate the fact that they need it. As long as they stay mum on the subject of their weight and the fit of their clothes, so will you; that’s your rule.
Sometimes you’re both in bed, watching TV, and they’re eating their way to the bottom of a quart of appallingly flavored ice cream (super-caramel-quadruple chocolate-chunk type stuff), and you keep sneaking glances. Because you’re amazed they’re comfortable enough around you to eat freely like this—or so you tell yourself. Their eyes are so glazed with distracted pleasure that maybe it didn’t even occur to them not to gorge themselves tonight, right in front of you.
Not gorging themselves like some kind of pig—no, it’s just, you both ordered a lot of takeout just a couple hours ago, and then they snacked on chips for a while, and then there was that candy bar they ate on a whim while you took out the trash, and now it’s a whole quart of ice cream. A whole quart. The more glances you sneak at them, the more you notice how their budding second chin peeks out when they chew. The more you notice that their bites seem hasty, as if tinged by some kind of distant, unconscious desperation.
You lean against them as if too tired to stay upright, reaching over them casually, letting one arm rest against their belly. It’s soft. It’s bigger. Not a big deal at all, you tell yourself for the millionth time.
And yet, you ponder their weight more. You’ve been pondering it incessantly. You can’t stop thinking about how they went to the mall two weeks ago without telling you, bought clothes a size up, and already were uncomfortably tugging and pulling on on every tight band and seam again. You can’t stop your thoughts from wandering to the idea of them sizing up again any more than your partner can stop their hands from opening another package of cookies.
“Ugh, this stuff is so good,” they mutter, swallowing the last bite, then closing the lid on the carton and setting it aside.
“Mm. I’ll buy more then,” you say without thinking. It’s fine if they size up again, after all. You’ll love them no matter their body type. Their happiness comes first. “I’m going to the grocery store anyway.”
A couple months later, going to the grocery store is not a chore to you, but a fun outing. You never used to even go down the junk food isles if you were by yourself, but now you scour them carefully. You place things in the cart you know your partner will like, and consider new brands and products they might like to try. It’s all so colorful and thrilling to actually buy. You tell yourself you might even try some of it and ignore the intrusive thought of your partner sneaking out of bed in the middle of the night again to binge on half the goodies themselves.
What niggles at you isn’t that you’re buying way too much junk food for your partner, who’s a little overweight now. It’s not as if they’ve told you to stop, or have implied they want to lose weight, or have said anything about any of it at all. That’s the thing: you’re in uncharted waters, and they haven’t told you a word about whether they fine with the way the tide was turning or whether they were actually really concerned that they were getting heavy and a little jiggly and they didn’t know what to do about it, let alone have the wherewithal to say, Honey, stop buying junk food. I’m getting fat.
Just the thought of the word makes you blush at the box of Fudge Covered Twinkies you’re holding. You quickly set them back on the shelf. Twinkies were practically the poster food for getting fat, right? Surely, your partner would suspect something, even though there wasn’t anything to suspect. You just know that they like food, particularly food that’s soft and sugary and addictive, and what better, cheaper food to comfort them with than Twinkies? No, it wouldn’t be good for their waistline, but you can already see their eyes fluttering closed at the taste—which was probably not even good, but that was hardly the point, was it?
Compromising, you buy a limited edition blue-stuffed brand of Twinkies instead, preparing an excuse that you thought the novelty of it was amusing and wondered if it was good.
But later that night, your partner eats six of them while you play video games and doesn’t mention the novelty of it at all. Your character dies stupidly and your partner laughs at you, belly jiggling as they do. You swallow, eyes fixating on their fat thighs. There’s no other word for them—they’re fat. Their thighs have gotten fat, just like their belly got fat, just like their hips and chest and arms and even their neck and face has been rounding out with so much chub. They were fat and they did eat like a pig, and all signs pointed to more weight gain. They were going to keep gaining weight, and when was it going to stop? When you finally decided enough was enough? When their doctor told them to take control? Yeah, so, you could imagine them awkwardly saying, coming home from the doctor, I guess I gotta lose weight. Maybe they would be holding a pamphlet on obesity or something, looking ashamed.
And maybe they would try at first. You would help. They’d exercise a little here and there, maybe only eat one Twinkie instead of six, maybe not ask for takeout so often. But it wouldn’t last. The second their will broke, yours would too. And you’d both be in bed, distracted by nothing but endless waves of pleasure that your sex life hadn’t known in a while, them leaning back against the headboard, eating every fattening thing you had to offer, which would be many, many, as many fattening things as they’d agree to swallow down like they glutton they were becoming.
You blink.
“You okay?” they say with that chubby face of theirs, a face that said, I’ve been gaining so much weight, and you’re really aroused.
“I’m glad you like those,” you stutter. You look at the Twinkies box, and so do they. Your mouth keeps moving without forethought. “I’ll buy you more next time. Any other flavors you like?” You set down your controller and push your hand into their hair affectionately. Since they’re slouched, they look up at you, and you lower your hand to the back of their neck, touching the bulge of the fat there. “Want me to get you your favorite ice cream? I know you had a long day at work.” You stand and head for the kitchen, ignoring your partner’s confused ums and wells.
You open the freezer and get one of many ice cream quarts. Thanks to you, the fridge and freezer have been stuffed to the gills with crap, but you can’t regret it, not when it makes your partner look perpetually stuffed to the gills too. You get a spoon and sit down next to them again, brain fuzzy with want. “You’ll feel better when you finish this. By the time you do, I’ll finally finish this damn level.”
“I’m—I’m not…” But the look in their eyes is conflicted. “I’m not that hungry, really.”
You laugh. Your body is buzzing. “Please. With you, when you eat and when you’re hungry are completely unrelated. Let’s make it a competition! Finish before I do. Go!”
You’re already starting the level over, thinking to yourself What the hell? Don’t make them eat if they don’t want to. Even if they do want to, even when they’re full, because they’re greedy and addicted, gonna get obese soon—
A minute passes, and they’re sitting up, belly folded in rolls on their lap, looking poised to either stand up and put the ice cream away or rip the lid off and devour it all.
“Eat it,” you say innocently, or try to. It mostly comes out like a pathetic attempt at sounding not-horny.
You glance over, and they still look conflicted, so you lean over and kiss them on their tubby cheek. “Go ahead,” you say, quieter. You meet their eyes. “Don’t you want to?”
They look taken aback now, flushed. All at once, they seem aware of their blubbery, overweight body, and they shift on the couch. You forget the game and lean in again, kissing them on the lips, then deeper as they lean into you. “I know you want to,” you whisper. You cup their fattened hip, squeeze it gently. “I bet you really want to.”
They’re blushing really hard now, gone shy and speechless. So you move closer to them, and since their head is lowered to avoid your eyes, you land a sweet peck on their bulging second chin. Then you peel off the lid of the carton, tear the plastic off, and push the spoon satisfyingly into the over-processed sugar that has been fattening your partner out of their clothes so well.
Despite their air of reluctance, they eat the spoonful you offer as if on instinct. They squirm with pleasure, and your breath hitches when their plump hand twitches out to take the spoon away from you when you don’t use it quick enough. You scoop them another bite. Then another. The room is quiet except for the game in the background and your rapidly beating heart. Their eyelids lower, and you murmur encouraging words to them. That’s it. It’s good, huh? Big bite... The experience seems no less momentous to them than to you, and so you keep going. Their eyes drift shut and so you guide their mouth to open at the right times. Eventually, your cooing gets bolder.
“I know how much you like this. Like eating. Eating a little too much.”
Their mouth pauses around the spoon, but their eyes don’t open. They swallow and wait for the next bite.
“And I know you get up in the middle of the night sometimes, just to eat,” you say. “Eat and eat until your clothes feel tight and your stomach’s queasy, right? You always come back to bed so uncomfortable, tossing and turning, panting a little. Holding back little burps. I wake up and all the junk food I bought is gone.”
Your partner leans into to your next spoonful, then takes it from you. Without meeting your eyes, they start eating from the tub themselves, at twice your pace. You smooth your fingers through their hair. Then rub a hand down their arm, which was now sausage-like with so much fat clinging to it. But it’s squishy, when you pinch it. No firmness anywhere you can see.
“I’m sure you know you’re getting big, baby. You’re getting big. But that’s okay.” You rub your hands over their belly, their hips, their rolls of back fat. “You just keep eating as much as you like.”
And after another pause, they nod.
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genderfae-culture-is · 6 months ago
Genderfae culture is wanting to be a glamorous hyper femme person but at the same time wanting to be an elegant androgynous, genderless being who is only perceived as such
exactly 😌
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scienceart-everything · a month ago
Aziraphale is genderless and Crowley is genderful and I think that’s beautiful!
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positivelypoly · 4 months ago
The term nonbinary is funny to me as it puts Multigendered people and Genderless People in the same group. Welcome to the party my opposite end friend
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bluebandedagate · 2 months ago
Nobody talks about how revolutionary That Time I Got Reincarnated As A Slime is for having a deliberately genderless main character!
Rimuru may use he/him pronouns but he chooses to present as androgynous, wears masculine and feminine clothing, and is seen bathing in both the men's and women's section of a hot spring! He is nonbinary!
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blueberry-basics · 2 months ago
Where’s my gender?
Well, I had to give it to my younger sister when she was born because my parents couldn‘t afford a new one.
So yeah, that’s why I don’t have a gender.
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tubbs-is-my-friend · 8 months ago
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the-aromantic-dragon · 26 days ago
I don't have a gender in a "i'm not human so i don't understand human genders" way
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kyahcreate · 5 months ago
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nb, <nonbinary blues> 😔
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ar0acedisgrace · a year ago
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chubbology · a year ago
Three Types of People Gaining Weight
The Pouter
The Pouter resents the effect food has on them. How just one little bite of something can lead to a full blown stuffing, making them feel helpless to the weight they’re putting on in droves. They’re the type who displaces blame. It’s the brain’s fault. It’s genetics. It’s the genetically modified food that is making them too fat to walk without waddling a little. Healthy food is too expensive; junk food is too divine. Exercise is too time-consuming; sitting all day is a required part of their 9 to 5. They pout their way through the day at their desk, sucking on their daily venti frappe, which they carefully don’t realize has been fattening up their ass so badly that it doesn’t really fit in their chair anymore. They pout when their clothes don’t look quite right and blame the dryer for shrinking them. They get angry when the elevator goes out of order, forcing them to pant and heave their way up the stairwell. Then they get irate when there’s nothing good left in the pantry to fill them up once they finally get to their apartment in the evening. The only thing that soothes their nerves is take out, and so they eat a lot of take out. The trash bin is full of take out containers, along the coffee table, and the countertop. Sometimes they reach the bottom of a container, so full but still needing to consume more, so they get take out from somewhere else. They wake up heavier every morning, but they don’t know that. All they know is that (because their arms and chest have blown up so big with flab) it’s getting hard to cross their arms when they’re annoyed.
The Blusher
The Blusher is the type who effortlessly gains a few dozen pounds in winter weight and doesn’t even notice until the weather warms. They happily pack away their winter clothes, pull on a well-worn pair of shorts, and…with a sharp pang of dread, find they can’t even tug the denim all the way up their bulkier thighs. Even without anyone around to ogle their thighs, or their chubbier face, or their larger love handles—which their shirt can’t quite seem to cover—they flush pink. A little ashamed and a lot embarrassed. Because how did they not realize? They gently touch their belly, thicker and curvier than it should be. They look in the mirror. And…whoa. They’re girthy all over. Their limbs are large and heavy-looking and they just look so big. They gained weight and were totally oblivious. Oblivious to how all those special-occasion splurges and one-off binges added up. With whispered curses and last-ditch tugging attempts, the Blusher tries on more clothes and outfits, hoping against hope that they’re not as big as they look and feel. Except almost nothing fits. And their belly keeps jiggling when they turn and bend and stand. And the dusted-off scale is showing them a number they can’t possibly believe. No, no, no. They can’t be that fat. With tubby fingers, they search and calculate on their phone to see…to see that they are teetering on the far end of the Overweight box in the spectrum. Just to the right, the more ominous Obese box lies in wait, colored a deep red. They blush that very same color, down to their second chin.
The Lip-Biter
The Lip-Biter is the type who stands in the kitchen, stuffing their mouth with a fifth donut as they press their heavy belly a little firmer against the counter. They’ve gotten fat, really fat, and they know it, but they nevertheless put off getting new clothes using money excuses, telling themselves that it’s not a big deal if they stretch the seams a little. Except eventually it’s not just a little, and the Lip-Biter, swallowing hard every time they get dressed, knows that. The truth is, they feel a rush when they notice their buttons strain over their breasts and torso. They hold their breath when they sit down slowly and aren’t sure if something’s going to rip. They sneak candies and chocolates at every opportunity, wondering idly how fat they’re going to get if they keep their bad habits up. They bite their lip at the thought of getting so obese that normal daily routines become difficult. They’re already not as fast as they used to be; they already sweat easier. After work some days, they buy a cake of some kind for a fake occasion and eat the whole thing at home, forkful after forkful, lacking any will not to gorge themselves. They spread their thighs apart a little more and let their clothes slowly stretch and snap as they eat. Lick their lips and squirm in pleasure.
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cider-goblin · 11 months ago
Without a doubt the best genre of game is "genderless creature in an open world ready to explore nature and restore ancient ruins" such as Abzû, Journey, Sky: Children of the Light
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wrenn-frug · a year ago
I've been seeing some people be kinda rude about it/its pronouns and not getting neo-pronouns saying, specifically about it/its pronouns, that its dehumanizing and while if you feel that way about it being used for you personally that's fine, you don't get to tell other people the right way to be or express their gender(s)/lack of gender including but not limited to pronoun use.
its not your job to understand other people's gender(s)/lack of or pronoun use, its your job to be respectful of it
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enbyvogue · 4 months ago
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Fashion by @diomadis.la
Streetstyle spotted in Copenhagen, Denmark.
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ezgender · 9 months ago
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[It’s okay to not have a gender.]
🚫 DNI: Anti-anti/proship, a/b/o, transmed/truscum/TERF/gender crit, anti-MOGAI, anti-endo, exclusionist or “neutral”/allow any of these. Thank you for respecting my boundaries !
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thelolitalookbook · 3 months ago
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Neutral colour ouji style coord
Blouse, Shorts, and Vest set by YUPBRO
Bag by Jane Marple
Socks by Harrods
Shoes by Nordstrom
Newsboy cap offbrand
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