the trans dandy is wearing a nice 1940s dark americana styled suit today. his handlebar mustache is gorgeous, full, and thick. his hair is perfectly sculpted. he smells wonderful

"come on, young one. i'll show you how to be a proper gentleman."

he puts on a record for you one day you're over at his manor. its lamento by antonio carlos jobim. he dances with you a bit, but you really don't know how to dance. you keep stepping on his brogues you polished with your mouth earlier.

"none to sorry. i'll teach you to sing!"

he tries his best, but you cannot carry a tune. he winces and frowns, then picks up a packet of cigarettes. they have the trans flag on them. you eye them suspiciously and say you're unsure if you want to be a boy just yet.

"oh, its just a sticker! don't worry about it." he laughs, handing you one after holding it upside down and slamming it into his thick palms. you stare at it dumbly in your hands. he realizes you don't know how to smoke.

"let me teach you... like this..."

he lights one for himself and demonstrates, taking his time. "you watching? nice and slow, like this." he says around the cig in his mouth. "don't put it past your teeth." he says on the exhale. "breathe in the smoke softly... thats it, into your mouth! and hold it for a second. keep it still... then breathe it in inside of your lungs. now, exhale. another? okay, but remember the tips..."

you do this for a while. as you do, you don't realize it, but the cigarettes are turning you into a man. you grow taller, your body hair gets thicker, and your voice deepens as you talk about the new experience. you get fatter, and you feel something growing down south.

you start the cig as a woman, and end it as a man.

a doctor who offers to help you transition — kind, patient, saying all the things you’ve always wanted to hear. he looks at you and sees you in a way nobody else ever has. not like you’re confused or broken or just pretending. not like you’re some project to be fixed.

he sees you as a boy. immediately, unquestioningly, fully.

it’s intoxicating. it’s disarming. it’s what you’ve always wanted.

you trust him.

and then you wake up somewhere unfamiliar. wrists strapped to the bed, head pounding, heart racing.

he’s there, smiling down at you with a gentle hand stroking your hair. “shh, it’s alright,” he murmurs, like he’s soothing a scared animal. “this is just part of the process. you’re safe now. you’re mine.”

he keeps you in his basement — away from the world that never really wanted you anyway. he gives you your hormones like clockwork, praises every small change in your body like it’s a miracle.

he treats you like the boy you are, even when he strips you bare and makes you kneel.

you fight at first. cry, scream, beg. but he’s patient. methodical. he puts you in no-win situations, setting traps you can’t avoid, forcing you to come crawling back to him every time.

each loss peels another layer off you until eventually, you stop struggling.

you start looking for his approval.

you start feeling proud when he calls you good boy.

he’s made himself your whole world — your caretaker, your captor, your god.

and deep down, even through the fear, a part of you aches with relief.

someone finally sees you.

someone finally loves you exactly the way you are.

even if it means belonging to him forever.

imagine finding a trans dandy that you meet at the library while you're checking out books about lgbt history. he's dressed very sharply - black vest with little white dots, brown cravat with a brooch, pinstripe dress shirt, and matching pants. his mustache and coiffed hair are very eye catching. he sees you eyeballing books about lili elbe and getting visibly confused on why there's none about trans men.

"it's a shame isn't it, young chap?" he sighs, putting a hairy hand on your shoulder. "not many books about us here. but i have lots at home you can read, dear boy."

you stutter, trying to protest that you aren't a boy but he sets the book back and steers you to the exit, talking about what a wonderful man you are and how he can't wait to help you. eventually you both hop into his car, and you're not putting up much of a fight. he IS alluring. he puts on a bossa nova CD and drives you to his manor on the outskirts of town. there, he leads you to his library, where it's stacked with tons of books about any trans man, written by a trans man, or anything related to transmasculinity in a positive light.

"this is great! i had no idea there were so many!" you cheer, pouring over them. billy tipton really stuck out to you.

"it's grand, isn't it, my dear?" the dandy says, his trans-atlantic accent really enchanting you. "i'll let you read more if you come by each day for some gel."

"gel?" you set the book down to leave but he's already rolling up your sleeve and has an open packet of testosterone gel in his hand. he squeezes it out on your arm and spreads it, then waves to dry it.

"don't worry about it, my boy, don't worry about it." he chortles. "just come by every day around the same time and i'll apply."

so you do. and gradually, over time, as you learn more about trans men, you get hairier. chubbier. your voice deepens and your chest gets less and less round. the dandy also gives you his old clothes - and helps you style your mustache into a nice handlebar.

eventually you are no longer a girl but a trans dandy, just like your mentor. and rich with the knowledge of your gender's history.

imagine finding a trans dandy that you meet at the library while you're checking out books about lgbt history. he's dressed very sharply - black vest with little white dots, brown cravat with a brooch, pinstripe dress shirt, and matching pants. his mustache and coiffed hair are very eye catching. he sees you eyeballing books about lili elbe and getting visibly confused on why there's none about trans men.

"it's a shame isn't it, young chap?" he sighs, putting a hairy hand on your shoulder. "not many books about us here. but i have lots at home you can read, dear boy."

you stutter, trying to protest that you aren't a boy but he sets the book back and steers you to the exit, talking about what a wonderful man you are and how he can't wait to help you. eventually you both hop into his car, and you're not putting up much of a fight. he IS alluring. he puts on a bossa nova CD and drives you to his manor on the outskirts of town. there, he leads you to his library, where it's stacked with tons of books about any trans man, written by a trans man, or anything related to transmasculinity in a positive light.

"this is great! i had no idea there were so many!" you cheer, pouring over them. billy tipton really stuck out to you.

"it's grand, isn't it, my dear?" the dandy says, his trans-atlantic accent really enchanting you. "i'll let you read more if you come by each day for some gel."

"gel?" you set the book down to leave but he's already rolling up your sleeve and has an open packet of testosterone gel in his hand. he squeezes it out on your arm and spreads it, then waves to dry it.

"don't worry about it, my boy, don't worry about it." he chortles. "just come by every day around the same time and i'll apply."

so you do. and gradually, over time, as you learn more about trans men, you get hairier. chubbier. your voice deepens and your chest gets less and less round. the dandy also gives you his old clothes - and helps you style your mustache into a nice handlebar.

eventually you are no longer a girl but a trans dandy, just like your mentor. and rich with the knowledge of your gender's history.

the first rule of cooking is that there are no rules. anything goes do whatever you want forever. the first rule of baking is that if you fuck it up you die

foppish older dandy PSYCHIATRIST forcemasc where he takes “professional interest” in your transition. Walk with me.

“are you on t? no? well that just won’t do! let me take care of that for you. no worries, it’s absolutely integral to your care!” and he schedules you for a follow up far sooner than average.

maybe he’s a little enthusiastic; maybe a little off topic, but, hey, it is integral to your care. he’s your psychiatrist, gender euphoria will certainly improve your mental health. by the second appointment not even a month later, he’s asking if you’ve gotten your script yet.

“you haven’t done your first injection yet, have you? oh, wonderful! i was hoping i’d be the one to show you. i just wouldn’t want you injecting improperly, that’s all.” bit weird for a psychiatrist, but he’s still a doctor. of course he’d want to make sure you’re not about to accidentally inject an air bubble or something. so you lift your shirt and pull the waistband of your pants down a little.

his manicured hands are cold and linger far too long and you wonder if he should be wearing gloves if he’s so concerned about safety. he talks as he does the shot, though nothing he says is the explanation he promised.

“you know, i had no one to show me how to do this when i was your age. but that’s not something you have to worry about. you’ve got me now.”

ah. that explains it. he’s trans too. it’s personal for him, that’s why he’s so invested.

this time, your next appointment is a week later. much sooner than the last. and again, he’s doing your shots for you. cold hands lingering on the soft, warm skin of your hip. telling you exactly what changes to expect.

you lose count of how many weekly appointments you’ve had, but he doesn’t. each visit he’s documenting the changes he notices. not for your chart, just for himself.

as the hair on your body grows more prominent, your voice deepens, and he can’t possibly make the touches linger any longer, he insists on a physical.

since when do psychiatrists do physicals? as if the weekly appointments for your t shots weren’t odd enough.

“just a bit of professional interest, that’s all. now, be a dear and strip so i can get a proper look at you.”

well. doctor knows best.

sex in the shower? no. slip and bust my ass. break my dick. she slippin too. she knock her head on the tile she passed out. bleedin. i cant walk cause my jimmy snapped. thought this was gonna be sexy and we both end up half dead.

*paws at u* can i have testosterone

*paws at u* can i have testosterone

*paws at u* can i have testosterone

*paws at u* can i have testosterone

*paws at u* can i have tes

nothing is worse than software that tells people when I’m online or when I read their message or when I’m typing something. I always want to be as unknowable in my silence as god

Hannibal (2013-2015)

2x05 || 2x07

Raúl Esparza as Dr. Frederick Chilton in Hannibal s1e6

My GIF masterlist

Raúl Esparza as Dr. Frederick Chilton in Hannibal season 2

My GIF masterlist

Hannibal, s2e7

My GIF masterlist