Pure Love

poipiku/bsky

Quite proud of my handiwork

she's a rave dawg

It’s not really about what you do to become trans.

It's about that quiet moment—somewhere between the silence and the sigh—when you stop fighting yourself. When you stop holding your breath and finally let her in. That girl who’s always been there, under the weight of pretending, performing, surviving. You don’t become her, not exactly.

You remember her.

She’s not new. She’s the echo in your laughter, the rhythm in the way you move when no one’s watching. She’s the softness in your voice before you ever dared to make it real. And when you finally look in the mirror and whisper, “I see you,” she smiles back like she’s been waiting your whole life to hear it.

It’s not about the clothes. Or the name. Or even the hormones.

It’s about permission.

It’s about finally saying, “I want to be me,” and not backing down from what that means. Even if your voice trembles. Even if the world doesn’t get it. Even if some days you’re just so damn tired.

And gods, when that moment comes—when you let her out and she stretches into the light—it’s everything.

You walk different. You laugh different. And suddenly the world feels possible.

And maybe, just maybe, there’s someone out there—some sweet girl with paint on her jeans and mischief in her smile—who’ll take your hand and say, “Hey. You’re kinda cute like this.” And your heart will stutter in your chest, and you’ll realize that being seen like this, loved like this… it’s not a fantasy. It’s your truth.

You were never becoming a different person.

You were just learning how to stop hiding the one you’ve always been.

You deserve to be kissed until the world melts away—until nothing exists but the warmth of her lips against yours, the soft press of her body, the slow, intoxicating rhythm of hands tracing over curves that finally feel like they belong to you. You deserve the way she breathes your name like a prayer, like an answer to a question neither of you ever had to ask. The way her fingers skim over your skin, teasing, learning, cherishing, until you feel less like a person and more like something divine, something worthy of devotion.

You deserve the stolen glances that turn into lingering stares, the way she tugs you close by the collar of your shirt, her smirk daring, her voice teasing. The way she whispers, low and full of promise, how beautiful you are, how you drive her crazy, how she’s been waiting for this moment since the first time she saw you, shifting nervously in a dress that finally felt like home. You deserve the laughter between breathless kisses, the playful tug of her teeth against your lip, the way her hands settle on your hips with a possessiveness that makes your knees weak.

You deserve to be wanted like this, to be loved not just for who you are now, but for every part of you that led to this moment. Every choice, every struggle, every whispered wish to finally feel right in your own skin—it all led here, to her, to the way she looks at you like you’re the most breathtaking thing she’s ever seen. You deserve to be adored, to be touched with reverence and reckless abandon, to be known in every sense of the word. And gods, you deserve to be kissed like she’ll never get enough.

The girls stink so good 🥴

its pretty hot so thats. natural

Third base is getting stabbed in the stomach and slumping forward with your chin on their shoulder and blood dripping from your mouth