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It starts with them going through Anya's closet. Anya had recently come to the realization that he was- well, a he- and while Anya still tended to lean feminine, he wanted to get rid of some of his clothes to make room for more gender-affirming choices. Curly was more than happy to help his girlfriend-turned-boyfriend with the clear out. It was half gender stuff and half just regular spring cleaning, but it was fun to do it together.
Curly….supposes this whole thing makes him bisexual. He hadn't really put much thought into Anya's transition beyond being supportive, but he was certainly still attracted to him even as a man, so…well. Certainly not straight, anymore. If he ever was- he had always been very aware of other men's attractiveness. He'd just never really considered men as an option beyond occasional hook-ups to entertain himself on long space hauls. Well. Hm. Maybe he should have known he wasn't straight the first time he got fucked in the arse by a coworker.
Hindsight.
Anyways. It starts with clearing Anya’s closet. Anya takes down a dress of his, face scrunching as he lifts the price tag still attached- never worn.
“I got it online and it was too big,” Anya says as he runs his hand over the fabric. “Shame, too. It was really cute.”
“Wonder if it will fit me,” Curly jokes from his spot sitting on the bed, watching the whole affair. His assistance is mostly giving commentary about what's worth keeping- he's not very helpful because he thinks Anya looks fantastic in anything.
Anya looks up suddenly, narrowing his eyes.
Curly's mouth goes dry. Oh. He had meant it as a joke, but…
“Try it on,” Anya demands, thrusting the dress into Curly's hands. Before he knows it he is spun around and marched towards the bathroom to change.
Curly's sort of used to this- Anya getting ideas about what to do to Curly, and Curly easily following the commands given. He is a little surprised about the whole dress idea but, hell, if it intrigues Anya, it's not a particularly difficult thing to do. He shucks off his pants and shirt before peering at the dress closer to decipher how exactly to put it on.
He avoids looking at himself in the mirror as he undresses, stomach twisting in nausea.
The dress is just a simple black slip with a zip up the back- Curly's a little relieved, because he's seen some of the strange strappy dresses Anya likes hanging up in the closet. They're like puzzles to put on and off- clothes shouldn't be puzzles.
Simple enough. Curly unzips the back and pulls the dress on. It's tight- he's not sure if he will be able to get it zipped up all the way even with Anya's help. He risks a glance back up at the mirror to adjust the fit, tugging the bottom down as it rides up.
Hm. The dress keeps riding up, which wouldn't be a bad thing if it weren't for it revealing his boxers underneath, which kind of ruins the whole look. He could roll his boxers up and that might fix it, but it really would be simpler if he was just wearing panties….
It takes a second for his brain to catch up on his musings- blood rushes to his face. Panties. God, imagine that. He tries to stomp the image from his mind as he settles on just rolling his boxers up, though blood is certainly already flowing down to his nethers.
This is why Curly listens to Anya's ideas. Anya has good ideas.
He feels strangely nervous as he finally properly looks at himself in the mirror, tugging the bust of the dress up and the skirt down, adjusting his hair. His heart is racing and he feels floaty- not in his usual, dissociated way, but like-....airy? Flowy? He feels pretty, which is a bizarre sensation.
He is certain that this will be something Anya will want to indulge in more, and for a moment he lets himself fantasize about all the things he could do- lingerie underneath, heels, a dress that properly fits- maybe he could even get his nails done.
Curly's head is already spinning when he startles at a knock on the door.
“Curly? You're taking a while, are you okay?”
“Fine! I'm fine!” Curly stutters, scrambling and triple checking his appearance. He leans seductively against the doorframe, as he opens the bathroom door, batting his eyelashes at Anya exaggeratedly. He tries to ignore just how much his heart is racing. “Like what you see?”
“Oh,” Anya purrs. Curly can see the exact moment Anya shifts from concerned partner to predator who has just caught sight of some alluring prey.
He tries to conceal his excitement as Anya circles around him to inspect him from all angles. “Look at you,” Anya continues, running his hands down Curly's waist. “So pretty for me.”
A shiver runs down Curly's spine as Anya leans into Curly's ear. “Curly,” he says. Curly can feel his breath on his neck, “Would you be a doll and fetch me the strap?”
Blood rushes to Curly's dick at the idea of being fucked like this. He collects himself, nodding as he goes to leave. Anya's hands catch his waist.
“What do you say to me?” Anya demands.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good girl.”
And that- that does something to Curly, his entire body frozen in place. Good girl. Good girl.
Anya's face shifts and he drops the dominant mask for a moment. “Was that-?”
“Good, it was good,” Curly replies breathlessly, jumping to confirm that it was fine because fuck, it was- more than good, and he needs Anya to say it again. Curly keeps his eyes locked pointedly towards the door and away from Anya.
Anya tilts Curly's head to look at him. Embarrassment fills him- he is already so worked up, and barely anything has happened. He holds Curlys face in one hand, forcing eye contact as he closely inspects Curly's face. He must be satisfied by what he sees because a coy grin slowly crosses Anya's face, before he finally releases Curly.
“Go, fetch,” Anya commands.
“Yes, sir,” Curly replies again as he scrambles towards their bedroom and towards the toy chest, finding purchase with the strap-on belt. With the dildo in hand he can't help but imagine where it is about to go. His knees feel weak as he stumbles, turning to return and starting when he sees Anya standing in the doorway watching him.
“You're always so pent up,” Anya teases. “You'd think you wouldn't be with how much I fuck you. Such a needy, needy little whore.”
He approaches, taking the belt from Curly's hands as Curly is frozen in place.
“Aw, look at that. I can already see how much of a whore you are,” Anya teases more as he leans in and runs a hand along the front of the dress where a clear tent is forming. Curly whimpers, as Anya tilts back his head and laughs.
“Would you be a good girl and sit down on the bed while I get situated?”
Curly nods, a breathless, “Yes, sir,” leaving his lips as he sits onto the bed. He doesn't turn to face where Anya is changing, he's not allowed to watch yet, hasn't been given permission. He tries to compose himself, though it's hard to ignore the sounds of the strap being put on or the shift in weight of the bed as Anya settles next to him. Curly feels like he's on fire as he tries to keep himself from squirming, his cock screaming for attention.
Anya's hands creep up around his shoulders and pull him, shoving Curly onto the bed. He slides his hands up Curly's body, pushing the dress up to reveal his straining boxers and a sliver of his belly. Curlys eyes are locked on the strap that is now attached to Anya's hips. Anya adjusts the strap casually as he leans back to admire the view in front of him.
“You really are so beautiful like this,” he murmurs, trailing his hand up Curly's thigh as Curly trembles. “So worked up and I haven't even touched you. I wonder if I can get you to cum just by fucking you.”
Curly presses his mouth into the mattress as he muffles a moan at the idea, hips bucking. Anya tsks, yanking Curly's head by the hair.
“Don't do that,” he scolds. “Not unless I tell you to. You know I like to hear my puppy whine.”
Curly nods. “Sorry. I'm sorry.”
Anya shakes his head. “That's not enough. Beg for me. Beg me to fuck you.”
“Anya-”
“Beg.”
“Fuck me,” Curly begs, head lolling back as he pants heavily. “Please, Anya, please fuck me. Please. Please. I promise I'll be good. Please.”
Anya pauses, as an idea seems to come to his head. He smiles down on Curly as Curly continues to beg and please.
“Curly,” Anya says, “Promise you'll be a good girl.”
“I will, I promise, I promise.”
“Say it. Say you'll be a good girl.”
Curly groans. “I'll be a good girl. I'll be a good girl. I'll be your good girl, Anya. Please let me be your good girl.”
Anya watches Curly for a moment more, enjoying watching Curly squirming and panting. Finally, he shifts Curly onto his back and yanks down his boxers, finally freeing Curlys cock from it's restraints. Curly keens, grinding his ass backwards as Anya spreads his cheeks, teasing the edge with the tips of his fingers. Without warning, Anya plunges his digits inwards, thrusting into Curly's prostate. Curly almost screams at the sudden pleasure shaking his body, Anya not giving him a moment of reprieve, building a steady rhythm as he presses Curly down into the mattress. Just as the heat knotting in Curly's stomach feels like it might release, Anya pulls away. Curly sobs, gasping and choking for air.
Anya shifts, lining up his cock at Curly's entrance.
“You can't cum until I tell you to.”
Anya doesn't give Curly a chance to respond as he thrusts his cock forward, shifting Curly until he finds an angle to hit Curly's prostate at just the right spot. He continues the nonstop rhythm as Curly groans, curling his fists into the sheets and gritting his teeth as he fights for control of himself against the waves of pleasure. He will be a good girl. He will only cum when Anya lets him. Anya presses him into the mattress as tears and sweat roll down Curlys face.
“10…9…” Anya starts counting down. He adjusts his angle, pressing Curly further down into the mattress, slowing his rythym for more intense thrusts. “8...7…6…”
“5…4…” Anya punctuates each number by thrust of his cock, pounding into Curly with an echoing slap. “3….2…”
“..1!”
Curlys vision goes white and his entire body shakes with the force of his cum finally given release. His cock strains as it finally unloads and he lays exhausted on the bed as aftershocks still tremble through his body and. Anya leans back panting as he pulls his cock out of Curlys hole. He smiles down on Curly as Curlys thighs tremble and shake as he comes. Curly is a wreck, flushed and panting and covered in his own cum, the dress riding further up his body. Anya leans down to wrap his arms around Curly, pressing kisses against the nape of his neck.
“So pretty…” Anya pants, catching his breath as well. “So pretty for me.”
Needless to say, the crossdressing becomes something of a regular in their bedroom scenes.
And that's really how it starts- sex. Crossdressing. It's not something Curly ever thought he would enjoy, but it's impossible to deny the thrill he gets out of it every time Anya presents him with a new lingere set or outfit to try.
But the thing is….it's sort of fun, regardless. Curly paints his nails for a scene where he gets especially dressed up, but then he just…leaves the nail polish on. Repaints it when it begins to chip off. He starts growing his hair out, doing careful research into maintaining his curls properly. It all just gives him a giddy sort of feeling. Anya starts calling him pretty and beautiful and other more feminine adjectives in their day to day life- once, he slips and accidentally calls Curly his girlfriend and Curly has to keep himself from smiling the rest of the day.
Anya admits the whole thing gives him a sort of gender euphoria. While gender roles are a scam, he claims, there is also something very affirming about taking on the “masculine” role in their sexual encounters.
Which makes Curly…the “feminine.” He tries not to think about how happy that makes him feel.
He does a lot of research into the whole…being trans thing. Because Curly's trying to be supportive, but he's wildly out of his depth, and the longer they're together and as Anya starts talking about transition goals, the more clear it is that he needs to Learn About Things to continue to be supportive.
So he starts by googling things Anya had mentioned- surgeries and hormones, what that would look like. He learns what a phalloplasty is, and tries not to think about Anya with one. He learns what top surgery is and sees a bunch of cool tattoo designs for the scars- which he saves, because even if Anya opts for the less invasive version of the surgery, Curly knows he will also find the tattoos sick.
He reads about terms like gender euphoria and affirmation, taking notes on the different experiences and things that might elicit them. He takes notes of exercises that would help Anya build the physique hes looking for, building out a plan for a routine that they can start together. If he has ulterior motives in wanting to watch Anya work out, sue him.
It's the discussions of gender dysphoria that make him pause. He knew what dysphoria was- Anya had explained it to him at length when he had first come out. It was the discomfort a trans person felt with their body, the disconnect between the perceived gender and the inner world.
He'd known about that. The self hating, miserable narrative of gender dysphoria. But he comes across a post that halts him in his tracks
“For me, dysphoria didn't manifest in hating myself. If you had asked me, I was fine being a girl. I just…didn't think about it. I was completely disconnected from my body. I wouldn't look in mirrors not because I didn't like what I saw, but because I didn't recognize that was in the mirror as ‘me.’ Cutting my hair short for the first time, was the first time when I looked in the mirror and saw myself looking back. And it was like -oh. Hello. There you are. I didn't know that recognizing myself was an option.”
Curly feels like he is being dissected on a medical table, laid open to bare. He had never felt connected to his body- he was a chronic dissociative. He had trouble reading his body's signals, had never placed much stock in his appearance because he was sort of uncomfortable thinking about it.
He had trouble looking in mirrors.
It was like all the puzzle pieces were finally clicking together- because it was so easy, now, to see what he had been doing with the crossdressing. That was gender euphoria. That was him (her?) seeking a way to express…himself.
Herself.
Curly's heart races in her chest and her ears ring. Oh. It's that simple, isn't it? She likes dressing like a girl and being called a girl because…she's a girl.
The revelation is apparent- but instead of a relief, she is shaking with terror. She doesn't want to be a girl- at least not to anybody else. This has been a precious, private thing between her and Anya, a secret joy when she looks down at her painted nails or tucks her hair back behind her ear. She doesn't want to transition. She doesn't want people to know this innermost part of herself, she doesn't want this fragile peace to be shattered. Does she have to transition if she's a girl? She doesn't want a vagina or surgeries or hormones or people looking at her.
Curly has always been a very private person and suddenly she feels like she's being put on display.
She feels like Jimmy is speaking in her ears, cajoling her. “Don't you know that Curly's a tranny?” he hisses. “Not even a real one. He just likes to get off on it, like some sort of freak. How can you claim to be trans if you wont even fucking transition? Is this some sort of fetish for you?”
She knows it's not real- but her history with Jimmy has left her clutching her vulnerabilities toght to her chest. Any time she would venture to open up, to try to connect with her friend- Jimmy would later turn around and use it as fodder for an accusation. She wasn't depressed, she just didn't care. She was happy about everybody else getting fired befause it meant she had a way out- she wasnt adrift in life, she was cruel and schadenfreude. She wasn't standing with her feet in cement at the edge of a bridge- she was on the top of a ladder looking down at the lowest rungs.
Maybe it's that. Maybe it's her childhood and learning to keep her troubles to herself for the sake of her father's peace of mind- of not wanting to shatter hia fragile, grief stricken peace.
Maybe she's just always been more reserved than the average person.
But the idea of being trans is a creeping, horrifying concept. She pushes the laptop away from her suddenly, backing up from it as if somehow the physical distance will make the revelation any less true. She runs her hands through her hair- her long hair, she realizes with a start, nausea churning in her stomach. Oh, God, is it already obvious? She turns her attention to her nails, desperately scraping at the polish to get it off, get it off. She's making her nail beds bleed but she doesn't care, her breathing becomes labored as she claws more desperately, hiccuping a sob.
Anya knocks at the bathroom door. Curly isn't sure when she's ended up here, curled up on the bathroom floor.
“Curly?” Anya calls out, concern in his voice.
Curly can't respond. She needs all proof of herself gone. She claws at her hands before tugging at her hair and yanking, as she lets out a sob. Anya forces himself into the room and falls to her side, gently trying to untangle Curly's hands as she sobs, rocking back and forth.
“You're hurting yourself,” Anya pleads as he tries to pry Curly's hands from digging into her scalp. Curly shakes her head, sobbing, as Anya holds her hands tightly to stop her from doing more more damage. “Whats wrong? Please.”
“I'm a girl,” Curly blurts out pathetically as she cries. Anya rubs soothing circles into her back. “But I dont- I dont-I don't want people to know. I'm not like you, Anya, I don't- I don't want- can't I just be a girl for me and nobody else?”
“Oh,” Anya says as the realization hits him. “Oh, Curly. Of course you can.”
She shakes her head “But that's not how- that's not-”
Anya adjsust so he's looking at Curly head-on. He reaches a hand out, gently tilting Curly's face up to look at him. “Being trans isn't for anybody else but you. You don't have to do anything you don't want to. You don't have to be anything you don't want to. It's okay if you just want to be a girl for you. That's okay .”
Curly sniffles. “And you. “
Anya snorts. “Yeah. I kind of got that. “
She sighs, leaning into Anyas shoulders tiredly as Anya embraces her, rocking the pair together. Curly looks down at her bleeding nails.
“...Do you think people can tell?” she asks. “I…guys wear nailpolish.”
“I think maybe….other people like us might be able to get an inkling,” Anya admits. “It's like a soul connection. But most people won't be able to. At most. they'll think you're gay.”
“Which I am,” Curly says. “Or…I guess not? We've circled back round to heterosexuality. Technically.”
“I don't think there's anything heterosexual about this.”
Curly pauses. She looks at Anya and his tits and eyeliner and closet still full of “feminine” clothes. She thinks about herself and her beard and her cock and less-than-femine physique.
“Yeah, “ Curly admits, letting out a giggle. “I guess not.”