#Breast forms are the best and most convenient form of shapewear for me

[theeretblr]

can you share what breast forms you use please? :O

Of course!

Here is a list of some various shapewear things I use as an AMAB Genderfluid person:

Chest Stuff - Breast forms: https://a.co/d/3Ph0LBW - Cheap bra that I use most days: https://a.co/d/08kTI2v - Larger, full coverage bra that is more supportive: https://a.co/d/dtKLRXm

You can just slot the breast forms into the bra. Make sure to measure your band size so you get the right size. I would recommend starting smaller to average size (B/C cup) as larger breasts can be harder to make more casual outfits with (they're also just heavier).

Hip Stuff - The short hip pads I use (though they are currently unavailable): https://a.co/d/8apRadX - Longer hip pads that I use sometimes, they are sometimes too long for certain skirts, dresses, and shorts (also unavailable D:): https://a.co/d/iXXzvPJ - Butt pads: https://a.co/d/0zdzmZv

I can't attest for other hip pads, but I'm sure you can find similar to what I have!

[gunmetalgaze]

#CoupleGoals

[Valentine's Day. The most miserable, overdone, saccharine parade of sentiment known to humanity. And by extension, vampires. My symphath side though, oh, she can find an upside to this day. Even if I had to endure my own form of torture before getting to the payoff.]

Are you sure this dress needs to be taped on? I have zero clue about the makeup, but the woman in the shop said nobody could wear this dress without Spanx, until she saw it on me. [And that comment nearly got the saleswoman punched in the face, until I remembered hearing some of the working girls in the locker room, lamenting that they couldn't wear shapewear and do their jobs. Scanning the locker room for anything that might need upgraded, I try not to begrudge these three their fun. It's not like it’s everyday they get to play dress up with the head of security as their doll.

“No offense, but we know about maintaining a look, all night, no matter what - or who - you are doing.”

Giving a small, tight smile that does little to hide the clenching of my jaw, I spread my arms wide.] Have at it then. Turn me into a Valentine dream. And no, you don't know him. [A hot date. Something special. A convenient lie to make sure I can keep my game going another year. It takes no time for the ladies to help me shimmy into the dress. A few pieces of two-sided tape, and a little too much groping of my breasts in my opinion, and it's on to the next battle. My lack of proper undergarments gets all three of them rolling their eyes at me. Apparently the wrong lingerie ruins the lines, and plain cotton panties are definitely wrong. I'm too stunned to object when they strip the things off me, but what can it hurt to go one night without panties? A towel is wrapped around me to protect the dress from any spilled makeup while much chatter goes on about my cheekbones, my lashes, my general lack of hair - facial as well as my cut - and any number of other things that I let wash over me. I open my eyes - and my mouth for some reason? - for mascara, but decline any and all perfume. There have to be /some/ limits. Somehow, the ladies create an illusion of more hair. Before I can panic, it's time for the death traps that pass for shoes. Another argument starts about those.

“She's already so tall!”

“But look what they do for her legs!”

“And her ass.”

“A man would have to be a giant to not be intimidated by a woman that tall.” Enough of that noise.]

Any man who is not confident enough to stand beside me while I wear these shoes, can be kicked to the curb by them. [While I would always prefer a solid pair of combat boots for that job, I have to admit that I could stab someone with these, in a pinch. Good thing, too, as there is no way this dress can hide a blade. The tiny clutch bag barely holds my phone, some cash, and the lipstick the working girls insist on sending with me.

After reassuring them them that I /can/ walk in heels, and dodging their efforts to find out where my “date” is happening, I call for a cab to pick me up at the back door. One year I may push too things too far, and I don't want to answer questions about my evening. A quick wave, and I'm in the cab, considering scrubbing the memories of this torture from the ladies, but leaving them alone as always. I rattle off the restaurant name to the cabbie, Chez Whatever-the-Fuck the most romantic restaurant of the year is, and his brows pop slightly. Yeah, because Trade street is far from the high end cuddling couples stretch of restaurants, physically and figuratively. The drive is surprisingly quick, so I tip the driver a little extra. Given the hints of marijuana coming off the upholstery, the direct route was a pleasant surprise.

A pretentious lackey in a red vest and bowtie opens the door for me, and I take the offered hand as I attempt some form of car/dress yoga that does /not/ flash my assets to everyone milling around. I shouldn't have let the girls keep those panties after all. How the hell does this even work? Swinging my legs out, I hope for the best. The valet, door boy, or whatever his job description is, looks around for a second occupant briefly, before ushering me toward the door.

Inside is enough red to have my heart playing jackhammer in my chest, but I am still firmly in control. For now. Red roses. Red heart balloons. Red confetti hearts scattered on blessedly white tablecloths. Giving the name of the reservation at the hostess stand, I get the familiar look about being alone when the reservation is for two. I make a show of checking my phone, nearly losing the absurd tube of goo as there is no extra room in the clutch, and shake my head at the hostess.]

He’s running late. You'd think a heart surgeon could get Valentine's day off, right? [A tiny push of suggestion into her mind, and suddenly she thinks it is the sweetest thing in the world that my darling surgeon doesn't want me to stand around waiting. Especially given all the special requests noted, and paid for, on the reservation.

My table is the only one still empty, having timed this for the height of their rush. One of their better tables for a romantic evening, it has a little more window visibility than I care for, but a good view of the entire space. Not that I need to see anything in here for what I have planned. I could do without the cloying mix of perfumes, colognes, and candles, though the food smells quite good.

A waiter approaches, wearing the same red vest and bowtie combo as every other male staffer in the place, and hesitates with the wine list. Because ingrained sexism is still alive and well. I reach for the leather folder with as large a smile as I dare.] Wonderful. I'll go ahead and order drinks while I wait. [Sending out threads of my symphath side to start reading the room, I lower my voice to a stage whisper.] He's clueless about fine wines, anyway. [Still reluctant to break protocol, I have to tug the slightly before the human nods, and hustles off to his next table. The list is designed to maximize margins, of course. Cheaper stuff with fancy names marked up to trap those who want to buy the most expensive thing. That trick works in restaurants, but not so much in clubs, and I know my alcohol.

When the human returns, I order a bottle of their /actual/ best red. His attitude toward me eases as he heads off to take care of my order.

Finally, I get a hot minute to get a real read on this crowd. The lust is a no brainer, and not worth my effort to tweak. No. I want the dirty secrets, the lies, the cheating, the breakups a heartbeat away from happening. Two couples stand out for my special attention. One woman who desperately hopes her date doesn't propose, since she already plans to break up with him - tomorrow, in fact - but he has plans to record their evening for blackmail. Niiiice. I'm not personally big on the sex tape blackmail though, so I plant a few little mental landmines guaranteed to make sure the only video he gets is of his own performance issues.

My waiter returns, does the pour and taste routine before both glasses are filled, and leaves two menus. My second target couple have both been cheating, with their business partner. Combing through their minds, I have to admit the man has skills. Not just in the bedroom. He has them both embezzling money, and convinced he will run away with them, if only they would get a divorce. So why are they in the most romantic restaurant in Caldwell, playing at being #CoupleGoals? Prenup, natch. Stoking their mutual desire for the same man, it isn't long before phones are being checked under the table.

Speaking of phones, I play with mine again as the waiter returns. “Is everything well, miss?” Oh. He's worried about a tip. There's a line for tables in case someone pulls a no-show, but how do you kick out the single who made the first reservation for Valentine's?] No problem at all. He's on his way. [Pulling out a hundred dollar bill, I press it into the waiter's hand, at the same time as I press the suggestion into his brain that everything is perfect at this table.] I'm ready to order now. I plan to enjoy my meal.

[I look quickly down at the menu, as everything in my vision flips to red. I plan to enjoy more than one type of meal tonight, and all these human couples can self destruct for all I care. Their personal demons, my personal playthings. The upside of being a Symphath.]