#the dress looks GREAT on me and I only tried it on bc the seams were so weird I thought it'd look silly and it DID NOT!

[lilbugprincess]

I wore a pretty cute outfit the other day but I didn't take any good photos and then remembered I designed a little bugsona specifically for moments like this!!!!

I didn't realize that my socks didn't reach my dress hem until I had already left the house. It was below freezing....

[drowsystarlight]

I like the idea of Death the Kid having a walk-in closet full of pristine branded clothes (honestly a Special kind bc he values style and comfort). He’s rich and lives in a Mansion with multiple rooms. Suits are his casual attire and he’s just that type of person. He never needed a material thing that he couldn’t just get. He can buy that shit. If a dress shirt ceases being symmetrical? Ditch it. Buy a new one. His customized blazer got damaged? Replace it. Easy. No son of Death would wear anything less than perfect.

Meanwhile, Blackstar is the type to keep the same five pairs of clothes until they’re literally breaking down at each seam.

Tsubaki even has to beg him to buy new stuff, or gift it to him on birthdays (even those ones get worn down for years, too). He grew up under Sid’s care and i bet he never had the luxurious life Kid had. Maybe Sid bought him clothes out of his own salary as a teacher and Blackstar knew that, so he treasures the clothes he gets. Assassin clothes, hand wraps, tank tops, sleep attire, old hand-me-downs get cut up and recycled into bandages or wraps for training, etc. Maybe he knows how to sew because he wanted to keep wearing a specific star-filled tank top Sid got him for his 13th birthday, so he asked Nygus to teach him. He wasn’t good at it at first but hey, practice eventually makes perfect. When he goes to missions and fights, he repairs the damage in his clothes. He’ll keep wearing the same shit until it gives up on him and even then, he really doesn’t want to let it go. Shoes are his worst nightmare because all his running wears it down fast.

It’s easy to write him off as a slob. Blackstar wore nothing formal; he looked like shit when he tried, too, slobbering for food when he attended the Academy’s founding anniversary. The boy didn’t know class, or finesse, or elegance. Everything he did screamed fucking reckless and immature. Obnoxious. It showed in his clothes, tattered as they are—because why else would it be so worn down if he was a careful man?

Being friends doesn’t exactly erase the impression, but it opens a bridge to ask. When Kid finally asks Blackstar why he circles through the same two tank tops whenever the group hung out outside the school, he’d say he liked the star designs. It suits me, he’d brag, and Kid is just jealous of his great clothing sense. Typical. But Maka eventually, secretly, tells Kid it’s just a special top because he’s had it since the both of them were twelve (everyone knows Blackstar would rather eat dirt than admit to being attached to things). Sentimental and Blackstar didn’t feel like they belong in the same sentence, but that thought felt odd now that he knew. Especially after he sees him discreetly check the stitches after an intense basketball match.

Death the Kid would notice every new stitch on Blackstar’s uniform after a mission since then. From afar, you don’t see it because it’s hidden well, but up close (maybe when they’re sparring, or sitting next to each other, or that day when Blackstar carried him through Excalibur’s wretched cave—though he foolishly shrugged that off). He can see it if he paid attention long enough, if Blackstar doesn’t move around too much for a moment. Stitches on top of old fixes, or the odd bits of his tank top turning out to be patches he couldn’t really hide. When he points it out again, they’re alone together and Blackstar happily shows it off (“I’m the best at everything, including sewing! Marvel at my craft!”). Kid admits ti thinking he’s a slob, and then the man would proceed to poke and prod at him for his branded stuff. There’s a reason why everyone saw him as a spoiled brat, after all; on the walk home that day, he ponders if he really is. (Liz and Patty say yes.)

Maybe it only really hits Kid, how much he’s really changed, when he lends Blackstar some pajamas after a gnarly night fighting against kishin eggs. Blackstar refused until he shoved the soft, flawless cotton in the man’s hands—told him to shut up and What, so the great Blackstar can’t handle wearing neat pajamas? He’s only ever seen him in tank tops but the sleeves didn’t seem to be the source of Blackstar’s discomfort. Having a spontaneous sleepover with the others, having Patty cause chaos in the name of fun—their antics eventually result into a rip of threads that only Blackstar seemed to be startled by. He apologizes as he returns it the next day, early in the morning, as neatly folded and packed in a paperbag as he could. Maybe Tsubaki did the folding. Blackstar is shit at folding clothes or wearing stuff that weren’t creased to hell and back.

But by then, even if there’s a stitch on only one sleeve, Kid keeps it. Seeing it makes him smile. The damage was repaired with a star-shaped stitch—(how did he even do that?), but he doesn’t wear it yet. He tells himself it would drive him insane, knowing something is off, but he hangs it with his other clothes. He didn’t need to replace it this time; Blackstar fixed it, and it wasn’t ruined. It’s better.

[langdvnshepherd]

Michael x Male reader fluff ??

Word Count: 1.8k

Warnings: character death, angst, mentions of smut, fluff

A/N: I’ve never written any male!reader fics so this is a first! I’d love to write more so let me know if you’d like me to take a shot at something else! Under a cut bc this one is way longer than the usual requests I answer!

The timid knocks on his door were quiet, but they startled him nonetheless. It was the middle of the night. Everyone he talked to had been in bed for hours now, the halls were quiet and his social media feeds had died down. He’d been awake, reluctantly, of course, staring blankly at the ceiling, contemplating all of the recent events that had turned his world upside down.

Something inside of him felt like the person on the other side of the door was the same person that had been preoccupying his thoughts for months now, but the greater part inside of him told him to let it go. He was gone. He wasn’t coming back. He’d left him alone in the Hawthorne dorm they’d spent initially as roommates, and up until now, lovers.

He heard his named being called by a hoarse voice from outside of his dorm.

No. It couldn’t be.

“Michael?!” he breathlessly exclaimed as he jolted up from his bed and flung the weighted, wooden door ajar. 

It was him. He had been so certain that he’d scared him off. Maybe he had been too much. Maybe he’d smothered him in a way that Michael wasn’t fond of. Or maybe Michael was the one that was scared. Too petrified of what others would think to take things any further than they’d already gone. He was convinced for a while that one else in the world existed but him and Michael. That was until Michael had up and disappeared in the middle of the night with no explanation. He’d been gone for days, until right at this moment.

Michael looked like he’d been to hell and back. His hair, the thick, golden strands that he loved to tug on when Michael nestled himself coyly between his legs and made him see stars, was matted and caked with muddy earth. His clothes, ones that Michael took great pride in upkeeping, were ripped to shreds, barely hanging on to his malnourished torso. But the most gut-wrenching part of his entire appearance was his eyes. He’d spent many nights gazing into them. Not saying anything, just staring. He’d memorized every dip and ridge of his blue-green irises, how they changed color depending on the intensity of the lamp on his bedside table. No matter how dark or how light, his eyes were always glimmering. They spoke to him in many ways that Michael often couldn’t communicate with words, so to see them now was quite possibly the hardest part of seeing him again. 

They were sunken in and dull, the aquamarine now a deep, sallow grey. Underneath his eyes were dark purple shadows, indicating he probably hadn’t slept well since the last night they spent together.

“Where have you been? What happened to you?” the boy asked, feeling warm, fresh tears pooling in the corners of his eyes.

He pulled Michael into his room and shut the door behind him, where Michael immediately collapsed into his arms. The boy lowered both of their bodies, sliding against the wall until they were curled into each other on the floor. 

Michael was weeping, his chest heaving, tears soaking the boy’s pajama top. The boy held Michael as close to him as he could, disregarding the clumps of mud that fell around him and onto his lap each time a sob wracked through Michael’s body. 

He was almost in shock, in a way. In the days since Michael’s disappearance, he’d convinced himself that he’d never be able to hold him or touch him like this again. He’d stopped going to class, stopped socializing with his friend group, stopped eating. There was something so addictive about the Boy Wonder that waltzed through the doors of the private academy for warlocks just months ago, and to be ripped away from him cold turkey was the worst kind of withdrawal to go through. 

“Mikey,” he tried drawing Michael from his chest to look him in the face.

Michael didn’t budge. He stayed in the same position, clutching tightly to the boy’s frame. 

“Talk to me, Michael. What’s wrong?”

“She’s gone,” he choked out, inhaling the salty tears that pooled in the center of his dry and cracked lips.

“Who? Who’s gone?”

He was getting closer, getting him to open up little by little. He prayed to whoever was listening that he’d get somewhere with him. That he’d get the clarity he needed to justify the days he’d spent wallowing in his own self-pity. But he also knew that Michael rarely spoke about himself and how he was feeling. Maybe talking Michael through whatever had just happened to him could bring some clarity into his own life.

“My Ms. Mead. She’s dead. They killed her.”

More sobs, more heaving, more tearing apart at the seams. He’d seen Michael cry only once before when Michael told him that he thought he was in love with him, but those were different tears, a different kind of fear and excitement. These tears were forlorn. They were grieving.

The boy holding Michael stroked his spine, occasionally reaching out to work at the knots built up in his back. It felt right, to have Michael in his arms again, but it felt selfish to be savoring the moment like this. Not when Michael had just lost the only other person he’d ever heard Michael talk about loving.

“I’m so sorry, Michael,” he whispered.

“Who killed her?”

“Those fucking witches,” Michael snarled in between breaths, his grip around the boy’s middle growing uncomfortably tight.

“I’m going to murder every last one of them.”

“You’re delirious. Let’s get you in bed. We can talk more in the morning.”

Cordelia was the Supreme, as you’d heard all about it when she visited Los Angeles after hearing word that Michael might have powers greater than her own. Michael was certainly out of his mind if he thought he could successfully take down an entire coven without being burned at the stake first.

Michael nodded weakly against the boy’s chest.

“Actually, I think you need a shower first. Think you can stand?”

Michael shook his head, “No.”

“That’s okay. It’s okay, Michael,” he reassured him, rubbing his back once more.

The boy lifted Michael from the floor, holding him up by the chest as they hobbled to the bathroom connected to the dorm room. 

He stripped Michael down, running his fingers over the protruding bones of his ribcage, feeling more and more devastated as each article of clothing was discarded onto the cold tile. He checked the temperature of the shower faucet before removing his own clothing, then carefully held onto Michael’s hand before stepping into the shower with him. 

The boy worked the shampoo through Michael’s scalp, feeling the tension literally lift off of Michael’s shoulders at the feeling of being tended to. Clumps of dirt and mud swirled at the bottom of the shower drain as he lathered the rose-scented soap, Michael’s favorite, across his chest and back, then down to the meat of his thighs and ankles. When he was done cleaning up the mess Michael had made of himself, they stood idling underneath the scalding hot, flowing water. 

They’d done this many times before, showered together. It often ended in wandering hands and creating more steam than what was caused by the temperature of the water, but this was entirely different kind of needy. He felt like Michael might quite literally crumble if he let him go. 

They stayed there until the water ran cold, bodies flush against one another, buried in the crook of either one’s necks.

“You want some clothes to sleep in? All of yours are still here,” he questioned, walking over to the dresser that held all of Michael’s belongings he’d left behind when he vanished.

“Can I sleep in yours?” Michael asked, exhaustion taking over every fiber of his being. 

He was perched on the foot of the boy’s bed, shoulders slumped over, tiny beadlets of water dripping from the ends of his freshly washed hair and pooling into the crevice of his closed thighs.

“Of course,” he answered, going back to his own wardrobe to reach for the shirt of his that he knew Michael loved best.

He approached Michael with the fabric in his hands, situating it so that he could slip it easily over Michael’s head. Michael could barely hold his arms up long enough to slide them through the armholes, his breathing becoming manual and deep when he was able to drop them back down to his sides. 

“I thought you were gone,” the boy spoke so quietly that Michael almost couldn’t hear him. 

Michael looked up at him with more tears in his eyes, an overflow of emotions bombarding him once again to see how much he had hurt the only person he had left.

“I’m sorry,” his voice cracked as the water ran down his cheeks.

“Don’t cry Mikey,” the boy shushed him.

“I’m just glad you’re back.”

When he reached down to grab the towel Michael had used to dry his body, Michael gripped him back the back of the neck, pulling him into a passionate kiss. They both realized they’d missed the taste of each other more than they had initially thought as their lips massaged one another’s, the tips of their tongues dancing along the edge of each other’s bottom lips. When he pulled away, there was a faint wash of a smile peeking through the features of Michael’s face. The corners of his mouth turned up just slightly, and his eyes seemed to brighten just half a shade at the familiar sense of security, his boyfriend’s comforting touch.

As soon as Michael was dressed in clean clothes that weren’t coated in the remnants of his worst nightmare, he laid his head back onto the mattress on which he’d spent many nights prior to this. Much like the shower, many of those nights had been sleepless and erotic, but other times they were soft and gentle. Nervous, shy pecking on the lips and clammy, inexperienced fingers, but mostly just sleeping. Michael had quickly realized that every night spent in his own bunk right beside his lover’s was a night wasted. He’d slept far better next to him than he ever had on his own. 

The boy crawled in bed next to Michael, cozying up to his warm, drowsy body and slipping his arm under Michael’s t-shirt and around his middle. He stroked Michael’s tummy with his palm, refamiliarizing himself with each dip and curve of his torso.

He knew it was no use trying to pry any more words out of Michael. He was snoring the second his head hit the pillow, and he knew that because of the faint snores that escaped his lips almost immediately.

He had wished for this moment. For Michael to come back and lay with him once again. And he’d gotten what he’d asked for. Only it didn’t resemble the way he’d pictured it. 

His intuition made his stomach churn, for fear that this reunion was only temporary, and Michael might be leaving again far sooner than he could bear.

//

Gonna tag a handful because this one’s a lil long!!

@avesatanormalpeoplescareme @venusxxlangdon @wroteclassicaly @sojournmichael @1-800-bitchcraft 

[possiblypeachy]

tea & schemes. (11)

―; summary: getting ready for the dinner party is a lot more anxiety-filled than anyone had perhaps thought-- for good reason, too.

―; pairing: jacob frye x ofc

―; word count: 4.4k

―; warnings: light swearing. willard generally making me uncomfortable ksjdksj

―; A/N: They!! Them!! i had a burst of “let’s write” today and slammed out like half of this so please pardon any stupid mistakes kshdskd please do enjoy, however, bc i’m love Them and i want everyone else to too!

―; tags: @vamprose (bebbee) (p.s. do ask if you’d like to be tagged in the future!)

―; part: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11

― ❊ ―

“Felicity!” Florence groaned, puffing out her chest perhaps more than was needed in order to prove a point. “The seams will burst if you--” Lace tightened again and she sucked in a sharp breath, “-- adjust the corset any further.”

Lissie ignored her, contemplating whether or not to tie it up or continue pulling. It appears she had decided on the latter. “Nonsense.” She unthreaded a portion of the lace, finally allowing Florence to take a deep breath, before simply making the section achingly tighter. “You’re having dinner with nobility, dear; we must accentuate those hips of yours else--”

“I think you forget that I have no plans on marrying Willard.” There was a pause. “He’s a prick.”

Lissie chortled behind her, finally tying the lace up and patting her back, making sure everything was in place. “Yes, but you have to look like you want to marry him and bear those beautiful, golden-haired children of his.”

Florence gagged, turning to collect her crinolette from the chair with a frown. “I’ll have nightmares for weeks if you’re not careful.”

The maid took it from her and gestured for her to lean over somewhat so she could shimmy it over Florence’s body. “Besides,” She began, watching on as Florence did a strange little jig, helping the crinolette settle over her hips and backside evenly. A dastardly curl tugged at the maid’s lips, “Jacob’s to be going with you, is he not?” Florence groaned, rubbing the space between her brows. “It’s not such a bad thing to make him look at your arse--”

“Lissie!” She hit the maid, stopping her from sliding petticoats over Florence’s head. Lissie did that dirty little giggle of hers before continuing with the task at hand. “I don’t-- I’m not going to--”

“Don’t lie to me, dear.” Lissie’s face was so deadpan that it made one wonder how desensitised she truly was to topics like this. Florence, on the other hand, had red-tinged ears and a twist to her lips that told of a loss of innocence. “He’s a handsome man. It’s only right that you might want to… butter the biscuit--”

“Felicity, no--”

“Perhaps a bit of dancing in the sheets?”

“I have no intention to seduce Jacob in the middle of Willard’s estate.” Florence huffed, turning to collect up her skirts and throw them over her head. “That’s… so many levels of sin and I,” Her nose upturned slightly, a certain amusement dancing about in her eyes, “am a woman of great virtue.”

Lissie pursed her lips, bending over to ensure that Florence’s dress fell properly around her ankles. “Well,” She straightened herself again, blue eyes meeting brown, “I would’ve at your age. The naughtiness makes it all the better.”

Florence’s lips curled into an inquisitive smirk, an eyebrow raised as she slid her arms into her bodice, slowly buttoning it with a look in her eyes that was enough to make any criminal confess. “I feel like there’s a story behind that statement.” She flattened the material down, spinning about in the mirror to check how she looked, before dragging her gaze back to Lissie. “Pray tell?”

Lissie rolled her lips inwards, contemplating. Then, with a sigh, she gestured toward that vanity table, encouraging Florence to sit. “Fine. I’ll tell you while I sort out your hair, though you mustn’t tell anyone-- especially not the leatherworker down the road.”

Florence gasped. “You didn’t!”

“It’s…” Lissie huffed out a laugh, clicking her tongue, “... probably not what you think.”

--

The sky had darkened outside, a mere strip of orange at the horizon and the beginnings of stars dotting the heavens. Florence had made a little home at the dining table, speaking with her brother about the possible events of the night. Every-so-often, he would have to hold one of her shaking hands or made a stupid joke-- as is the way of older brothers-- to calm her poor nerves. She’d end up ripping her hair out and no one wanted that; Lissie would kill him.

“When do you think the carriage driver will be here?” Her voice had a tinge of worry to it, words forced out a little faster than usual. Florence hadn’t stopped chewing her lips since Lissie had finished with her hair.

“Soon, I suspect.” Freddy had said this quickly, wanting to take a sip of tea to brace himself for the question he planned to ask next. “Why are you so… concerned about this whole ordeal? It’s unlike you, Florrie; where’s the girl that was spitting on kidnappers?”

Her mouth twisted into a smile at that, though one of her hands came up to hide it, eyes still proclaiming worry. “He-- Willard-- just feels so much more…” Her eyes dragged across the room as she searched for a word. Finally, her gaze met his again, “... serious. I’m tired of being two different people-- my name may as well be bloody... Margaret when I’m with him. Lying is harder when the prospect of marrying the villain is so very real.”

Frederick hummed, dark eyes glazed with thought. “Father wouldn’t want you to marry anyone you were opposed to. Besides,” The look he gave her was earnest, “all we need is a shred of evidence-- solid evidence-- against him and I can get him arrested myself. Speaking of which,” He turned slightly so that he could look toward the door, “where is Mister Frye?”

Florence clasped her hands together, trying to push the worry into the pit of her stomach rather than letting it loose in her heart. “I’m sure he’s nearby.” Freddy gave her an unconvinced look. “Jacob wouldn’t break his promise to me.”

“You trust him a lot.” Freddy clicked his tongue, stirring his spoon about in his tea. Then, he withdrew it from the cup and pointed it at his sister. “He’s an assassin, you know? They deal in lies and secrecy.”

“Freddy--”

He held his hands up, surrendering. “I’m just making an observation, Florrie. I don’t want you to put all of your coins in one pot only to later realise that it’s actually a tube.”

“Jacob is not a tube--”

A knock came to the door, along with muffled conversation. Freddy and Florence shot each other a look and he rose from his chair.

“It’s Jacob.”

“Or, the carriage driver.”

Florence’s expression soured and Frederick took that as his queue to leave her at the table. Good thing that he did too, else that pompous tie he wore would be strangling him.

Another two knocks rapped against their door and Freddy heard an exasperated sigh on the other side. He fiddled with the lock for a few moments before opening the door, revealing not one Frye but two. How wonderful. He felt his very soul shiver.

“-- you not tell me sooner? If you believe him to be a threat, you could’ve--”

“Evening, Freddy. Looking as handsome as ever.” Jacob squeezed in through the door, tipping his hat-- his top hat-- in greeting as he passed the police officer. Evie followed suit, too caught up in lecturing her brother to even say a quick ‘hello’ to Freddy, who looked like he’d been through a hurricane and a half without the night having even begun.

“-- warned me so I could sort it out. Aren’t you too busy doing that Pearl woman’s dirty work to be attending dinner parties?”

Jacob spun around on his heel, making Evie bump into him, which in turn only angered her further. “Why can I not do both? Didn’t you always want me to be more active in civilised society?” Florence poked her head around the doorway to see Evie clench her fist. Jacob’s head dipped to the side, as if he wanted to invade her space but didn’t want a black eye before the event. “Or, have you finally become aware that I’m the one doing all the work? God forbid that I take a night off, lest all of London fall, right, Evie?”

“You’re impossible!”

He blanked her and peered around his sister in hopes of meeting eyes with the sergeant. “Where’s Flor, Freddy?”

“Why must you always have your own agenda, Jacob?” Evie tried to interject to very little avail; her brother had no desire to continue their argument. He was there for Florence and, by God, he wouldn’t disappoint.

Frederick pointed loosely in the direction of the dining room, other hand raised to his forehead as if that might protect him from an oncoming headache. “Over there, anxiously eating this morning’s loaf, most likely.”

Florence, by this point, had hidden herself from view again, debating on whether she should barge into the kitchen to ask for comfort from Lissie or to suck it all up and face the rage of Evie Frye and the inevitability of tonight’s dinner plans. Just as she was about to decide on the former, hands fumbling with the door to the kitchen, three bodies turned the corner and stopped in place, watching her pat down her dress as though that was all that she had ever planned to do. Florence was a smart woman, but this was one of the occasions in which she certainly was not.

“Hello.” She said, voice wavering in such a way that she sounded like a prepubescent boy. Jacob’s lips tugged upwards.

“You look beautiful.” He replied. Freddy grimaced and Evie rolled her eyes to the side, disgusted by the prospect that their respective sibling might ever feel romantic emotions. Admittedly, however, neither could deny that Florence did look particularly dolled-up for the occasion-- what with a dress that almost matched her eyes in that golden-brown hue and loose curls framing her face. Not to say that she didn’t look nice enough any other day-- anyone who said otherwise would get a pointed look and a scowl-- but Florence had really gone all out for this dinner. There was a tiny part of his heart that felt a pang at this-- why had she put so much effort in for him?-- but he pushed it aside; she was doing what she-- everybody-- thought was right.

Florence’s lips tugged upwards and she took a few steps towards him, keeping them separated by a few chairs around the dining table. “You…” She took in his appearance, “... clean up nicely.”

He barked out a laugh. “Ah, thank you, dear Flor.” He took the liberty of moving towards her, throwing a glance at Freddy to assess how he felt on the situation. Her brother had a hawk-like glint in his eyes, sure to bat any wandering hands back to their respective owners-- whether Jacob’s or Florence’s.

Upon seeing this, she huffed a laugh through her nose and swept around the dining table-- a task that is not difficult to do when wearing such a dress-- to wrap Jacob into a hug. “I like the hat.” She murmured into his shoulder, careful to not mess up the hair that had taken Lissie so long to pin into place. Jacob’s hands hovered for a few moments, taken aback by this show of affection in front of her brother, but quickly threw all caution to the wind and accepted her embrace, planting a chaste kiss atop her head.

At that exact moment, Lissie opened the door from the kitchen, broom in hand, only to immediately coo over the pair of them, a hand pressed to her cheek and all. “Look at you couple of sweethearts!” Jacob and Florence pulled away from one another, though his hand lingered on the small of her back for a few moments before retracting. Florence’s look to the maid was filled with desperation-- a want for her to just stay quiet. Lissie was a loud woman, however. “See, Freddy?” She leant the broom against the dining table so she could take Florence’s face in her hands and squeeze her cheeks together, forcing her to face her brother. “You can’t stop young love.” When her eyes met Frederick’s, they shared a similar look of despair. Then, as her sight trailed to Evie, wondering what she might think of the whole situation, she was met with a look of confusion. Florence would’ve sighed, had her cheeks not been pushed together so tightly.

“Whve do lishen for dhe carrige drivuh.”

Everyone’s brows drew downwards in confusion.

Florence tried to huff to little avail and batted Lissie’s hands away. “We have to listen for the carriage driver.” There was a small chorus of ‘oh’s, to which Florence rolled her eyes. “It is as though I’m the only person here that has any worries about tonight.”

“I doubt he’ll-- what?-- poison us or anything.” Freddy said in an effort to calm. If anything, however, it merely made his sister angrier. The chance of him being strangled with his own tie was increasing once more. “For all intents and purposes, we’re simply going to a dinner party because this Willard bloke sees a future for you both. If he does anything-- this soon after his brother being arrested-- he’ll be throwing his entire family in the doghouse.”

Evie narrowed her eyes. “Willard Molyneux-Herbert? That’s the Willard we’re talking about?” All eyes landed on her, inquisitive, though Jacob’s gaze held a small inkling of annoyance too, borne from a desire for his sister to stay out of this business. “Mister Green has been looking into his family for a while. They’re incredibly guarded, despite being in the public eye so often, and their grounds often have Blighters loitering about-- Jacob,” Evie furrowed her brows, gesturing somewhere as if the entire ordeal was laid out in front of them like a set of blueprints, “if you had actually told me of this matter--”

Three knocks rapped at the door and an obvious sense of relief washed across Jacob’s expression. “Well, dear sister, duty calls--”

“Jacob, no--”

He shuffled himself behind Florence and began to bump her out of the door, Freddy having already gone to greet the carriage driver. With a sing-song lilt to his voice, he replied, “Jacob, yes!” and kicked the door closed with his foot, leaving Evie and Lissie alone.

The maid placed her hands on her hips. “I have a bit of stew on the hob back there, if you’d like some grub before you leave?”

Evie turned to look at her, fatigue the only readable thing on her face, and nodded, pulling out a chair and plonking herself down upon it. “That would be lovely.”

--

The carriage ride there was tense. Well, Florence thought it was, at least. Her thumbs wouldn’t stop fiddling with one another and even Jacob’s constant poking at her brother barely made her smile. There was just this… sickness in the bottom of her stomach that told her something wasn’t right-- especially after what Evie had said-- and Frederick appeared to be sharing the same worries.

“What do you think she meant?” Florence finally asked as they were carted down some bumpy, dirt road. “Why would Mister Green be looking into his family?”

Freddy chewed on his lip. “His brother was obviously a threat to society. Maybe Mister Green just wanted to keep tabs on a dangerous family?” Florence and Jacob shared an unconvinced look. “I don’t know! I don’t know. All we can do is be careful, I suppose.”

“Do you not know anything about them?” Her gaze turned to Jacob, concern so prevalent in her eyes that it was almost as though the emotion had weaved itself into her very being.

There was a small moment in which Jacob felt bad for not having told his sister about the ordeal earlier; she could’ve told him all they knew about Willard’s family and Florence wouldn’t have been so torn up about the situation. It was difficult not to frown upon seeing her so upset. “I don’t; I’m sorry. Though, I suspect Evie and Greenie know very little too. We’ve been too busy with the Templars and the Rooks at the moment to look too far into some… poncey upper-class family.”

Florence breathed a laugh out through her nose. “Let’s hope they’re merely that.”

The rest of the carriage ride was quiet, with the occasional complaints about the bumps in the road or Freddy trying to keep the lovebirds from becoming too chummy in the back of the carriage. Hand holding was not allowed in front of him! Besides, he would live and die by the fear of the driver somehow sensing that Florence, his master’s ‘beloved’, was fawning over another man.

When they finally arrived, none of them had expected the size of his grounds and the ornate decorations strung about his estate. Florence, in a manner very much like a long-lost princess being shown the home of her recently found royal family, peered out of the window with her mouth agape and a wondrous glint in her eyes. Jacob seemed to be doing something similar-- even with the princess-esque vibe-- to which Freddy was overcome with an immediate sense of tiredness.

“Honestly,” Jacob turned to her, a little quirk to his lips, “I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to marry him.”

She hit his arm, the dimple appearing in her cheek for the first time today. He laughed, though it also sounded like an ‘ow!’, and plopped himself back down in his seat. Florence did the same, mischief in her eyes. “He’ll have to buy me a really nice horse first.”

“I have no chance, do I?” Jacob feigned hurt, holding a hand to his heart. “My own lady, betraying me for a stallion.”

“I suggest that we-- you-- stop with your… banter.” Freddy interjected, earning him looks of innocence from the other two. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Florrie, you’re in love with Willard. Jacob, you’re merely our… manservant--” Florence stifled a laugh at this and her brother shot her a sharp look, “-- which means no comments, no compliments, and none of your stupid comedy.”

“Okay,” Jacob huffed out a laugh, “No comments, no compliments, and no comedy: the three Cs. I’ve got it. I’ll be the best manservant the world has yet seen.”

Luckily for Jacob, the carriage slowed to a stop, preventing Freddy from trying to wring him out like a towel. Two thumps hit the side-- the driver signalling that they were finally there-- and Jacob pushed the door open, shoes crunching down on gravel. Freddy clambered out first and, much to Jacob’s disappointment, didn’t use their servant’s hand to help get out of the carriage. Florence, however, would never be beyond taking a chance to hold his hand and, as he helped her out, a little squeeze came to her fingers in an act of reassurance. She glanced around briefly, ensuring that no one was peeking at them through the many windows of the house and that the driver was on the other side of the carriage, before leaning up to place a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. He gave this little, conflicted smile, wanting nothing more than to reciprocate the gesture, but by the time that he would’ve made up his mind, Florence and her brother were already walking towards the grand doors of the house.

It was a beautiful estate and, honestly, Florence would be lying if she said she was unimpressed. Most people dreamt of living in such houses-- castles-- one day, though Florence refused to allow the thought of spending the rest of her days like a noblewoman to influence her image of Willard. He may be absurdly handsome and have that kind of wave to hair that made him seem like some sort of demi-god but he was a prick and Florence would try her best to remember that-- even if he does serve chicken fricassee. She narrowed her eyes. He would be a bastard if he served chicken fricassee.

“I have a feeling that me, being a police officer, and him, having a family now known for criminal activity, won’t be getting on particularly well.” Freddy leant to the side slightly so he could speak quietly to his sister. “I mean, what am I going to talk to him about? ‘Oh, yes, remember when I arrested your brother for mutilating his patients? Good times.’”

Florence’s lips twisted into a smile that suppressed laughter and a hand came to her brother’s arm. “I doubt he’ll be speaking much to you. Remember: I’m the subject of his affections, much to my own discomfort.”

Frederick grimaced at the thought. Why did all this happen to his little sister?

The carriage driver-- a short, middle-aged man-- hurried past both Jacob and the siblings to open the door and announce their arrival. However, it seemed as if their presence was already known; the door swung open to reveal Willard himself, all dressed up and hair slicked back, the colour of his suit a beautiful navy-- much like Florence’s favourite colour. She already felt uneasy and Freddy’s hand came to her elbow to gently usher her forward, though whether this was in an effort to comfort or to subject her to Willard’s greeting first she was unsure.

“Florence, it seems you have stolen the beauty of Aphrodite herself tonight.” He took a step outside, arms held outwards in a manner that was uncomfortably similar to someone beckoning their pet. “It is lovely to see you, sweet thing.”

Both men beside her tensed, for different reasons altogether, but it was comforting, nonetheless, to know that she wasn’t the only one that was feeling the weight of Willard’s words. However, despite the terrible feeling in her stomach, Florence’s lips curled into a polite smile-- dimple nowhere to be seen-- and walked toward him, steps unsteady beneath her skirts. “It’s been too long already, Willard. I must’ve spoken my maid’s ear off about tonight.” She placed her hands in his and he pulled her towards him in an embrace.

It was at this point that Willard seemed to grow cold, pale eyes boring into the manservant over Florence’s shoulder. They parted rather abruptly, her eyes wide, and Willard slid past her to regard the other two. “You must be Sergeant Frederick Abberline, no?” He held his hand out to shake, though his disposition was hardly as welcoming anymore. Freddy’s hand was shaken far more vigorously than he’d expected, shoulder jarring quite uncomfortably. He was barely able to get a word in lengthways, either; Willard had moved onto Jacob. “And, you, are Jacob Frye. I was unaware that others would be coming too.”

Florence’s fingers wrapped around Willard’s arm, her face appearing in the corner of his eye. “He’s paid to help us around the house and on outings by my father; the poor old man gets worried about the wellbeing of his youngest. It would send him into ill health if he knew that Mister Frye wasn’t here.”

“Well,” Jacob and Willard’s eyes were locked for far too long, manly pride likely being the reason for them staring the other down. Willard finally broke away so that he could look at Florence, an uncomfortable smile tugging at his lips, “he needn’t be there while we eat. There’s a parlour he can read in or perhaps the servant’s quarters are more fitting.”

Jacob bowed slightly. “Whatever the sir wishes. I aim only to serve.”

Florence pushed down a grin, her eyes meeting Jacob’s in a fleeting glance-- a brow raised just enough for him to notice-- before she was turned by Willard and escorted into the estate.

The house was pleasantly warm with the aroma of, what was most likely, their dinner wafting about the halls already. In that moment, Florence realised that she’d have to put dinnertime etiquette into use; she couldn’t gorge herself on potatoes like usual, she supposed. What a shame.

The interior was just as grandiose as the exterior, with plush red cushions strewn about on lounge chairs and golden-framed paintings on every wall she could possibly see. Florence was half surprised that there wasn’t ambient piano music echoing into every corner of the house. As they all turned a corner, they were met with the meek little smile of a worker who half-bowed and scurried away like a rat caught stealing bread. There was a strange sense of uneasiness in the interaction, though Willard paid it no mind, guiding Florence along the halls with a hand to her lower back.

Doors were pushed open with his free hand to reveal the dining room: a splendid interior with mahogany wood and a freshly picked vase of peonies, snapdragons, and daffodils. A pretty collection of flowers, she thought, though perhaps a tad too extravagant for her taste. Dishes clattered as cooks worked to lay out the table and-- what is that? Florence looked about for a few moments before meeting eyes with a pianist on the other side of the room. She could’ve laughed; there was the piano music she’d expected.

“I do believe,” Willard stepped to the side, an arm out to the side to welcome them into the room, “that our wonderful chefs have prepared a cream of celery soup for our starter.” Florence moved past him first, his body leant uncomfortably close to hers. The smell of him was overwhelming-- almost reminiscent of the feeling one gets by watching an urchin being given a shilling by a lord; nice but in an achingly condescending way. Then came Frederick, his nose leading him; the poor man hadn’t eaten yet today and was willing to disregard the anxiety weaved so deeply into every aspect of the room if only to get his hands on some of that soup they were serving. Jacob would’ve followed suit, had the lanky frame of Willard not stepped before him. Green eyes bore into hazel. “The rest of the workers usually spend time in the room just down that corridor.” He pointed over Jacob’s shoulder, though Jacob had yet to turn and look in that direction. “Someone will call for you when they’re leaving.”

The sheer amount of restraint that Jacob had to practice to not make it obvious he wanted to break Willard’s nose was quite impressive. Instead, his lips twisted into a tight smile and he nodded. “Of course. You won’t hear a peep out of me, Mister Molyneux-Herbert.” With that, Jacob turned on his heel and disappeared from sight. Satisfied, Willard closed the doors to the dining room.

Jacob rubbed his hands together, taking a swift left to go upstairs, a certain devilishness to his every expression and movement.

What a fool.

[viaverona]

please don’t say you love me.

characters: changkyun / reader genre: angst, a bit of fluff, a very small bit of smut / cw: alcohol word count: 1.8k summary: despite his promises, changkyun falls for the wrong person.

song: billie eilish - when the party’s over

prompt 1 of what was originally supposed to be an october writing challenge, but will now continue indefinitely bc i suck at this and nobody is surprised

➢ masterlist;       ➢ comments & requests;

Changkyun’s mouth is your least favourite thing about him, if you had to choose.

Sometimes, it knows exactly what to say, the words so sweet and takes so wise he can leave you speechless. Changkyun is a great speaker, charming, intelligent, charismatic and everything else that makes you want to drink in every word that passes through his lips. Other times, he speaks without thinking, his words more dangerous than a sharpened blade, his cynicism seeping heavy through every letter. You’ve known Changkyun since he was in diapers and he developed a smart mouth from the moment he became aware of the world surrounding him. It got him in trouble just about as much as it earned him favours. He is poetic, he is harsh; he is thoughtless, he is sensible. Everyone either adores or despises him.

You are firmly on one side of that scale and it has nothing to do with the way his tongue runs alongside the most sensitive of your parts, taking you to your highest highs as you clench around the expert tip of his tongue that could so easily ruin lives.

You unclasp your fingers out of his hair, lungs still struggling to fill with air after it got knocked out of you while Changkyun gives a pat on your thighs, pulling back with a satisfied smirk, lips glistening with your release. He looks very proud of himself as he jumps in bed next to you, propping his arms behind his head. Wordlessly, you stand up and pull your underwear and trousers on, then throw him his t-shirt.

“We need to be at Hyunwoo’s in 20 minutes, get dressed.”

“What if we don’t go?” he says. “We get some pizza, put on a shitty movie and get some cuddles in.”

“Cuddles?!” You ask, frowning. “What’s gotten into you lately, you’re acting weird. Are you going all soft on me?” 

Changkyun thinks for a long second, his eyes scanning your face for any indication on whether you think going soft would be good or not. “Would that be so terrible?” The laugh you let out in response claws at his heart.

“Stop joking around. Look everyone’s already there, come on.”

Changkyun is quiet the entire bus trip to your friend’s house. He is in no mood for a party when his brain’s going a hundred miles per hour with vivid images of you and he chastises himself for allowing this to happen, to fall for the one person he promised he wouldn’t. There’s anger bubbling in his stomach at the way you’re sitting next to him, completely oblivious of the grip you’ve taken on his heart, on his entire existence and he feels like he’s about to burst at the seams if he doesn’t let it out somehow.

Changkyun disappears from your side as soon as you step inside Hyunwoo’s house. His only goal for tonight is to drink his feelings away and that’s exactly what the stacked bar is going to do. He grabs a small bottle of rum and plops himself down on the couch next to two people he’s never met, and he never will because he spares them no second glance, even when they’re trying to include him in the conversation.

He hates the way you have no trouble starting mingling with people right away. Changkyun watches intently as he nurses the bottle to his lips. You look so bright and beautiful greeting the host and his jock friends and he despises it; he despises that you’re the only thing on his mind lately. Twenty years he’s known you and he never thought he would end up caught in this moment like a fool, pining for someone who doesn’t share his feelings, at least not in the way he wants them to. He is a much too rational and proud person to accept his fate as a victim of his heart; that weak, stupid heart that decided it would only beat faster for one person only: you.

You don’t see each other for most of the party. You are usually inseparable, but tonight Changkyun’s avoiding you, choosing instead to waste away in corners of the room without ever speaking to anyone. He watches the party goers, judging every step they take until you catch his eye for a split second with the way you smile or do that annoying hair flip over your shoulder or fiddle with the hem of your dress as you speak to someone. Normally, he would have been out of there as soon as he realized he wasn’t in the mood for any social gatherings, but he’s stubbornly sticking it out tonight, refusing to let you out of his sight.

It’s about 3am when the party winds down and people go their own ways; everyone except himself, you, Hyunwoo and a couple other friends who decide to catch the sunrise together from the living room floor. 

“There’s only one thing we should be doing right now,” one guy with a creepy smile suggests. He’s wearing a boisterous floral shirt that Changkyun finds absolutely disgusting and he’s sitting cross legged in the middle of a fouton like he’s the king of the castle. “Never have I ever anyone?”

There’s a whoop of approval around the room and someone is already filling the shot glasses with poison, then one by one they start spilling questions.

“Never have I ever had sex in a public space,” red haired girl whose name Changkyun cannot remember offers with an innocent smile. He drinks, you drink, and exchange a quick knowing look. That was pretty early on at the start of this friends with benefits thing. Having sex in the Swedish literature aisle of your library was not either of your proudest moments, but it earned a chuckle every time it got brought up. You’d promised the library was off limits after that.

Two rounds in, everyone starts getting rowdier as the question become more revealing than Changkyun is willing to let know. He feigns a stomach ache and pauses his drinking; you, on the other hand, barely glance towards him as you become enraptured with the group’s stories. Your cheeks are dusted in red as you drink for yet another racy questions and you smile shyly when people inevitably ask for details. Changkyun doesn’t hear anything. He’s tuned out the voices, the noises, all his senses are just drowning in the way you’re slouched against a couch, tucking your hair behind your ear and wetting your pretty, sinful lips that he never gets to kiss like he wants to. Everyone disappears and it’s just you. 

“-kyun?” The call of his name pulls him out of his momentary reverie. “It’s your turn.”

They all fall silent waiting for him to say something and Changkyun’s eyes are fixed into yours. He licks his lips, takes a deep breath and says, “Never have I ever fallen in love with my best friend.”

The air feels heavy as the words float around the living room that stinks of booze and people. Changkyun doesn’t even wait for anyone to drink before he downs his entire glass. 

“I’m not in the mood to play anymore,” you say, pushing yourself up off the floor and storming to the exit.

Good job, Changkyun, you’ve really done it this time.

“Wait, where are you going?!” Changkyun chases after you, but you speed up every time you feel he’s near. “Hey! Stop!”

You come abruptly to a halt and he stops several feet behind you. When you eventually get the courage to turn around and face him, you are fighting back tears.

“Why would you say that?” you whisper.

“Because it’s true. Because I—“

“Don’t say it. Please don’t say you love me.”

In spite of it, Changkyun blurts out almost immediately. “I love you.”

“Changkyun!!” his name comes out in a sob and it’s the last straw before your tears begin streaming down your flushed cheeks. He knows he should feel guilty. He feels everything but that. He feels free, weightless, you’re finally aware. “It was our rule, that we wouldn’t fall in love. You said you wouldn’t.”

“That was a year ago! How could I have known the effect you’d end up having on me? How could I have known you would end up being the only person I want and need.”

“You’re drunk and you don’t mean that.”

“I might be drunk but I mean every single word.”

You sob again and fall into a crouch on the pavement, face buried into your arms. Normally, he would be your shoulder to cry on whenever you needed and now he couldn’t. His fingers itch to grab you by the shoulders, to bury themselves into your hair as he held you. He never wanted to be the reason for your tears and now he didn’t know how to make it better.

“I’m sorry, I tried to stop myself.” 

“How did you try? By having more sex together?” You are right, that was a lie. He didn’t really try. He should have put an end to it as soon as he realized things were changing, but he couldn’t. He became intoxicated, he wanted, no, he needed more of you, more of your time, more of your body, more of your mind. You’d started this relationship out of a mistake, a simple yearning to know what it would be like that ended in a year long situation. It was great for a while, but Changkyun should have known it wouldn’t last and he couldn’t make you love him, not like that. He’d been selfishly holding on and now it was painfully sinking in. Your waning sobs become sad laughter. “You know, I always thought it would be me,” you confess, “that I’d catch feelings and ruin everything. Funny, right?”

“Hilarious,” he says sarcastically. “I take it it’s over.”

You stand up and use a sleeve of your dress to wipe the tear stains on your face. “You think?! Maybe we shouldn’t have started it in the first place.” 

“Don’t say that. It will kill me if you’re going to regret this whole year. Give me that, at least.”

Changkyun is your best friend. He looks like your best friend. But at that moment he doesn’t sound like himself any longer. He sounds like a fool in love; he sounds like you two years ago banging on your ex-boyfriend’s door pathetically begging him to take you back. Changkyun has been there through that and through everything else. You pity him and his foolish heart and you almost wish you could have given him yours back in the same way just to spare him the ache that’s yet to come.

“Come on, loser, walk me home and then don’t talk to me for a week.”

[sweetbfs]

as a trans guy i get p dysphoric about my clothes, and ive tried wearing “””guy””” jeans for a while now but i dont think they help me much as passing bc im rather short (5’1”) so they tend to look a little baggy or loose especially when i sit down and i know clothes dont matter but some part of me tells me im not really trying when i want to wear my old jeans that actually fit :// (i also feel bad that my mom buys me jeans n i barely wear them) (i do enjoy the larger pockets tho)

as a trans guy with huge hips and a tiny waist, i’ve had so much trouble finding jeans that fit. not all guys jeans will look masc on you, and not all “girls” jeans will look fem on you. imo the best types of jeans are high waisted, plus if they’re too long i just cuff the ends up once or twice for added Gay Artsy look. in addition, the only thing you can do is try on guys jeans until you find the type right for you. belts help a lot, and you can find cheap and durable ones at h&m or target. as for “girls” jeans, try high waisted styles a size or two up. they should be baggy enough so they’re not skin tight, but not too baggy/loose. tbh i’ve had better luck w “girls” jeans, but you never know! try target, h&m, forever21, or old navy/gap. and don’t feel bad, at the end of the day it’s fabric and some types won’t always make your body look masc. good luck bud! - mod andy

Hey, I´m 5´1 and I have the exact same problem ! The thing about jeans is that you need to look for the right cut. Also, a good rule of thumb is that women´s run small and men´s run large - us short guys wanna aim right down the middle. If I´m in the women´s section I always look for boyfriend, straight leg, or relaxed fit jeans. In the men´s/boys sections, I look for skinny, tapered, sometimes bootlegs, or I try on enough jeans to find something that works.

Find something that can stay up without a belt, but fits perfectly when wearing one. Belts are a really ”masculine” accessory that not only can help you keep from looking frumpy, but that add a streamlined and professional look to your outfit as well. This is a tangent, but I´ve discovered (due to private school dress codes) the magic of belts as of late, and I´d recommend all guys out there pick up 2 belts - one brown, one black (there are some cheap & plain ones at Walmart - just make sure they fit). Also, it´s conventional to match your belt color to your dress shoe color. If you ain´t wearing leather shoes, you can forget about that.

Back to pants ! A fact of life for shorter guys is ill-fitting pant legs. For jeans, the easy way out it to cuff them, James Dean style. Rolled up legs don´t stick out or look frumpy so long as you style them right and that the cut of the jeans allows for a cuff that hangs closer to your legs rather than looking like Kevin Smith´s jorts. If you´re going the cuffing route, cuff them while trying them on in the store to make sure they look alright. If you think cuffing looks bad, you´re gonna have to have them altered.

Altering jeans isn´t as scary as it sounds. The easiest way is to just measure out the right amount and cut them off. It gives a worn and frayed look to the denim, as well as ensuring that you don´t trip on the long legs. If you hate the frayed denim trend, either you or a family member/friend are gonna have to seam the new pant legs - either by hand or by sewing machine. I´m rusty with my sewing skills, but there are plenty of youtube videos that can walk you through the process better than I can. If you don´t have that option, find a local tailor. Taking up pant legs is one of, if not the, easiest alterations out there, so it shouldn´t cost you much.

I know you only mentioned jeans, but I´m going to talk about slacks as well (sorry, like I said, I´m a private school kid). I never wore slacks before this year, aka my first year at Catholic school. They aren´t for everybody, I´ll tell you that much, but I´d recommend at least trying out one pair, preferably cheaply made and without a liner. Again, I get all of mine from walmart. It all depends on your fashion sense, but because my fashion sense lies along the lines of ivy-league dropout, slacks work great for me. Even if you´d never touch slacks with a 10-foot pole for street clothes, they work great whenever you´re going to someplace snazzy and want to avoid the possibility of having only skirts or dresses to wear, so try and find one pair that fits and you think are half decent. As my grandma said: better to have them and not need them, than to need them and not have them.

Because slacks aren´t denim, there aren´t many skinny-jean-like slacks in the women´s section - most are more relaxed. The men´s section tends to have slacks that run wider in the ass than most men´s jeans, at least from what I´ve noticed, so do be mindful of that as well. You can cuff slacks, but tbh I never do and always have mine altered. I´m just the opposite with jeans, if you were curious.

As for where to shop, I can´t recommend thrift stores enough. They´re cheap and have great selection, as well as it´s easier to convince parents to let you try on clothes there that they would think are silly (ie clothes that go along with your gender identity) then it is at a Macy´s or something, at least from my experiences. Also - Walmart is great (g-d knows I´ve plugged them enough in this post), but I also wanna mention Target. While Xmas shopping for my dad, I bought myself a nice dress shirt from their brand Goodfellows that fit great for being a men´s dress shirt, which are usually a nightmare for me. They looked to have some really nice stylish pants that I´d recommend peeping.

I had the same problem with guilt over unworn feminine clothes. Talk to your parents about your clothes ! Tell them that your fashion sense has been evolving as of late, or you want to try the current trend of more relaxed pants. It´s annoying, but it keeps them from buying clothes that make you feel dysphoric, and help improve your chances of your parents buying you clothes that you actually like ! Though I don´t celebrate Christmas, my mother got me clothes that I loved this year as a gift. Last year I hated every piece of clothing she got me, but everything this year was wonderful and masculine, and even though we have to go back to the store because nothing fit (lol), I was genuinely really happy with my clothes.

And clothes do matter. Since coming to the conclusion that I was trans, I gradually changed both my closet and my body language over the past years and they´ve helped me pass a lot better. Despite being 5´1, skinny as a rail, and a junior, I had everyone at my Catholic school (correctly) assuming I was a boy, and (incorrectly) assuming I was a freshman for a good 2 weeks at the beginning of the school year ! Passing doesn´t matter at all, unless passing makes you feel better. It´s a shitty, cisnormative ideal that can be easy to reach sometimes, and impossible to reach other times. But if passing helps alleviate dysphoria for you, as it does for me and a ton of other trans people, then I wish you all the best ! Oh, also, get a watch ! Don´t ask me why it works, I honestly have no idea, but I swear it made me pass like a dream when I started wearing one. Get a decent, gender neutral/manly watch that´s at least medium on the size scale between tiny ”women´s” and giant ”men´s” watches, and you pass SO much better. Drop $20 at, of course, walmart, hit up the jewelry section of your local thrift shop, ask your parents if they have any you might like - just get one.

It´s like 1am here and I spent ages typing out that monster of an answer, I hope that helps and is somewhat cohesive. G´night anon, good luck with your pants !

- Mod Llewellyn