#trans crows

[ineffable-soandso]

Nina talking to Matthias when they first met

Nina: What's your pronouns?

Matthias: I don't do pronouns.

Nina: so if I said "he" that'd be incorrect?

Matthias: No, that would be correct, but I-

Nina: So you do have pronouns!!!

[50-shades-of-gay23]

Here are the local pair of mated crows i feed! Their names are silas and daphne! (I can tell them apart cuz silas is smaller and is more comfortable with me being close to him)

[engagemy-others]

Stealth trans masc Wylan! Because everyone thinks he's younger than he really is. He acts mature but looks 12.

VIBE

Trans crows

[jackwolfes]

❄️

[Qs] / thanks angel 😊

[cn: pre-coming out trans character]

❄️Share a snippet from a WIP of your choosing

apparently all i want to think about atm is trans egg wylan so here you go 😂

Softly, she asks, "Just girls?"  Jesper chuckles, prodding her in the stomach again. "Just you." She squirms, turning till she can look up and meet Jesper’s eye. When she smiles, she’s not sure it reaches her eyes. "That doesn't answer my question."  In response she gets an over-the-top sigh and a wry grin, but knows Jesper is only teasing. He wraps his arm a little tighter around her, tugging her close to himself. "Not just girls,” he murmurs, lips brushing against the shell of her ear. “I’ve liked all sorts before you. A lot of them were girls. Some of them weren't."  Winnie smiles. She holds onto his arm where it’s wrapped around her waist, feeling comfortable. Not just girls. That’s… something.

[jackwolfes]

for the ask game, perspective flip for any oneshot you want!!

[questions]

i had the strongest urge to write hello again from marya's pov 🥰

The parlour has changed. 

That’s all Marya can really tell amidst the sensory overload that comes with walking through a house she has forgotten. She always clung to the broad strokes of what her soon to be ex-husband did to her, but with drugs in her system the detail was lost. 

Here, there’s nothing but detail. It overwhelms her, the memories in each little corner. The ugly vase her mother-in-law gave her. The carpet that Marya picked out when she first moved in.  The cosy little settee where she realised her morning nausea might just be a pregnancy — and ended up right. She spots hints and memories of the little girl she raised for eight wonderful years, stolen away too soon by petulantly cruel hands. Her daughter’s favourite cushion, the curtains she used to hide behind, the doorway she bashed her forehead against because she’d been sprinting through the house too fast on a glorious summer’s day.

But then Marya reaches the parlour as she was guided towards by the attendant at the door and sees that everything is different. The art on the walls is new, no longer spotlighting those hideous DeKappels, and the furniture has been rearranged, and the large glass doors are open to let in a breeze — which Jan always hated doing. 

Standing in the middle, fingers frantically fidgeting, is a young man. 

Marya blinks, certain her face betrays the surprise she feels. For a moment she is struck by this boy’s similarity to Jan — the same long nose, the same clear blue eyes — except he has the same ruddy gold curls that she does. 

“I’m looking for my daughter,” she says slowly. 

The boy shifts from foot to foot. He looks uncomfortable. He looks — afraid. Marya feels a fierce aching yearn to step up close and comfort him. When he breathes, it comes too short, and Marya isn’t certain that he notices. 

He clears his throat. 

“It’s me, Ma.” His voice is low and rough, scratchy like he’s on the verge of tears. But it’s melodious, and Marya hears the hint of laughter and song that she never once forgot. He coughs again, and — in an apprehensive whisper — adds, “I’m — I’m your son, now.”

Oh, Marya thinks, so it is. 

She nods, slowly, trying to hold herself back from sprinting across the room and pulling him close, too wary of how he might react. Each time she blinks she sees the image of her little darling, superimposed onto this young man’s nervous frame. The loss of eight years stings, visible in every new inch of him that has grown without her seeing. He is entirely different, but the same baby she loved. 

She missed her baby so, so much. 

“Darling,” Marya whispers, feeling tears prickle in the corner of her eyes. He sniffles, and nods, and has tears in his eyes to match. 

Marya steps close, lifting her hands up to cup his face. It’s flushed and pink and he seems so scared, but nothing about him is unfamiliar. She did this every day when he was a child, rubbing loving hands over his freckled face and trying to make sure he knew how adored he was. He’s changed and grown and she loves him, and — 

“You’ve grown up so much,” she manages. He sniffles, vaguely laughing, and rubs tears out of his eyes. Marya holds back a smile, too overwhelmed to name the feeling in her chest. She wants to know him. “What’s your name?” 

“Wylan,” he gasps. “My name is Wylan.” 

[jackwolfes]

happy trans day of visibility! ✨ i'm shamelessly sharing my trans crows series because it means a lot to me and i want more folks to enjoy it 😊

each work is entirely standalone to the rest of the series, so it can be read in any configuration, but a few favourites can be seen below 👇

hello again (Gen oneshot, G): “I’m looking for my daughter,” she says, slowly, warily. Wylan swallows, shifting from foot to foot. She certainly won't be getting that. [Alternate post-canon]

who to look after, who to watch out for (Gen/Kanej oneshot, T): People knew him as Kaz Brekker. Dirtyhands. The Bastard of the Barrel. The boy with too much blood on his hands, but a boy, nonetheless. [Alternate canon]

euphoria (Wesper/Gen oneshot, T): “Do you have something to get off your chest?” she asks, pointedly, glancing at his torso. She smiles a little bit too knowingly. Wylan breathes a sigh of relief. [Alternate canon]

late nights in the middle of june (Wesper multichap, M): A new artist joins their tiny, strange little tattoo shop, and Jesper Fahey has some feelings about it. It's annoyance. Definitely just annoyance. Definitely just annoyance. [Tattoo artist/piercing artist AU]

spin cycle (Wesper multichap, E): Laundromat meet cute featuring: stuffed bunny rabbits, midnight waffles, and a colour-changing dildo [Modern AU]

See the full series here

Check #trans crows on @jackwolfes for more trans drabbles and joy!

[jackwolfes]

if it's not too late for prompts -- 6? :)

definitely not too late i'm loving these!

6: illusion

tw: gender fuckery

If he looks in the mirror just right, he can kind of see it. The rosy curve of his cheeks. The soft edges of his jaws. Long eyelashes, bright eyes, full lips. He supposes his hair is longer than it usually is, and plenty of girls in the Barrel wear their hair short. 

They weren’t in the Barrel. 

They were in the University district, or near enough. A cafe, quiet and calm, hands wrapped around a warm mug of coffee while he waited for Jesper to pick out a flavour of cake. Clinking his fingernails against ceramic, waiting, standing in the way.

And he can kind of see why it happened. Baggy sweaters and brown brogues – plenty of girls wear that sort of thing, especially students. 

Wylan stares in the mirror and wonders. There’s something. It’s ephemeral and illusory and he cannot think why. There’s something– wrong. There’s something off, heavy and tight when he breathes. It’s caught in his flat chest, his scrawny hips. He tips his head to the side, trying to see it another way.

He’d been in the way, but that wasn’t the problem. It had been some professor, he thinks, bumbling as they brushed past in the cramped little space and knocking him forward with a gasp. 

“Ghezen,” he’d said, and heard–

“Terribly sorry, ma’am–”

Their eyes had caught, and the professor had flushed mortified red, and Wylan had been left feeling a bit like he was falling.

“It’s alright,” he’d said, clearing his throat and wondering if it sounded too high. 

Wylan squints into the mirror. He looks at himself, wondering why he’s unsettled, wondering what’s– off. He’s a man. That’s not hard to tell, that’s not hard to feel. He’s a man, and he knows it, because he knows plenty of girls that have beards and broad shoulders and knows that’s not what he wants. That’s not who he is. He isn’t a girl. 

Carefully, he grips the loose fabric of his fluffy sweater, and pulls it taught. It presses tight into the curve of his waist, showing the shape of his body.

He could look less like a girl. 

He could mind that a lot more.

When the door behind him opens he startles, a spectacular fright racing through his chest like he’s been caught doing something very wrong. He drops his sweater like it’s burnt him. His eyes dart up to the mirror to find the source of the noise in the reflection. 

Jesper looks back. 

“You alright?” he asks, looking quizzically at Wylan. Wylan turns, trying to settle his racing pulse. He smiles, and nods. 

“Just tired,” he replies. “Is it time for dinner?” 

This is a question for another day.

[jackwolfes]

i know it's hot but jesus put some clothes on!!! with jesper and whoever you please

this was delightful thank you friend 👯‍♂️ tags: sort of horny, trans wylan

“For the love of the Saints.”

Wylan glances up and catches Jesper’s eye. Or, he catches his eye as much as he can when Jesper’s eyes are drawn downwards, staring at the wide expanse of freckly, pale skin he’s been presented with. There’s so much skin. It’s flushed a little pink like Wylan’s sunburnt, and maybe he is, although they’ve been home all weekend because it’s too hot to go outside. 

Jesper finds himself wondering about it. He’s lost, for just a moment, about what it was he came into their stuffy shared kitchen to do. All he can think about is Wylan, and Wylan, half-naked, and skin. 

“What?” Wylan asks. Jesper flicks his eyes up to look at Wylan’s face. He glances up and down Jesper’s body like it holds the answers. “Why are you staring?”  

“Because you’re half naked,” Jesper says, then – perhaps a little desperately, perhaps a little brokenly – he adds, “Put some fucking clothes on, kid.”

He means it to land lightly, like a joke. It doesn’t. 

Wylan scowls at him. “I do have clothes on.” He hooks his thumb in the waistband of his soft green shorts. Jesper watches him snap the fabric against his skin, and stares too long at the place it smacks against his jutting hip bones.  

Jesper is warm. 

Everything about him is warm. Everything about the world around him is warm. It clings and lingers, which isn’t surprising given that they live in a top floor apartment where heat rises and sticks, cloying, in their tiny, cramped kitchen. Jesper knows his cheeks would feel warm if Wylan touched him – and now he’s thinking about Wylan touching him – and knows without a doubt that it isn’t just the sticky weather. He is sticky, and sweaty, and overwhelmed. Maybe it’s the sight of Wylan’s fingers still tucked beneath the tight fabric of his too-little shorts, up against the curve of his hip bones like– like– 

“Did you come in here just to stand in the doorway?” Wylan asks, irritable and annoyed. 

“Ice cream,” Jesper offers, only just barely able to remember the thought that pulled him out of bed. 

“Scoop some for me, too?”

Nothing in the world could make him say no. 

So he goes to the freezer and tugs out the tub – strawberry ice cream because that’s Wylan’s favourite and Jesper never has the heart to say no when he smiles and asks for it all sweet like he did. Jesper prefers caramels, rich chocolates, mint choc-chip. Not strawberry. Nothing that sweet. He’d still bought it, because that’s what Wylan wanted. He would have done anything Wylan wanted; anything at all. He still will. 

Then he turns and sees Wylan leaning back against the counter across the room, hands perched on the edge of it and soundlessly tapping, tapping, tapping. His legs are crossed, hooked at the ankle, careless and taunting with how easy he stands.

At least, Jesper stupidly thinks, he doesn’t have his hands in his shorts anymore.

Jesper looks away.

When he blinks the sight that greets him behind his shut eyelids is Wylan. Wylan’s bare chest. The soft dip of his stomach and the curving cut of his waist. The neat little scars arcing beneath his nipples that are on show now and every day of this saintforsaken heatwave because Wylan is happy being on show. And Jesper doesn’t mind, Jesper is happy for him, Jesper is truly glad that Wylan can be his whole authentic self now even if his whole authentic self is gorgeous enough to give him a crisis while he tries to portion out ice cream into their chipped ceramic bowls. One has a cat on it. The other is painted with daisies. 

It’s hard to breathe. 

The fan runs constantly on the counter beside them. When it hits Jesper it ruffles the loose fabric of his tank top. Then it turns again, and leaves him sweating worse than before. 

He stands and shovels out scoops of strawberry ice cream for them both, thinking far more about all the freckles dotted along Wylan’s ribs than the sickly sweet way the ice cream will taste on his tongue. There are more freckles now because Wylan has been out in the sun all summer, before the heatwave pushed him indoors. They crawl up his throat – and now Jesper’s thinking about the curve that his throat makes, the curve that Jesper wants to tuck his face into and maybe lick his tongue along, even if he’d end up suffocating in heat like this. 

He can’t breathe. 

It’s a heady thought. He wonders, absently, if the heat in his veins is just the heat, or if he’s going to need to readjust to make sure his own loose shorts stay loose. Maybe it’s wrong to be getting turned on at the thought of his best friend – his roommate – his Wylan – just standing around their kitchen, sweating, looking like that. Shirtless. Gorgeous. Way, way too kissable.

Jesper glances back in time to see Wylan rub his hand over the back of his bare neck, to the place his red hair curls. He’d whined about cutting it, but it’s still too long. In all likelihood, he could tie it up into a tiny little ponytail. It leaves Jesper wanting to run his fingers through it. Maybe hook around the back of his head. Maybe tug. 

“What’s wrong with you?” Wylan asks. 

“I’m fucking melting,” Jesper replies, scared in short seconds that he’s been caught. His pathetic fucking crush. Wylan just snorts. It makes irritation spark in Jesper’s chest – but he doesn’t think irritation is the right word. He scowls anyway. “Go put on some fucking clothes, kid.”

“I’m in my own home,” comes Wylan’s equally irritated reply. “Go fuck yourself.”

Jesper hears the hidden hurt beneath his words, because by now he knows Wylan well enough to see it. Not at first glance, but Wylan never lets anyone see anything immediately. He’s a crafty son of a bitch. 

He hides plenty – but not the span of his back or the freckles covering it, not the little tulip he has tattooed on his ribs, not the stretch marks on his hips or the sight of his collarbone – and Jesper has to work to see it. He sees it now – along with the aching spread of his body that Jesper wants to touch, maybe needs to touch, can’t touch when it’s this damn sweltering – because the note of anxiety on the corners of Wylan’s words betrays him. 

It’s a tiny part of him that clearly doesn’t believe Jesper really wants to see him like this at all. That his body makes Jesper uncomfortable. It’s the part of him still laced up with a little bit of shame for no good reason, that curves his shoulders in a slouch a bit more reclusive than his usual habit, although he tends to slouch all the time anyway. He slouches more now, like he can put himself away without really caving and getting a t-shirt. 

The fan blows hot air against Jesper’s face. It reminds him of the sticky pool of sweat at the base of his own throat, on his clavicle. Behind his knees. On his navel. He needs a cold shower, for more reasons than one.

Everything is silent, save for the steady, endless drone of the fan. 

“I’m being an asshole,” Jesper says, because it’s true. Wylan says nothing. “Sorry. It’s too hot.” 

Jesper watches Wylan. Wylan watches him back. He stares, still quiet. The fan drones on. 

Moving carefully, Wylan shifts his shoulders back enough to show the long lines of his chest to the rest of the world. Jesper wants – and wants, and wants – to step up to him and touch, maybe even kiss them. He feels guilty. He thinks he’d do anything – anything – to make his amends.

“Take off your shirt and stop complaining, then,” Wylan mutters. 

In weather like this, it feels like a challenge. 

Jesper’s heart thuds a little dangerously, but it’s all a little dangerous. Over-exertion, heat exhaustion, whatever, whatever. A kick in his pulse that’ll kill him, he thinks, already pushed too far with the way the air around them cloys sticky and heavy with humidity and need. 

He leaves Wylan’s ice cream on the counter. Then he takes his cat-patterned bowl and – weakly, wordlessly – he goes back to his bedroom alone.