Word Count: 2567
Warnings: NSFW
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Fyodor stood on his feet and walked forward until he stood in front of his full length body mirror. His eyes fall to his ankles and feet. They stood so completely and perfectly still, but his legs trembled. He observed that as his eyes lifted upwards from his feet. He slowly turns to examine the skin on his legs, and leans down, running his hand up and down his legs. They felt smooth. He stands up straight and runs his hands up from his legs to his waist, gently pressing as to further outline his figure by forcing the slip dress he wore against his sides. His slip dress was black.
Fyodor turned, examining his figure from over his shoulder. He then turned back to face the mirror again, and drops his arms to his sides. He then brought his hands to his chest and pushed. It hurt, but he didn't particularly care. He removed his hands and watched his chest, as though it would remain the same way it was when he put his hands on it and pathetically attempted to flatten it. He huffed, and slides off the straps of his slip dress. The top of the slip dress fell and simply hung around his waist, while the rest remained as a skirt.
Fyodor then turned and walked to his vanity, not bothering to sit down on the luxuriously matching stool, as he wouldn't be at the vanity for very long. He took the handle of a vanity drawer with his thumb and pointer finger, then pulled. Peering inside the drawer, he finds what he's looking for. Treating them with the utmost care, Fyodor pulls a roll of gauze bandages from a desk full of bandaids and bows. He pushed the drawer closed and returned in front of the mirror.
Fyodor began to wrap bandages around his chest, flattening it to his likening. Perhaps he should've been more gentle about it, as he had caused slight reddening and irritation in his skin when he was finished. He tosses the rest of the bandages back in the drawer and thinks, What is the point of treating something so gentle if you despise it so much? Fyodor then carefully takes both straps of his slip dress with the tips of his thumbs and pointer fingers and pulls them back up, over his arms, so the dress red where it's supposed to be. There's an obvious but small gap between the dress and his chest that wasn't there before; He's quite proud of it.
Fyodor then removes the dress entirely, tossing it in the dirty laundry basket. He walks to his closet and finds that all of his boxers are dirty, so he's just left with panties to wear. He sighed and slid on a pair, then examined the clothes hanging in the same closet as his undergarments were kept in. They were all dresses, though that didn't particularly bother him. He quite like dresses, even though he was a man. He picks one, and removes it from the closet, taking it off the hanger. He tossed the hanger aimlessly in the closet then closed it.
Walking back to the full length mirror, he slides on the dress. It's sleeves are white, translucent, and slightly puffy. The dress outside of the sleeves is solid white, soft, and tight fitting. It outlines his curves. Fyodor worked hard to get curves; He used to have quite unhealthy eating habits, and a quite unhealthy body as a result. The length of the dress was to the floor and even dragged a bit on the floor. From his knees down, the fabric faded into a translucent material. Fyodor slipped on simple white slippers, and then brushed his hair. It was quite messy.
Fyodor then walked to his windowsill. The sill itself was about two foot thick; A perfect place to sit, read, or look out into a world he'd never be accepted in. Fyodor climbs onto the sill and sits down on his butt, legs crossed over one another. He rested his cheek against the window and stared out it. He chases through previous memories, and eventually he finds his stomach flipping and heart racing. His eye twitches and he tries to focus on a different memory.
Fyodor heard the door open, but didn't dare look away from the window. "I've brought you your dinner, M'Lady~" had anyone else have addressed him with such a title, they would have surely faced his wrath, or perhaps the guillotine. Fyodor felt a shiver run down his spine. He knows he's not being addressed as a woman. He still doesn't drag his eyes away from the window. His face feels very warm, as does his body, and he decided to say nothing. It's beginning to rain. That's good for the plants.
