give me trans girl pidge who grew used to having her hair short again and is unsure of letting it grow out, looking at allura’s long hair and wondering if she could pull it off again
trans girl pidge where she wears basketball shorts the most when hiding her identity because theyre big on her and the closest thing to feeling like a skirt
trans girl pidge coming to allura and asking if she has any other dresses they could tailor to fit her, thus it ending in creating a wide variety of dresses for pidge to walk around in and show off
trans girl pidge who is working really hard to make her voice sound higher to sound more feminine after having to untrain herself just that
trans girl pidge desperately trying to make herself seem more feminine to aliens they meet just so she doesnt risk being misgendered anymore than she has been
trans girl pidge who plays video games to let off steam and falling in love with the masculine presenting female characters she comes across because shes like that too and the characters are still known as women to everyone else
trans girl pidge going to bed that night after coming out to the team and letting out a deep breath of relief and happiness because she’s finally found people who still accept her for her
Sherlock walks into the sitting room and glances at John on the sofa and something buckles in his chest. John has cut his hair. The swoop is gone. His hair is short again, as short as on the day they met. Softer. Sherlock remembers that John. He watches him now. John hasn’t noticed him. He’s looking down at Rosie growing sleepy in his arms. Getting her to sleep hasn’t been easy. Sherlock is quiet. He slips over to his chair and says nothing. John notices the movement and looks up and smiles. Whatever buckled in Sherlock’s chest slips another notch. For that moment, John looks so open. He used to look at Sherlock that way. Sherlock knows John merely has Rosie on his mind, that the warmth in his eyes will fade. But maybe he’s wrong. Sherlock has had to get used to being wrong these days. He has had to get used to not expecting too much at all. He watches John, who is looking down at Rosie again, now sleeping and warm. Sherlock cannot stop looking at that short hair. His fingers twitch on the armrest. John glances up again and notices, looks down. Looks up again. Now he looks thoughtful. He eases himself off the sofa. Adjusts his back. So many years. He crosses the room and stands next to Sherlock. Turns away from him. Sherlock raises an eyebrow. John _ oh! the knees _ eases himself to sit on the floor next to Sherlock’s chair. He leans back against the armrest. The side of his head is inches from the side of Sherlock’s thigh. They almost touch as John turns to look up at Sherlock. Again that warmth in his eyes. Sherlock doesn’t understand him. This. He never does. John faces away from him again but leans his head to softly bump Sherlock’s thigh. A prompt. Sherlock’s fingers twitch again. He lifts his hand. Pauses. Lowers it to let his fingertips rest on the barest wisps of John’s hair. Pauses. His fingers start to move, softly. Rosie is still sleeping. Sherlock can hear her breathing. He can hear John’s. For a moment, John lowers his head from Sherlock’s touch, drops a kiss onto their daughter’s head. His daughter’s, Sherlock corrects himself, slightly fuzzy. John’s. John, who has lifted his head again, seeking out Sherlock’s still outstretched hand. John leans into it, just so. “That’s right, love,” John whispers. Sherlock says nothing. He is thinking of a blue-checked shirt and a suspended pipette and how quickly, so quickly, a stranger can win the trust of another. He wonders if it could ever happen again.