if i were
cishet!zico/transgay!taeil
tw: angst, internalized transphobia, self-hate
taeil struggles his binder over his head, letting it land silently at the end of the bed as he looks at himself in the mirror. red wrinkles are pressed to his skin from the pressure; he can see the seams running up his waist, the creases that folded over the softness of his belly.
he’s thinner now; he’d worked to lose weight so he could watch his thighs vanish, grow it all back in muscle now that he’s got the right pills. he runs his hands down his sides, trying to see himself a different way- the smooth curve of his hip sexy, the weight of his chest inviting.
panic rises in his stomach.
he opens his jeans.
they’re tight he has to peel them off. his boxer-briefs are grey, the packer inside them weighing them down. he pushes everything to the floor and stands naked in front of the mirror, clothes pooled around his feet sloppily.
he strikes a pose, hip cocked, smoothing a hand over his hipbones so his fingers reach the tops of his pubes. he cups his chest, coyly covering his nipples; the lower hand tucks back, scooping between his legs.
he glances up at the mirror shyly, trying to remember how girls look when they do it, their faces sweet and vulnerable, their bodies covered just enough to seem like an invitation. he’s too hairy, too muscled now. his shoulders, too narrow for his taste, seem too broad to look elegant. his blood swims, throat closing, vision starting to blur with tears as he imagines someone else, a man’s body, tall and thick with full lips and bleached hair-
he crosses his legs, balancing his weight on one foot, trying to imitate the curve of a woman’s hip.
his thighs touch.
he bites his lip, swallows back the knot in his throat, stands as tall as he can.
when he glances back up from his- from his tits, he catches his own eye in the mirror. his face is both furious and helpless.
would jiho love him if he let himself be this again?
and if he did, would it be worth it?
+
tw: angst, internalized transphobia, self-hate
taeil struggles his binder over his head, letting it land silently at the end of the bed as he looks at himself in the mirror. red wrinkles are pressed to his skin from the pressure; he can see the seams running up his waist, the creases that folded over the softness of his belly.
he’s thinner now; he’d worked to lose weight so he could watch his thighs vanish, grow it all back in muscle now that he’s got the right pills. he runs his hands down his sides, trying to see himself a different way- the smooth curve of his hip sexy, the weight of his chest inviting.
panic rises in his stomach.
he opens his jeans.
they’re tight he has to peel them off. his boxer-briefs are grey, the packer inside them weighing them down. he pushes everything to the floor and stands naked in front of the mirror, clothes pooled around his feet sloppily.
he strikes a pose, hip cocked, smoothing a hand over his hipbones so his fingers reach the tops of his pubes. he cups his chest, coyly covering his nipples; the lower hand tucks back, scooping between his legs.
he glances up at the mirror shyly, trying to remember how girls look when they do it, their faces sweet and vulnerable, their bodies covered just enough to seem like an invitation. he’s too hairy, too muscled now. his shoulders, too narrow for his taste, seem too broad to look elegant. his blood swims, throat closing, vision starting to blur with tears as he imagines someone else, a man’s body, tall and thick with full lips and bleached hair-
he crosses his legs, balancing his weight on one foot, trying to imitate the curve of a woman’s hip.
his thighs touch.
he bites his lip, swallows back the knot in his throat, stands as tall as he can.
when he glances back up from his- from his tits, he catches his own eye in the mirror. his face is both furious and helpless.
would jiho love him if he let himself be this again?
and if he did, would it be worth it?
+