Ret-Con, Take Two
Jun. 5th, 2008 01:44 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
wellownedbkupTake Two:
When he wakes up, his whole body hurts with the movement. His shoulders ache when he rolls over. His hips ache when he goes to stand. And everything is distinctly blurry, like he's got sleep in his eyes still, no matter how many times he tries to rub them clear. He shuffles across a chilly floor to the nearest mirror.
A mirror which—either inconveniently or conveniently, he hasn’t yet decided—is covered, with a note card on top. He grumbles, trying to dislodge the sheet, which doesn't budge a millimeter, until he finally gives in to reading the note.
Congratulations on your Trans Action, Jordan. This is a very large step for you in becoming the person you wish to be. We wish you all the best in your endeavors.
For your benefit, we would like you to not use mirrors for a minimum of 2 days. Get used to the new you first, and then worry about aesthetics. This is your time to figure you out, to get comfortable in your skin again. Someone will be with you this evening to discuss the changes you're going through and to help you adjust. They will be able to answer most any questions you may have.
Good luck, Jordan! And your glasses are on the sink.
With that, he puts the note card down and reaches for the glasses. The thin black frames are cool in his hand as he puts them on, and he is relieved when the sharp focus kicks in of the vision he remembered. He sighs, wishing he knew what he looked like. It would certainly end the suspense. As it is, he's getting as full a look as he can otherwise.
He runs palms larger than memory tells down barely defined chest and stomach. The texture of his skin is the same as he remembers, still soft to the touch of rough palms, still scarred and still slightly imperfect. It makes it more real, somewhat, even as he skims a hand up over one arm, feeling the hidden strength, the muscle power there like before. Some things, at least never change.
He wonders how far he should explore this new frame. Whether this is truly his body, and if it is his to do with as he pleases at this point in time. He fills with a strangely familiar heat, feels things unseen awaken with a sense of urgency as he contemplates masturbation in this new form. He turns his mind away from that, focusing instead on the unfamiliar feeling of glasses, the way things blur in the peripheral vision. He tries to pretend he’s blind, though even without the glasses he’s nowhere near incapable of sight. He closes his eyes, shuffling around the room and stubbing his toes against walls and the frame of the bed. He grimaces each time, but he’s learning his surroundings
A woman delivers a meal to him at lunch, blushing bright red when he smiles at her sheepishly. He wants to ask her what he looks like, ask her if it’s really all that bad. But the chill of air on his bare torso, the way her lips quirk up, friendly and open… it tells him what he needs to know.
“Thank you,” he calls after her as she turns away. He’s surprised to hear his voice is a little deeper, a little richer. She gives him a shy grin and a wave, only giggling a little at the shock on his face. As he shuts the door, his hand goes up to his throat, feeling for the change in the smooth line he almost can remember. It’s there, distinct when he swallows, and it staggers him a little how he is actually different.
He sees the day pass in the shortening and lengthening of shadows in his room from the frosted glass facing outside. The frames of his glasses are distracting, and his hand collides with them more than once. He takes them off from time to time, but the way everything turns fuzzy hurts his head, and he has to put them back on quickly.
So much for eyesight being his major issue now instead of hereditary diseases.
He’s nearly fallen asleep on the sofa in his room when he hears a knock on his door. He’s anxious, of course, like when the girl delivered food to him. He wants to make his best impression, but can’t do so when the only thing he’s sure of is that he’s fully dressed. The knocking sounds again, not so much impatient as concerned, or it makes Jordan feel better to think so. And when he opens the door, he can’t help but feel a little relieved.
“I thought you said I wouldn’t see the two of you again?”
They smile sheepishly. “We wanted you to know that we take an active interest in you. You’re our favorite patient yet.”
"And with good reason!" he laughs. He invites them in and spends the next hour asking question after question, comfortable enough with them to open up about what he’s feeling and only blushing a little when they ask him intimate questions.
They answer his questions about masturbation to a point before they both call a halt to it. "It's not that we're trying to be unhelpful--."
"It's our job to be as clear as we can to help you adjust."
"But because of who you are to us, we'd rather not hear your sordid--."
"That is, to say, your very personal care procedure," one says with a glare at the unrepentant other, "is really not in our realm of discussion."
He laughs long and loud with that, knowing precisely what they mean and letting them leave with only a moment longer of teasing. When the door shuts behind them, the tension in the atmosphere ratchets higher. He can't keep his mind off what's below his belt. He traces fingertips lightly across his belly, tickling along his waistband where it sits on his hips.
The shiver of delighted arousal crashes through him like a tidal wave, his knees wobbling slightly as he makes his way to his bunk. He’s not going to last like this, not when his every thought is now completely centered on the hot and hard flesh growing between his legs.
When he wakes up, his whole body hurts with the movement. His shoulders ache when he rolls over. His hips ache when he goes to stand. And everything is distinctly blurry, like he's got sleep in his eyes still, no matter how many times he tries to rub them clear. He shuffles across a chilly floor to the nearest mirror.
A mirror which—either inconveniently or conveniently, he hasn’t yet decided—is covered, with a note card on top. He grumbles, trying to dislodge the sheet, which doesn't budge a millimeter, until he finally gives in to reading the note.
Congratulations on your Trans Action, Jordan. This is a very large step for you in becoming the person you wish to be. We wish you all the best in your endeavors.
For your benefit, we would like you to not use mirrors for a minimum of 2 days. Get used to the new you first, and then worry about aesthetics. This is your time to figure you out, to get comfortable in your skin again. Someone will be with you this evening to discuss the changes you're going through and to help you adjust. They will be able to answer most any questions you may have.
Good luck, Jordan! And your glasses are on the sink.
With that, he puts the note card down and reaches for the glasses. The thin black frames are cool in his hand as he puts them on, and he is relieved when the sharp focus kicks in of the vision he remembered. He sighs, wishing he knew what he looked like. It would certainly end the suspense. As it is, he's getting as full a look as he can otherwise.
He runs palms larger than memory tells down barely defined chest and stomach. The texture of his skin is the same as he remembers, still soft to the touch of rough palms, still scarred and still slightly imperfect. It makes it more real, somewhat, even as he skims a hand up over one arm, feeling the hidden strength, the muscle power there like before. Some things, at least never change.
He wonders how far he should explore this new frame. Whether this is truly his body, and if it is his to do with as he pleases at this point in time. He fills with a strangely familiar heat, feels things unseen awaken with a sense of urgency as he contemplates masturbation in this new form. He turns his mind away from that, focusing instead on the unfamiliar feeling of glasses, the way things blur in the peripheral vision. He tries to pretend he’s blind, though even without the glasses he’s nowhere near incapable of sight. He closes his eyes, shuffling around the room and stubbing his toes against walls and the frame of the bed. He grimaces each time, but he’s learning his surroundings
A woman delivers a meal to him at lunch, blushing bright red when he smiles at her sheepishly. He wants to ask her what he looks like, ask her if it’s really all that bad. But the chill of air on his bare torso, the way her lips quirk up, friendly and open… it tells him what he needs to know.
“Thank you,” he calls after her as she turns away. He’s surprised to hear his voice is a little deeper, a little richer. She gives him a shy grin and a wave, only giggling a little at the shock on his face. As he shuts the door, his hand goes up to his throat, feeling for the change in the smooth line he almost can remember. It’s there, distinct when he swallows, and it staggers him a little how he is actually different.
He sees the day pass in the shortening and lengthening of shadows in his room from the frosted glass facing outside. The frames of his glasses are distracting, and his hand collides with them more than once. He takes them off from time to time, but the way everything turns fuzzy hurts his head, and he has to put them back on quickly.
So much for eyesight being his major issue now instead of hereditary diseases.
He’s nearly fallen asleep on the sofa in his room when he hears a knock on his door. He’s anxious, of course, like when the girl delivered food to him. He wants to make his best impression, but can’t do so when the only thing he’s sure of is that he’s fully dressed. The knocking sounds again, not so much impatient as concerned, or it makes Jordan feel better to think so. And when he opens the door, he can’t help but feel a little relieved.
“I thought you said I wouldn’t see the two of you again?”
They smile sheepishly. “We wanted you to know that we take an active interest in you. You’re our favorite patient yet.”
"And with good reason!" he laughs. He invites them in and spends the next hour asking question after question, comfortable enough with them to open up about what he’s feeling and only blushing a little when they ask him intimate questions.
They answer his questions about masturbation to a point before they both call a halt to it. "It's not that we're trying to be unhelpful--."
"It's our job to be as clear as we can to help you adjust."
"But because of who you are to us, we'd rather not hear your sordid--."
"That is, to say, your very personal care procedure," one says with a glare at the unrepentant other, "is really not in our realm of discussion."
He laughs long and loud with that, knowing precisely what they mean and letting them leave with only a moment longer of teasing. When the door shuts behind them, the tension in the atmosphere ratchets higher. He can't keep his mind off what's below his belt. He traces fingertips lightly across his belly, tickling along his waistband where it sits on his hips.
The shiver of delighted arousal crashes through him like a tidal wave, his knees wobbling slightly as he makes his way to his bunk. He’s not going to last like this, not when his every thought is now completely centered on the hot and hard flesh growing between his legs.
