To ground this in Hyun-ju's specific experience: she's not someone who would use celebratory language for her body. (She wouldn't call it a girlcock, not because it's wrong, but because she's not there, at least not yet.)
( ◜‿◝ )♡ Double the word count of the first chapter, just for you! A big thank you for all the comments & reblogs. They're so important to me!
This chap is establishing a dynamic through every day interactions. We also get to see the reader's POV, 'cause Hyun-ju ain't the only one suffering in gay panic 🩷
You show up to work on a casual Friday in a low-cut peasant blouse. Nothing too revealing. Nothing performative. It looks effortless from your part.
Your cleavage forms a delicate curve, the kind that dips when you lean over the table.
Hyun-ju can't stop seeing it.
Not because she's staring. Not exactly.
You do catch her looking once and grin. Not coy, just amused.
"What?" you tease. "You can't possible be jealous I got back problems at my age."
Hyun-ju flinches before she can school her face.
She laughs it off, but inside, she wants to scream. Luckily, there's always something to do to distract herself around here.
Stacks of beauty product boxes line the walls. Serums, moisturizers, imported lip tints. Hyun-ju starts lifting three at a time like they're featherlight. You're crouched by the label printer, trying to make the machine stop beeping.
She squats beside you in silence, offering a roll of tape. You take it with a soft "Thanks", your fingers brushing briefly against hers.
Cold against warm.
You look up -and up- eyes rounding at just how tall she looks this close. It hits you then, how powerful she must be.
Strong. Silent. Mysterious.
Captivating.
"Do you work out?" you ask, innocent but genuine.
Hyun-ju blinks. "I used to. Army."
Your lips part slightly.
"No way! You were a soldier?"
"Sergeant."
There's a pause.
You study her for a moment longer, eyes flicking to her sharp jawline, her shiny bob, her soft eyeliner.
"So that's why you look like you could crush a man with your thighs" you mutter with a little grin, thinking Hyun-ju won't catch it.
Hyun-ju does catch it.
And freezes.
For a second, she doesn't know what to say.
She feels heat crawl up her neck. Not from the compliment, but from the fact that it means something. That it came from a girl like this.
You don't notice the full effect you're having. You're already talking again –soft, fast, head tilted.
"I could never survive the army. I get a rash on my elbows if I forget to moisturize. Plus, I'd cry if someone yelled at me."
Hyun-ju lets out a breath that might've been a laugh if she wasn't clenching her jaw.
Her eyes flick over your nails –painted bright pink, glossy like candy. Your wrist is wrapped in bracelets and hair ties. You look like you belong in a field of flowers. Or on a Parisian balcony, sipping tea and reading romance.
She looks away.
"She's too much of a girl. Too beautiful. Too... everything."
"You're not supposed to want that."
"You're not supposed to want her."
"You're not even supposed to want at all. Not so early. Not so soon."
"You always smell like a garden" Hyun-ju blurts suddenly.
You blush ...and change the subject a bit too fast for it to be coincidental.
Oh you.
You just never stop talking.
Not in a bad way.
You talk while folding boxes, while microwaving lunch, while putting on your little pink gloves to tape up another stack of sad, dented packages. You speak shifting between English and accented Korean.
And Hyun-ju listens.
Not because she wants to. Not always. But because you always seem to find her.
You're currently sorting inventory together –the usual.
"Do you think this color is cute?"
Hyun-ju turns to find you holding up a lip oil, one you definitely shouldn't have opened.
You've already applied it. Your mouth sparkles.
"Sure, it's cute" she answers, trying to keep her tone flat, but not entirely cold.
You beam. "I knew it! And! It tastes like apple pie."
You lean closer.
Too close.
Hyun-ju catches a whiff of perfume and shampoo –and warmth.
She flinches like it burned.
"You okay?" you ask, brows lifting in interest.
"I'm fine."
Before long, your wrist is dotted with swatches of moisturizers you've been "testing", like you're on a makeup counter instead of a grimy backroom.
"This one's niacinamide-based" you ramble, handing her a pale tube. "Your skin's kind of dry since this shitty weather started, y'know. No offense."
"None taken" she mumbles, a little too quietly. She doesn't tell you that she tried the chamomile toner from last time and that she liked it. A lot. But she does hope her internal gratitude is enough, in some weird cosmic sense???
She takes the sample, holds it awkwardly.
Doesn't know how to say she can't afford stuff like this. That she's still rationing her HRT. That skincare isn't just luxury for her –it's camouflage.
You lean into her personal space once again, your fingers grazing hers as you take the cap to show her how much to use.
Hyun-ju feels her breath hitch –just a second too late.
"She touches me like we're the same. No tension. No pause. How?"
Then, the locker room again.
Hyun-ju is alone, just out of the shower, towel around her neck, only a black sports bra on. Her skin still glistens, abs and chest slightly damp, stomach firm, carved from years of military discipline.
Her body feels like a betrayal sometimes.
It's strong. Respected.
But it's not what she wants to see.
She had made sure that she'd take her shower only after everyone else had gone home –she has to save water somehow, these bills keep piling up. She had double-checked that no one would walk in on her, under any circumstances.
The door opens.
"Oh my God—I'm sorry!"
You freeze, like a rabbit caught in the headlights. Not with disgust. Not even shock. Just… stunned.
You're in a cropped graphic tee and nothing else, clutching your work shirt to your chest, eyes wide.
"Shit—I'm sorry, so sorry! I didn't mean—" you stammer, eyes darting away, cheeks red.
Hyun-ju pulls her own shirt on quickly, face a blank mask, but her voice comes out clipped. "It's okay."
You don't leave.
"I've never seen abs like that" you say softly. "You're kinda… wow."
"Don't look at me like that."
"L-like what?"
"Like I'm not… like I don't belong in here."
"I wasn't" you insist. "I swear, I wasn't."
But it's too late. Hyun-ju feels disgusting. Masculine. Alien. A soldier-shaped thing in a girl's locker room.
"Please go."
Silence.
You back out, nodding wordlessly.
But the next day, you're still somehow orbiting around her. Still smiling. Still chirping about skincare and quick breakfast recipes and your awful ex.
It seems annoyingly repetitive today.
"Period's killing me" you groan, holding your stomach. "I swear my uterus has grown little monkey hands."
Hyun-ju stiffens.
You notice.
"Sorry. Was that too much?"
"No." She clears her throat. "Just don't know what to say."
"Oh, you don't have to say anything." Then softer, "I just like when you listen."
You pause after that.
Blink.
"Oh. Right–"
A reddish hue paints your chicks and you mentally scold yourself for being inconsiderate. However, you recover fast, switching back to your cheeky, unstoppable self.
"Lucky bitch."
Hyun-ju doesn't smile.
Because she would deal with it. She would bleed. She would take the cramps and the bloating and the wretched inconvenience if it meant being seen -known- as a woman, without question.
She wants the whole damn curse of being "Her".
And that thought leaves her feeling like a monster.
The song had played on accident the first time.
Spotify shuffle. She was too tired to skip, most likely out of turns anyway.
Now, it's in all her playlists and she's listening to it on the way home.
“And who's gonna kiss the brown haired girls
Who's gonna wipe away their tears
And what about the black haired girls
Who's gonna whisper filthy things into their ears”
When Hyun-ju gets home, she untucks, tucks again, and lies awake.
She has stopped touching herself altogether.
Simply can't.
But she remembers the flash of skin in the locker room so clearly.
She contemplates the way you don't flinch around her, no matter her physical state. Hair up or down. Looser or tighter clothes. Make-up or bare faced. Sitting cross legged or crouched down, knees apart.
Tonight, she dreams of you, again.
This time you're leaning over her, whispering something sweet. Something cruel. Something true.
She wakes up semi-hard, hurting, folded tight against herself like a secret she'll never get to speak out loud...
“It's just unearned admiration
Are you sick of all the stares
You don't need to hide yourself away
You only need to dye your hair”
She's been quiet about it.
About the ache behind her nipples, the way her chest stings when she bumps into something. The tissue there feels new. Foreign. Fragile. She holds her arms crossed when it gets bad, pretends it's just the cold.
Fat has started to shift too –her hips are softer, thighs with a little more weight. Her old pants don't sit right, and she hasn't figured out if that's comforting or humiliating.
Her arms have lost that tight edge, the hardness she used to work so hard for.
And shaving...
God, shaving. Every damn day. She asked you once what razor you use, all shy and stiff, like it was classified information.
“But it won't do you any good
'Cause pretty soon your roots will be showing
And anytime you try to leave the room
They'll ask you just where the hell do you think you're going”
The hormones hit hard sometimes.
Not in ways you'd notice –no breakdowns, no sobbing fits. She swallows it down, military-style. Discipline over emotion.
But sometimes, it hits her. When you laugh. When you lean against her shoulder. When she thinks about the way you looked at her once, like you wanted her.
And then she remembers: she still has a cock.
Her body still doesn't fit the softness she's trying to perform.
She's not fragile. She's trying so hard to be though.
How can that be achieved when sometimes her hands still curl like they're waiting for a rifle, and her thighs are still wide from combat training?
Her softness feels like drag sometimes.
And what if she's hard for you? What does that make her?
Still a man? Still a fucking fraud?
(No.)
And yet, she paints her nails.
Lets her hair grow longer.
Wears floral deodorant.
She tries.
God, she tries. Even when she sometimes feels like she's playacting at being your kind of girl.
She can't forget it.
You had said something like, "You'd make a terrifying butch" and smirked like you'd still want her anyway –and she wasn't sure if she wanted to kiss you or cry on your shoulder.
Lying on her side in the dark, sports bra off, chest sore, feet swollen, the lyrics drift around her in the air...
“And anyone who ever had a heart
Or sang a lonesome song
Would sell their little souls
Just to make it with the blonde”
You are in her head.
Your perfume. Your peachy lip gloss and constantly blushing cheeks.
The way you always grab her wrist instead of her hand.
The way your hair sticks to your neck after work.
The way you talk about cramps like you're narrating a battle report.
She doesn't cry. Not this time. But she doesn't skip the song either.
She closes her eyes, listening. Imagining what it would feel like to be looked at the way she looks at you. Imagining a world where she didn't have to tuck, or flinch at your jokes, or pretend she doesn't notice the softness of your belly when you bend over to grab the exacto knife back in the warehouse.
In the dark, Hyun-ju aches –not with lust, but with grief.
She covers her face and listens to the rest of the song play out –'till an ad pops up. Then, she groans softly into her pillow in frustration.
Your own moment?
It happened on the bus ride after work, quietly.
You were looking out the window. The sky was soft, kind of gold.
In your peripheral, you could see the fine hairs at the back of her neck in the light, the shape of her profile –how full her lips are.
You didn't know what you were thinking until she shifted and her thigh brushed yours, and your whole body lit up like you touched an outlet.
You stared down at your knees.
Thought about the way her voice drops when she says your name.
Thought about how her hand had looked curled around a bottle of rosehip oil earlier, tentative, like she didn't deserve to hold something delicate –yet, looked so beautiful doing so.
You've never wanted to kiss someone out of pure awe before.
But now you do.
And somewhere inside your chest, something soft and pink and very, very gay opens like a window.
Thank you for reading! I appreciate you 🩷🌻
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Sunflower by @kodaswrld and sparkles by @saradika-graphics.
Hey guys! Finally moving to Tumblr to post my art because instagram is just NOT for me, tiktok is banned, and i closed my x account years ago. i already had this account for a while i just never bothered to post LMAO anyways
