Chapter Text
Bad dysphoria day? Not exactly correct, Zoey thinks, digging through their toy drawer again. The packers are new, relatively, and still novel to Zoey, so they haven’t yet settled on a permanent home for the two of them. The hard packer is here, winking at her mockingly next to the other toys and dildos they keep in Zoey’s room, and it could work in a pinch because Zoey just needs something there but it’ll needle at them, looking too much like an erection.
It’s less the feeling bad and more like an itch, the knowledge that they won’t be able to settle down and sink into song writing until they get something filling out their shorts. It’s not really dysphoria, they tell themself, because they only need their dick sometimes, y’know?
It’s the lack of euphoria, the niggling in the back of their mind, perhaps. Most days, okay, half of the time, they are okay without anything. On those days they love being a woman, love their curves, have no problem with how their pants sit on them.
Other days, like today, they need to be able to have the bulge there, to feel the weight of their cock against their thighs, to accidentally squeeze it against counters because they’re not used to having it there, nestled soft between their legs.
When the toy drawer proves fruitless, they go back to the bathroom, search again near the tape, catch sight of their taped-up chest in the mirror and relax fractionally, then purse their lips and frown at the lack of bulge at their crotch.
Their phone pings with the custom tone they set for Mira—a three-second sample of Mira snoring that Mira constantly threatens to erase and which never fails to make Zoey smile.
Heat crawls up their face, and pours down into the sling of their hips, nestling there at the suggestion. Good lord, yes. They want, they certainly, deeply want that. Nothing helps them feel more at home in their body than Rumi and Mira treating their dick like it’s real, sucking and groping and then riding when they get the hard packer on. The handsome part sticks in their ribs, makes them feel less stupid and scatterbrained.
Because where the fuck is it?
They never even leave the penthouse with their dick, so where the fuck could they have put it?
That is why they had asked their girls, but still. Zoey thinks—no knows—they should be able to find it. They’re not some baby who just loses their toys and needs other people to find them!
They can imagine the scrunch of Mira’s face and her eyeroll perfectly at Zoey’s overdramatic whining. And even the concerned head tilt Mira would give after processing it for a second, the one that said she knew Zoey was getting into their own head and spiraling, and playing the brat to deflect how much this really means to them, how important it is that they not only find their dick, but that they’re still seen as competent even having lost it. They can already hear Mira’s reassurances, the way she and Rumi will hold them, call them good boy and thank them for asking, for being brave and letting them know that they need help with something.
They try to do as Mira suggests. They haven’t had a dick day in nearly a week, and they were busy that week too, it was a few stolen hours at the penthouse to settle them back in their skin, and everything has swirled into a slurry since then, memories splotched with hands and moans, the euphoria of song writing, the steps to their new choreo, the way the kimbap two days ago was slightly off in flavour from what it usually was; but no dick.
They’re wracking their brain, gripping the sink and trying not to bite their lip bloody again when the tone for Rumi—a grainy audio sample of her saying ‘thank goodness’ that Zoey ripped from a fan's thirst tweet—goes off three times in rapid succession.
Something about it makes Zoey feel immediate and sudden panic.
Oh fuck. Oh fuck fuck fuck.
This is Zoey’s nightmare. They’re so fucking stupid.
First, they lose their dick, and now they’ve revealed to their mentor mother figure the person who lightly traumatized them all and is still working on being able to be back in their lives, that they’re trans and get their dick sucked on the regular by her DAUGHTER.
That reply.
Zoey is so getting fired.
Their faults and fears must never be seen. And while Celine is not an unreasonable woman, she is a hard woman, a strict teacher, and formidable Hunter.
No matter how much she’s managed to unpack in the year since the Idol Awards, no matter the progress Celine has made on her own trauma and being a better parent Zoey can see no way in which this conversation goes well.
Fuck.