Work Text:
Jon closed the door to his flat behind him and sighed, slumping heavily against it. The day had been long and grueling, as it always was. The archives continued to be a hopeless mess, and it seemed like every time he finished one task, it unearthed three more.
He pushed himself upright, toed off his shoes, set his bag at the kitchen table, and walked into the bedroom. There was a full-length mirror in his closet, and he glanced over himself critically in it. He looked…fine. Unremarkable. His hair was in disarray from running his hands through it all day, but aside from that he looked like any other man you might see.
The sweater vest was comfortable, if a bit stuffy. He tugged the thick fabric over his head and tossed it into the laundry hamper. He smoothed his hand over the white button up he wore underneath it—a little rumpled from the long day, very slightly oversized. He pulled off his tie and hung it up, then took a deep breath and began undoing his buttons.
Jon had no desire to transition fully. He had toyed with the idea of changing his name or his pronouns, but discarded them quickly; to his mind, it would be much more trouble than it was worth. But he wanted something. Just enough of a change so that he would know the difference, even if no one else did.
Maybe the soft growth on his chest wouldn’t really count as breasts to anyone else. But growing up, he’d always been the kind of scrawny that meant his chest was so flat you could see the ribs moving beneath it, and while he’d filled out a little after puberty (including, to his consternation, a saggy bit of paunch around his middle), his chest had still looked like a flat board that someone had stuck a couple of brownish-pink stickers on, except with more hair.
He’d started microdosing shortly after graduating from uni. It had taken a while for the changes to show up, and when they did, he had mixed feelings about them. He liked the softer aspect that the hormones lent to his face and the way that they began to fill out his hips and thighs, and he hadn’t minded the loss in muscle tone (not that he’d had much to begin with). The reduction in body hair was rather nice. He didn’t care for the weepiness or the way that interacting with the world felt different. But when his chest had slowly begun to fill out, he watched it raptly, poking at the growing softness until he was almost too sore to touch.
It ended up being more trouble than it was worth to stay on the hormones. He bid the weepiness goodbye gladly—he’d never been the sort of cry over adverts, for god’s sake—and resigned himself to needing to shave every day again. Sometimes he looked back over photos of himself when he’d been on estradiol and missed the way that his face had looked back then, the softness to his cheeks and jaw that had dropped away quickly, but it was more nostalgia than painful longing.
The breast growth stayed, though, and he loved it with an intensity that he found almost embarrassing. He finished unbuttoning his shirt and opened it. The smile that crept onto his face was totally involuntary as the bralette he’d risked wearing that morning was revealed. He hated the thought of his coworkers finding out about it—explanations of the gender situation were invariably complicated, vulnerable, and uncomfortable, and he much preferred to let everyone assume he was a cis man and fly under the radar—so he rarely wore anything to work on his chest that wasn’t just an extra layer to help disguise the swell. He tried not to trouble himself too much with what other people thought about him, but he could imagine the whispered accusations of freak or pervert far too well. He knew the figure he cut, with his greying hair and haggard face. He didn’t exactly look like the perfect media depiction of androgyny. So he kept his presentation masculine and gave himself plausible deniability. He’d warded off at least one invasive question already with a snapped answer of gynecomastia, don’t you have anything better to do?
But he wore a sweater vest today, and its thick knitted fabric was more than enough to disguise any suspicious lines or bumps under his shirt. So when he dressed this morning, he picked out a bra—all soft fabric, dark blue with a bit of soft lace along the straps—and layered the clothes of his bland academic persona over it like armor, the stiff button up and uncomfortable tie and soft brown sweater vest, and now he peeled it off and sighed with relief.
It was a comfort, through the day, the slight pressure of the elastic surrounding his ribcage, and it was a comfort now. He rubbed a thumb over it, smiling at the way that the fabric cupped the breast tissue, the give under his hand. It emphasized the growth nicely, turned it into a small but undeniable breast instead of just a fat deposit. There was even something oddly satisfying about the delicate curve of the bra next to the dark hair in the center of his chest.
It was too chilly in his flat to stay shirtless for long, so he finished shrugging off his button up and stepped out of his trousers. He hesitated by his dresser. He wore boxer briefs at work, like he usually did, but…He pulled open his top drawer and bit his lip. He wouldn’t go so far as to call the feminine underwear he owned lingerie. It was all soft, serviceable stuff, practical everyday garments made out of cotton and elastic rather than anything with silk or lace. It felt nice sometimes to complete the picture made by his clothing, even if the different cuts made it impractical sometimes. He drummed his fingernails indecisively on the drawer, then closed it. Too much effort today.
He pulled on a plain long-sleeved shirt, the fabric just thin enough to cling, and then a long skirt, calf-length and swishy, with pockets. He found it at a charity shop ages ago and wanted it immediately, but it took him nearly half an hour of anxiously poking around at other sections of the store (rifling through the suit jackets, flipping through the books) before he finally gathered the courage to pick up the skirt, hold it against his waist when no one was looking to see if it was likely to fit, and buy it. He’d been concocting furious excuses about a girlfriend, but the woman at the checkout hadn’t asked, and he walked home with the skirt in a plastic bag and his heart in his throat, feeling like he’d found a perfect illicit treasure. Jon pulled a cardigan over his shoulders and admired himself again in the mirror.
It was silly. It was vain. But he loved the way he looked like this. The fullness of the skirt flattered his waist and gave him the illusion of hips, and the softly clinging shirt draped nicely over his breasts, emphasizing their slight curve. The cardigan softened the width of his shoulders. The overall effect was still unmistakably bookish and modest—if he were braver, he could wear it to work—but he couldn’t help but feel like there was something oddly glamorous in it. It felt right. He ruffled his hair a little, just on the longer side of professional, and smiled.