rinney/brance oneshots

repeat to your self

Tw- body dysmorphia

Finney couldn't sleep. He just couldn't tonight.

He had some music playing too keep him from being too bored. And also to keep him distracted from his dysphoria, which had been bugging him a lot more than usual lately.

He kept rocking back and forth, not in a panicked way or anything just cause for some reason he enjoyed the movement.

He was wearing his binder, despite the time.

He knew he shouldn't, he knew it was unhealthy to wear it for this long and at a time when he should be sleeping but he didn't care, his dysphoria was bad enough that he'd throw himself off the top of the Mystery Shack to have just a little relief.

He got like this a lot when he was dysphoric. It was probably sort of concerning but he didn't particularly care.

He readjusted his binder for the millionth time that night, his chest never sitting right, always slipping into a weird position where his chest would be bulging out too much and the bottom of the binder would be sitting against the top of stomach in such an uncomfortable way.

He tried his best to stare at the top of the wall and ignore how his chest looked but God he could still feel it so much.

He can feel the binder, his chest, how it shows different he is to other boys (if he could even call himself that).

His chest isn't flat.

His chest is too big.

His body is feminine.

His body is so fucking feminine.

He's just a girl, a real trans boy would've found a way to bind better.

A real boy wouldn't be trans at all.

He felt his breath quicken.

Fuck- He thought. No, stop. Fuck. You're just faking this. You're faking all of this. You don't have panic attacks. You just want attention. Just sto...

His thoughts got lost in a mess of all of the sound, his other thoughts, his breathing, the music that was becoming less of a helpful distraction and more of another thing overwhelming him.

He turned off the music quickly and tried to get his brain under control.

He was rocking back and forth faster now, now as part of the panic attack.

He's not a real boy.

He's not a real boy.

He's not a real boy.

He's not a real boy.

Fuck. Fuck. Just- breathe. Fuck! He thought in a panic, tears forming in his eyes before running down his face.

He clawed at his arms and face, he hit his wrists together, he slammed his fist down on his crossed legs and face, partially as a panicked stim, partially to try and ground himself through pain.

It didn't work.

He tried grabbing the lower half of his face in a way that pinched his nose and clamped his mouth shut, hoping this could get his breathing in check.

Again, it didn't work.

Nothing was working.