[koby maintains his intently focused expression, teeth notched into his lower lip as if undoing the four or five buttons is taking every scrap of his attention, then resting his palms flat against harry’s chest, feeling the contour of his body, the rise and fall of still-underfed ribs, the steady beat of his heart. he smiles, brightly.] Thank you. I think it’s some of my finest waistcoat-divestion work.
[there’s a bit of a flicker in koby’s expression at the prompt, a momentary tension in his shoulders before he breathes in, out, slowly, lets them relax again.] I would never presume to argue with a doctor’s recommendation, but...well. There are some things I'd like to make clear.
[a moment of hesitation, then he’s unstrapping the overalls again, letting them fall off his shoulders, then carefully pulling his shirt off over his head. months of using saltburnt’s (impressive) gym facilities means that koby’s gained a good amount of muscle in his chest, his arms, his stomach, the line of his back, but the jagged scars beneath each pectoral are still vividly obvious, shiny and pink. whatever surgery caused them was inexpert – the scar tissue is gnarled, irregular, speaking of haphazard knife work and insufficient recovery, as if the stitches had been torn open again and again and again.
there’s significantly less anxiety in koby’s body language than there would’ve been even a few months before – he doesn’t anticipate goodsir will be anything but curious or, perhaps, bewildered about the scars, can’t imagine him being disgusted or cruel. and if he is – well. then koby misjudged him, that’s all. but he doesn't think he has, so he waits patiently, hands still resting on goodsir's broad chest, awaiting his reaction.]
cw: unsafe top surgery, gore ig
[there’s a bit of a flicker in koby’s expression at the prompt, a momentary tension in his shoulders before he breathes in, out, slowly, lets them relax again.] I would never presume to argue with a doctor’s recommendation, but...well. There are some things I'd like to make clear.
[a moment of hesitation, then he’s unstrapping the overalls again, letting them fall off his shoulders, then carefully pulling his shirt off over his head. months of using saltburnt’s (impressive) gym facilities means that koby’s gained a good amount of muscle in his chest, his arms, his stomach, the line of his back, but the jagged scars beneath each pectoral are still vividly obvious, shiny and pink. whatever surgery caused them was inexpert – the scar tissue is gnarled, irregular, speaking of haphazard knife work and insufficient recovery, as if the stitches had been torn open again and again and again.
there’s significantly less anxiety in koby’s body language than there would’ve been even a few months before – he doesn’t anticipate goodsir will be anything but curious or, perhaps, bewildered about the scars, can’t imagine him being disgusted or cruel. and if he is – well. then koby misjudged him, that’s all. but he doesn't think he has, so he waits patiently, hands still resting on goodsir's broad chest, awaiting his reaction.]