He's not insecure, he's realistic. That's what he told himself.
He knows he can bag one piece of fine ass, he can date a pretty bird and totally trust them to not run away or cheat on him, because fuck, look at him. What does he lack?
Muscles? Nah
Height? Nah
Masculinity? Nah
Maturity? Nah
Money? Nah
A handsome face? By some standards. But not by his. He's handsome as fuck.
And he certainly doesn't lack endowment.
And yet he is terrified of the fact that you will leave him. You're not just some piece of ass he bagged. You're not just some pretty bird he found.
You are you.
And may God —clearly there is one, as someone must have created someone so perfect like you— pry you from his cold, dead hands, because he will not let you leave otherwise.
And he knows you wouldn't leave. Never.
But to ease his mind, he started to get a little tricky. Smart, if some say.
He started to turn up the heat in his flat whenever he came and turned it down just a tad bit whenever he left so you would believe he brings you the warmness. He does, just not in a romantic way.
He makes sure that his steak is just better. Or any meat, actually. Luv, he was a butcher a pretty long time of his life, he knows how to cook meat, it's fine. You'll cook tomorrow. Or no, maybe next weekend, he has already something planned tomorrow.
Makes sure to put just a little more sugar into your drinks than you do, just so you can say how much sweeter everything tastes around him.
And somehow you feel so much calmer around him too. He must have wonderful effects on you, truly. A blessing to be around. Surely it's not the cologne he wears only when he's around you. Surely it's not a herbal mix with calming effects disguised as a very natural cologne.
He would never, he's too... too much himself to do all that. Why would he? Don't think about it, he just has a very particular charm.
If I was a dirty mutt seeking the warmest place in a building, people would feel bad.
If I was an omniscient being seeking for the warmth of a radiating heater would I be granted the same comfort of pity?
Does the amount of self awareness decrease the amount of pity one gets? You would not feel bad for me seeking out warmth because I have never felt it, yet you would coo at a matted dog that tries to shield it's paws from the cold concrete.
My hands are cold.
I believe in god, but I don't think he remembers my name. God left us before I was born and yet I try to find reassurance that there is something different then nothingness.
The warmth of love and security is a luxury we humans don't deserve.
Just talked with a tall ass guy and ngl, I am glad he had a good day because if he wanted to, he could have spat on my head and I would have fully believed it was rain
but is it really? To be felt, heard, noticed and appreciated,
to be understood and accepted.
To see, is to witness but not participate.
I am aware of something being build but do I care enough to walk up to the people that stand there everyday and ask what it is? Would they give me the answer or play a game to find out if I truly care?
Do I care enough to know and play the game?
I would like to know what becomes of it. Perhaps I will love it enough to help the craftsman build it with my own two hands. And if I care I will find out that this structure is a bridge, a masterpiece and a life long dream of the craftsman.
But only when I take the time to look how every material was carefully selected to fit against eachother in the aspect of time, how every shape fits so finely together it feels natural, how much time it took to develope the body and colours so they form a harmony. Only then will I love it.
But perhaps I will not care. I will witness the structure being built and not even ask why it's placed over a river and why it connects two dry lands. I wouldn't care enough to ask or think about it.
Building is not my speciality, I don't even like structures.
The craftsman is the one that built it, it is not my duty to care why, how, or for who.
I will see it grow but I would not try to feel it, hear it, notice it and appreciate it,
König being bullied in his childhood is canon and we all agree that yeah, sure, maybe he even got his social anxiety from the bullying.
Thing is,
I don't think, despite popular belief, that he was bullied for his height. No, no, if you ever lived in germanic countries (Germany, Switzerland, Austria and actually any country surrounding those) you'd know that they don't care all too much about height.
Actually, no, they don't care if you're too tall. Because everyone over here is fucking tall. And assuming this guy was in school long long ago, let's say 1990-2000 because we don't know his age. People weren't so influenced by media to believe that height is the craziest thing about a guy.
And in my humble opinion, they didn't care about some tall teenager. All of them are tall, most of my teachers in high school were 1,80 m minimum and like 3 of them were nearly two meters tall. We really don't care, we see them so much that only older folk talk about the height of a tall guy, they say something along the lines of "handsome guy, so tall" and follow up with some war time story about the soldiers also being tall and how he would have fitted right in. (No, not in a national socialistic way, but more of a reminiscent way of the post-war memories. I know because my blonde, light eyed ass got often told by older teachers, "he (Hitler) would have loved you" randomly. Shout-out to middle school teachers, what the fuck.)
Back to the topic, his size might have been an attention grabber, which might have fueled more of his social anxiety. But I don't think it was necessarily the reason for bullying. I suspect it might have been his social anxiety why he was bullied. Or the constant fiddling, not being able to stand still, which is also canon.
Just my thoughts.
Also he loves to use height to his advantage when pinning people down.
I've now day-dreamed in a haze of coming back to my room, to the privacy of four walls and complete silence to use the new, sharp fabric scissor —that have proven themselves by deeply cutting me yesterday, on accident— to put them to the test and see just how deep they cut.
Unfortunately, I have not only forgotten them back in my hometown but I've also looked at them today in the morning, telling myself to remember to take them with me. Yet I have not. I did not pack them, I didn't even think of them when I once more walked through the doorway of my home.
Fate didn't want me to test the practicality of this sharp object on my body, so I shall not. Today I will rest and believe in a better tomorrow.
Sometimes I forget I exist beyond just living, and I need a second to think of everything I am made of.
The things humans do are so weirdly poetic; I was just doing ribbon flowers for my friends birthday bouquet, yet I have ran out of lighter fluid, so I could not use the normal means of lighting.
But I remembered that ever since October I am carrying matches with me that my grandmother gave me to light candles at the graveyard back in my hometown.
So I decided that I should light a candle that my boyfriend has once painted for me and continue on.
When I struggled to lit the match, the unique smell of the fire starter rub against the igniter hit me hard, and I felt like I was back at home. The same day an hour before I was mutilating my body, to blend the pain with pleasure — I tell myself, then I smelled something so homely I had to think back to the positive side of my childhood.
I aspire to see everything as I saw this moment today.
it is so important that you are a little bit ugly. please get comfortable with having unplucked eyebrows and nonexistent jawlines and wrinkles. let your blue hair grow out into an uneven pale green and your clothes be old and mend them and modify them until they’re unique to you. wear lipstick which doesnt compliment your skintone and mismatched outfits which went out of fashion 5 years ago. be a little bit too loud and a little bit too passionate and as weird as you can be because oh my god there is nothing more disturbing to me than perfection. beauty is manufactured and sold to us and you need to realise that you are a fucking animal to live a joyful life I am so serious. you cant obsess over aesthetics forever please just live messily and make your body your home however you please.
if you dont do it for you, do it for all the teenagers who will see u in the street and know that they are not obligated to be attractive
"There is nothing more disturbing to me than perfection"
Words cannot describe how strongly I feel about this.
Perfection is so fucking subjective that everyone is in their own kind perfect and I hate it when someone says "nothing is perfect" because NO. Everything is uniquely perfect in its own way. Failure and mistakes is what makes perfection reality.
Are we ever going to get a continuation on catfish! König? 🥹💔
Well HWs #1 Meat Rider, I have some good news for you
Catfisher!König
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, ..., Part 5 (in work)
Warning: Suggestive content, brief mentions of sex, low-key obsessed behaviour, just a guy being loser, a little stalker behavior, lots of illegal stuff, nudes being used as blackmail, please be 18 or older if you read this, or just don't tell me you're minor, I can't stop you from doing anything tbh.
This is only fiction, please remember.
Meet ups are a weird thing for anyone, really. It's a first time face to face with someone you only chatted with through the safety of your screen. What if they are catfishing? Oh goodness, what if Alexandria is a middle aged man that is trying to take advantage of you?!
Ah, no. She is a girl. Surely! You send eachother pictures after all! You saw her, her and her whole impressive body. You had asked her about the pictures you send, since she seemed to be taking pictures resembling more the art that should be hung in the Louvre -and hopefully not stolen- then nudes. So you ask, Is the lighting right? The position? Do you think this guy will like it?
You felt so comfortable around her, like you two were talking to eachother without the barricade of a screen and "thousands of miles" apart. Or that's what he she said the first time you offered a meetup.
How did you two never go into the topic of countries was beyond you. You only found out she lives far away after several months of contact. Wow, you two really must have hit it off if you skipped the whole get to knowing eachother part.
"Oh, it's such a shame!" You wrote back and a sad emoticon in a separate message.
She only answered with "yeah, lame".
And that's how quickly the topics changed.
And yet the nagging feeling stayed. She NEVER mentioned anything about where she lives... Nor did she ever try to tell things about herself. Not really. Just occasionally about douche guys and ones she'd date, heavily hinting at European guys. Tall guys, but that goes hand in hand with the European. And especially guys that are into niche cultures. She said it's endearing and makes him stand out. Also those have the biggest cocks.
Very specific on that one.
Impressive how a woman can be so subtle with being so obvious.
And the chatting continued. You had a mild uneasy feeling about it, but you brushed it off. Of course, paranoia. Not everyone you meet on the internet is out to kill you!
Not Alexandria that is, she's so nice and cute and-
And you found the pictures you send her in your locker.
It was a shock at first. You opened the locker like normally, only to see a new magnet with an oddly neatly folded up piece of paper hanging.
You took it, believe your forgetful ass must have put it there a while back and forgot. It was just the weekend after all...
And when you opened it up, it was a printed out copy of your pictures. No blood written threat, just your nudes, no face, just a body.
But it was your body and you remember good as fuck that your face was not cropped out in the original picture.
She did it. Why? Was that the printer fucking up or was the face cut out deliberately?
You texted her, but suddenly the account was inactive. Gone. Never to be seen again.
Fucking creepy. Horrifying.
You have no means of asking anyone what is going on.
No matter how much you googled her name, the user, find other social media, it was all gone. As if the hundreds of messages never existed.
What was left was a guy, subtly waving at you with a smile. Sometimes asking you about the day.
Isn't he the one that brought the pastries that one time?
Alec... what was it again? Alexis? Yeah something like that.
And when the pictures started to slowly show up more often, always leaving your face out, you spiraled.
Showing off your nudes is one fucking thing, but cropping out the face every single time? What does it mean?
And why is no one acting different? Are you the only one that knows about those? No one else is looking at you oddly. You don't think so.
Sure that one guy you talked to twice was looking strangely at you, but that was a coincidence. Right? He only asked you for a pen once and you didn't have one to give, so you apologized profusely. Is he taking revenge?
"Hello." Suddenly a voice brings you out of the spiral of accusations. "You left your bag in the last lecture just now, ja..." He murmurs, placing it on the library table you were sat at.
Ah fuck! You even forgot your bag.
"Ah, thank you..." You reluctantly took it, checking inside if anything is missing and-
That fucking picture, stuffed into bag like gift paper in a present.
You're sick to your stomach any time you have to pick up a piece of paper.
"Ah, alles okay? Lady? Miss? Dame?" He murmurs unsurely, slowly kneeling on one knee next to your seat to look at your face and into your bag, but you quickly hide the paper and shake your head.
"... I think I have morning sickness." You blurt, grabbing the backpack and escaping the library to find a bathroom.
Morning sickness. That's the excuse you thought was reasonable? You panicked. Clearly, because you ran out while he's sat there all alone, still kneeling on the ground and now thinking about you and the possibility of your pregnancy.
He glances after you, straightening up after a moment. "Was?" He whispers, a little shaken up. Get a hold. She can't be pregnant, she didn't have sex the last... days... did she?
Maybe a month ago? You did want to talk with some guy you found cute. Maybe you had unprotected sex? Would you have unprotected sex?!
No, you're- reasonable- but so fucking naive. Maybe he coerced you. Like König did to make you send those naked pictures. Gott, you look beautiful. Such breathtaking pictures... Hold on, rewind.
Pregnancy. You can't be pregnant. You fucking can't be pregnant. He doesn't allow it. It's not like you have a say in this. You can't be pregnant with a different man. A no one. No one else matters.
Only you and him.
He is the only man that matters.
And he will personally stuff so much of his own cum in your poor sickened body that whatever cells there are forming of your child will be rewritten to match his and his only. His genes are stronger anyway.
His Mama told him that. He's a strong big man with good genes and a handsome face. But she might have lied about the latter.
He surely was a cute kid, but he's surely not a conventionally looking man. Too rugged and too soft all at once. As if puberty hit late. Or ended late. Whichever it is, he has too many hormones buzzing in his young mind. And too many showing off on his body.
"This can't be." He whispers, trailing through the corridors, wondering if a possibility of pregnancy is realistic. He'll have to study that.. thing. What is it called again?
Your cycle. Yes, that's right. Cycle. That period thing to see when you're most fertile. He has to figure out if pregnancy is a possibility.
I swear I'm going to update my series but guys, LISTEN
Millionaire business men that are INFATUATED by a random weirdo, so much they are willing to stain their reputation to join the weirdo in their holding cell.
Day 1: Oral with Johnny MacTavish because I said so
Oral, a lot of fucking oral. And oral fucking.
Warnings: Nsfw, some blood, some broken bones, badly written smut (I'm still learning please), lots of french kissing the clit, reluctant consent?
He is annoying.
Fucking useful, yes, extremely dangerous, yes, the baddest motherfucker out here, yes, extremely annoying, also fucking yes.
You know he's smart, a big brain he has beneath that ridiculously cut hair, so why is it that he resembles pest more than a man? Wherever he goes, he comes back, badly wounded and on the brick of death but still back.
"MacTavish, get your ass out of my quarters." He hears your voice behind him, but decides to ignore it, more focused on the picture frame on your table. He picks it up carelessly, bringing it to your face to compare. "Ah, lassie, you look a wee bit different," he gets to giggle, comparing your face to the same face, just when you were a toddler.
"Grown intae a bonnie lassie, eh?" What's with that smug grin on his face? It's too wide for the average soldier, truly. The last time you'd see a soldier this giddy was back when drugs on the front lines were the biggest hit. Something about making their soldiers stronger. Weapons of humans that work better if given the initiative of a good trip.
"Give that back." You tell him, trying to snatch the picture frame out of his ridiculously sticky hands. They just grab onto everything. And this very time, it's your waist, pulling you in closer as he holds the frame up above his head.
"Come an' get it yer ain sel'." He grins, bitting his bottom lip before puckering his lips out playfully. He never learns. Not when you tell him off, not when Ghost gruffs at him to stop touch his guns, nor when Gaz tells him off for grabbing onto his ass instead of his vest. But to be honest, Gaz doesn't look too bothered by it. Not after also grabbing the Scots ass in return.
"Don't play with me now." You only repeat slowly, clearly on edge today. The constant back and forth is getting to you, no? Too much of Johnny can't be good.
"Haud yer horses, hen." His hand gradually tightens around your waist, thick fingers crushing into the flesh of your side. He thinks of comparing the feeling to something, but the comparison dies on his tongue as he finds it hard to compare the squish to anything.
What he does notices is you pushing him off in annoyance, slapping the burly arm off of you and stepping back. So stressed, aren't you?
He bites his bottom lip in thought and swings the picture around, tilting his head to the side. "Ye dinnae want it, eh?"
It's his own fault, really. The way your fist lands perfectly to the side of his stupidly big nose, breaking it with a muffled crack. He shouldn't have this much of a punchanle face.
He stumbles, albeit barely. Hand quickly flies to cover his nose as the other lowers the picture. He's still for the longest moment, head tilted down as the blood slowly drips between his fingers down onto the ground, staining it crimson.
"I-" The hit was an impulse. Sure he was annoying, but not nose break annoying. God, what did you do? He's upset now and- god forbid he tells the Captain.
"Listen-" but he cuts you off, placing the picture frame down onto your desk before turning to glance at you with... a feral look in his eyes. Oh he's not upset, no, he's.... delighted? "Fer a right-hander, yer left hook's got a fair bittie sting tae it, so it does."
His hand wipes at his nose, smearing the leaking blood onto his cheek while maintaining eye contact uncomfortably long.
"What, I didn't- You're so hard to understand sometimes..." you whisper to yourself, unsurely stepping closer to him to take in his bruising nose.
It's not really his fault for finding this arousing. He's used to pain, but getting it from you? Aw, fuck, he's soaking into his boxers. He glances down at the tent forming over his pants, expanding the more he feels the blood drip.
"Och, hen, ye'll need tae dae somethin' tae get it richt noo." He coos, before taking his bloodied hand and pressing it into your biceps. It tightens, fingers digging into your skin as he slowly pushes you back.
So far back in fact that the back of your knees hit the bed and you land on it. "Johnny-"
"Nae, yer broke ma neb, hen." He just retorts, sinking to his knees. "It's hurtin' like a right wee bauchle."
God what is he talking about?
You don't have the time to ponder about that because your belt is unbuckled and your zipper is tugged off with nimble, sticky fingers. Far too quick. And his hands are far too quickly dragging your pants down your legs too.
"Your nose!" That's the only noise you get to led out before his face is flush with your underwear. Those annoyingly chapped lips are already mouthing at the clothed cunt and his broken and still dripping nose nestled on top of your soft mound.
"Dinnae move." He muffles, slowly licking up a stripe over the heat. "I will cum."
"What?!" And his teeth scrape over the cotton, biting it and pulling on it before letting it slap back against your poor heat.
It draws out a shriek from you and even a blush slowly creeping up that tasteful neck of yours. His eyes connect with the skin of your neck, before moaning into your clothed cunt and licking a wet spot on the fabric.
"Johnny you're sick, your nose is broken, you shouldn't be-" your voice comes out higher then expected, perhaps confusion lacing it. Maybe shock. "Stop sniffing my cunt! You dog!" You try to protest, grabbing and pulling his hair in a moment of panic, but that seems to melt him, a loud groan coming from the very depths of his throat, before his hands wrap around your thighs and drag you to the very edge.
Poor lassie, too concerned with his well being and that small nosebleed to enjoy a little fun. Don't worry, he will show you exactly what you're missing out. "Shhh, sh."
His hands press into your abdomen to keep you still, while his broad shoulders ensure your legs are elevated enough to not stop him from mouthing at your pretty pussy.
And that far too stupidly big head of his keeps those pretty legs spread enough for his mouth to find his victim.
And you jolt again when he licks up a stripe, this time relaxing quickly after. It's sweet almost, a man of this size so obsessed with making you feel good that he's on his knees willingly, nose broken. That's also pathetic. Because god forbid he doesn't know what he's doing.
You don't get your hopes up too much either. The last time guys tried to eat you out as foreplay it ended up like a sad, blindfolded search for the piñata, only to end up everywhere but where it's most expected.
"John-"
"Nae, shut now."
And you just sigh, leaning back as this pathetic excuse of a man laps up at your cotton underwear, bleeding it fully before having the generous idea of taking them off.
He loves showing off too, because he's dragging the cotton down your legs with his teeth, keeping deep eye contact like you might escape him.
The panties end up mid thigh, but he seems content with leaving them half off, at least keeping your legs tightly together in case you did try to escape.
"Your nose-" the reminder dies on both your tongue and his ears as he goes in face first against your cunt. And boy, he gets to work immediately. No wait, just straight to licking up your entrance to the small sensitive bundle of nerves and- "Agh!" -he found it.
His movements stop exactly the second your voice leaves your throat in a surprising shriek. And that's where he stays, slowly pulling his tongue back to start licking around the clit, often dragging over it to ensure you stay on your toes.
And that your toes curl.
"Och, fuck, ye taste pure deid brilliant." He slurs, lips sealing over the clit, then what you fear the most, suck. Oh, he sucks hard. Your hands ball into the sheets and head starts shaking to tell him no, to slow down. But this bastard doesn't know the word no, the movement just makes him more confident in his ministrations, lips sealed over the softness of your cunt, tasting the twitching little bundle like it's the last thing he gets to eat.
"Slow- slow down now, you can't-" and you're already gasping, legs tensing. But then your hips twitch, hard enough to be considered a grind, which draws out another groan from him, hands tightly pressing into your hips to stop you from grinding.
"Mah neb, quit yer jigglin'." He scowls, and you both feel a warm liquid dripping down his face, onto your sweet flesh.
Ah fuck, he bloodied up your cunt with his broken nose.
"Lass." A warning this time. Keep still, or he will- do something.
If he's able to lick up your soft pussy this well, he might as well do other things that end up as threats.
"Let me have my fucking dessert." He finally rasps, saying that in the most comprehensive way possible, then his face mushes against your folds and one hand creeps up to find the even prettier entrance to get to the best part.
How would the Cod people react to finding out you had top surgery.
Because I love transgender folk, shout out to transgender people
Simon Ghost Riley didn't care one bit. Looked at you in the changing room for a fleeting moment. Made direct eye contact with the scars, and looked away. Topic never brought up again. You're a lad, and a little chromosome ain't gonna change that. Not to him anyway, he's fucking tired of everything.
John Soap MacTavish was getting handsy with you, like one does. He expresses love from touches, really. So whenever he'd slap a hand on your shoulder or fist bump your chest, it was affectionate. This time though, he got a little antsy and started pulling at your shirt, and it was gone quicker then it was on. "Oi, mate, you have nice scars." He gruffs. Eyes wandering over the occasional wound from battle, or childhood fun alike. It took him longer then two moments to realise that the scars beneath your pecs aren't from torture, but from an operation. They look too clean for them to be an accident. "Wow, whot the fock (I'm sorry guys this was stronger then me). Did you have bigger pecs before?" He'd question, before slowly, slowly the idea of you not having a biological dick starts creeping into his mind. And there was no longer moment waster before his hands were fumbling at your belt.
Kyle Gaz Garrick was awfully fine with finding out you have had a top surgery. "Sure love, I'm not going to judge you." He said, sitting down on the bed as you told him, trying to share the secret. "What is it that you want to show me?" He asked, leaning back on his hands, waiting for some miracle to happen. Perhaps you've gotten a tattoo? Or you're disfigured? Maybe burned skin. It's all kind of things that can happen. And- "Oh, you have no... No boobs. I... Can't even imagine you having a bigger chest..." He murmurs, acknowledging that the man he had grown to know never would have looked right with female anatomy.
Johnathan Price would not care too much either. You've shown yourself off in battle, no matter what's hidding in your pants. Chest or no chest, you uphold the standard. "Hm. And you want me to change your sex on the files or...?" Do you feel as a woman again? You're written down as male in every report, so why would it be a crazy discovery that you weren't a man before? And when you quickly told him that you still feel and are a man he gruffed out loud, nodding. "Good for you, lad. Good for you."
Alejandro Vargas would know pretty quickly that you were born in the wrong body. Some mimicks and reactions give it out. He pulls you aside one evening, telling in a hushed voice, "We are family, ha? You can tell me anything." Before nodding lightly and patting your back. More then several months passed before you've got the courage to tell him you finally got the top surgery. He stared at the fresh scars for a moment, a smile spreading over his lips before standing up and grabbing you in a hug. "I'm proud of you, eh. No more of the binder thing."
Rudolfo Parra, I fear, would be overly romantic with it, kissing over the scars and repeating how much he loves you, no matter in what body you reside in. "Te amo, corazón." Between kisses as he holds you for the night. "Eres perfecto. Oh sí, te amo mucho, hm."
Phillip Graves would look up from his phone to take in your face. "A top surgery." He nods slowly, not sure why you are telling him that. "I don't recall you getting injured to the chest recently? Was it for aesthetics? Did you get your skin replaced because of the scars, or..." He trails off, glancing back to his phone, other hand loosely holding a glass bottle of what you only can assume is a beer. "No... I got my... Tits... removed..." You tell him unsurely how to phrase it. And he stills for a moment, taking a sip of his drink before looking back at you. "You were a woman?" He didn't even notice. "Well, good for you, lad." And another beat of silence. "you going to get bottom surgery too?" He questions, slowly raking his eyes down your body. "Yeah." A huff and nod. "Need references? I have a very impressive one if you want to see."
Farrah Karim is surprised. Excited perhaps. "You had a top surgery?? How is it healing?" She'd question, more concerned with the scars. "I've heard online that there's lot of side effects." She'd tell you, taking out her phone to show studies she once read just because. "Are you regretting the surgery? I've heard it's a side effect too." She seems awfully interested in the procedure, more in the surgery. "No Farrah- I'm not taking antidepressants- Why would I take... Yes it does hurt when I sleep on my stomach."
Alex Keller reacts... only after several seconds. "Oh I had it done too several years ago." Which surprised you. "Your transition went well..." You tell him, looking him up and down. "Oh! No- no. I just had really big pecs in the past." He says, touching his chest absentmindedly. And silence spreads for longer then intended. Needless to say you compared which scars looked better.
Vladimir Makarov knew from the beginning on. You didn't tell him nothin', but the reason he knows is because his research is extensive. Always was. He never asked and even when he got a good look at the scars, hadn't bother saying a singular word. No affirmations, no soft words, no curses. Deadpan. Perhaps he's judging you in his mind. You wouldn't know, he's not going to voice it either way.
Extra for the non-lore guys (because I miss my husband's yeah)
Kim "Horangi" Hong-jin is freaked out. Not like you might belief, he's not out screaming about it. He caught a peek in the changing room, glancing at your physique to see the scars under your pecs. After a moment of confusion he looks away, wondering now if those came from some badass interrogation or if you were once a lady. The same day later on he came over to you and confidently offered to spar and workout together. "If you want to look manly you have to put on more muscle." he said, encouring you to become "more manly", to his standards at least.
"König" was a little baffled why one would get rid of their "chest fat" to look more manly. Bottom surgery? Yeah sure, that's fine. But top? "Na, you could have just solved this with training." He taps your chest, looking at the scars below your chest. It was purely coincidental he came in while you were wiping your face with your shirt after a tiring workout. "Das ist doch gar nicht praktisch..." He murmurs to himself, hands on hips adjust his stance to better look at your chest. "I have a chest, I didn't get rid of it." Perhaps he's a little lost on the fact that fat distribution work a little differently on women and men.
On one side we have 16 year old girls giggling about fluff and enjoying fanfics of their favourite ship and on the other 38 year old woman married to a Scotsman, writing smut about the same ship. All in one place.
