#he has other bald patches where he pulls his hair out I just never draw him in any other angle than 3/4

[a-scary-lack-of-common-sense]

the second I found your Kook Ford au I fell in love (/p),,, and hyperfixation

I NEED a colored drawing of him, I'm obsessed and want to draw him but COLORS ARE HARD [foaming at the mouth emoji] /nf /pos

Him and his pigeons :)

His hair is very white from. Stress. :(

[sparkly-sediment]

A suggestion for you. The mercs’ s/o massage their chest and the mercs find out they really like that.

If not all then maybe Engineer, Soldier and Sniper :)

ik this isn’t what you’re looking for but

Tf2 Heavy chest hair ripped out headcanons

He’s just an ordinary bear going about his day

Scout, the bastard child, born out of wedlock, is constantly blowing air

Heavy doesn’t give a fuck! He actually like Scout, the kid reminds him of himself as a young man if he wasn’t beaten down by war

It’s after work but pre shower. Everyone is sweaty and grimy and Medic practically has a hard on from the smell of blood

The mercs are crowded in the bathroom but Heavy doesn’t mind. He’s lived in horribly cramped spaces where the only running water was a spicket (which was frozen shut most days)

In communal showers, it’s common decent to not watch someone strip. Every if you’re comfortable with playing with each other’s dicks you still look away for a split second

Unless you’re a fucking freak like most of the mercenaries

Heavy drops his draws and goes to take off his pull over. At the same time, that little scunt Scout is trying to outrun Demo, who is trying snap his ass with a towel

Demo has a lethal whip if I may add

Scout sideswipes Heavy as Heavy has his arms above his head to pull off the sweater

During this critical moment, his Siberian bush of chest hair snags in the zipper. Heavy keeps pulling. Heavy howls and the room stills

GAGGED THEM BITCHES GOOD LIRD Heavy never tweaks out!! He’s big and will Fuck You Up but at his heart is a kind man! An older brother to three strong sisters!!

Heavy swears profusely in Russian. When he puts his arms down, there’s a tiny bald patch visible on his chest and the crowd goes wild. Imagine having your chest hair ripped out and eight other nutjobs start cackling sobbing smacking each other

But they are naked and the slapping stops once Soldier hits to close to a supple ass cheek

Basically, Heavy is fuming for the rest of the shower. Scout does not shower and instead hides and Demo backs up like “ay man don’t hurt papi”

Medic absolutely sticks his finger in the hair hole during sex and they do stop for the night (five minutes then they start freakin)

[stillebesat]

Scales (3/7)

Sanders Sides: Logan, Deceit, Virgil, Roman, Patton Blurb: Deceit hadn’t expected his absence from the Mindscape to be noticed by the others…until Logic knocked on his door. Fic Type: General Warnings: Shedding (snake style), Minor Injuries, Minor Pain, Touch Starvation Taglist in Reblog.

To Catch Up: Prologue Chapter 1 

Deceit struggled to draw a full breath as Logic pushed open the door, peering in before he moved cautiously into his room for the first time, the heat and humidity immediately fogging up his glasses as he did so.  

Logi--Logan frowned, amber eyes darting about as he slipped off the frames, cleaning them with a cloth while he took in every detail from the mussed up bed, to the theater posters on the walls above the piano, to the philosophy and law books scattered across the desk, to land on the sunlamp in the corner. 

Deceit couldn’t help but tense further, watching him investigate the room from the corner of his eye. “What?” He demanded. “You never seen a bedroom before?” 

Logan jumped, cheeks going red as he slipped the glasses back on. “Apologies.” He said, pulling at his tie, loosening the knot. “Your room...wasn’t how I expected it to be.” 

Oh? “And what were you expecting? A cave?” He retorted, heart pounding in his chest as Logan turned his full attention on him. 

The Logical Side cleared his throat, crossing his arms.  “A similar aesthetic to Virgil’s more like.” 

“Like Anxiety’s? Ha.” Deceit smirked, just barely stopping himself from shaking his head and revealing the shed. No, they were rather opposite in their tastes. He had always preferred his room to be lighter and warmer compared to the other Dark Sides. “It’s not always this…warm…but this is my room.” 

“It’s roasting.” Logan corrected, tugging at the collar of his shirt, loosening the buttons. “Why is it so hot?”

Deceit exhaled, a dozen lies running through his mind. The moment of truth. “Because it helps…” He licked his lips, audibly swallowing. 

His stiff arm trembled at his side. He should just lie. Give a different excuse as to why the room was too hot. Why had he even let Logic in in the first place?

“It helps...with--” He hesitated, closing his eye. Come on. Just show him. But it wasn’t like it was easy to show yourself when at your most vulnerable! 

“With?” Logan asked, his voice soft as he came closer. “You can tell me, Lyal. Remember, I am Logic.”

“Like this is logical,” Deceit muttered, human fist clenching. None of the others had to deal with this. None of them had scales. He was the odd Side out with this problem. 

But it was now or...well...now. Logan wouldn’t let it go now that he knew something was wrong. 

Deceit dropped his hand and abruptly turned. “Ithelpswiththis.” He said, struggling to meet Logic’s eyes as he gestured to the left side of his face and torso.

Logan inhaled sharply, eyes going wide behind his frames as he took in Deceit’s appearance, studying the off-white layer of skin that covered his scales from head to naval, dulling the once bright color to a dark sickly green. 

It felt like an eternity before he spoke. 

“You’re about to shed.” 

Deceit relaxed fractionally, watching Logan warily with his human eye. “Yes.” At least the other Side wasn’t...well….screaming in horror.

Logan moved closer. “I should have considered---I thought they were--” He reached out to the scales, but froze as Deceit flinched, twisting his body away from his hand. 

It was one thing to show him his shed, but to have Logic t-touch--. 

A tremor rushed through him. No one ever touched him.  

Logan cleared his throat, hand still raised. “Apologies Lyal. Uh... can I-- may I touch your arm?” 

Deceit made a face to hide his uncertainty, rolling his human eye while the other one remained unmoving, staring straight ahead under the film. He knew, of course, that Logic would want to investigate thoroughly in order to understand. Touch. See. Ex--Experiment. 

“If it’s too tender I don’t have to--” Logan said, pulling back. “I just haven’t seen--”

He exhaled, arm trembling. “Of course you haven’t. No one has.” He couldn’t afford to show weakness. To have them see him...vulnerable. 

Why then had he ever thought it a good idea to let Logic in?! Because he brought up pizza? It was such a stupidly flimsy reason and he’d allowed himself to take it. So weak. 

“Lyal.” Logan said, offering his hand palm up. “I know this must be difficult for you. Even Patton still struggles to open up to us about his feelings when he’s upset. So it’s okay if you need to take it slow--” 

Deceit hunched his shoulders, staring at the floor so he wouldn’t have to see the genuine concern in Logic’s eyes. 

Wasn’t it better than having him freaking out though? Logan hadn’t screamed or looked at him in revulsion. Hadn’t called for Creativity to come slay the monster--maybe...maybe he could be trusted...with this. 

Swallowing, Deceit cautiously lifted his arm, holding his hand out above Logan’s. “Gently.” He said, struggling not to jerk back as Logic drew closer. The others never touched him. “It’s--”

Logan hesitated, tilting his head, amber eyes soft, nearly like Morality's. “Tender?” 

“Sensitive, but that wor--” He flinched, hissing under his breath as Logan’s feather light touch brushed his fingers, burning along the leather-like layer of skin. “Works too.” He got out through gritted teeth, struggling to stay still as Logan trailed his fingers carefully along his arm before moving his hand up to rest the palm against Deceit’s cheek. 

He shakily inhaled, human eye half closing as Logic lightly brushed the shed there with his thumb.  

“More than a little sensitive, to react so.” Logan murmured. “How often does this happen to you?” He asked, peering at the milky eye. “Can you see? How long does this process take? Is this why you haven’t been eating? Does clothing irritate the skin? How much--”

Deceit took a step back away from Logan’s electric touch, the human side of his face growing hot under the barrage of questions. “Do you always play twenty questions with things like this?” He asked, struggling to not turn away under his scrutiny. 

“When given new information, yes.” Logan said with a half shrug as he adjusted his glasses, clearing away the water droplets gathering on them. “I am Logic after all and I want to understand this.” He gestured to Deceit, a thoughtful frown on his face. “As I had previously believed your scales were merely aesthetically placed, but it seems that you have more reptilian qualities than I realized and,” He drew in a breath, meeting Deceit eyes. “I want to know how to help you.”  

Help him? Deceit scoffed, shaking his head. “I don’t need help.” He grimaced as the lie left his lips. If he didn’t need help he would have slammed the door in Logic’s face. “Don’t--”

“Falsehood.”

Deceit exhaled, running his right hand through his hair, staying away from the waxy side. “I know it was a lie, Logic, there’s no need to point it out.”

Logan grimaced, again wiping away the moisture from his lenses. “Apologies. It’s a habit.” 

Of course it was. Logan didn’t like dealing with lies. And Deceit hadn’t made it easy on him by forcing them all to keep silent when Thomas didn’t want to know things about himself. 

“Well, you’ll need to break it if I’m going to continue hanging around you guys.” He stated, gingerly feeling along his arm where Logan had touched him as he moved to sit on the bed. Well, collapse onto the bed. Deceit hissed as his legs trembled even sitting down. He was weak. Far too weak. “I can’t always…not lie.”

“You’re doing rather well right now.” Logan pointed out as he sat nearby, brushing his damp bangs out of his eyes. 

Deceit huffed, gesturing to his shedding skin. “Side effect.” Mostly. It took more effort to Lie while he was like this at least.

“Ah.” Logan frowned. “Actually, that makes no sense at all.”

What about him ever made sense? Deceit raised an eyebrow. “Neither does me having scales.”

“...Point.” Logan conceded, inclining his head, eyes once more studying his shed. “How often does this happen to you?”  

Deceit licked his lips, looking away, showing more of the shed. “Uh...every four to six months. Some--sometimes more if Thomas is going through a lot of--growth--himself. Like--” He gestured to the waxy half of his hair. “This happened when he chose to dye his hair for the first time.” And it had taken two more sheds with it to figure out how to properly care for it without leaving large bald patches behind that he had to hide under his hat.

Logan’s eyes lit up as a small smile appeared on his lips. “That’s why we haven’t noticed your absences before now.” He edged closer, again lightly touching Deceit’s hand. “Am I correct in guessing your last shed was before we invited you--”  

Deceit nodded, his hand burning under Logic’s touch. “Y-yes.” 

“And it lasts a wee--No,” Logan jerked his head up. “This is why you’re worried.” He breathed. “It shouldn’t be taking this long.”

“Three days at most.” Deceit whispered, his human eye briefly holding Logan’s gaze before he looked down. “I...it still feels like Day One. It...it shouldn’t.” His right hand clenched on his leg while the left remained motionless. “I don’t know why.” 

Logan frowned. “This hasn’t happened before?”

Deceit shook his head, stiff under his touch “Not like this. I’ve done…I haven’t changed anything. My usual methods should have worked.”  

“Methods?”

“The heat and humidity. It usually helps to--to loosen it.” Once it was loose enough, the shed would become itchy signaling he could safely scratch or peel it off to reveal the new scales underneath. 

Logan chewed the bottom of his lip in thought as he lightly ran his hand over the shed once more before exhaling, shaking his head. “I admit...I don’t know why it’s not working, your methodology makes sense to me with my basic knowledge of how reptiles shed, but.” He pulled at his tie as he stood. “I don’t think you should stay in here.”

Deceit’s heart skipped a beat. What? “NO!” He tensed up, pulling his left arm close to his chest. “I can’t leave. It’s…” He shuddered, already imagining how it could all go wrong. He could barely navigate his bedroom without hurting himself and now Logan wanted him to leave? No. No. NO. “My depth perception is so screwed right now, I’ll get hurt! I’ll damage the scales further I’ll--”

“I’ll carry you then.” Logan interrupted, his tone gentle but firm. 

Deceit froze. “Carry--!” He choked out in disbelief. But! 

Logic nodded, again tugging at the collar of his shirt. “If I must, Lyal. I’m not willing to leave you here to fend for yourself in such a state.” His eyes glittered as he pushed his glasses up. “I told you I would give my opinion and I’m giving it.” He tilted his head to the door, holding out his hand. “This is not something you should continue to hide from your family nor deal with alone.”

To Be Continued. Chapter 3 

[ellemcu]

I don’t wanna hurt you

Chapter 5: Trust you? Again?

Part 1 \\ Part 2 \\ Part 3 \\ Part 4 \\

Word count: 1685

Warnings:Panic attack, swearing

*****************

You slowly opened your eyes, feeling numb all over your body. Everything was blurry and your nerves felt as if someone was stabbing them repeatedly. You groaned and struggled to keep your eyes open. After a few minutes, memories of everything that had happened flooded your brain and you sat up quickly. You were in a small room with 4 white walls and one big mirror, which was obviously double sided, after all the years you had been stuck in a small room, being studied on, this was nothing new. 

You drew your gaze where you were sitting and you were lying on a small plain bed. Your whole life you had slept on the grubby floor and this new sensation was awful. You rapidly stood up but as soon as you put your whole weight on your knees they buckled and you tumbled on the floor. But you were determined to get out of this place because you need to go back to HYDRA, the more time you’re away the more pain they’ll inflict on you, the more they’ll train you until you don’t have enough energy to even breathe. You need to go back, at any cost.

 You slowly stood up again and ran towards the mirror and banged your fists on it, so harshly that blood started to draw. You kept on banging until you couldn’t feel your arms anymore so you stepped backwards until your back met the wall. You slowly slid down it until you sat down, bringing your knees to your chest, trying to catch your breath. You weren’t even tired but the more time you spent in this damn room the more your brain thought about all the possible ways you were gonna be punished. You were gonna kill every single person without thinking twice about it if it meant to go back home

 You felt as if your lungs had stopped working and breathing was becoming really difficult. You rocked yourself while trying uselessly to even out your small, choked breathes. Your mind was racing and suddenly, irritated by your whole situation you reached out your hand and slowly raised it, telepathically, bringing your bed with it. You made your bed float through the air, slightly tilting your head with a cold stare until you swiftly moved your hand towards the double sided mirror. 

The bed crashed into the mirror, making the whole room vibrate. You were sure that the glass was not made to be broken but with your super hearing you heard a slight crack. That was enough to make you stand up and accumulate more power. Your (e/c) started to turn purple and red sparks started to escape your hands. You swiftly lifted the bed and started to slam it against the mirror. After a few powerful strikes the glass shattered and what was on the other side kinda shocked you. 

You inhaled deeply and cracked your neck, a small smirk formed on your face as you took a step towards your new exit. On the other side there was a room full of computers and strange looking machines that made your shiver. You looked around thoroughly but the room was completely empty, there was no sign of any threat. Just as you were starting to let your guard down a door flung open. You froze and waited for someone to come in. Staring deeply into the door a man appeared. He was a tall, bald man with a black eye patch on his left eye. He slowly walked towards you, raising his hands to show he didn’t have weapons but you obviously saw through that after seeing a pocket knife he had strapped on his knife. You still hadn’t moved and were looking very carefully at his every move. “ Listen Y/N I’m Nick Fury and I know you must be feeling scared “ he stated while you scoffed at his comment, YOU scared? PLEASE-. “ Or you might be feeling uncomfortable because you feel like you need to get back to HYDRA” he continued as you looked at him with a confused look. “Listen I just want to help you,” he said, offering his hand out to you. You looked at him “ That's the same damn thing your friend told me and look at me now.” you murmured. “ Listen I don’t wanna fight because you are not my mission but if you are gonna stop me just know that nothing can stop me from going home”. You growled. You were about to leave when Steve walked in “I get it, I really do but listen”. You hadn’t stopped walking, you were tired of listening to these dumb people.” I knew you mom” he continued. You stopped dead in your tracks: “Yea, she was a lovely lady, extremely smart” he went on. “And I know for a fact that she trusted me, we were buddies, so please trust me. Just once. Please” he sounded so desperate. “You think I should trust you?Again? What, so you’re doing all this for what? Trying to help me? trying to help me not go back to what you think is wrong? Dude I don’t think you understand.” You answered in a low growl. Suddenly you felt a sharp pain in your skull, but it wasn’t external; it was as if your cells were reprogramming. You felt as if someone was crushing your skull while dividing your brain into their smallest atoms. You knew this feeling too well. It was HYDRA turning you into their 

soldier. You were turning back to The Shadow. 

You breathed in deeply and opened your eyes though this time your expression was cold. Your mission was to kill everyone here. Every single person.

You stared at the floor for a couple of seconds before lifting your gaze towards Steve “ You did this?” he questioned not really understanding why you were staring at him. A smirk forming on your lips once again as you fisted Nick Fury's neck knocking him out completely. You grabbed a pocket knife and threw it with precision towards Steve. It hit his shoulder, just in the right angle to injure his muscle perfectly. You slowly got up and walked towards Steve who had fallen to the ground and was trying desperately to grab his shield even though it had slided away from him. Your eyes were emotionless as you telepathically choked Nick fury while pushing the knife from Steve’s shoulder up, towards his neck as slowly as possible. Everything was perfect, no time to lose. You were finally gonna go home. Out of the blue You heard a pair of boots run across the corridor towards you. You glanced at the door and there HE was. THAT muther fucker. You stood up, still moving the blade telepathically towards Steve’s neck while he squirmed helplessly. A woman came running in after the tall dude with red hair and a jet black suit. She raised her hand towards you, aiming to hit you with an electric shocking device, as if that was going to make a difference after all the electricity that had flown through your body. You scoffed at her action and stopped choking Nick Fury (he was about to die, just to say), you looked deep into her eyes and then turned your gaze towards the man you kept trying to kill, every time failing miserably. But this time his expression was different. You could read his emotions easily, which was impossible a few months ago and his eyes had a different look to them, not easily noticeable but if you paid enough attention to someone, like the highly trained assassin you are, it was easily detectable. After a few seconds of staring deep into his soul, his expression changed, now he was surely worried. “Natasha freeze” He shouted at the red head. “Barnes she is gonna kill us, what the fuck is wrong with you?” she murmured back to him, still keeping her wrist high. ”She’s under their control. She.. she doesn’t understand”. he shouted quickly back at her. “ Just let me deal with this” he continued quickly as you were about to attack Natasha. You understood completely what they were saying but you weren’t reacting in any way. You lunged towards Natasha and she tried to dodge your attack but she was way too slow for your quickness. You twisted her arm and pulled her on the floor, pulling out the knife that was in Steve’s collarbone, blood gushing out as you brought it to her main artery. You were about to stab her neck when the all in black dude said in a clam voice “Soldat. Stop.” you recognized that voice. The Shadow recognized that voice and froze. “I’ve heard a great deal about you. We even met but I don’t think you remember now, do you?”. You didn’t dare look him in the eyes. You never could  make eye contact with your handler at HYDRA so you kept eye contact with the floor. “Now stand up.” he said clearly. You listened and stood up from  Natasha and stood by her side. “Barnes how the fuck did you do that?”. You finally looked up at him, trying desperately to be able to see his next moves before he hurt you. He walked towards you and said in a steady voice. “Now follow me (Y/N), I know you’re in there.”. You nodded, following his orders as he walked out of the room and you followed.

 In the corner of your eye you could see Natasha run to Steve but you couldn’t disobey this man, even though you had no idea who he was, you were fully aware of what he was capable of.

******************************

omg I’m really so sorry it took so long but school has been killing me. I know this is being very slow but I promise once we’re in the compound it will be so much better. I really hope you like it and if you wanna be tagged or you have any request on any sort just send it!

elle.

Tags

@vicmc624

[dm-oran]

The Apothecarist

One for the Road

The tavern was quiet, uncommon for The Copper Flagon. The bar’s customary patrons had shuffled off shortly after dusk, leaving the tavern’s tables towered in turned up stools. The establishment’s proprietor had made quick use of this time, however, tidying up his work space with a dampened rag and a bit of slouched muscle. He worked feverishly scrubbing at the sappy droppings of the establishment’s signature mead beneath tilted brew barrels.

“May I trouble you for a mug of that?”

The tavern keeper jolted in a quick fit of surprise. In his focused duties of bar maintenance, he’d must've missed the swing of the bar’s door or its auditory stop in its frame. He acknowledged this shock as he turned to his sole patron and said, “Huh, ya startled me, friend. Apologies. I didn’t hear you come in.” He rubbed the bar towel between his gruff hands in preparation of his liberal duties, “Guess I got distracted by my custodials.”

The bartender paused for a moment, locked in an aura of assessing his new guest. The man stood just over six feet with a slight slouch. His posture curved left in a favoring figure, huddled in a cloaken pile of burlap frock. His attire was wet and dirty, and visibly effected by the elements, taking on different shades of murky gray. Peaked from the nook of his heavy soaked hood lay a scruffy orange red beard. It hanged in a tangled mess of briar down to the middle of his chest with a single streak of silver darted down its center.

“Don’t worry for the distraction, sir. It happens to our best,” the patron responded as he leaned forward on his tucked left elbow and removed his burlap hood with his right hand. His was a face carved in its features; the most notable, a scar that seemed to create a bald patch in his hairline and continue down his temple into the middle of his right cheek. The hair that remained, was pulled back in a knotted braid of rusted orange and gray. “So, how about that mead?” he asked with a warm smile. His face smeared with dust, his kind disposition still glowing through with eyes blue as an ocean surface. 

Snapping back to his duties, the bartender complied with a snapped pointer finger and immediate clutch of the bar’s signature vessel, a copper flagon. Gripping the broad mug-length wood handle, he poured the honey wine, elaborating about how the concoction was brewed with smoked orange peels, cinnamon, and vanilla bean. This fascinated the stranger, considering these ingredients were quite the anomaly for this region. He continued filling the copper mug, making short order of the flagon’s empty space.

Nodding impressed, the stranger complimented the bartender saying, “I can respect a craftsman who takes the time to build a perfect recipe.”

The bartender humbly rebutted, “I don’t know about perfect.” He then twisted the tap tight, limiting the liquid’s escape. Turning right round himself, the bartender escorted the spirited mug to his patron and placed it on the oaken railing to his front. “There were most certainly countless incarnations before this finished product, however. That’s for sure.”

Admiring the copper mug, the stranger smiles reflectively. "We've all the requirement of taking the long way round to perfect." Meeting its placement, the patron immediately complimented the motion with the offering of two gold coins. Shook, yet again by the patron’s actions, the bartender informed the man that his mead was only two silver pieces. The man simply smiled.

“If your mead is as delicious as its reputation precedes, then a couple gold coins hail in comparison to its deserved measure.” The man then lifted his mug in a gestured toast towards his bartender. “To the keeper of spirits: may his intoxicants cleanse us of our sins.” Then, before drinking, he made the same gesture towards the bar top in a single tapping motion. “And to this temple of libations, may her walls keep our stories as the breathable air.”

Then, in a calculated gesture, the man upturned his mug, and filled his mouth with the viscus amber grog. His eyes closed as the concoction rolled over his taste buds in what appeared to be a sort of swig of celebration. He slowly placed the copper mug back at its previous spot, marked by a ring of discoloration left by a touch of spillage. Slurping what was stuck in his mustache's bristles through his bottom lip, the man tilted his head in an approving nod and proclaimed the mead to be a “crowning achievement.”

“Do you maintain your own bees?”

“I do, as a matter of fact,” the bartender affirmed. “But a great deal of it is merely a byproduct of my own obsessive behavior.”

The man laughed. “Is this so?” He asked, while sipping another gulp of the quite floral mug, whose bouquet was so strong, it could easily be mistaken for a vase of freshly picked dandelions. Wiping his mouth with his palm he continued with his comedic inquisition. “You must have the bees on a rather tight regiment. What’s your secret? Do you hold their queen at ransom?” He added, with an ironically stoic grimace of a judge, “Succulence or death, drones. The choice is your own.”

They both laughed at the notion. During which time, the bartender took notice of the man’s exposed hand and the rings with which it was adorned. As he chuckled, the bartender counted three copper rings: one on the man’s pointer, one on the man’s middle finger, and the third on his little finger. The ring on his index was the most decorative of the three, with a blue crystal lens clutched by a dragon's claw. The second was a broader ring with square pieces of it carved out. The last was quite plain, short of a raised hook on its face. Each of the rings carried their own specific symbols. Each symbol completely indiscernible to him. But the bartender had seen many a man in similar haggard garbs, and none of them wore with them aesthetics such as these, or offered such eloquent conversation.

Cautiously continuing, the bartender confessed to simply being an anthrophile. He admitted to having a rather large greenhouse, in which he’d grown and tended to thousands of different breeds of flowers, where the bees were free to pollinate. “It’s through this obsessive need to tend to more and more of these beautiful plants that I am able to procure such flavorful honey. In my efforts, a symbiotic relationship has formed between myself and these little buggers, and so long as I keep giving them a means, they allow for me to take what I need to craft my mead.”

The bartender’s sentiment struck a chord with the man. “That’s wonderful. You know, I recently learned that the orange blooms from a flower. Is this tr-“

In a quick gesture of interjection, the bartender’s nod confirmed the man’s assumed theory. “That’s correct. Citrus sinensis is a small five pedaled white flower that blooms into the fruit.”

The man chuckled in amusement pulling another swig from his mug. Through his chuckle he recited, “Citrus sinensis,” in a humorous confirmation to himself. Then, drawing his attention back to the bartender he complimented him for his knowledge. To which, the bartender went on to explain that it was his business to know such things. He grew the oranges himself, along with the vanilla bean, and cinnamon. The stranger thought for a moment, processing, then told the bartender that there were few in the world who could truly appreciate his drive to ensure that something he would be offering was his absolute best. “There is no other way to be sure of the best possible outcome, than to master all aspects of it, and do it yourself.”

The bartender laughed, saying, “Yeah, so long as you can fit it all in a lifetime.”

The man looked up his brow to the bartender and in a vote of confidence replied, “One mustn’t depend on time, in service to the efforts of their life's goals. Time is but an illusion; a construct we men have created to hold governance over change. You mustn’t bend to time's will, but merely find the means to make time bend to yours.”

This frazzled the bartender, and for the first time since the man’s arrival, he wished they weren’t alone. He’d heard stories of other bartenders or patrons being attacked by random oddballs and never be seen again. But he had simply figured the stories to be exaggerations based around the city's location in relation to the Towering Oak. All forms of unknown magic had been supposedly practiced within the hedge line of that forest, and it had been known to bring the periodic crazy to the city of Winterstead in search of its secrets. More often than not, they'd be caught by the city guard in the midst of some back alley incantation with the innards of some traveler splayed in offering, and normally filled with food from the tavern. 

The bartender focused. He was to stay vigilant. He was to stay professional. He was to stay polite. He was to see to his duties. But he must be ready to kill this man. If it be his choice, he mustn’t allow this man to choose for him.

This seemed the perfect time for the bartender to learn more of his solitary guest. Perhaps learning of the man’s destination or reasoning for patronage would give him the peace needed to calm whatever quelled fears were bubbled in his belly. Fear, as it was, was simply a result of limited understanding. He knew enough to know that. He would start with a name.

“Well listen,” the bartender started. “I never got around to giving you my name. The name’s Radegan. Sorry for not being more forthcoming with it. The lack of customers kind of has me off my game.”

The man was almost oblivious to Radegan’s introduction. Caring more for the bar’s limited occupancy, the man commented, “Yes, it is rather empty in here. I would assume this mead of yours would be enough of a catalyst to have even the common consumer bellied up for at least a single share of this divine drink; not to mention the varietal drunkard something so delectable would draw.”

He was right in his assumptions. If this was any other night of the year, the tavern would be wrought with customers. The Copper Flagon was a customary stop for any and all. Whether it was an Assembly of fresh soldiers to refit the city guard, traders set out from Thraudjaak and Alessjae, caravan crews in need of a break from the elements, or local merchants looking for a means to self-medicate and alleviate the isolation one could feel in such a secluded city. For though the city of Winterstead housed over 200 proud Magran citizens, a majority of them lived in service to the Junjaard Family and very rarely left the Queen's Keep. With this, the Copper Flagon had become a means of escape.

Not this night however. This night carried with it a certain importance. Everyone was expected up and sober, and moving bright and early. The following morning, a caravan would set out for the edge of the Towering Oak. On this caravan's manifest was a list of ten young boys and girls; five and five. The Magran Army would be escorting them to the Queen's oracles to serve as apprentices. These types of trips occurred once a year, around the first snowfalls of winter, and were not too uncommon for the Magran soldiers and teamsters who tended to the caravans. It would not be too farfetched to see them in the Copper Flagon until the earlier parts of the following morning just to finish out their drunk with the quick assembly of a passenger car’s cargo and immediate slumber after departure. Many of the outpost’s crewmembers could follow the routines of these trips with still the sweet haze of fermented honey wafting from their breaths, but this occasion was a touch more important. For what you must realize, the reason for the emptiness and due diligence, was that a member of the Royal Family would be accompanying them.

The word had spread through the ranks of servicemen; as soldiers, teamsters, and stewards began sharing their tidbits of disseminated guidelines for the upcoming trek. The biggest of the bunch being that the apprentices were to be escorted into the Towering Oak by the Royal Family member, alone. During which time, the caravan personnel were to wait at the outskirts of the forest for said Royal Family member to return from the exchange. This was enough of a fire to light a sense of urgency in everyone involved with the caravan. Especially the Assembly Captains who tasked out their forces to up armor and fortify the wagons in preparation for any assault, be it supernatural of a simple Khulai Seditionist ambush. 

Radegan, being the town’s bartender, was also the town’s keeper of secrets. He knew of logistical concerns involving a royal passenger, but tried his best to limit his reception of information for instances such as this; where he would find himself abreast a stranger with nothing but a belly of butterflies to guide his translucence. It was his civic duty to keep these secrets. Knowing this, Radegan probed further with his questions.

“What business have you in Winterstead?” Radegan scouted the man’s expression for any tells to his true motives, but saw nothing apart from spacklings of dirty and smeared clean spots from the man’s recent mead consumption.

“One last hoorah for chivalry.”

The man’s words were as cryptic as his countenance.

The bartender probed further. “That what brought you in here? Chivalry?”

The stranger laughed heartily. “No,” he continued with a throat clearing cough. “I’m in here for the mead, of course, and a conversation. One for the road, they say.” The man pauses for a moment, as though to glance at a memory. After a blink, he asked, “You ever hear that phrase?” He shuffled and shifted his weight further onto his left elbow. Raising his mug to take another drink he continues, “You being a bartender on a trade route, I’m sure you’ve heard that saying before, right?”

Radegan nodded. His face juxtaposed to his heart rate, as his anxieties pumped in his chest, a demeanor of patient observation masked the mounting fears of possibility. All he could do was hold himself together. 

“Are you familiar with its origin?” The man asked with a slightly callous tone, wiping what missed his mouth with his ring strung hand after putting the mug to rest back on the bar.

Radegan imagined a duck. He would see them a great deal in his youth. His family maintained a homestead just south of the Lady's Waters where a great many water fowl would claim it for their home on the warmer seasons. He remembered the ducks' faces, expressionless, as they would glide over the surface of the water in such graceful fluidity. He would wonder how they would be able to move so fast on the water's surface with nothing but their tail feathers to move them. It was not until some years later, that his mother taught him that the ducks move on the water's surface with such speed because of their feet frantically kicking under the surface. It was this unseen effort that got these birds around the water's surface. And much like these fowls' means of conveyance, as Radegan held together a calm demeanor, underneath, the feet were kicking, preparing for the next move.

“It’s something to do with a last drink before heading into war, is it not? [This man means to kill me.] Something to do with the idea of liquid courage, if I’m not mistaken. [There is nothing to stop this man from killing me where I stand.] Soldiers believed alcohol had empowering spirits of confidence and fortitude, right? [The city guard cannot save me out here.] Gave them a fighting edge? [I am all alone.]”

The man chuckled with a hint of glee. He’d brought something new to this learned tender’s scope. “You are mistaken,” the man added. “Clever deduction. But still mistaken.” He swallowed another glub of mead. “Before a man is executed, he’s allotted one last drink before they drag the poor bastard out into the center of town for all to watch his head leave his neck. They give him his drink before leading him out onto the cobbles. Since they can’t be marched through the masses, the crowds form a sort a thoroughfare. That pathway becomes the last road they ever venture down. That drink is for that last trip. It’s that, ‘one for the road.’”

Concerned, the bartender asked, “So, that what you're doing here? You're headed to an execution?” Slowly leaning forward, Radegan grabbed hold of a small blade he had hidden just under the railing of the bar. He knew not if the man was there to rob him, kill or dismember him for information or pleasure; but he knew that he was ready to defend himself.

“Yes.” The stranger took another swallow. Clearing his throat, the man finished, “Just not my own.”

In a flash, the bartender had made the decision that his life held more value than this copper ringed stranger and had unleashed with the dagger. Radegan had spent a collection of hours practicing this very swipe. The air of quiet, late nights was filled with fumbled slashing sounds and grunts. He practiced thousands of swipes, each time a faceless silhouette receiving his wrath. His every movement slowly evolved into a quick stabbing motion that when done right, would cross space faster than sight. This moment was the culmination of these trained attacks. 

As the blade carved a crescent, Radegan lunged at the strange man without a thought as to what would follow. The blade led his arm in a vanishing momentum, trapped in a blurred series of frames. This was not the night for this thug. This was the night that Radegan proved his measure beyond the soldiers' depiction of the “boy who fawned for flowers.” His hand shook from the ferocity of his grip. The blade punctured the man’s throat. At the point of impact, and recognition of, Radegan looked to what he’d done to find the blade had disappeared. 

Radegan felt a small tickle in his palm. He pulled his elbow back, twisting his wrist to bring his palm into view. He opened his fingers loose from his palm in a cascading manner; with his pinky in the lead, his ring and middle were quick to follow. It was then, a bee emerged from the hollow of his hand. Overcome with shock and fear, the bartender's knees fell weak and he slumped back into his bar’s back. His neatly organized copper mugs caught his fall taking the brunt of it as a couple fell to the floor.

All the while, the stranger watched with an almost disinterested face. The perplexed bartender, who had only heard of Transmutation spells was well outside of his comfort. What he had just seen was taking him much longer to make sense of than his ego would have allowed. Never did he think that something so complex could be achieved so quickly, and all by reaction. 

The man remained stoic. Expressionless. He took another drink from his mug. He spoke.

“I’ve done many a horrible things in my life, Radegan. At this point, I stand to gain nothing from the murder of such a masterful brewer as you.” Then, sliding two more gold coins loose from his garb, the man asked for another flagon.

Radegan however, had reservations about these pieces. He had caught a glimpse of the man’s power, and was now trying to deduce if these were just another part of the man’s magic. He eyeballed them from the back counter.

“Those real?”

The corners of the man’s rusted out mustache rose for a moment. The question had made the man smile. “Probably.” With his first two fingers resting atop the stacked coins, he split them in a V. In doing so, the two coins separated from their stack and joined a corresponding finger. 

“What is real, if not the result of probable?”

As the stranger began sliding the two coins closer to the bartender, Radegan saw the man’s copper rings. The sigils were far more visible, but no more decipherable. The rings were etched in series of runic symbols. Even the ring on his pointer, with the dragon's claw clutching the crystal lens, appeared to be attached to a second ring that seemed to swivel under the lens. The second, more bulbous of the three, looked to have carved out slots and rivets under and around the engravings. The third, seemed to have more than the one hook on its face, and in fact, was adorned in what looked like three separate hooks that each corresponded to a different runic symbol.

The man then cleared his throat, bringing Radegan’s focus back to his tending duties. He then turned right round and retrieved a copper flagon from the counter and began filling it with the spirited honey.

Nervously dispensing the mead, Radegan admitted his frailty, apologizing for his attempted murder. Confessing his fears and suspicions of the man, but concluding by saying, “I could call the city guard, ya know. I'm sure they'd be interested to know there's a wizard snooping around Her Majesty's winter home."

"You could. But you won't."

Through the gasping sound of the mug’s filling, the man suddenly asked, “Have you any children, Radegan?”

“I do, actually,” he nervously responded. “I’ve a little girl. She’ll be one this coming spring.”

“That’s wonderful,” the man celebrated as Radegan finished his pour, then two step venture to the bartop. “Do her mother and she live here in camp with you?”

“No,” Radegan answered somberly while placing the flagon on the bar between the stranger’s nearly empty mug and the two gold coins. He peaked through his eye’s corner and found the man’s fingers still resting atop the coinage. This was only for a moment, though. Radegan had figured the man would’ve seen the glance and he did not want to draw much attention to it, and continued on about his family. “They live in the capital. I jump on a caravan every spring season to see them. I bring what money I’ve made. It's meager. But every bit helps.”

Radegan stopped for a moment in what was either recollection or resentment. The stranger was not sure. 

“That must be hard,” the stranger uttered. “The capital is by no means an affordable place to live. Perhaps the two of you should speak about a change.”

Radegan scoffed. “That is much easier said than done, sir. My wife has what is referred to as a ‘Contractual Obligation.’”

The man understood immediately. Radegan’s wife was owned by either a family of noble descent, or by a Madam of the Chamber. Based on his countenance, it was safe to assume she served a Madam. But, neither lives were ideal when considering that the poor woman was held to the same object standards as furniture. The only assurances were that such a life could be temporary if enough coin could be amassed.

“Every coin counts, then,” the stranger hinted, drawing his deep blue eyes to the coins on the bartop. Their position, much like moon phases sat side by side; trapped under the tips of his fingers.

Radegan looked to the coins wedged under the man’s fingers. He hesitantly lowered his fingers to mirror the stranger’s. As he lowered them down, he quivered in concern and confusion as to what would happen. He thought of the odd and horrible things he may be morphed into, and how foolish he would be to take those coins. But those coins were a means to an end, so he placed his fingers on their edges to pull them free. 

And in doing so, the two coins began to rattle and vibrate. Suddenly, each stack began to grow as coins multiplied and plopped to stacks of twenty. As they began replicating and piling atop themselves, the bartender stood in awe of the spectacle, for never had he seen coins of gold be manifest from pure will before this day. Resounding in a towering echo reminiscent to a shuffled deck of card, the stacks rose the width of a man’s fist.

“Is this enough to buyout your wife’s bed space?” the stranger asked while replacing his empty mug with Radegan’s most recent offering. He raised its edge to his lips and drank. The coins remained in two perfect twenty coin high stacks; flush. 

Radegan stood speechless.

The man grinned. “Or do you need more?”

Upon asking the question, the stacks grew another sixty coins higher, tripling the towering coins’ height. With the inflation, Radegan’s eyes expanded. He’d never seen so much in so small a space. Such magic, yet such empathy. But how?

“You love them, don’t you?”

Snapping his gaze back to the scarred man's face. Radegan asked for confirmation of whom he was speaking.

"Your wife and child." The man confirmed. "You love them, don't you?"

Radegan began to feel emotional. His vision glassed, as his eyes welled with tears with to confirmation that ‘yes, [he] did love them.’

“You would do anything for them, wouldn’t you?”

Radegan wept at the sensation of his love. Such strong feelings welled up. So many instances of longing being repressed for the sake of the people around him and their grievances. He sobbed, softly sucking in panicked breaths as he confirmed that ‘yes [he] would do anything for them.’

“Good,” the stranger acknowledged. “Then you’re going to hear a story. That is how you are going to save your family, Radegan. You are going to listen to this story. And when it is through, you will have the means necessary to rescue your family from the lives to which they have been victims.” The stranger looked at the befuddled bartender with a raised brow. “Do you understand?”

Radegan nodded.

“Good,” the stranger continued. “With that being said, let me tell you the story of Duron Huemfrai: the Apothecarist.”

[despairforme]

basics !

FULL NAME.  Nnoitra Gilga. ( pronounced; Noitora Jiruga ).

NICKNAME.   Nnoi, the Mantis ( stagename ).

GENDER.  Male.

HEIGHT.   7 feet / 215 cm.

AGE.   26. ZODIAC.  Scorpio.

SPOKEN LANGUAGES. English / Japanese. It depends on where the setting is. I tend to keep things ‘ open ‘ to not make it so difficult with interactions. But typically I tend to center it around an ‘ american ‘ setting, because I don’t speak Japanese.

physical characteristics !

HAIR COLOR.  Black.

EYE COLOR.   Nnoitra only has one eye, which is S\stormy grey. It appear a little purple-ish in certain lighting. Like a dark thundercloud. His other eye is completely gone. Before he got shot ( when it was just blind ), it used to be milky white. SKIN TONE.    Pale, and he doesn’t tan. In summer, he might get a little sun-burnt. 

BODY TYPE.  Skinny. Underweight. And he hates it. Nnoitra is extremely ‘ lanky ‘. His arms and legs are long and thin. His waist is small. His shoulders, however, are very wide. His entire body is ‘ bony ‘. You can see his ribs, collarbones, hipbones. You can see his ribs across his chest as well. His hands are large and bony as well.

ACCENT.   Heavy. Uses slurs a lot. Incorrect grammar. ‘ Ghetto ‘ dialect.

VOICE.    Hoarse, deep. Voice claim is his Japanese voice actor (  Nobutoshi Canna  ) - not the English. DOMINANT HAND.  Ambidextrous. Tends to favor his left hand a little bit when fighting, but usually writes with his right.

POSTURE.   Slouches a lot - depending on his mood. Often drags his feet.

SCARS.   A completely missing left eye. The scarring on and around his eye extends from his brow-bone all the way down to his cheekbone. He also has a small scar on his left temple ( and a bald spot here ), from the exit wound caused by the bullet. His knuckles are also permanently scarred. 

TATTOOS.  He has a big, black ‘ 5 ‘ tattooed on his tongue, and “Santa Teresa” on his upper chest, and a tiny infinity symbol on his inner right wrist. He’ll also be getting a black-and-grey sun tattoo on his inner right arm.

BIRTHMARKS.  None.

MOST NOTICEABLE FEATURE(S).   His height is definitely what people notice the most about him ( only around 20 000 people in the entire world are as tall as Nnoitra ). His large eye-patch also draws attention, since when people wear eye-patches they usually aren’t this big. He wears such a large one because the scarring on his face covers a good portion of the left side of his face.

childhood !

PLACE OF BIRTH.    A small town. The kinda town that’s not so small so that everyone knows everybody, but the kinda place where you recognize people on the street, and if something happens ‘ everyone ‘ knows about it. HOMETOWN.    The town where he was born is also ( technically ) his ‘ hometown ‘ since this is where he grew up. However, he doesn’t exactly look at it as a ‘ home ‘. BIRTH WEIGHT.   Nnoitra was a small baby, but not so small that the doctors had need for concern. BIRTH HEIGHT.    He was about average size - a little on the small side maybe -.

MANNER OF BIRTH.  Natural. His birth took almost 24 hours, and was exhausting and very painful for his mother. FIRST WORDS. It took him longer than most children to say his first word. Most of his ‘ first words ‘ were just weird jibberish, and apart from ‘ yeah ‘ and ‘ no ‘, his first word was ‘ mom ‘. 

SIBLINGS.   Nnoitra has an older brother, Shinji. Though he’s not aware of this, since his dad left with Shinji before Nnoitra was born, and his mother never told him about any of them.

PARENTS.   Nnoitra doesn’t know who his father is ( his mother never told him about him ), but his mother was named Teresa ( that’s where his tattoo comes from ).

PARENTAL INVOLVEMENT.    Nnoitra was raised by his mother. She raised him to be a Christian, but she raised him with very little love ( because she didn’t love him ). She did her best to provide for him, and though they were ‘ poor ‘, Nnoitra never starved and she was never mean to him. She just didn’t love him. 

adult life !

OCCUPATION.  Nnoitra works at the club ‘ Hueco Mundo ‘ as a cage-fighter. He’s been working there for four years now, and is the club’s top fighter and hold the title of the ‘ undefeated champion ‘. His job pays well, and he absolutely loves it. 

CURRENT RESIDENCE.   He lives with Grimmjow, in a spacious, modern apartment on one of the top floors of an apartment building. The apartment has big windows in the livingroom, with great view of the city ( and even the nightsky ). Grimmjow bought this apartment for them for Nnoitra’s birthday in 2017, and they moved in shortly after. The apartment looks something like this ( only bigger and with larger windows ). 

CLOSE FRIENDS.  Does he have any ‘ close ‘ friends? Not really. He has some people who he would consider friends - Rangiku ( @jishintcra ), Ikkaku ( @yperifaneia ) and Emil ( @someidioticurl ), but he wouldn’t call these people ‘ close ‘ friends, and he doesn’t really share much with them or spend too much time hanging out. 

RELATIONSHIP STATUS.   Taken. Nnoitra is dating Grimmjow ( @grimmjxw ). They started dating in August 2017. FINANCIAL STATUS.   Middle-class. He’s got a good income, and pays for most of the living expenses they have as a couple ( since Grimmjow’s job doesn’t pay much - actually right now he doesn’t have a job ). Nnoitra has saved a lot of money ( he’s not even aware of how much he’s actually saved up ). Every month, he puts away money - out of habit. He’s done this for years, as his own personal ‘ medical insurance ‘. 

DRIVER’S LICENSE.  No. He doesn’t have one, and has never tried to get one either. He lives in the city, and everywhere he would want to go is ( to him ) within walking distance, since he likes to walk. For example, there is about a 20 minute walk to work. The chances of him passing the driver’s test aren’t that great either, and he has no plans of giving it a go.

CRIMINAL RECORD.   None. Off the records - YES. Nnoitra has done many criminal acts during his life. The worst one being attempted murder. In addition he’s done many acts of violence and theft. However, he’s never been arrested or charged, so for now, his criminal record is ( officially ) clean. It’s been a while since he did anything illegal, and he does try to live a life on the right side of the law, since he doesn’t want to ruin the life he has with Grimmjow.

VICES.  None, really. Nnoitra doesn’t drink too much, he doesn’t do drugs and he doesn’t smoke. He does tend to eat very unhealthily, but that’s about it.

sex and romance !

SEXUAL ORIENTATION.   Bisexual. ROMANTIC ORIENTATION.   Grey-romantic. Nnoitra rarely gets a romantic attachment to anyone. Actually, he’s only ever felt romantic love for two people. His ex - and Grimmjow. He has never fallen in love with a woman, or considered wanting a relationship with one. PREFERRED EMOTIONAL ROLE.    Dominant. Nnoitra likes control ( even though he can’t really deal with responsibility ). He likes to feel like he is the ‘ man ‘, in a very traditional and old fashioned sense of the word. 

PREFERRED SEXUAL ROLE.    Dominant. Nnoitra literally won’t bottom or submit. Being dominated is not an option for him, since he simply doesn’t find that arousing.  LIBIDO.  High. His sex drive is very ‘ healthy ‘. He relieves himself at least once a day, in addition to the sex-life he has with Grimmjow ( they have a good sex life ).

TURN ON’S.    This is a very long list. Tongue kissing, dirty talk, feeling wanted, biting, scratching, choking, blood, spit, cum, hair pulling, grinding, public sex. He enjoys firm touches - the firmer the better. As for physical aspects of his partner ( Grimmjow ), his abs are a big turn on. To be fair everything about Grimmjow is a turn on but yeah his abs are really hot in Nnoitra’s opinion. Also his thighs, dick and ass. Nnoitra likes it when Grimmjow is being pushy and a bit dominant, since Nnoitra enjoys being the one to dominate someone who isn’t naturally a sub.

TURN OFF’S.   Being dominated. Grimmjow being ‘ dominant ‘ from the bottom position is good, as long as he doesn’t expect Nnoitra to let him top. Nnoitra also finds crying unattractive ( though silent tears are nice ). Another turn-off for him is his partner using pet-names on him like: darling, sweetheart, angel ect. He’s okay with being called ‘ babe ‘ by Grimmjow, but he really prefers his name. Another thing that would be a big turn-off for him would be being physically restrained by ropes or anything of the sort. He also doesn’t enjoy sex if he’s too cold or if the scent of smoke is too strong. 

LOVE LANGUAGE.   Nnoitra’s love language is almost only physical. He doesn’t show affection through his words all that much. It’s all about the small touches. He doesn’t show much of this in public, but the small touches are always there. A hand on Grimmjow’s shoulder when they’re about to cross the road. Fingers through his hair. Walking on the road-side of the pavement. The looks he sends other people who seem interested in Grimmjow. Standing very close to him in lines. And in private? Hair touches. Cupping his face. Kisses - especially the top of his head. If they’re sitting next to each other, Nnoitra will always touch him, even if it’s something as simple as their shoulders pressed together. Nnoitra also loves to touch the back of Grimmjow’s neck. Another thing that speaks of his affection is how he looks at him - and how often he looks at him. Even if they’re watching something on TV, Nnoitra will spend a good amount of time looking at Grimmjow instead. 

RELATIONSHIP TENDENCIES.  It can’t be denied - Nnoitra can be somewhat toxic. He doesn’t mean to be, but he is. He’s controlling to the point of it not being healthy. He’s definitely way too jealous to give his partner much freedom when it comes to hanging out with others. He also constantly needs validation to feel like he’s loved. Because he rarely talks about his feelings, it’s often hard for Grimmjow to understand him and how he’s feeling. Nnoitra also has an act for always thinking the worst, and this causes unnecessary ‘ drama ‘. He’s simply not good at communicating ( neither is Grimmjow, to be fair ). He needs things explained to him properly in order to understand what’s going on. He’s also very bad at realizing when he’s doing something wrong. His over protectiveness is also so strong that it can sometimes come off as controlling and toxic. On the plus side - he is incredibly loyal. He goes out of his way for his partner and often compromises his own happiness or safety.

miscellaneous !

CHARACTER’S THEME SONG.   Undead and Whatever it takes by Hollywood Undead.

HOBBIES TO PASS TIME.   Walking, or just spending time outside. If he didn’t live in the city, Nnoitra would be outside even more, since he really enjoys nature. He’ll often spend time in the park. He also likes to play Auralux on his phone. If he has time to spare though - he prefers to spend it with Grimmjow. 

MENTAL ILLNESSES.   Nnoitra is rather paranoid, but he doesn’t consider this a ‘ mental illness ‘. The same goes for him being dyslectic. He probably has ‘ chronic depression ‘, but he’s never been diagnosed, and he doesn’t consider himself mentally ill, nor would he ever agree to take medication. 

PHYSICAL ILLNESSES.   Nnoitra has a chronic undiagnosed heart and metabolic condition. His BPM is higher than average. This causes light paranoia ( so some of his paranoia is actually physical and something he can’t help ), a high body temperature and high metabolism. This is why Nnoitra is unable to put on weight. 

FEARS.  Losing Grimmjow is probably what he’s most afraid of. Either losing him, or anything happening to him. Especially if it’s his fault. As for irrational fears - Nnoitra has a fear of being paralyzed. 

SELF CONFIDENCE LEVEL.   Low. Unless it concerns fighting, in which his confidence is very high. But other than that, Nnoitra’s confidence is low. His self-worth is low. He considers himself both a bad person and a worthless person. There are so many things about himself that he hates. VULNERABILITIES.   Depression. He’s incredibly pessimistic. His mental state is fragile. It doesn’t take much to make him feel down, sad, frustrated. He sometimes re-visits his suicidal thoughts. It’s hard for him to open up and trust others. He gets anxious when it comes to things he thinks he can’t handle. Another problem he has is that his pride doesn’t allow him to back down. Death before defeat. 

Tagged by: Stolen from @autumnswordsman ( now I know lots about Zoro, thanks! 8) ) Tagging: TAKE IT.

[tarralin]

Fraternization

a Clauses and Contracts story

Prologue

~☆~

The date had been saved for nearly ten months. The venue rented months before that. Gathered bunches of crimson roses rested upon carefully crafted bows of shimmering white gossamer that scalloped from chair to chair, providing a secluded walkway for the bride and filling the ceremony room with natural fragrance. The chosen priest busied himself with a final check of his ceremony notes while the blond and silver haired ushers escorted the last late arrivals to their seats…

And somehow Mitsuhide still managed to spike Masamune's drink.

“Really?!” Hideyoshi snapped at his golden eyed companion. “Of all possible days, you choose today to pull this stunt?”

“Oh, my my,” the other chuckled as Masamune stumbled into his shoulder. “One might think you were the bride instead of best man with that look, Mother Dearest.”

Hideyoshi released the fist from his hair before he created his own bald spot while inspecting the One-Eyed Dragon’s current drunken stupor. The trio was supposed to be at the altar by now.

Not good! Not good! Not good!

A flash of black chiffon snagged his attention, briefly pulling him from his worries as the mass of light colored curls of the Maid of Honor bounced toward the bridal suite and eliciting the solution to his current kitsune crisis.

~*~

Duchess sighed as she sat at her dinner place.

Princess had not been thrilled with the sudden change of program to the processional, switching the groomsman to escort a bridesmaid down the aisle instead of waiting at the Groom’s side. Princess had never once been a bridezilla but everyone has a breaking point and this was almost enough to turn the whole day. Almost. Duchess couldn't really call herself the best friend if she didn't know how to de-escalate the near nuclear meltdown, could she? After placating the bride and assuring everything would go off without a hitch, plus the near two hours of picture taking, she couldn't wait to chow down and finally relax.

The weeks leading up to her best friend's wedding were beyond hectic as she juggled between bridal activities and her demanding work schedule. There had rarely been time to breathe between dress fittings and board meetings or cake tastings and affiliate office tours. Duchess found herself organizing her boss's newest venture through most of the engagement party and hadn't paid a single thought to the rest of the celebration aside from her duties as Maid of Honor. She even had to sacrifice last night's rehearsal dinner for an emergency meeting to quell the worries of several shareholders who had somehow learned of her boss’s rapidly ailing health.

Damn right she would enjoy herself!

The groomsmen arrived from their photo session shortly after the bridesmaids. Crimson neck ties tucked into matching waistcoats and several of them had cuffed their white shirt sleeves up to their elbows. The best man looked especially snazzy as he alone remained in his blazer. He and the blond usher worked together to help the eye patch wearing groomsman in his seat, securing a steaming coffee in his hands in attempt to sober him enough to at least last through dinner.

Thankfully, the man lasted through the speeches before passing out across several chairs as the service staff cleared away the finished cutlery and the first swells of music sounded from the ballroom. Best Man did his best to ensure the sleeper's comfort by snatching a few of the velvet covers off nearby chairs to bundle them like a pillow before finally removing his own tux jacket and draping it over his friend. Duchess snickered to herself at the display.

“I take it he was the reason for the sudden processional change this morning?”

“Only part of it.” He tried to grin but the deeply furrowed brow prevented the attempt from reaching his eyes. “The real culprit scurried off before dessert was fully served and I could reprimand him.”

Another snicker. Well, you're just seven shades of stressed, aren't you?

“If he scurried off then he already knew what you planned to do. Don't worry about it, the worst is over. Time to relax and have fun. Plus, I'm sure the newlyweds will be having their first dance soon.”

He perked at the news with a true grin. “Ah, you're right! I actually picked the song since they couldn't decide. How like Nobu to leave me to organize the final details.”

“Ha! I could say the same about Princess. Did you know they hadn't decided on cake flavors until just six weeks ago? They're lucky the baker owed me a favor. I feel like I ate all of my yearly dessert allowance just in samples!”

The crease in his brow eased a little more as he started to reflect and laugh at all the stress. “I even had reminders set every Thursday to order the cake but Nobunaga never had a final order.”

“Shame, shame, shame. Where would they be without us?” Her mock exasperated sigh had the desired effect as Best Man genuinely laughing now as they paced the hotel hall to the ballroom.

The room was lined with lengthy refreshment tables on three sides, each governed by several bartenders ready to pour or mix drinks of choice. The tables also contained a variety of light snacks and sweet confections dancing guests could freely treat themselves to throughout the evening.

“Two Champagnes, please,” Best Man gained the attention of the closest bartender. Passing a glass off to her, he raised his own in a private toast between the two of them. “To the newlyweds and to hoping they don't need help organizing their honeymoon.”

“And to some much deserved R&R for us co-pilots.” She couldn't help but notice the gleam of Best Man's honey gold eyes that hadn't been there before, signaling the success of her plan to alleviate a level of stress as he sipped from his glass. He didn't down the contents in one go, choosing instead to utilize a name tag before setting it aside. “Hideyoshi?”

His brows arched in surprise. “Right on the first try. With an admirable accent, too.”

“I had a few Japanese friends growing up. I was able to learn from them until I took formal classes in high school.” He saluted her with a nod and looked as if he were going to comment further before the main lights dimmed in the hall to draw attention to Princess and Nobunaga in front of the disk jockey’s booth. “Oh, it's dance time!”

Princess had been looking forward to this moment almost as much as the actual ceremony. She and Nobu had been taking formal ballroom courses regularly since the beginning of their engagement two years ago. The numerous, pleated layers of her tulle ballgown skirt swayed gracefully across the floor with their movement, wrapping tight and then blooming like a time elapsed flower with each over-hand twirl Nobu led her through while her strawberry blonde curls fluttered around her shoulders. The lacy white sweetheart bodice and flowing skirt were a stark contrast to his black shirt on black tux trousers with only the crimson tie and waistcoat serving a splash of color.

The routine was nearing an end when she heard Hideyoshi sigh wistfully beside her. “She really does look like a princess.”

Duchess hummed in agreement. “Her dad is a renaissance guru. From the moment he found out he and his wife were having a girl, she was his princess. I didn't even know she had a real name for several years until her mom caught us sneaking off to a movie when she was grounded and called out her first and middle name.”

Warm laughter flowed over her as the song came to end and applause echoed through the room. A voice like honey to match those eyes.

“Is that where your name comes from, too?”

A nod in the affirmative. “Mine as well as our closest friends. I think it started as a guilt trip on Princess’ dad as several of us grew up without fathers but then the names just stuck and it became a rite of passage for new friends, like Countess and Baroness there, and two other close friends who weren't able to make it to the wedding.”

The new song changed the tone of the evening with its dancing tempo, eliciting cries of surprised joy from the other guests as they ventured to the dance floor. Duchess herself was about to find her friends and dance the evening away when Hideyoshi took her hand in his.

“Dance with me?”

For the briefest of moments, she considered turning him down. Eh, why not? It is a wedding after all.

“I’d like that.”

~☆~

Master List // Ao3 // Ko-Fi

Bookmark Fraternization on Ao3!

~☆~

Tag List:

@notsafefortum-blr @pseudofaux @jennacat84 @lulis-dungeon @valfraeyja @captdrobvious @refrigerated-bread @sevenswifey @starry-wei @sengokuotaku82 @kaisimplerandomness @pirateprincessyuki

[noonmutter]

Antorus Advance Party: oh, Ship

“I refuse to meet a goddess of Life while covered in my own still-damp blood.”

“You'd rather be covered in mine?”

Shedwyn shuddered and shot a glare over her shoulder at him. She knew he was just making a failed attempt at a joke, but she still felt attacked. Guilty, for dying. Later, though. “Absolutely not. Under no circumstances do I want any situation where one of us is covered in the other’s blood.” Her belt creaked as she tried to open the buckle and free herself from Terry’s attempt at first aid. “Fucking tight… Can barely breathe.”

He'd only been half paying attention, trying to think about nothing at all, but at that he reached forward to yank on the belt. It knocked a huff of breath out of her, but it produced enough slack for him to jerk out a handful of wadded, blood-soaked bandage. The slightly sticky sound as it came away from unbroken skin, and the dark stain marring her skin and his hands, he knew they would show up in his nightmares later. For now, he shoved the soiled bandages in her hands and tromped ahead a few steps.

She rubbed at her sore belly, and the bandages went up in flames, followed shortly by the two wads stuck to her front. “If I didn't know you were trying to save me, I'd think you were trying to kill me,” she grumbled.

“I’ll get t’tha’ part later. Business, pleasure. Y’know.” The attempt at humor fell flat again, in part because he was still clearly off in his own head somewhere.

With a few softly-spoken words of command, her armour began to weave itself back together, golden sparks showering around her as her blood and the grime of the last few hours was pulled from her armour and incinerated. She gave the bald patch of her cloak a consolatory stroke before filling it in with a few illusionary feathers. A proper fix would have to wait until after this was all over.

Shedwyn was a touch bewildered to find him standing with a hand out to her, palm up, but staring at her so intensely she was certain she'd done something wrong. She placed her hand in his and he finally blinked, trying not to laugh. “My armour, Dwyn.” He'd never come out and asked her to clean or fix it before, though she'd done it. Embarrassed, she cast the spell on him and held his hand through it, even though he scrunched her fingers a little. The mending spell felt weird, but the cleaning one came just shy of hurting. Anything to have her blood off him, though.

“There you are. As hideous as ever.” She didn't release his hand, instead pulling him along with her as she picked her way down the oversized stairs.

The interior of the temple was only more impressive--and felt more immense--when walking out into the middle of it. Catwalks and great bridges spanned what was once a small valley on the mountaintop before Eonar had chosen to build, and waterfalls seemed to decorate the rim at every possible point. Everything was suspended over the pools below, and despite the immense pillars supporting the structures, it felt as though they were suspended by will alone.

Eonar was waiting for them, of course, but only as a projection, comprised of what seemed like a tiny collection of stars. Terry had heard stories of something like this in Ulduar, but he’d never seen one up close. The display was housed in a relatively small enclosure of vines as thick as Terry’s torso, curling up and around in a spherical formation. From there, the titan “spoke,” ringing through Shedwyn and Terry’s minds and shunting out all thought elsewise.

“This ‘Paraxis’ and I are at a stalemate: it cannot overcome my defenses, but while maintaining them I cannot spare the energy to prepare an attack. However, I sense a second ship approaching, bearing a great many footsoldiers. I have found others to counter the incoming demons, but I require your assistance to bring the stalemate to an end.

“Are you ready to honour your end of our deal?”

Terry nodded. He didn’t trust himself to say or do anything more; being grateful to be alive didn’t change the fact that Eonar hadn’t really given them much choice but to accept whatever terms she set. Dread began to creep in on him, familiar as a security blanket and often serving the same purpose. He had a nasty feeling he knew what she was going to say.

Shedwyn reached up toward the Titan, but hesitated and withdrew her hand. “She sounds broken…. Like a cracked church bell, isn't it? Did the Paraxis do this? Did Magni send us here to fix her?”

“She cannot understand me, and time grows short. Your task is not a complex one. You must board the legion ship and destroy its primary weapons.”

His eyes bulged. “Are you takin’ the piss?” Being right didn’t make the request any less startling.

Shedwyn glanced back and forth between Terry and Eonar. “Wait, you can understand her?” Whatever he’d just heard, she knew it had to be ugly just from the face he was making, but not knowing was already grating at her nerves.

“Gimme a second," he said, not taking his eyes off Eonar’s projection. “I know you just saved our asses, but isn’t that a bit much fer two people? Two people with no gear?”

“Your hesitation is understandable, child, and I cannot fault you. What your task lacks in complexity, it compensates with risk. However, if that ship is able to fire, this place shall be lost, and possibly all of creation with it.”

“What does she want?”

Terry didn’t respond. He couldn’t hear her over Eonar’s “voice” in his head, but Shedwyn had no way of knowing whether he was intentionally ignoring her or not. After spending a few more seconds trying to make words out of discordant chimes, Shedwyn threw up her hands and snuck off to explore.

“You have lost much and nearly lost more, only to be snatched from the precipice by a power you cannot--and will not--fathom. I have been watching you, however, and I know the two of you can complete this task, especially with my power to aid you.”

Terry’s palm met his face and began to scrub. “All right. But even if we can do it, we can't get up there.”

“As I said, I have granted you a touch of my power. She has already found it.”

Shedwyn whooped in the distance, and Terry looked up. Waaaay up… Shedwyn was soaring through the sky on lacy, viridian wings. 

Above Eonar’s shield. 

Terry’s hand closed around one of her ankles before he realized he’d left the ground, drawing an undignified “WARK” from her before they both began to descend.

The chimes were amused again. Smug, he thought. “It seems you are not wholly averse to its uses, either.”

Both humans watched another volley from the Paraxis splash against Eonar’s shield--clearly aimed to pick off the foolish, enticing little target buzzing around outside Eonar’s protection. Before the last of it had dissipated, Shedwyn commented, without really looking away from the fireworks, “If we time it right, I'm sure we can land on the ship's observation platform between volleys. How do you feel about wreaking some havoc inside?”

"Deja vu-y."

Shedwyn gave a little lopsided smile as she tilted her head. "Probably. But probably best not to use the wolf this time. Close quarters, he doesn't like me, et cetera. And even if you do, no eating fel!"

Shedwyn was focused on the display; Terry was eyeballing the ship as best he could through the flashes. "Not sure 'ow much I kin do on a ship. Th' machines're one thing, they build 'em on th' ground an' they're kinda slapdash.” Glancing sidelong at her, he added, "An' there's prolly no fel buffet. Savages."

She chewed on her lip a moment. "I don't have any blasting charges, but I have a few grenades, and if we can get me close enough I have a spell that will take apart most small machines."

"What're you gonna do without 'em?"

"Without blasting charges? I don't know. Is Doc loaded for doorbusting today?"

He looked at the rifle over his shoulder, then sat down and pulled his ammo pack around to his lap. By some miracle it hadn't lost most of its contents after their mad scramble, but he swore anyway. "My tools're gone. 'E's a snipin' rifle or nothin' fer now."

She cussed and looked back up at the ship, head cocked to the side and one hand on her hip. "Remind me to start carrying backups of some of your gear... I can burn through any doors, if it comes to that, though you'll have to cover me while I'm at it." Running a hand through her hair, she cussed again. "Wish we had a plan, but even if you can read schematics and I can read demonic, I don't think we're going to find anything like that just sitting on the ground." She pointed at gunwales as they fired another suppression volley. "Think we could find our way to those from inside?"

"If they din't build it like they never planned t'get out of it without teleportin', probably."

"... How about the controls, then?"

"Those I know 'ow t'find, more're less. They always like 'em in th' fat bit there in th' middle, either on th' main deck or accessible by portal thinger."

Shedwyn slowly grinned and brought her hands together. "Then we have a plan." She puts one hand over her heart and holds the other out to him, wiggling her fingers for him to take it. "Shall we?"

Terry didn’t quite mirror her enthusiasm, but he didn't hesitate in taking her hand, either. "When I suggested th' very same plan fer th' big robot, you were a lot less keen on it..."

“You were going in alone. This time, we go together."

“Oh, well then. What could go wrong?”

“That smart mouth is going to get you slapped.”

As it turned out, that smart mouth did not get Terry slapped. 

It did, however get them both:

captured 

carted across the length of the ship in chains

nearly tortured

separated

briefly disintegrated and reassembled

shown the very face of God (it looked like a guy with a dad bod and a lovingly cultivated white-streaked goatee who liked to voice his own characters in stories)

blown up--once by conventional explosives and once by one of Shedwyn’s grenades, and

into the control room at speed.

And one final arcane bomb got them back to the ground even faster, pursued by fire and demonic swearing.

What seemed like hours later, after they’d patted out the flames on their clothes and were preparing to teleport out, and Eonar was briefing the Meddlers on what was expected of them, Shedwyn asked, "So, what was it Eonar wanted from us, anyway?"

"We just finished it."

“...I hate you right now.”

“No you don’t.”

zoop!

( @shedwyn )

[indelicacyx-blog]

@xbureaucrat

He’s tired all the time. He can’t remember the last time he worked out. His appetite is bizarre and unpredictable. Chemo has made his face rounder, softer, the steroids have made him gain weight even as he’s lost muscle, he had to go in to his eye doctor and get prescription sunglasses because he’s so sensitive to light, and everything, everything hurts.

And now this.

There is a pile of loose hair in his hand, sitting in the shampoo he didn’t get a chance to rub in, because the second he touched his hair, a patch of it came free. He’s known it was coming. He’s been losing more hair than usual to the comb for days. Two mornings ago he caught Henri lint-rolling his sweater after Charlie laid his head on him when he came back from a middle of the night reap. He tried to pretend he was cleaning up after Garfunkle, but Charlie had been close enough to see the hair on the roller, and it had been longer, darker, than their cats ever was.

He stands frozen in the shower for a long moment before finally extending his hand and letting the spray wash away the mess of cheap shampoo and hair from his hand. He wishes Henri was home, but he won’t call him. Instead he uses his husband’s stupid, expensive fruity body wash, lets the scent of it linger on him, and then climbs out of the shower.

His grooming kit is under the sink. Charlie is careful not to look at himself in the mirror as he takes it out, doesn’t look even as he plugs in his electric clippers and begins methodically shaving his head. The result, when he finally looks, is a patchy, uneven mess that makes tears prick in his eyes.

He’s always been a little vain, is the thing, and now—he hardly recognizes the face looking back at him.

There’s nothing to be done. He shaves the beard, too, and then spends fifteen minutes carefully cleaning up his head with an attachment he has never had cause to use. When he’s finished, his head is shiny and bald and cold, so he digs out his box of winter hats and pulls a beanie down to his eyebrows. He sits on the couch, knees pulled up to his chest. Garfunkle perches behind him, licks his hat experimentally.

Charlie closes his eyes and doesn’t open them again until Henri sits on the couch beside him. He doesn’t know how long it’s been, but the sun has set and the living room is dark now. Even though he’s been asleep, he’s still tired. Henri says, “Hey, sweetheart,” and there’s something like pity in his eyes, so Charlie looks away.

“Hi,” he says, to his own knees, and closes his eyes again when he sees Henri’s hand raising towards his head out of the corner of his vision. Henri’s fingers peel the knit cap away from his head, and Charlie hears him sigh. When he doesn’t say anything for a moment, Charlie reaches for the cap with tears escaping his eyes, lips pressed together tightly as he tries to hide from the shame. He thinks, my husband will never find me attractive again, and he wishes there was somewhere he could go, anywhere he could go, where he could escape from that knowledge.

Henri pulls the hat out of his reach, shakes his head. “Don’t,” he says, because he knows Charlie. “You’re so handsome,” he says, like a promise, and reaches up to grab Charlie’s head with both hands, pull him in, and kiss the top of his bald head.

Charlie lets out a tiny sound, part sob and part laugh. “Shut up,” he says, but he almost believes him. Henri kisses his head again and Charlie says, “It’s cold, can I have my hat?”

“No,” Henri says, and he pulls Charlie down against his chest, where it’s warm and Charlie can hear the steady beat of his heart. And that’s okay, too.

//

A few days after the last round of his first treatment cycle, Charlie wakes up feeling like himself again for the first time in ages. There’s a giddy sort of hope in his chest as he scarfs down an enormous breakfast before Henri has even woken up. In the bathroom, he examines himself in Henri’s tall mirror, baseball cap hiding his bald head because he can’t look at it, pinches the spot where his belly has gone soft. He leans from one foot to the other, testing, and then changes into his work out clothes and goes for a run.

When he comes home, he’s drenched in sweat and red in the face, panting for breath—and smiling from ear to ear. Henri is at the counter, spreading cream cheese on a bagel, and Charlie grasps his hips and growls, bites his earlobe.

“Woah there,” Henri says, steadying himself with a hand on the counter when Charlie rocks into him. “What on earth got into you?”

“Nothing,” Charlie says, hands sliding around to grab two solid handfuls of his husband’s ass. Henri squeaks. “I feel good,” he adds, grinning and nosing at Henri’s neck.

“Well, you don’t smell very good,” Henri says, his tone teasing. Charlie’s eyes are closed, but he can hear the smile in his voice. “God, you’re such an animal. Leave me alone, will you? I’m trying to eat breakfast.”

Charlie just laughs at that, shakes his head and leans down to suck a bruise onto Henri’s shoulder. He tastes like morning—a little sweaty from the night, the detergent from the sheets rubbed off on his skin. Charlie slides his hands under Henri’s shirt, grinds against his ass, and says, “I just wanna love on you, sugar, that’s all.”

Henri tilts his head, baring his neck for kisses, at the same time that he says, “Yeah, yeah, I’m sure that’s all you want, you big brute.” He shakes his head, long suffering, but he also takes his hand off the counter and pushes his sweats down so they hang low on his hips, the swell of his ass visible now beneath the hem of his t-shirt. Charlie growls again, helplessly, arms wrapping around Henri, tweaking one of his nipples. Henri squeaks again, laughs.

“You are feeling good, aren’t you, bear?” he says, tone soft for a moment before he puts that long-suffering air back on and says, “I’d be feeling good, too, if you’d let me eat. Can’t a guy make some breakfast before getting jumped?”

“Nope,” Charlie says pleasantly, shoving a hand unceremoniously down the front of Henri’s pants and pulling on his nipple again with the other. “Wanna slap you around a little, pretty baby boy.”

“Brute,” Henri says again, but he’s a little breathless, and he’s finally put down the butter knife he was using. Turning his head, he glances at Charlie over his shoulder and asks, “You sure you’re up for it, bear?” He says it like a challenge, but Charlie hears what he really means. As much as Charlie still looks at Henri and wants, wants, wants—well. His body hasn’t always been on the same page as of late, and he hasn’t exactly been up for it. As an answer, Charlie presses his growing erection against Henri’s ass and rubs his palm against his husband’s cock, rough and greedy. Henri laughs and nods like Charlie answered him properly, then bends over the counter with a smile on his face.

“Fuck,” Charlie says, a little surprised, though he doesn’t know why. “Yeah, right here, hell,” he says, grinning and pulling his hand out of Henri’s sweats so that he can yank them down around his thighs. He asks, “Can I spank you?” but he’s already doing it when Henri nods, his hand coming down on one cheek just hard enough to make Henri’s sweet little ass jiggle, make it turn pink. Henri wiggles a little and Charlie does it again, and then again, playful little smacks until Henri realizes what he’s doing and laughs.

“If you’re going to do it, do it,” he teases. “Otherwise just ask me to shake it for you.”

“Shake it for me,” Charlie says, but before Henri can, he slaps his ass again, hard enough to leave a red handprint this time. Henri gasps, and Charlie tilts his head back for a moment, a smile on his face. “God, I love you,” he says when he straightens up again, and Henri turns his head and grins at him before hooking his fingers in the low cut sleeve of Charlie’s tank-top and pulling him down for a kiss.

One kiss turns into another, and then another, and Charlie gets lost in it like he always gets lost in kissing Henri. Even when Henri has to pull away to catch his breath, Charlie just turns his head and starts kissing his rough, stubbly jaw, the smooth, sweet skin of his neck. He only stops because Henri moans suddenly, loud and disconnected from anything Charlie was doing. The first thing he sees when he lifts his head is Henri’s lips, bitten red and gorgeous still wrapped around the sound of that moan. He wants to kiss them, but he doesn’t, makes himself stay focused, and he’s glad he did when he realizes that the reason Henri is moaning is that he’s got two spit-soaked fingers inside of himself, stretching his hole open.

“Baby,” Charlie groans, drawing the word out so long that it sounds a little like a prayer, reverent and awed. “You’re so god damn good, sugar, surprise me every time with how good you are for me.”

“I love you,” Henri breathes, and he’s blushing now, so pretty, Charlie wants to eat him up. He’s about to go in for another kiss, but then Henri says, “fuck me, bear,” so Charlie straightens up and shoves his shorts down to do that, instead. Henri keeps fucking himself with his fingers while Charlie is hastily spitting in his hand and slicking himself up. It’s been so long since they’ve done this—this way, at least, so long since he’s got to make love to his husband this way. He pushes Henri’s hand away and Henri whines and shoves his ass back at him, and Charlie feels fucking incandescently happy as he grabs his husband’s hips and pushes into him.

“Sugar,” he says, cradling Henri close with one arm wrapped around his chest and kissing the place where his neck meets his shoulder. “Sugar, sugar, my pretty baby,” he croons, and keeps crooning, barely aware of what he’s saying as he fucks Henri hard and fast, until eventually he runs out of breath and can only pant desperately against the hot skin of Henri’s neck. When he stops talking, Henri takes over, whispering encouragements and praise in between moans. But Charlie is gone, can’t make any of it out, too lost in the pleasure and the sound of skin on skin and the beautiful cadence of his husband’s voice.

He knows when Henri comes because he feels it, a splash of warm wetness on his hand and sudden clenching around his cock and all of Henri’s muscles going stiff against him. He hears Henri whine his name brokenly and then he’s coming, too, shaking violently and gasping for breath.

When Charlie comes back to himself, he’s still breathing like he just ran a marathon, leaning heavily on Henri, who is asking, “Are you okay?”

“I’m—“ Charlie gasps out, practically asthmatic, but still so happy, “Perfect,” he finishes with a breathless laugh.

“Okay,” Henri says, and then he’s laughing, too. His pants are still around his thighs and there’s come on both their shirts, somehow, and at some point the bagel Henri was fixing got smashed beneath his palm. Charlie pulls at Henri’s arm until he turns around and faces him, pulls him in for a kiss even though he still hasn’t caught his breath. He feels Henri grasp his shirt with his cream-cheese-covered hand and he doesn’t remotely care.

This is his last normal day. The next day the doctor sits them down and says, “The treatments didn’t work as well as we hoped. We’ll have to be more aggressive.”

Charlie spends that night sobbing on Henri’s chest until he runs out of tears. “It isn’t fair,” he whispers, and Henri squeezes him tighter. “I felt good.”