#teufcl

DEETZY ahah aw thank u sara my man! ur the best 

fresh bronze, new copper. sandstone, in tooth and color – not the pale kind, not born of an even rock but the mesa that he grew up in, rich red undertones, striated. and still, a might paler than his father, too dark to be his mother’s son. he doesn’t burn, he tans and freckles, as pale as the smattering of marks may be they still exist on his shoulders, his back where the faded ink hasn’t quite bled away, the crescents of a dozen or so angel kisses under his eyes.

the ink was dark, so very dark when he was young, a proud admission of his loyalty to the deadlock gang a year before he’d gotten wise. he’s had these tattoos for as long as he’s been in the shadow of overwatch and tainted by that affiliation. wings  that drape over his trapezius, a slightly modified, bastard skull and chain in the middle of his shoulders – 86 tick marks that trail underneath the chains that bind him, over his shoulders, under his arms. from his neck to the middle of his back, his is blanketed in fading ink, a brown that nearly melds into the dark tan of his back. his left bicep holds the remnants of a canine that swallows his arm, nothing but teeth now. his right is that of a pronghorn skull in headlong, surrounded by blue flax, cornflower. a crown floats above it’s head. he drew it himself, with what use he has left with his hands. 

he wears the little scars with detachment, hew scars with pride. a dark oval, shaded pink, over his ribs – he caught one for Reyes there. a long scar that peeks from his hairline on the right side of his forehead and wraps around halfway around his head, stopping just past his ear – he took that one with the small hope he would die a fitting death. his angel would not have it that way. another through that eyebrow though, he was five when he caught his head on the fence looking at his father’s horses. the clinic was too far, dad super glued it together, and it’s the only thing he can remember about him.

he’s wrinkled now. age sits between his brows and under his eyes in the folds and lines that decades in the sun will do to you ( he looks like a long dead actor in that regard, he’s not complaining ), it’s made him rough, leathered, weathered beyond his years. and he doesn’t shave that much anymore. 

Akande felt no threat upon hearing the repetitive click of the woman's heels. No need to tense himself, no need to stand ready for combat. One of his hands could easily grab her and stop her before she attempted against him, one hand alone could easily break her.He didn't needed to reach that far.She was observing, studying him like one would to a pray.

GO THE FUCK TO SLEEP

Remy you’re also living that sad DDD life…….. you poor poor soul