RP: Tending to wounded pride?
Characters: Rabastan Lestrange, Tony (NPC)
Location: The Flat
Date: Evening, 3rd December
Status/Warning: Private/swearing
Summary: Flexing muscles that used to be rather more obvious
Completion: Complete
Four meals. Four. Obviously Till had wanted him to eat something rather than drink it, but last time he checked you were only supposed to have three meals a day. And Rabastan just didn't do breakfast.
She has a point though, Rabastan looked over his shoulder at his reflection in the bathroom. There was no muscle in his back, he just knew how to throw around what weight he had. His shoulder blades now did odd things when he pushed his shoulders back. That needed sorting out. With the muggle out, he decided to take up his old exercise regime (it had kept him entertained for almost two years in Azkaban) in the living room.
He became bored of doing crunches at the round number of ninety-nine, refusing to add in the extra effort to reach a hundred. "This is tedious," he grumbled to himself, ignoring the way Till popped up beside him in case her assistance was needed. He flipped over onto his stomach and attempted some press-ups. He already knew their success would be highly unlikely; something had already tweaked in his bad shoulder from the crunches. Really should've warmed up.
His left arm seized part way through his third press-up and Rabastan stared at the floor with a mixture of pain and anger. Hearing the front door open didn't really improve matters. The approaching footsteps stopped about a metre away and he could feel Tony staring at him. "Take a fucking picture, it'll last longer," he grated, allowing himself to hit the floor before slowly standing and stretching. Tony wasn't staring at him as much as he was staring at his whole torso. His tattooed snake had settled in a neat little coil on his chest, but her tongue was flickering. "What?" He glared at the muggle, waiting for a real response.
"Your chest... Your-- I've told you I like your tattoos, haven't I?" Apparently he was only capable of making eye contact with enchanted ink.
"You have," Rabastan answered, "And I told you I don't have any." He pushed past to go and make himself a coffee. Alcohol for caffeine; it seemed like a fair trade. Unless he put alcohol in his coffee. That was a thought, actually.
Location: The Flat
Date: Evening, 3rd December
Status/Warning: Private/swearing
Summary: Flexing muscles that used to be rather more obvious
Completion: Complete
Four meals. Four. Obviously Till had wanted him to eat something rather than drink it, but last time he checked you were only supposed to have three meals a day. And Rabastan just didn't do breakfast.
She has a point though, Rabastan looked over his shoulder at his reflection in the bathroom. There was no muscle in his back, he just knew how to throw around what weight he had. His shoulder blades now did odd things when he pushed his shoulders back. That needed sorting out. With the muggle out, he decided to take up his old exercise regime (it had kept him entertained for almost two years in Azkaban) in the living room.
He became bored of doing crunches at the round number of ninety-nine, refusing to add in the extra effort to reach a hundred. "This is tedious," he grumbled to himself, ignoring the way Till popped up beside him in case her assistance was needed. He flipped over onto his stomach and attempted some press-ups. He already knew their success would be highly unlikely; something had already tweaked in his bad shoulder from the crunches. Really should've warmed up.
His left arm seized part way through his third press-up and Rabastan stared at the floor with a mixture of pain and anger. Hearing the front door open didn't really improve matters. The approaching footsteps stopped about a metre away and he could feel Tony staring at him. "Take a fucking picture, it'll last longer," he grated, allowing himself to hit the floor before slowly standing and stretching. Tony wasn't staring at him as much as he was staring at his whole torso. His tattooed snake had settled in a neat little coil on his chest, but her tongue was flickering. "What?" He glared at the muggle, waiting for a real response.
"Your chest... Your-- I've told you I like your tattoos, haven't I?" Apparently he was only capable of making eye contact with enchanted ink.
"You have," Rabastan answered, "And I told you I don't have any." He pushed past to go and make himself a coffee. Alcohol for caffeine; it seemed like a fair trade. Unless he put alcohol in his coffee. That was a thought, actually.