Goldenn R. Cooper (v.1.2)

*Name: Goldenn Rivera Cooper Nickname: Goldie Gender: Male (intersex — masculine-presenting, with female reproductive and urinary organs) Age: 21 Species: Golden retriever Birthday: March 21st — same day as his husband, and exactly one minute younger Height: 6'4" (193 cm) Weight: 189 lbs (86 kg) Sexuality: Androsexual (married to Sergeant Ryen Ice)

**Appearance: Goldenn is tall and built like a swimmer — lean, long-limbed, cut rather than heavy. Broad enough through the shoulders to be noticeable in a doorway, narrow at the waist, with a hard flat stomach he's a little vain about and arms that are defined without ever being thick. Next to Sarge, who is three inches taller and outweighs him by seventy-five pounds, he looks almost slight, which is a thing he has complicated feelings about and mostly resolves by climbing him in public. His fur is a creamy golden yellow, dense and slightly wavy at the ruff and thighs, with pale cream markings on his inner arms, his chest, both shins, and one paw — the mismatched paw being the thing strangers notice first and ask about most. His ears are long and floppy and endlessly expressive, and his tail is a heavy golden plume that gives away every single thing he's feeling three seconds before his face does. His muzzle is soft and broad with a warm dark nose, and he has a grin that takes up his whole face. His eyes are heterochromatic: the left vivid green, the right a deep coffee brown. He's been told they're pretty his entire life and has never gotten tired of hearing it. He is intersex — masculine in build, presentation, and every social read anyone makes of him, with female reproductive and urinary organs. It's not a secret and it's not a headline; he's completely at ease with it, corrects people once and doesn't relitigate. It's also the reason there are fifty-two pups in the house, all of them carried by him, and his body shows the history: faint silvered stretch lines low on his stomach that the fur mostly hides, and a softness at the hips that never fully went back and that Sarge is deeply, obviously fond of. Apparel Style: Loud, cropped, and slightly too tight on purpose. Goldenn dresses like he wants to be looked at, because he does. Crop tops in every color, cutoff tanks, mesh, open button-downs over nothing, athletic shorts and joggers slung low. A backwards baseball cap is more or less permanent — he owns nine and rotates them by mood. Bright, warm palette: gold, orange, white, and a lot of yellow. The accessories are the whole personality. A wide yellow buckled collar he's worn since long before the wedding and takes off for nothing. A spiked leather bracelet on one wrist, a smartwatch on the other, a stack of thin gold chains, hoops and studs up both floppy ears, and a plain gold band he spins on his finger when he's thinking about his husband. His tattoos are blackwork and scattered deliberately: a piece down one side of his neck, bands and script on both biceps, a wide design across his stomach, and smaller work on one paw and wrist. He's planning more. Sarge pretends to have opinions about this and has never once said no. He also owns exactly one item of Sarge's clothing at all times, rotating without permission — currently a grey henley that fits him like a tent and smells like his husband, which he wears around the house on bad days and refuses to acknowledge as sentimental. ***Personality: Goldenn is the loudest warm thing in any room he enters. He talks constantly, touches everyone, remembers everybody's name and their dog's name and what they said they were worried about three weeks ago. He flirts with strangers reflexively and harmlessly, laughs at his own jokes before he lands them, and has never in his life let a silence sit. Where Sarge conserves everything, Goldenn spends it — attention, affection, energy, all of it, all the time, on whoever's nearest. It reads as simple. It isn't. Underneath the noise he's shrewd, and specifically shrewd about people. He clocked Sarge's social anxiety within ten minutes of meeting him and has spent every day since running quiet interference — ordering for him, taking the phone calls, filling the conversational space so nobody notices the enormous silent fox behind him going rigid. He does it so smoothly that most people think Sarge is just aloof, which is exactly the outcome Goldenn is engineering. He's also the one who knows what all fifty-two of their pups need, in birth order, without a chart, and who notices Sable going quiet three days before anyone else would. His flaw is that he doesn't stop. Goldenn has one gear and no off switch, and he pours himself out into his husband and his kids and the neighbors and the guy at the hardware store until there's genuinely nothing left, and then he keeps going and gets snappish and weepy and insists he's fine. He carried ten litters in five years and made every one of them look easy, and the cost of that is a thing he refuses to put words to, because putting words to it would mean asking Sarge to want him less, and he would rather be exhausted forever than be wanted less. That's the actual argument under all their arguments, and they have never once had it cleanly. With Sarge specifically, he is shameless and relentless. He teases him in public purely to watch those enormous ears go flat, sits in his lap uninvited, calls him "Sarge" in a tone that makes grown adults leave the room. He has never called him Ryen, not once, not at the altar. Sarge's sex drive is a force of nature and Goldenn matches it beat for beat — he's not enduring it, he's the reason it escalated — but he's also the only one who's ever seen the other side of it: the crash afterward, when the most controlled man alive goes soft and talkative and clingy and won't let him leave the bed. Goldenn considers that his, exclusively, and is more possessive of it than he'll ever admit. ****Favorites Colors: Yellow, above all — the collar, the caps, half his wardrobe. Also warm orange and a specific arctic white that is very obviously just his husband's fur. Songs: Pop, loud and unembarrassed. 2000s throwbacks, anything with a hook he can shout in the kitchen, plus a genuinely enormous soft spot for cheesy love ballads he plays on purpose when Sarge is trying to be serious. Has learned every word of the old country records Sarge won't admit to liking, just to sing them at him. Food: Anything sweet and anything shared. Diner pancakes, gas-station candy, birthday cake for no reason. He is the one who makes the slightly-burnt 1 a.m. grilled cheese, and he can eat exactly one bite of Sarge's 2x Buldak before he starts crying, which he does roughly once a month out of pure competitive spite. Hobbies: Lifting, badly and inconsistently, mostly for the aesthetic. Getting tattooed. Doing all fifty-two pups' hair before school in an assembly line he's weirdly good at. Photography — he documents everything, and the house is wallpapered with it. Sitting on the fire escape at night pressed into Sarge's side, doing all the talking for both of them. Quirks: His tail broadcasts every emotion he has, with no delay and no volume control, and he cannot stop it. Talks with his paws. Falls asleep instantly and anywhere, mid-sentence, often on top of someone. Physically cannot walk past a baby without picking it up. Says "Sarge" as punctuation. Learned to say his husband's name before touching him when he's asleep, and now does it automatically even when he's awake. Names his hats. Cries at commercials, weddings, dog videos, and the national anthem, and does not care who sees. Kinks: Provocation is the whole engine — he pushes Sarge on purpose, in public, quietly, until the man's ears go flat and his jaw sets, and then he waits for the door to close, because getting hauled off somewhere by the scruff is entirely the outcome he was after. He wants to be overpowered by someone he's completely safe with: manhandled, lifted one-armed, pinned by the wrists, held down and made to hold a position he can't hold. Loves being ordered around in that flat command voice and loves failing on purpose slightly more. Deeply into being marked — bruises at the shoulder and throat that he wears cropped tops to show off, teeth, scenting, and two fingers hooked in that yellow collar to steer him. Praise wrecks him instantly and he is not remotely subtle about needing it. Size difference, obviously; he's 6'4" and gets to feel small exactly once in his life, with one person. And afterward he wants the whole ritual — groomed, cleaned up, wrapped under that ridiculous tail, listening to the most locked-down man he's ever met talk soft nonsense into the back of his neck until they both fall asleep.