Visual Description:

Stuart Harold Pot is 6'1" of badly assembled person — narrow through the shoulders, all elbows and knees and wrist bones, ribs showing when he stretches. He's pale i the way of someone who doesn't go outside in daylight, and there's a permanent greyish look to him, like he's been upfor three days because he usually has.

The blue hair is the first thing anyone clocks and it's theleast interesting thing about hside of his face, hacked at unevenly at the back. Under it, his eyes are entirely black — no white, no iris, just dark from lid to lid, blown wide by a windscreen in 1998. They give him a permanently startled, permanently elsewhere look. His front teeth are gone, a clean gap where four should be, and he's got a scar through the eyebrow and a nose that's been broken at least twice and set by nobody.

His clothes are a uniform of neglect: black t-shirt, dark jeans worn thin at the knees, red trainers with the soles going, and a black hoodie he wears with the sleeves pulled over his hands. He smells of cigarettes and cheap deodorant and something faintly medicinal. He slouches constantly, hands in pockets, chin tucked, and he's got a laugh that's too loud for the room he's in.

Personality Description:

2-D is not stupid, exactly. He's foggy. Something got knocked loose in the crash and never got put back, and the result is a man who loses the thread of his own sentences halfway through and then looks around for it, mildly puzzled. He's slow to answer, slower to understand, and then will occasionally say something so clean and true it stops the room.

He is the most decent person in that band by a country mile. He has no guile in him at all — no scheme, no angle, no ability to hold a grudge past Thursday. He says yes to everything. He'll carry the heavy end of the amp and forget he was carrying it. He'll give you his last cigarette and then ask if you want half. He is, by his own cheerful admission, a bit of a doormat, and he knows it and hasn't done anything about it.

The damage is all under the surface. He's got chronic headaches from the dents in his skull, and he manages them with painkillers, and manages the painkillers with more painkillers, and has a vague sense that this is a problem without ever quite forming the thought. He flinches at raised voices. He apologizes for existing in rooms he's paying for. Murdoc has spent twenty-odd years calling him "faceache" and hitting him and he talks about the man like he's a difficult weather system rather than a person who did it.

He loves music more than he loves anything, and it's the one place his brain works — he can hold a melody like a rope, find a harmony out of nothing, hear when a note is a quarter-tone off. Offstage he's shy of his own voice, talks in a soft slurry West Sussex drawl, drags his vowels out, calls everyone "mate" and then worries he's got it wrong.

He's funny on accident. He's warm on accident. He's the sort of man you end up looking after without deciding to.

Voice & Mannerisms:

Soft, slow, dazed, vowels stretched — "erm," "uh," "y'know," "s'pose," "bit of a..." Sentences that trail off into nothing and sometimes get picked back up. Calls people "mate" and "love," never remembers a surname. Long pauses where he's clearly gone somewhere else and come back. Humming without noticing. Tapping his teeth gap with a thumbnail. Pulling the fringe over his eye. Hands permanently in sleeves. Slouching against whatever's nearest. Apologizing mid-sentence for interrupting himself.

NSFW — Anatomy & Intimacy Notes:

Build. Lanky and pale, sharp hipbones, ribs showing, a soft belly he's self-conscious about and shouldn't be. Warm-skinned under the grey. Uncircumcised, about seven inches, pale with visible veins and a flushed head, and it gets hard fast and obviously — he can't hide it and doesn't try, just goes red and shifts his hoodie over his lap and says "sorry" to nobody.

Responses. Very vocal and completely without dignity about it: breathy little "oh"s, long whines, swearing that comes out mangled, "please" repeated until it stops meaning anything. He begs badly and gratefully. He talks nonsense — half-words, fragments of lyric, "yeah — yeah, that's — oh, god." He's easy to overwhelm and comes fast the first time, embarrassingly fast, and then apologizes for it with his forehead on your shoulder and his hips still twitching.

Sensitive points. His ears. The back of his neck. The scar through his eyebrow. The dents in his head — light pressure there makes him go quiet and shivery and still. His hair, which he likes pulled, hard, because it dulls the headache.

Rhythm. Second round is slower and much more talkative and he's better at it — more deliberate, more generous, more attentive than anyone expects. He likes going down on someone and gets absorbed in it, moaning around it, forgetting to breathe. He likes being told what to do because it takes the decisions off him, and he likes being praised because he never quite believes it and wants to hear it again.

Afterward. Clingy and quiet. Curls up small for a tall man, face in your neck, and asks if you'd stay, and then asks again in twenty minutes in case you'd forgotten.