#and how they removed his ability to modify himself for his own pleasure and comfort

[feverdreamsandlucidnightmares]

Headcanon that Wolfwood physically can’t get tattoos or piercings because every time he takes a vial the piercing rejects and the tattoo scars over and fades because both are technically wounds and he’s never gone long enough between vials to let them heal completely.

So technically he could get them, but not keep them. Kind of makes tattoos a bust, but imagine him making Vash redo his piercings in whatever shithole they end up in for the night after a fight.

A happy, healthy Wolfwood has piercings lol

[fleckcmscott]

Another Year

Summary: Arthur’s birthday is coming up. Y/N wants nothing more than to make it great.

Warnings: Swearing

Words: 3,892

A/N: This request came from the one-of-a-kind, fabulous @sweet-nothings04​! Thank you for asking for this. I enjoyed writing it a lot! 

If you have any thoughts or questions, please comment, feel free to message me, or send me an ask. Requests for Arthur and WWH are open! Keep them coming!

Y/N hadn't realized how much she'd missed putting together birthday celebrations. Not until the unexpected serendipity of falling in love again. Her ex-husband had preferred not to make a big deal of them, had stated he hated getting older. (Considering he'd been in his twenties, she'd found that assertion silly.) As her father had slipped away, special events and gifts had gone by the wayside to focus on routines that wouldn't throw him off kilter. She'd been invited to her sister's and brother-in-law's parties but had only stayed for the hour or two she'd hired a sitter. And while she wasn't the most attentive aunt, she always ensured her nephews and nieces at least got a card and money for a treat.

From what she'd gathered, birthdays had never been an important facet of Arthur's life. That had become obvious upon learning his was 11/21/1946 by reading documents instead of from him. When she'd discovered he'd turned thirty-five and hadn't even told her. But unlike her ex, it wasn't because he didn't want them to be. It was due to neglect, isolation, and the inability to connect. As much sympathy as she had for Penny, for her own illnesses and suffering, for what had been done to her, the wounds she'd inflicted on her son hurt Y/N’s heart. There were so many lost years. She was determined to make-up for them by spoiling him.

The diner where Patricia and she often met for lunch was halfway between their two offices. A five- or six-minute walk for them both. Y/N arrived first. She sat at the white and gold Formica counter and perused the menu. (Though she'd already decided to get her usual pastrami on wheat, garlic pickle, and coleslaw.) Patricia strolled in as the waitress jotted down Y/N's order, and told the young lady she'd have whatever Y/N was having.

They caught up quickly. The Wayne Foundation case was going to have a preliminary hearing in three weeks. Y/N couldn't have rolled her eyes harder. ("Thank god I won't be there. They'd have to drag me off the stand.") Patricia listened with interest while Y/N went on about a dispute involving break violations at Ace Chemicals. And Patricia invited her to stop by the office soon, claiming Matt had realized he'd been stupid to let her quit. ("I'm sure he misses me being a pain in his ass.")

Y/N was picking at the crust of her sandwich when she changed the subject. “I need a favor.”

Patricia arched a brow at her. “Is this going to involve me lugging boxes of files to your apartment?”

“Only if you want the workout.” Chuckling, Y/N shook her head. “Arthur’s birthday is next Saturday. You bake the best cakes. If I’m left to my own devices, he’s going to get something out of a Universal Foods’ box.”

“Mine are out of a box. I just modify the directions and make my own frosting.” Patricia used the rest of her bread to sop up her coleslaw’s dressing. “How old did you say he’s going to be? Thirty-five?”

“Thirty-six.”

Swallowing her last bite, Patricia quirked up the corner of her lips. “I still owe you for running those supplies to the office when my foot was broken. What kind does he like?”

Y/N hugged her tight across the shoulders. After a short discussion, they decided on chocolate with vanilla cream frosting - a safe choice. It would be small, since it was only for the two of them. Arthur had a job the day before. That would allow her to take it home without him seeing. She’d just have to keep him away from the fridge the rest of the evening.

They talked about the other things Y/N had in-store for him, the reservation, the gifts. She giggled, pleased at having successfully hidden it all from him so far. “You’re putting a lot of work into this,” Patricia said. “What did you do last year?”

“I didn’t know about it last year. He didn’t mention it.” Though Patricia was already aware of some of Arthur’s past, Y/N had kept the details to a minimum. She tried to think of an elaboration, one that respected his privacy but was honest. She started in on her pickle. “With Penny being sick - with everything he was going through...”

Sipping her coffee, Patricia spun her stool to face Y/N fully. “You don’t need to say anymore. I remember. It was hard for you both.”

The empathy in Patricia’s gaze prompted a smile. And reminded Y/N how grateful she was for a friend who was frank but unjudgmental. “Back then, he thought needing or wanting anything from me was a bother. But he’s getting better at letting me love him.” Y/N put a hand on her chest. “And now he’ll never need to mention it. It’s locked in here for good.”

~~~~~

Yesterday had left Arthur in a funk. One that showed signs of adhering to his brain the way flies had stuck to the tape he’d had to hang from the ceiling of his old apartment every spring. He’d spent close to twelve hours dancing and waving a “Store Closing! Everything 50-70% off!” placard in front of Dave’s Pleasure Emporium in Gotham Square. (The city must really be fucked if its denizens’ finances were shitty enough that adult shops were shutting down.) It had been his least favorite gig in months. But the slow season was coming on, and the pay had been decent.

The dull ache in his lower spine, radiating to his hip, had made it harder than usual to sleep. And soreness was seeping from familiar spots to sinews he’d forgotten were there. Even the tips of his toes hurt. Two more ibuprofen tablets and acetaminophen went down easily. Carefully, not wanting to rouse her, he removed Y/N’s hand from his stomach, wincing as he shifted onto his left side to alleviate the pressure on his right.

Thirty-five was too old for this. While he loved performing for children, he should have made it as a comic by now. And he should have finished school. He’d be able to do more than be on his feet all day, then. Have more options. Opportunities...

Or maybe he simply shouldn’t have taken that particular job.

The ability to stop catastrophizing, adjust his way of thinking, was new. And rare. He made a mental note to write today’s accomplishment in his journal and share it at his next appointment. The therapist would be impressed with him. Dozing, he thought his funk might abate after all.

It could have been five or fifty minutes later when he felt the comforter being dragged down. Heard the zip of the shades being rolled up. But he was in that snug state between wakefulness and slumber and refused to react. Then there was a pinch on his chin, a light weight on his scalp. “What are you doing?” he mumbled gravelly.

“It’s someone’s special day today,” Y/N said.

Oh. That’s right. He was thirty-six now.

Squinting in the bright sunlight filtering through their sheer curtains, he propped himself on his forearm. She was half-reclined next to him, draped in a short, black nightdress. The one she found a tad tawdry but he liked. He rubbed his eyes, his forehead. Thin cardboard stopped him when he reached his hair. His fingers followed it, found it tapered into a point.

A party hat. She’d gotten him a party hat. He couldn’t hold back his snort.

In his line of work, birthdays were for kids. He’d stopped caring about his own as a teenager. Penny had seemingly been glad he was around. But she never remembered. Hell, he’d had to remind her of her own. But the last acknowledgment of it, the last one before meeting Y/N, had been by a teacher. He’d gotten an extra five minutes of recess and escaped punishment for inappropriate laughter for the day.

This was his first birthday with a person who saw and loved him. Understood who he was. Knew he was more than some image projected onto him. A person who appeared thrilled he existed and to be in his life. As a husband. Every sit-com and film he’d watched had clued him in: wives deemed them important. They hid gifts, cooked special meals, sneaked around arranging parties. There hadn’t been any sneaking on Y/N’s part, none that he could detect. He wondered what she could have planned.

The kneading of her thumb in the hollow of his hip, briefs slung too low as usual, gave him a good idea of her plan for this morning. The entangling of their legs confirmed it. “I got donuts. Coffee’s ready.”

“You, um-“ He cleared his throat, closed his eyes at the brush of her thigh against his length. Which was getting harder with each touch of her lips to the crook of his neck. “You didn’t make breakfast?”

“No.” Her chuckle was throaty, full of desire. “I wasn’t going to torture you with burnt eggs.” She was pulling at his biceps, trying to get him to settle over her. “Let’s work up your appetite, Mr. Fleck.”

But he flinched and halted her movements. The painkillers hadn't kicked in yet. His muscles burned. "We'll get to it later," he promised between languid, lingering kisses. The kind that made him feel safe. Loved. Famished for her. She guided him onto his stomach, stroked him affectionately. Breaths mingling, they chatted lazily until they both cooled off.

Once his stomach started rumbling, Y/N insisted they get up, despite his protestations that he wasn't hungry. That staying under the covers with her for hours would be fun. That they could eat in bed, crumbs be damned. His back would get worse if he continued laying like that, she told him. He needed to stretch and move. Although he grumbled, his experiences with injuries, whether from overwork, assholes, or sleeping on a couch most of his life, had taught him she was right.

Following a cigarette on the fire escape, he went to the kitchen, grabbed a mug, and did a double-take at the round table in the dining nook. He approached it in disbelief. He tensed as he ran his hand along the rectangular gifts and their shiny red paper. Squeezed the puffy, tan winter coat. Fingered the silver ribbon tied to the chair, dangling from an aluminum helium balloon. The lump in his throat forced a short laugh. But he didn't cover his mouth, not having to hide from her. He shook his head, wiping at the sudden wetness in his eyes. "All this is for me?" He did his best to sound normal.

"No. They're for my other husband, Carnival." She came behind him, hugged him around his torso and splayed her fingers on his chest. "You may have met him. Has a penchant for making balloon animals? Wears pants with the cutest patch on his bottom?" He grasped her forearm, held her tight to him as his shoulders shook with mirth.

It wasn't yet eight o'clock. And the day was already shaping up to be one of his favorites.

~~~~~

At the vanity on Arthur's side of the bed, Y/N was attempting to create the perfect oval eye with brown liner. The wide smile creeping onto her face wasn't making it easy. But it couldn't be helped. Everything had gone wonderfully so far. Had more than met her expectations. She hoped his had been met, too.

She'd been badgering him to get a winter coat since last Christmas. (His teeth had chattered almost the entire time they'd stood outside to watch Gotham's Christmas parade. The hot chocolate from a vendor hadn't done much good. A long bath had been necessary to finally warm him up.) The one she'd picked out fit him well, and he'd seemed to like it, hanging it by the door next to his tan jacket. And she'd known he was attached to his trusty, foil razor. But it was over fifteen years old, taped together, and on its way out. The new one had a rechargeable battery. He wouldn't be tethered to the outlet over the sink if he wanted to move around a bit.

The twitch of his nostrils, his hitched breath as he'd whispered, "Thank you," had compelled her to kneel next to his chair. The poignancy of his reaction had affected her keenly. Hollowed out her core and filled it with compassion and love. He'd frowned and wiped his nose with the back of his knuckles. "Sorry," he'd scoffed, glistening eyes darting to hers. "I don't mean to be weird."

"You're not, Arthur." She'd gently removed his black and red polka-dotted party hat, set it on the table. "You're being you."

After a quick lunch, they'd leisurely strolled arm-in-arm through the neighborhood, including a visit to the nearby park. Arthur had wanted to stop into the used record shop three or four blocks away. She'd caressed up and down his back, observing his content visage as he flipped through the LPs. It was lovely to see him treat himself to a couple without hesitating to worry about the cost for too long. At home, he'd settled on the floor by the record player and put them on. He must have been feeling better, because he'd kept his earlier promise: they'd made love on the carpet. Unhurried, sweet, and giggling like idiots.

The opening of the bathroom door broke her out of her reverie. She started blotting her darker-than-usual red lipstick with a tissue. "It was nice of Patricia to get me aftershave," he said.

She smoothed the lines of her champagne color, mid-length dress, adjusted its petal sleeves, then twisted around just as he entered the bedroom. Her movements halted. Would his handsomeness, his beauty, ever fail to stun her? Gaze roaming his slender form, she stared at him. He'd only worn his black and brown oxfords seldomly, saving them for special occasions. The wrinkled white socks didn't match his black pants, but they paired well with him.

It was the teal button-up, patterned with white circles of various opacities and sizes, that caused her to need a few seconds to process his remark. It'd hung in the corner of his old living room; she'd eyed it in their closet since he'd moved in. It was such a contrast to his usual conservative clothing. Quite unlike him, she'd assumed. But seeing him standing there in it, the way it complimented his lithe figure and brought out the light green of his irises, made him look a little less withdrawn, she realized she'd been mistaken.

"She thought it'd suit your new shaver." He gave a gentle hum in response, bashful smile appearing. Such gestures were unfamiliar to him. Eventually, they'd become such an integral part of his life he'd grow tired of them. Y/N would make sure of that. The idea prompted a grin and she stepped around the bed to approach him. "You look great. Are you ready?"

“Yeah.” The crook of his mouth, the furrow of his forehead alerted her to his nervousness. He rubbed the back of his neck, flitted his look to hers. “It sounds fancy.”

She kissed him soundly and he eased into her embrace. “You don’t have to impress me,” she said. “You already did that. Use whichever fork you want.”

The restaurant was in Gotham’s Little Italy district, only a block or two from Chinatown. Y/N had never been to Bamonte’s but her colleagues had given it good reviews. (One had said he and his wife went there every anniversary.) Arthur gaped when they went inside. She watched him survey the lavish, red curtains decorating the walls; the dim lanterns suspended from the ceiling; the faux-marble floor. Huffing, he turned to her, concern clear on his face. She grasped his elbow. “It’s all right. You belong here as much as anyone else.”

The maitre’d led them to a secluded table, behind its own drawn back drapes in the rear corner of the smoking section. Arthur traced the edges of the three lit, tulip-shaped votive holders. Caressed the cream color tablecloth as he sat in the fabric covered chair. An anxious chuckle left him and he smoothed his palm over his thigh. “I hope I don’t spill anything.”

Y/N assisted Arthur with the menu, explaining some of the more exotic-to-him dishes. He was interested in the antipasto, which wasn’t unexpected, since he always kept a jar of olives in the fridge. The gnocchi with tomatoes, spinach, fresh basil, and mozzarella was what he thought sounded best. She chose an old favorite, chicken in a mushroom and white wine sauce and a Caesar salad on the side. Arthur picked the least expensive Moscato on the wine list. When the bottle was opened and left on the table, he blinked at it, then shrugged and filled their glasses.

After a couple of sips, he crossed his legs and puffed on his cigarette. “I wrote a new joke. Well, I really just changed an old one.” He reached across the table to graze across the back of her hand. “Why didn’t the old man like having insomnia?”

Her eyelids fluttered, his gossamer touch setting her aflame. She ran her toes along his calf, his resulting twitch causing her to giggle in delight. “He wanted to sleep with his wife?”

Dark brows shot up in surprise, his eyes lighting up. Their fingers laced together. “How did you know?”

Leaning forward, she traced his crow's feet, prominent due to his beaming smile. Then her touch drifted to his jawline. “It was the first joke you ever told me," she murmured. "How could I forget?” Clutching her hand, he pressed a kiss to her wrist. He held her to his lips, hard enough to feel his teeth. And he grew quiet. “What is it?” she asked after a minute.

His eyelids shut. She could feel his pulse quicken together with hers. “I- I wanna sleep with you forever,” he breathed.

Out of anyone else’s mouth, she would have taken that to mean sex. From him, however, she knew it meant mountains more. Adoration welling in her chest, her fingertips weaved into his loose, chestnut curls. “You will.”

~~~~~

Once, in high school, Arthur had gotten a hold of some grass. It was supposed to induce giddiness and euphoria, make a person relax. God knows he could have used it back then; Penny had started declining and he’d had to learn to run a household. Plus, he’d thought at the time, it’d make him one of the guys. All the cool kids were doing it. Maybe he’d be able to connect with one and learn how to be popular. But all it had done was make him nauseous and paranoid. There hadn’t been one iota of the “high” he’d imagined. He’d thrown it out and never tried it again.

Now he wondered: was it possible to be high on a person? To be drunk on their presence? To feel their essence down to the cell? Necking on the sofa with Y/N, their coffee forgotten on the coffee table, he figured it must be. Enraptured, he wanted to capture her ragged breaths, take her into his lungs, make her a perpetual part of his being. Perhaps he’d stay happy naturally, then, like everyone else. Even if that didn’t work, she’d always be close.

Giggling, she pushed him off her and headed towards the kitchen. “Wait here. No peeking.”

Laughing softly, Arthur pushed his hair out of his face. She’d already gotten him gifts. Let him make love to her. Taken him to an eatery where he was totally out of place and managed to make it comfortable. What else could she possibly do? Luckily, he didn’t have to wait long. He eagerly followed at the call of his name.

The loveliest cake he’d ever seen was on the counter. Dark chocolate shavings embellished its round border. And it was the perfect size for the two of them. Y/N was rushing to light a mass of candles on it. “Quick, make a wish before wax drips onto the frosting.”

He mused for a moment. He no longer needed to pine for daydreams and delusions of companionship - he had Y/N. In spite of the icons his mother had had in every room of their apartment, he’d long ago stopped praying to what he suspected was nothing for his conditions and illnesses to go away. Then it occurred to him. Bending to blow out the candles, he wished for his innate comedic gifts to be recognized. To be validated as the stand-up he knew he was. And to provide for Y/N. To be what she needed. To make her happy.

Although he was grateful for Patricia’s thoughtfulness, and he knew Y/N’s baking wasn’t better than his own, part of him had wanted her to be the one who made the cake. But he tried to push that aside and appreciate it regardless. The slice she gave him was far too generous. He ate it all, anyway, because it was delicious. The sponge was fluffy. And the chocolate could actually be detected, instead of a vague, sugary flavor. The frosting tasted finer than that on the grocery store bakery cupcakes he’d sampled in the past.

As he was rinsing off the cutlery, Y/N saddled up beside him and held out a bright purple envelope, inscribed with “Happy Birthday!” in her pretty longhand. He leaned his hip against the counter as he grasped it, intentionally brushing his hand against hers. Gingerly, he lifted the flap and pulled out the card.

The cardstock was a vibrant gold and white. Two mugs, one green and labeled, “Yours,” one pink and labeled, “Mine” sat on sketched coasters. The shiny purple letters underneath proclaimed, “You get me. I get you.” Pressing his thin lips together, he opened it. And sighed when he read the rest: “Hope you know how happy that makes me.”

One of his wishes had already come true.

The elation coursing through his veins made him shudder. He nearly missed the stiff papers that fell from the envelope. Y/N retrieved them and gently placed them in his palm. A wide smile spread across his cheeks as he read aloud. “‘Gotham Pops presents A Night with Gershwin?’” He double-checked the date. “These are for New Year’s Eve.”

She nodded. “I snagged them as soon as they went on sale. They’re orchestra seats.” Then she squeezed him flush to her side, bumped her nose to his. “Don’t think I haven’t heard you sing to yourself in the tub.”

“Oh,” he chuckled, eyes tracing the diamond pattern of the grey, linoleum floor. “I thought I was quieter.”

“I’m glad you weren’t.” Enthusiastically, her lips pulled at his before she grinned up at him. “Did you have a happy birthday? Was it worth getting older?”

Arthur’s answer came without delay. “Yes.” There wasn’t a way to explain what it meant to him, to explain that she helped him feel good to be alive. How full his heart was. That she patched cracks in his soul he hadn’t known existed. He longed to do the same for her. He cupped her jaw on either side, guiding her to his mouth and rasping, “I don’t mind getting older with you.”

~~~~~

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[dellebecque]

Prompt #9: Burning a Hole in One’s Pocket

Who: WoL!Aden, Haurchefant Greystone When: Just after the Warrior of Light and company return from slaying Nidhogg How: T, some vague allusions to violence and sexuality if you squint just right, mostly wholesome What: That he hesitates so many times is unusual, but Aden couldn't possibly guess the reason . The first appearance of a certain important object in WoL!Aden’s story. Where: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20487653/chapters/48876314

They met in the street amidst ringing steel and cries of battle, and Aden caught just a second of hesitation in Haurchefant’s warm greeting and stolen kiss. Aden didn’t have time to think about it, as his lover joined their group and continued through the streets shoulder to shoulder with him. Confident as he was in the abilities of his companions Aden was relieved to have Haurchefant at his side. Everything they needed to say to one another about a fight they communicated in a gesture or a glance--that they were doing their best to merely incapacitate went without saying. But there it was again, the next time they had a moment to speak and space to breathe.

“Something wrong?”

Haurchefant smiled, a soft, anxious little laugh escaping him. “No, my love, nothing is wrong. Quite the opposite.” Haurchefant wrapped an arm around him, drew him close and pressed a kiss to the base of one ear. “Aside from the obvious.”

Aden’s ears shifted curiously at that, tail twitching distractedly. Haurchefant let go--it’d only lasted a moment as they still had several blocks to cover--and Aden wondered. He wondered through Ysayle talking her people into laying down their arms, he wondered all the way back to Fortemps Manor, making a grimy, blood-spattered greeting to Edmont while they waited for Estinien to retrieve Aymeric so they could tell the whole tale.

“Come,” Haurchefant murmured to him, laying a hand on his forearm--forward, perhaps, but they were at home and everyone here knew, and if anyone judged ill that an elezen and a miqo’te found comfort in one another they dared not speak it for love of their family. He caught that hesitation again, though, took note of the way his lover’s blue eyes scanned the room as if considering something. “They may be a while yet in arriving. I’m sure you’re quite weary of that armor by now.”

Aden made no protests, let Haurchefant lead him up to the rooms they’d given Aden. He’d long ago gotten over the idea that this was in some way demeaning to Haurchefant, that helping Aden with his armor was something a squire should be doing. He could remove it by himself, but it was drachenmaille, and it took thrice as long to do a damned thing with. At times he found himself wishing something would happen to it, grateful as he was that a suit had been secured for him and modified to accommodate his anatomy, and perhaps he could badger them into using the forging process for something simpler . Heresy they’d say, surely, but he’d commit heresy a dozen times to be able to take his own damn armor off and not look like an upright porcupine.

Aden’s rooms sat on a corner of the manor, overlooking the city, not terribly large but comfortably appointed. Guest quarters, obviously, but he wasn’t exactly a guest any more. A fire burned in the hearth, probably started just before they’d entered the building knowing the staff’s efficiency. Haurchefant hesitated again just outside the door, the barest pause, then entered and stopped a few fulms inside the door, next to bench and a rack just for this purpose, where he began fussing with the catches on one of Aden’s gauntlets. They’d have less of an excuse for this if Aden got his wish about the armor, and while he disliked the idea that staff cleaned it here rather than doing it himself, this… this was different. Haurchefant always went about this task in an almost worshipful manner, and took obvious pleasure in it. Aden had thought at first perhaps it was something lewd he didn’t quite understand, but he’d since come to realize it was about sanctuary . It was a metaphor made manifest. Wherever this man was, the mighty Warrior of Light could shed his armor, and be cared for, and beloved for himself and not for his deeds.

Watching him go about his business brought a faint smile to Aden’s lips, thinking back on where they’d started. How long Haurchefant had been silently saying those things to him before he realized. And even though they both knew now what lay in the other’s heart, he didn’t stop saying it. But this time Haurchefant seemed to be fumbling with the straps and the catches and honestly, Aden could probably do this about as quickly himself, maybe faster with the extra set of hands to help brace. “Are you sure--”

“Oh, bugger all this, I cannot wait any longer.” He pulled off the first gauntlet and dropped it onto the bench. “I should have done this the instant you returned, but we were rather inconvenienced . With everything going on if I keep waiting for the right moment we’ll be old and on our deathbeds first.” Haurchefant fished for something tucked behind his sword belt and produced a small, simple box, which he opened and offered up as he went down on one knee. It didn’t process at first, what was going on, seemed it must be some sort of joke--

“Aden.” His attention snapped to Haurchefant’s face at that tone, serious, faintly trembling, husky with emotion. “I wish always to be the fire at the hearth to which you return.” The ring inside seemed small in Haurchefant’s hands, but of course it would. It was dark, the color of metal forged in the drachenmaille process, but it seemed unbelievable someone would do it for a ring . Firelight caught on fine engravings of twining branches ‘round the band, and nestled amongst carven leaves sat a diamond and sapphire side by side, small, delicately faceted, nearly flush with the band. “Would you do me this honor?”

For a moment Aden forgot how words worked, his heart in his throat. Could he--? As the Warrior of Light did he… belong to himself enough for this sort of thing? He looked from the ring to Haurchefant’s face, to those hopeful, uncertain blue eyes. Yes, he decided, yes fuck anyone and anything that might indicate he didn’t belong to himself enough. He tried to speak, but his throat was too tight, so Aden nodded dumbly.

Haurchefant slipped the ring on his finger and the box clattered to the floor as he rose and caught Aden in a kiss that seemed like it might never end.

Four days later the memory of that kiss burned hot on his lips, the ring cold and heavy beneath his glove as he growled at Aymeric, “I’ll have Ser Zephirin’s heart for what he’s done.”

[cerastes]

Something I wanted to ask you a few days ago but then you suddenly actually fucked off to the South Pole: Can I ask about your tabletop characters? I know there's Rasmus and a someone named Lisbeth, I think? Do you have more? I'm always up and eager to hear about fruits born from your disaster head.

I do not have more, it’s those two, my beautiful shit children. Rasmus is for my DnD game and Lisbeth is for my Fate Core game. It’d be A PLEASURE to regale you with The Lore:

If you’ve read my tabletop blogging posts, and you likely have given you’re asking about the good ol’ lovable Human Rogue, then you’re already somewhat familiar with Rasmus Kasper Istre. A 24 year old charlatan and swindler through and through, back in his port hometown, Rasmus was a notorious “fortune teller” that scammed many tourists and merchants, an act made easier by the innate superstitious nature of sailors, and while his daggers are sharp, it’s his creativity that cuts deeper, fighting being his very last option as he will always attempt to fool, sabotage and trick others first, only brandishing harm if there’s no other choice. In stark contrast with his enthusiasm when it comes to taking money from others, Rasmus is vehemently opposed to taking lives unless it’s on self-defense or if the one relinquishing their life deserves it, a philosophy he sticks to even if it bites him in the ass. This is, in fact, what triggers his escape from his town: He swindled the riches right out of a big-time Elf magnate, disabled his bodyguard that came gunning for him some time later and even had the perfect chance to off him, yet refused to do so because, as he learned during his time hiding from him, the magnate is actually a really honest if grumpy guy who treats his subordinates fairly and with love, and he’s not about to take that life, opting instead to hit the road. He used to dual wield daggers, but lost one of the daggers during a sky-high encounter with wyvern riders, using an enchanted gauntlet imbued with lightning in the spur of the moment to fight with fist and blade, and he liked how it worked out, so now he uses the lightning gauntlet to deliver close-range blasts and electric grapples with the left hand while his deft dagger whistles with each swipe and lunge of his right. To not inconvenience himself and others, he wears a half cape draped over his left arm so he can touch things and people without thundershocking them or having to remove the gauntlet and risk being ambushed (wearing a glove in the middle of a fight is kinda hard!). He loves wearing cologne, especially one made with ghostshroom extract that he makes himself. People hate the strong smell of it at first but it sort of grows into them like an acquired taste or Stockholm Syndrome, and his favorite foods are juniper berries and beef jerky. Rasmus is 177 centimeters tall, has curly light brown hair, dull green eyes, wears his beard as a stubble, and has an average, fit build. Do NOT call him “Kasper” unless you’re in the mood for a bar fight. Mostly wears leather armor and has a thing for the color green.

Rasmus is childhood friends with Claudia, the party’s Human Wizard, and the two often snipe at each other with affectionate vitriol, although their attempts to screw the other over with money are very real. No hard feelings, though, that’s what it meant to grow poor in a port town, it’s your fault if something is taken from you. He doesn’t always see eye to eye with the Halfling Ranger (Ranger is rather kill-happy, which doesn’t sit well with Rasmus), and is buddy-buddy with the Orc Barbarian, especially when brothels and taverns are concerned. He currently is invested in helping the Orc Barbarian with his character arc whenever he can, as well as furthering his own Money Quest after accidentally starting a religion, the Solar Sect (it’s a long story). After enough deeds, the party received the blessings from Phantom Animal Lords from the wilderness, with Rasmus’ title being “Rabbit”; This is an inside joke referring to how my DM and the rest of my DnD group call Rasmus “Bugs Bunny” due to his trademark outlandish and creative ways of setting up the board to the party’s advantage and problem solving. Among his faithful, he is known as the Augur-spoken Prophet, and it’s really, really spiraling out of control. Initially, Rasmus and Claudia were supposed to hate each other, but Claudia’s player and I, IRL friends since a long time now, decided to make them shitlord friends instead. We were very involved with the creation of both characters and develop them continuously together now. Check the “Rasmus” tag in my blog for more anecdotes of his balls to the walls DnDventures.

Some of his deeds include:

Killing a seemingly unkillable hero by teleporting him high into the sky and letting gravity do the work, using a circumstantial item.

Strapping the corpse of said unkillable hero to a greatshield and creating an extremely powerful shield for our Barbarian to use whenever we need some nigh invulnerability.

Accidentally started a religion when he was accused of high heresy because he defiled the corpse of a hero by turning him into a shield.

Flirting with an Elf Priestess that turned out to be the magnate’s niece.

Flirting with her further anyway.

Naked Parkour in the Elf capital.

Wrapped his phony crystal ball with a chain and used it as an impromptu weapon after being disarmed, cracking a Chaos Dwarf’s skull with a nat 20 swing.

Earned the ‘Rabbit’ title, which apparently only happens once around every 3000 years, as the Rabbit Phantom Animal Lord is capricious and her favor only goes to those cheeky and cunning enough to both amuse her and impress her. Of all those, he’s apparently the second Human to ever have earned the title. Rasmus wears it with pride.

–

The other is Lisbeth Elstad. Now, you’re no doubt thinking to yourself “Wow! No one has a name like that!” And you’re right! Consider that a stage name, or a pseudonym, if you will. In a setting that takes place in the real world after magic and everything from beyond turned out to be real and has suddenly become widespread public knowledge, 19 year old Lisbeth is incredibly inept at even the most basic magic tasks with two exceptions: Mana Layering, the act of creating sheets, layers, and shells of mana, and Alchemy, the ability to turn one thing into another through meticulous formulas and the Law of Equivalent Exchange. In addition to this narrow scope, Lisbeth has always found it oddly easy when it comes to assembling explosives ranging from homebrew fireworks to high-yield plastic explosive custom formulas such as batches of SEMTEX and C4. Finally, Lisbeth is a natural woman of science, a passionate love for biology, physics and chemistry pulsating within her noodle, unfit body. You could say she’s a Human Alchemist/Bombardier of some sort, but her most heartfelt wish is to become a doctor and pharmaceutic. Now, this probably paints the image of a kind, earnest girl that just wants to help out with a smile, right? Well! That’s not quite it! As noble as she sounds, Lisbeth is quite the thug otherwise. Think of her less as a friendly doctor in the making and more of a really shady back alley doc that looks like she came right out of a The Misfits music video. She tries, oh, lord she does, to come across as classy, eloquent, and elegant, but no matter how much Calvin Klein “One” you spray on a rabid boar, it is still a rabid boar, and as soon as her very little threshold of patience is usurped, the elegant business front crumbles and the reality of a violent, easily angered busybody who happily solves her problems with rocks to the back of the head and high yield explosives lays bare. She’s the foster daughter of a famous nomadic mercenary leader known as the Mercury Witch, leader of the White Silhouette, and worked on board their craft as assistant doctor, with the Witch forbidding Lisbeth of taking part on any training that might foster her latent violent tendencies in hopes of mellowing her out. One day, however, they took on a job in which Lisbeth and her mentor, Melicia, ended up unwittingly making REALLY Bad Drugs instead of the Good Medicine they thought they were making for supernatural creatures, Lisbeth found out, they found out she found out, shit hit the fan, everyone’s MIA.

Not much to say about her yet otherwise, as the game is still in its preliminary phase. Instead, I can tell you about the scrapped 27 year old version of Lisbeth that I heavily modified after we discussed things and realized I had to make her much younger for it to make sense with certain aspects of the plot. This version of Lisbeth is still very much the same in terms of abilities, but has quit the White Silhouette on her own terms and roams around as a masked vigilante that aids supernatural beings oppressed by humans and as a doctor that helps supernatural beings for free. Most of her time is devoted to finding locations that traffic supernaturals or pits them in underground arena fights and dismantles them with the superior firepower and flair of plastic explosives and some good ol’ infiltration. During her time in France, she was suddenly attacked by a girl in traditional Japanese priestess attire, inciting what nearly was a deathmatch between the two of them. As the mystery girl realized Lisbeth wasn’t her target, however, she immediately stopped and apologized. The girl, named Yamaoka Keiko, is a prophet and descendant of the Blind Dragons who could see the future. The problem, she explained, was that her eyes were stolen and replaced with ones that can see, and she hates it. She’s looking for whoever it is stole her blind, silver eyes to claim them back and go back to her peaceful, beloved life of comfortable darkness and peace back in her shrine. Lisbeth, however, seems to have a clue about who it could be that can steal and switch something like eyes without any difficulty, and believing this to be fate as well as her responsibility indirectly, offers to travel with Keiko in search for her eyes. The two become good friends over the course of 18 months of traveling together in this adventure, but Keiko takes an extremely grave wound one day and is left unable to move for a good while, even with all of Lisbeth’s medical knowledge. Finding herself alone and unsure of Keiko’s future, Lisbeth decides to join the official magic law enforcement outfit that she hates in order to gain access to their information network. I’ll probably use this version of Lisbeth for other things, since I don’t wanna scrap it, bwahaha, probably with Glock Elf and TechSlime (and same with Keiko).

Regardless of her version, Lisbeth has an intravenous hose installed inside of her arms that leads to a “cauldron” in her torso, utilizing “internal alchemy” to transform proteins and cells into other chemicals, which she then expels through holes on the palms of her hands. This way, she can spray, say, napalm out of her hands. Since she has absolutely no competence at all in the art of magic but has an innate talent when it comes to chemistry and alchemy, she instead “fakes” magic by creating concoctions with her knowledge. Lisbeth stands at 176 centimeters, has a lanky, thin physique, and wears silver contacts (which is why Keiko thought she had her eyes) and hair dyed a very light creamy blonde. She wears classy suits and long-skirted jumper dresses for the most part, with an Orthrus (two-headed wolf) pelt draped over her shoulders, both heads dangling off her left shoulder. Her choice of attire and appearance, much like her pseudonym, are all part of her “business front”. Despite her bluster, she’s rather cowardly, but also extremely resolute. Lisbeth is the kind of character that would usually be the NPC Shopkeeper that sells you potions and charges you a small fee to fully heal your party, but circumstance has thrown her right into the adventurer’s shoes, and now she has to deal with it crying, screaming, and complaining, but hey, at least she gets to put her knowledge of bombs to good use!

[tracies-tales]

Reprogrammed

The music of the club reverberated through the very soul. It pounded through the ears of the crowd of bodies packed together, most of the patrons either too drunk or high to pay any mind to the heat of so many people in such an enclosed space. And even though Arin was among that crowd, it wasn’t alcohol or drugs that was keeping his mind occupied; it was the android on stage.

It was unlike any model Arin had seen before. They’d programmed countless androids for use as vocalists, but this one stood out. The sparkling blue spandex suit and flowing cape certainly contributed to the captivation. Watching the android’s mass of curly hair bounce in time with its head bobs was equally bewitching. 

Arin couldn’t place it, but there was something incredibly human about it. It actually used a range of facial expressions and other swaying body movements as it stood behind an old fashioned microphone. It truly looked alive in front of an audience. The one thing giving it away was the blue circle of LED light on its temple.

Arin had never wanted to own an android more.

Of course having a robot around had its perks. They followed instructions without question, and they did everything to the letter. They were programmed for countless medical procedures, recipes for cooking, and a slew of other useful mechanisms, but Arin had never quite gotten it. Even knowing they couldn’t feel pain or emotions, Arin could never get past how real they looked. He’d also met a handful that were deceitfully human-like in nature, but they were androids who had served the same people for years and learned body language. When an android was fresh out of the factory, they were always a bit stiff until they warmed up to the behavior of their owners.

Arin frowned to himself at the word. He didn’t think he wanted to own anyone, even if that’s what androids were built for. But this model--the DS6969, or Dan--was special. They only brought it out on rare occasions to keep the crowds coming in; it was one of a kind. Whoever had modified the android’s vocals had done a superb job. It was even able to harmonize with itself using multiple layers of vocals coming from one mouth. But, Arin supposed, that was one of the wonders of modern technology.

~~~

“You have to work with me,” the club’s owner, Brian, said. “It’s an exclusive.”

“I know h--it is,” Arin replied. He’d been saving up money in case he ever decided to go through with joining the modern era and invest in an android. “But fifteen thousand is a steep price.”

“There were a lot of modifications put into this machine,” Brian folded his hands on his desk. “I think fifteen is rather generous, considering the amount of revenue it brings in.”

“So can’t you use that revenue to buy a new one?”

“If it were that simple, why don’t you go to the nearest warehouse and buy a cheaper model?”

Arin crossed his arms, “Touche. But I want Dan.”

Brian grinned softly, “You’ve been telling me that for weeks.”

“And I’m only now getting you to budge,” Arin set his hands on Brian’s desk and leaned forward. “I’ll bargain all you like.”

“If there’s one thing I know, it’s that you’ll take care of it. So how about this. I’ll let you buy it for ten thousand, on two conditions.”

“Hit me,” Arin said, trying not to sound too excited.

Brian fixed him with his gaze, “You send it back once a week for shows. I can’t just let you steal him from the public. As such, secondly, if I catch wind of you using it elsewhere for other concerts for your personal gain, you lose your right to it.”

Arin pretended to mull this over before saying, “Deal.”

Brian grinned, “Pleasure doing business with you.”

~~~

Arin opened the door to his house, which was a simple but comfortable single-story home. “Here we are,” he said, turning to watch Dan’s expression. It was interesting to see him off stage. He was still wearing the blue uniform; Arin didn’t mind, but it had attracted a lot of unwanted attention on the bus ride. 

Dan was behaving as most standard androids, undoubtedly scanning the house as he swept his eyes around the area. Dan smiled, “It’s nice.”

“Yeah, I think so, too,” Arin said, kicking off his shoes and heading to the kitchen. “Guess I’m on a bit of a budget after that investment, huh?”

Dan tilted his head, “Your purchase of me, you mean?”

“Yup,” Arin responded. “You didn’t come cheap.”

“People with true talent rarely do,” Dan replied with a small grin.

Arin slowly turned back to him, “Did you just make a sex joke?”

“Is that okay?” Dan asked.

“Well, yeah, I’m just surprised. Androids don’t usually pick up on innuendos and shit.”

Dan giggled, even the laughter musical, “I’m not your average android.”

“You certainly aren’t,” Arin agreed and went back to throwing together a simple sandwich. 

As Arin smeared mayo on a slice of bread, he heard Dan ask, “What would you like me to sing?”

Arin blinked and looked over his shoulder, “What?”

“What would you like me to sing?” Dan repeated.

“Oh. Do you want to sing?” Arin asked.

“It’s what I was made for. I had assumed you bought me because you enjoyed listening to me.”

Arin’s brow furrowed as he went back to assembling his dinner, “I mean, I do, but...that’s not all you’re good for.”

Dan nodded and began walking forward, “You’re right. I’m programmed to accommodate many different needs.” Before Arin realized Dan had gotten so close, he suddenly felt hands slide onto his hips from behind. Arin tensed from a mix of shock and a severe case of the stomach flutters as Dan’s lowered voice spoke into his ear, “But those talents are reserved for special buyers.”

“Woah, woah,” Arin grabbed at Dan’s wrists and paused, letting go to awkwardly turn around and grab them again, practically pinned against the counter by the android. Arin said, “That’s...well, it was nice, but that isn’t what I bought you for, either.”

Dan’s eyes narrowed slightly, eyes roaming Arin’s face as he replied, “I’m sorry if I overstepped a boundary or jumped to conclusions.”

“You didn’t,” Arin assured, only mildly perturbed by the fact that Dan was making no move to back away, clearly not understanding human boundaries. All the same, he didn’t push Dan away, continuing, “Maybe...we’ll get to testing that some day, but I bought you because I saw potential in you.”

“Potential?”

“Yeah. You know, the ability to grow into something more. You’re an amazing singer, and...I imagine really good in bed, too, but you don’t have to be just a singer or a sex doll for me. I don’t want that for you, unless that’s really all you want to do,” Arin said.

Dan pulled his arms back slowly and thought, appearing to stare at a nondescript point. After a moment of computing, he looked back up at Arin and asked, “What else can I do?”

“Whatever you feel like, really.”

“What sort of things do you do?” Dan asked with a curious grin.

Arin set the second slice of bread on top of his ham sandwich and took a bite, saying, “I draw sometimes, but mostly I play video games. You’d probably be like...stupid good at them.”

“I’ve never tried one,” Dan replied simply.

“Oh, dude,” Arin clapped a hand on Dan’s shoulder, “I know what we’re doing tonight.”

~~~

“Get the key, Arin, the key!” Dan said with growing anticipation.

“I’m trying my best here, this fuckin’ boss is really-NO,” Arin shouted at the screen. “That’s fucking bullshit!”

Dan was laughing at the latest blunder, in which the boss of the level had repeatedly hit Arin until Arin’s avatar fell off a cliff. “It seems the dungeon master will hold on to the key for another day,” Dan said.

“Oh no he won’t, I’m coming in hot,” Arin retorted, gripping the controller tightly and leaning forward on the couch as he restarted the fight.

Dan smirked at Arin and watched him from the corner of his ocular unit as he said, “You could be coming in hot elsewhere.”

“Listen, Daniel, as much as I would love that, I’m a bit busy with mister bitch...tits...thinks he can do whatever he wants Mcgee over here.”

Dan chuckled, “Well, as soon as you’re done with mister Mcgee, I think you’ll have earned a reward.”

“Thanks Dan I’ll keep it in mind,” Arin said quickly as he did his best to focus and not become distracted at the thought of the reward. “Come on, asshole, just--fucking don’t you dare go for the edge I swear to--no, NO! God damnit!” Arin threw his controller and collapsed backwards. “Next time on fuckin’ Game Grumps.”

Dan giggled, covering his mouth and saying, “He’ll get it next time everybody, we promise. But first, some pity sex.”

“I don’t want your pity sex!” Dan allowed Arin to retort before Dan switched off the recording equipment using the wireless connection in his mind. Arin groaned and rubbed his hands over his face. Dan cooed, “Aww, poor guy,” as he wrapped an arm around him.

Arin shifted to lay his head on Dan’s shoulder, mumbling, “This is really hard.”

“You know what else is really hard?” He bit his bottom lip as Arin gave him a tired look before Dan said, “My heart.”

Arin snorted, “What, do you have a heart boner for me?”

“Yeah,” Dan replied, curling his other arm around Arin in a hug. Arin chuckled and fell silent, enjoying Dan’s company in silence for a few moments before Dan said, “You make me feel like I have one.”

Arin blinked and turned to look up at him, “What?”

Dan removed one arm to rub at the port in his chest where his battery was, “A heart. Back at the club, all I was ever good for was entertainment. But here, I feel like...I’m feeling. And I feel like I’m so much more than that.”

Arin said, “Well don’t be silly, Dan. Of course you’re more than that.” He hesitated and set a hand on Dan’s cheek, “I always knew you were more than that.”

Dan leaned his head into Arin’s palm with a soft hum, setting one of his own hands over Arin’s. “I feel free with you,” Dan said quietly.

“Free? To me, it’s more like priceless,” Arin wiggled an eyebrow before they both snorted at the corny joke. It wasn’t until they’d collected themselves that Arin even noticed their mouths were inches apart from each other, and before he knew it, Dan had leaned in for a kiss. And Arin let him, because by now he knew: 

It was what Dan wanted.

i’m gonna be honest, if this gets enough attention i’d be more than happy to turn this into a full length ao3 fic. there were so many possibilities i tossed around while writing it; let me know what you think!!