⟡ Howdy, I'm Andy! I draw stuff sometimes. He/Him, trans man | Adult
⟡ You're welcome to send me asks / requests! Requests are not guarantees of art so please don't hound me; its you giving me a suggestion & I'm free to choose to do it or not.
⟡ My Art • Fanart • Original Art ⟡ My Writing • Fanfic • Analysis • Ao3 ⟡ Fan Audio (Aka, me voice acting) • Andy Says (Ask answers or anything that is just text or misc)
⟡ DA:V OC: Caster ⟡
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lee & others got good choices in Top Kissable pokemon moon sun ppl and im over here with my Old Man Fav Bullshit again like damn wanna get that labcoat off of Faba STAT
Disco Elysium is probably the most embarrassing RPG I've ever played. I mean this in a good way; the absolute horror or shame I feel when I fail a skill roll and Harry does or says the stupidest shit possible and you've no way to stop these things exiting his body and all of your different internal dialogues are SCREECHING about how STUPID YOU LOOK
like goddamn.
Also love the seemingly universal impact Kim has on people where, even IF you looked at the advertisements that are all, "What kind of cop are you?" and you were going to do a LOL SHIT OFF THE WALL COP, as soon as one meets Kim his very presence is a moral compass and many, many people straighten their in-game act together just to be a good partner to Kim.
Before I go to long in the tooth, the fact that early in the game you can die from: Trying to get your tie off the ceiling fan, turning on the light on the ceiling fan bc you're so shit faced you can't handle the light, and from sitting in a chair so uncomfortable you die. Amazing. 10/10 game, and that's not even getting into the REAL nitty gritty of why it's wonderful.
A commission for MAGGOTEATER from Artfight of their cursed pirate woman. That... I took an incredibly long time on. HOWEVER, I learned a whole lot in its endeavor.
The 'wolf' used is actually apparently a bear (but works as a wolf / fox adjacent for my needs given how it looks).
Its from the comic, 'The Comic Zoo' by George Scarbo and is the character, 'Blackie Bear'. The particular comic strip featuring that panel is from 1945.
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DE Silly Ponderings on the nature of object interactions we cannot see or interpret
Honestly, the use of the LITERAL device of the Suspension of Disbelief in the Dateviators / Skylar is rather ingenious.
Our minds naturally want to puzzle things out and growl at contradictions. But the S.O.D. allows inconsistencies. It tells us that what we see through the Dateviators has a specific purpose: to bridge gap between object and human and allow communication.
Skylar herself explains that, hypothetically, if the Dateviators were made for, say, dogs, that all the objects awakened would also look like (and, one would assume, be realized as) dogs.
But as such, there is wording and meaning that, to us, simply do not make sense.
Take this one that I'd been pondering on:
Workout room Dorian, when you ask him about who is in this room, will say that Kristof is, well....aggressive, or some wording similar. And that, just like himself, it is good for the household at large that Kristof is too heavy to go anywhere.
To US, the player, that doesn't make much sense when Kristof is literally seen downstairs during Penelope's route. To us there doesn't seem to be any limitation of movement.
But where is the line that differentiates body and spirit and such, we as the viewer cannot truly fathom.
That all to say that we as the players may be missing something pivotal in how objects interact with one another. Is this a case where the spirit may wander, but true one on one connection from one object to another is more difficult, requiring moving closer together to 'feel' together?
Is the reason why, say, Washford and Drysdale feel isolated because they literally are, outside the laundry room? Due to being larger objects that are nigh immovable without great effort? Is their being 'close but far' so bittersweet all the more FOR that fact, unlike, say, Harper and Dirk who can LITERALLY be away from one another due to the nature of their object bodies?
All the poly relationships are never of an upstairs object with a downstairs object (With exception to Artt and Doug, though given that those two are specifically more concepts than objects themselves, they are the exception).
Tony and Tina are but a room away, and both Tony and Tina are objects that are easily moved.
Volt and Eddie are literally interpreted as a single object and cannot be separated, the same with the Hanks* and Curt and Rod*. Able and Dasha are, again, a room away. Washford and Drysdale are literally stacked atop one another. Vaughn and Rongomaiwhenua, one room away. Florence and Celia are rather straightforward with Celia, as the ceiling, always above Florence.
Would an actual attempt at a relationship between upstairs and downstairs object, or even object a few rooms away, be interpreted to them as long distance? Not because the spirit could not traverse it, but the body?
(* I understand that realistically one could separate hangers and the curtains from the rod, however, when using the Dateviators, regardless of how many hangers are grouped together in a location, we always get five Hanks.
Similarly, Curt and Rod encourage us to find them in differing locations: the curtains may be of differing design in each window (I think? Its been a minute since I looked), but the spirit of the object within our home, which Curt is, stays the same.
Thus they are always, through the Dateviators, interpreted as one spirit regardless of changes to the physical grouping of the objects.
Additionally on Curt and Rod's side, even though technically they are two different objects they are choosing to appear together, because if we're going simply based off function [a curtain hangs from a rod] then that logic would also stand that Washford and Drysdale should always appear together given function, but they don't. It is an active choice on Curt and Rod's part.)
Anyway, there are my rambling thoughts I've been shaking around in my head. I've probably forgotten something at some point, given I leaked this onto the keyboard as soon as I woke up, but, yeah!
Heiji Shindo has certainly shot up in terms of favorite characters. I mean, I liked him before, but ep. 6 really got the ball rolling on him. (Though this post isn’t exclusively about episode 6; I’m going to be jumping around as I talk, since I’ve now finished watching all of it).
Cries why the FUCK I ended up writing so much about this man that I have to have HEADERS for SECTIONS. Fuck!!!
Contrast
I appreciate his contrasting cruelty to Fowler.
Fowler is proactive and clear cut in his aggression and cruelty, most of the time. He partakes in the parts he likes and pays others to do the parts he doesn’t care to do. When he pays others to do it he doesn’t waste his time or effort worrying about it. When the results of his money come back, that is when he’ll have a reaction.
Shindo on the other hand (hah) is passive in his cruelty, mostly. He does not actively participate in cruelty but he adores directing it. There are a few times when he is more active, but its rare.
The moments I can remember are: when he grabs Mizu’s arm (only to lose his own hand orz), I suppose his drawing his sword during Mizu’s invasion, though he never actually strikes, the implication of him hurting Madame Kaji and perhaps even her girls, and the prostitutes during his and Fowler’s trip to Edo. Though again, those last two aren’t really explicitly stated, but are easily assumed.
And when he shoots one of the lords when they’ve cornered the shogun. Probably one of the single most direct things Shindo ever does.
Beyond those given instances he doesn’t lift a finger. The contrast of his methods vs Fowlers is also highlighted in his own brother. His brother is head of a well known dojo, a warrior. Shindo deals in commerce.
Looking
There is something to be said specifically about Shindo and looking. I wouldn’t necessarily call it voyeurism because the examples following aren’t really of a sexual nature, but its constant behavior across the show.
There is, of course, firstly the painting scene with Fowler. Given how Shindo’s power is one granted specifically by giving orders and then seeing them be completed, he is transfixed at the window, watching for the flame to be lit by the assassins.
Fowler already holds power and doesn’t require the boost from seeing orders fulfilled. He pays and delivery of said thing is expected. In the between, after payment but before delivery, he refuses to worry about the issue, because if he worries, he’s already wasted his money (Power) because he’s thinking about the thing he paid someone else to worry about.
Shindo’s monologue about Mizu at the rain spattered window is about the same, though he’s not looking directly at something that is fulfilling orders given...but, it is dramatic and leads into his own giant lackey bringing in a crumpled up Taigen in a barrel. So, sort of?
I mean, he’s all, ‘Oh I cant wait for Fowler to pass by this room while I moodily wait by the rain soaked window so I can cryptically tell him about the samurai and then my giant will walk in on cue to my words and roll the other guy in in a barrel’. Like. Guy.
Next we have the actual torture scene. That one really piqued my interest. Shindo sits with a cup, in a ridiculously big, stupid, throne like chair. He’s sitting pretty close to the action, given Fowler’s own distance, like a kid sitting right in front of the TV.
‘He will cut you with a knife’. The phrasing is delectable. He isn’t barking orders like some sore commander tired of marching his sorry men around. He is the narrator and he’s gleeful to hurt Taigen.
He is an inevitability. The torture is doled out slow and measured, and at exactly his say so. Power.
Which is directly commented on, how it is opposite to Fowler. Fowler says he’s bored, twice, and Shindo doesn’t even look at him, only saying in a sing song tone, ‘I like it’. Fowler gets up and leaves.
The whole middle man power thing that Shindo does, where he doesn’t directly do the torture but also doesn’t leave it up to the torturer to do it is wasted time to Fowler.
So. In the above he is the omnipresent, all knowing narrator, a spot he adores being in and isn’t looking to hasten any time soon, given Fowler’s exasperated comment about dinner.
Finally we’ve got the looking mirrors when Mizu invades the castle. They have business partners over and Fowler insists that Shindo get back to the table and leave their traps to shred Mizu apart. But Shindo wants to watch. He once again requires the validation that his power is real by being able to watch others suffer and have it in some way be directed by him.
Its highlighted with his blatant refusal to return to the talks and the way, once again, that Fowler sounds, well, a little exasperated. Fowler thinks what they’ve got set up is more than enough, but Shindo wants to put in some direct action from himself. His giant.
In fact, both this scene and the torture scene are two where Shindo is surprisingly steadfast in his decisions. He quips back and forth with Fowler and while he’s got that iconic little, ‘Is that an order?’ when Fowler growls and tells him to solve the (Mizu) problem, he also doesn’t say no. And does, surprisingly, go out himself to solve the problem as Fowler told him to.
So the times when he says no are of interest, and both times that I recall it has to do with looking because standing above the stage and seeing others befall to his genius and plots and orders is direct evidence of his power and position.
Power
A moment that really shines the light on what power is to Shindo, I feel, is the following: the torture scene feels like a colder version of his ‘negotiations’ with Mizu. He presents the prospect of their possible truce honey sweet, but is essentially asking for Mizu to bow her head. Its even more of a power surge for Shindo because, just like with his glee at directing his torturer, he’s essentially telling Mizu, you will inflict a wound yourself to stave off the wrath I can cause. A physical reminder of her handing him power in the form of her thumb.
So yeah. Shindo likes control. Its what makes his relationship with Fowler so fun; Fowler is just as intelligent and cunning. Yet even after twenty years of partnership he finds ways to surprise Shindo, which must be frustrating to such a control freak.
Or even more grinding perhaps, for Shindo, is that he may be continually under-estimating Fowler despite their long standing partnership, which leads to his surprise.
We're shown Shindo asking Fowler twice along their trip to Edo if he knows what's happening with the guns and its possible he's asked more off screen, enough for Fowler to be irritated by it. Despite his being right beside Fowler it seems it can be hard to get a straight answer from the man unless he wants to give it.
Which tracks, of course. Fowler says himself that everything is fine and its better that their allies feel worried so they don't start thinking they don't need them.
And then he changes topics.
Fowler isn't a stupid man. He's playing the game just as much as Shindo and knows he's pulling the thread taut with him. It isn't just their allies that want to know, who are worrying. Shindo wants to know. He's worried. Because he holds no loyalties. He is determined to be on the winning side.
Later when he asks again, only to immediately leave to pen the letter for the others to get Fowler's guns before him, he thinks he got the white man.
Shindo himself says that he thinks, ‘We gain strength from pleasure’. An attempt to pacify a predator and get him (Fowler) to give up something he’d otherwise be to guarded to do so.
So for that later to blow up in his face, to get a lovely little backstory from Fowler and then to have it revealed that one of those who were hauled in and shot was the ally he tried to double cross Fowler with...
He's lost again. His pulling of strings did not choke Fowler, didn't even make him sweat. He hadn't even imagined the ingenuity of Fowler, shipping in crate after crate of seemingly unrelated items that all assembled into guns. He continually thinks so highly of himself that he never gives a thought that his plots wouldn’t go his way until they do and he’s not got anything else up his sleeve to pull things back into his court.
And well. It isn’t as though Shindo is going to rough house anyone but prostitutes he paid for. He’s not physically strong and when Mizu comes in at the crux of their rebellion as they’re getting ready to kill the Shogun’s sons, its possible he stumbles at some point but he also...just chooses to stay down.
(Unfortunately before I could go back to review this part frame by frame our Netflix subscription ran out and I couldn’t find anywhere to watch it free so, couldn’t exactly see how Shindo ended up on the ground).
All that sudden fighting in a small room? No, he is safer pretending to be hurt or dead. He stands by Fowler all up until things go awry, because Fowler is his direct protection until Fowler’s side is the losing side.
Taigen then pulling him out from between two actual dead men and having him panic and squirm, offering anything and everything, titles and money, only for Taigen to repeat his pattern of speech during the torture session and say, ‘He will kill you with a sword’, is poetic and delicious.
Shindo alone cannot defend himself. Shindo alone is a rat with no power and Taigen became the inevitability.
Throughout the whole last encounter Fowler runs several times, even stating that, ‘He’s (Mizu) crazy’, but his running is to reposition. He’s big and strong so while he’s not a warrior he is a big brute and knows it.
Shindo in the same scenario simply cannot defend. Shindo is so anal about things because without his well manicured structures around him he’s defenseless. Shindo by himself is powerless.
This is like almost 2,000 words long, why was I compelled to sink that much brain power into this nasally fruity whiny bitch of a man. I love him
Meant to get this finished & posted yesterday but well, you know, best laid plans & all that. BUT technically got done. Near-ish midnight so I still take the W that it was done yesterday.
Preparing for Art Fight (I'll put a link to mine in my pinned if anyone's interested.... 👀) so uh, needed a character sheet for my dear man Caster! Very satisfied w/ it (This is a casual outfit)
Characters: Lucanis Dellamorte, Spite, Rook Laidir (Spiterookcanis) (Rook only appears in fantasies; specific descriptions are due to this being written with @the-muffin-master 's Rook, Saar in mind)
Summary: Left at the Lighthouse for a mandatory break by Rook, every thought seems to return to Rook, and, mind unfiltered by exhaustion, Spite takes advantage to push the imagined scenarios.
Word count: 1,954
Content: Masturbation, kind of? (Technically Spite is controlling an arm but its all the same body, so....)
Extra: This Rook, Saar, in addition to Common, speaks a Thedas equivalent to Portuguese.
If Lucanis thought it was hard to focus before, it was impossible now. As a Crow there was an expectation that one could solve, or kill, the impossible.
But this? The Lighthouse made his eyes itch and throb. Spite, even when he chose to be quiet, which was rare, sat in his mind like a boulder wedged against his brain.
He was slowly but surely getting sleep back with his new partnership with Spite and Rook’s affections….but the amount of time he’d spent over indulging in coffee and forcing himself awake, on top of going out to fight had left him mentally and physically drained.
It would take time to recover from the self destruction he’d put himself through. Longer than he’d prefer. He had a job to do. And…people to protect.
Sometimes he was barely making memories. Maybe whole days were fuzzy. No one had said anything. He hadn’t accidentally stabbed someone he wasn’t supposed to. He wondered if that clarity was Spite carrying him where he faltered…
Today was a Rook assigned down day. He'd already left with Bellara and Davrin.
Lucanis wrote in his logbook, hoping if he scheduled his day it would help him remember it. Sleeping the whole thing through was tempting but the thought of it had him grinding his teeth.
Breakfast.
The funny thing was that despite his hapless state his mind was conjuring more things than less. He supposed it had to do with an inability to filter thoughts. So the word ‘breakfast’ conjured images of food, then Rook, then of Rook making him breakfast.
Maybe he’d be in a real bed and not this cot in the pantry. His bed back in the villa with the silken sheets. Maybe Rook would be there, not at the door with food but in his bed. Maybe he’d feel ravenous but not for food–
He mentally clapped his hands together.
“OoOoh!” Went Spite. “Touch. RoOK.”
Lucanis didn’t need to tell Spite that Rook wasn’t actually there. Now that the demon understood space better, the both of them knew that Spite was teasing him.
Alright. After breakfast would be an opportune time for extended exercise. It wasn’t as though he didn’t get exercise. It was more about stretching and re-familiarizing himself with his body. It was easy to take something's function for granted until it stopped doing what you wanted it to do.
Better to take the time to identify cricks in his back or soreness in his legs so he could work on leveling out the amount of strain he was putting on them.
This conjured images of him stretching, doing handstands on a balancing beam. He was good enough to do full splits with ease. But then most master assassins were.
His mind wandered to Rook again, wondering how flexible he was. The man was a Qunari, his Rook – He paused, a blush blooming across his cheeks. He mentally coughed into his fist. Rook was interesting in regards to what one imagined a Qunari to be.
He was just as towering but thinner. For a Qunari, anyway; he was still wider than, at minimum, one and a half Lucanis’s. But it did give him a sleekness that said speed instead of bulk like most Qunari.
And it was true, the man had a speed that you might not expect. He shook his head to blow away the thoughts like so many dandelion seeds.
But the Rook part stuck. Flexibility was good for anyone to learn…he imagined going through the motions of his typical Crow stretching routines with him. Maybe…Rook wouldn’t get the position quite right. And saying ‘stretch further’ wasn’t helpful advice.
He’d need to go to him and correct it himself, spreading Rook’s legs, hands on his thighs…
His breathing quickened at the thought.
Then he’d have Rook lean forward with his arms out and hands clasped. It worked itself over like dreams would. His position in space snapped him to whatever spot was relevant to the fantasy – he bit his lip, groaning in frustration, wiping at the word. To the imagined scenario.
So now he was behind Rook, his hands back on the Qunari’s thighs. Just to help him keep that good stretch going. And he whispered in Rook’s ear, the same things he always told Rook in the heat of battle but the tone was…different.
“Good job, Rook.” His imagined self purred to the imagined Rook.
His trousers were getting tight.
No, no, no. He needed to get up and do something. A bit of toast, some jam, and a coffee. Perfectly serviceable breakfast. So out of the pantry and into the kitchen he went, bustling around on auto pilot as his thoughts continued to turn. He hated that he couldn’t even blame his previous thoughts on Spite.
“Eat. Rook.”
“No. Rook is out.”
“NO.” Spite ground out. “Rook is. Here.” The ‘here’ sounded slithery, like a snake wrapping around his mind. It drew back the thoughts of Rook in his bed and Rook stretched out across the floor.
Well now it was just a full erection. Wonderful. In the dining room. Lucky for him no one else had bothered coming through to eat yet. He carried his plate and his coffee as he walked quickly back to the pantry.
“Mierda,” He muttered, “Over eager demon.” He stuffed a barrel in front of the door, his toast and coffee sat atop it and wrestled with his pants. Just take care of it. He sat askew on the cot. As though it hadn’t been he himself who’d been doing most of the fantasizing…
Something happened. Not like when Spite took over and pushed him to the back of his mind. This was a touch different. Just one of his hands, Spite’s purple energy wafting off it like steam. When it gripped his cock he bowled over and groaned.
It was both his and not his hand at that moment. Unfamiliar enough.
“Spite..!” He ground out through gritted teeth.
“Rook.” Spite responded smoothly.
Lucanis understood the intention. Right now Spite didn’t want Lucanis thinking about what he was looking to do for the day or even about Spite himself.
Spite wanted to touch him while he fantasized about Rook.
…And unfortunately for Lucanis that very thought ripped a pathetic moan from him. He nodded, closed his eyes, leaned back and…imagined.
Rook in his bed. Not on this cot or on that couch of Rook’s (where did that Qunari even sleep? As though Lucanis had any place to talk, really…) but his large bed back at villa Dellamorte.
Maybe he’d wake to the sheets and blankets askew, Rook’s exposed hip a tease. Squeeze. Spite helpfully interjected. Spite’s word was accompanied by that same action being taken on his cock and Lucanis accidentally bit his tongue. As before the fantasy did a jump and Lucanis’s hand was massaging one of Rook’s lovely breasts.
His Rook, our, stirred, bleary eyed and sweet.
“Meu amor.” Cooed fantasy Rook to him. This qunari was all kinds of impossible. Gigantic with those large curved horns. But sweet as a lamb and at times endearingly shy. If Lucanis was caught unawares Rook could choose to break the assassin in twain.
But, as with Spite, he had found trust to extend. He knew what Rook was capable of and he also knew that Rook would never hurt him.
He was jumped out of such saccharine musings by a twist of his cock by Spite that made him gasp. Seems a certain demon wanted him to get back on track….
His mind returned to his and Rook’s stretching in an endless white room. The backdrop didn’t matter all that much. Rook wasn’t…wearing a damn thing this time though. And he was sweaty with exertion from whatever pretend exercise Lucanis’s mind had run him through.
A shift and his arms were loosely looped over Rook’s hips. He leaned forward while Rook was sitting back, arms out behind him to keep from flopping to the floor.
Lucanis licked the sweat from Rook’s skin, brushing over his breasts; it made Rook shiver.
This wasn’t Lucanis’s usual go-to start but this…he sighed. Fantasy had now become a joint effort between Spite and himself. Which meant that, seemingly, Spite’s inclinations rippled across the scenarios and influenced him.
Not that Lucanis was put off by it. Rook’s breathing was shallow, quick and his back arched. Lucanis suckled on a breast and growled in satisfaction at Rook’s needy noises.
Lucanis was dwarfed by this man and yet, with clever hand and tongue the mountain was chiseled to a hill. Pliant. There was satisfaction in that.
Another shift – Rook was on his back. The fantasy had brushed past all the preamble and preparation that actual sex required and had him pressed deep into Rook’s pussy. If Lucanis weren’t overcome by his lust he might be concerned by how good Spite was at giving a hand job.
Did it have to do with feelings? Was Spite watching these fantasies too, stroking just so to match whatever ‘scene’ Lucanis was in? ‘An opera in a brothel’, Lucanis mused.
Of course Rook felt just right. But there was a sort of numbness in fantasy. A baseline of imagined pleasure that couldn’t be brought up or down. It just, was. He wondered how Rook would truly feel. To have his fingers in the man’s muscled thighs as he thrust…
He choked on his own saliva, forcing his tongue back before he could bite it again. Spite was speeding up. And then, the touch was gone – He opened his eyes to find his own hand trying to shove itself in his mouth.
No thought was voiced in his mind, only the visualization of slick, wet fingers caressing his cock. That was more than enough to get him to open wide and suck.
It really should have felt strange to suck his own fingers like that. But it didn’t. It felt like someone else’s. And he supposed in a way they were.
Fingers slick enough by Spite’s standards, he drew the hand away.
Lucanis was going to burn with embarrassment later when he remembered how he leaned forward to chase those fingers with his mouth.
Eyes closed. Position readjusted for comfort. Spite knew just when to start, as the fantasy resumed with him thrusting into Rook. His pussy soft, his legs strong and muscled.
“Rook,” His fantasy self called out, breathless. Lucanis was hot, sweating through his clothes.
And maybe. Maybe? Maybe Rook would...maybe he would say…
“Lucanis.” The sound was sweet, syrupy, and needy. Unfortunately that was all the dialogue Lucanis could dream up. He wasn’t a writer.
That was alright. There was...feeling. He held one of Rook’s hands. His mind converted sounds he hadn’t even known he’d cataloged into perfectly edited in moans and groans for Rook.
He could only hope his first thought back into battle beside the Qunari wasn’t….all this the next he heard Rook’s grunts of excursion.
“Mierda…!” He could barely breath, the drop off was just a moment, a singular moment away --
He imagined how beautiful Rook would look cumming, overtaken and breathless. Sweat soaked and glistening. He’d look up at Lucanis and smile. The open smile that spoke his joy fearlessly, his eyes soft and sparkling.
His free hand was slapped over his mouth to muffle him as he came.
“Maker….” He breathed out. Spite rumbled. Or purred? In his mind. This did not sound like laughter at his expense; more like the sound of a contented cat.
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Another DE Ponderin': 'Collective' objects / how objects may or may not choose their 'concepts'
(Also note that I'm dipping into whoever's character arc I feel works for what I'm talking about so, spoilers).
('Collective object' meaning, objects made up of more than 1 thing but in the same 'category'; I ended up focusing on Dirk / Clarence but Penelope would also fall under this category given that she is 'Office Supplies', or Jerry.
While one could argue Dorian, Able, Chairemi etc. may also fall under this I consider them slightly to the right. May be something to discuss another time).
By the end this is also about objects jobs / concepts, how they are picked / influences that would change them.
Dirk / Clarence. Dirty clothes, clean clothes. Its made clear that he embodies ALL clothes. Well, all YOUR clothes. His design shows this off with his eclectic collection of clothes he’s wearing in ways you’d never do so.
However, I remembered that little mommy issues conversation you can have with him, where we’re shown a little icon of his mother, a loom. In it she’s crafting a scarf – the same scarf displayed in Dirk & Clarence’s designs, and additionally with Harper to show off their relationship (And how close she wants to keep him, given how she pulls and wrings the scarf between her fists).
He notes in it that his mother is flighty and has had many, many children. I note that it isn’t many me’s, but many children, as in, separate entities from himself. Siblings.
So, now instead of Dirk just being an overarching concept of our clothes specifically, he has an origin point. Which would imply that previously, he was NOT the overarching concept of OUR clothes. Whats the natural next thought then? Was there another concept that previously took that role?
(I am using ‘concept’ here as its a word that Mikey Transaction uses when he tells you how he discusses what sorts of ‘concepts’ his kids want to be some day. In casual conversation I’ve used the term ‘spirit’ but I figured I’d try to stick to terminology I gather from the game when at all possible).
Now, its a bit up in the air, the objects with jobs thing (This will loop back around to Dirk, promise). And I don’t mean ‘this is their function’, I mean, say, how Mikey has frequent phone calls with Valdivian (His employer), or Kopi’s disgruntlement with the manager of the coffee shop she works at, even though she IS a coffee machine, among other examples.
But not all of the objects talk about having managers / working a job in the traditional sense that a human might, and some even treat you as their center and purpose (Amir, who makes it clear that he’s there to help you shine your best).
And then there’s just silly things that aren’t even ever mentioned in dialogue and are stuck in the written profiles – like how Washford…dislikes washing & Drysdale dislikes drying. Yet they like they’re athleticism and showmanship, which means having to have an obligation attached to their acrobatics is maybe the stick.
But tying this back to Dirk. If his origin point is the scarf, well. A SCARF certainly isn’t someone’s FIRST article of clothing. If becoming a human’s overarching concept of clothes was based on what a human had the longest / uses most often, time and again it would be things like underwear and socks that would dominate this role.
At some point then, the player bought Dirk / Clarenece as the scarf and he was strong enough / good enough at being the concept of clothes to overtake whoever was previously that concept and or there was NOT a previous concept. A job opening.
(We can take this two ways – as a stronger concept literally erasing or absorbing a weaker concept of the same object...but that’s a little dreary and not exactly in line with the game. So, given how many objects they’ve given literal jobs, it might be easier to assume that these roles are competitive and one can lose their spot).
We’re given little indications that OUR houses object concepts are not the end all be all. Curt and Rod discuss a crush Curt had on some shutters (Which functionally are similar enough to be the same type of object type as Curt & Rod) at a neighboring house and, if we’re assuming they aren’t Narcissus, like, mythological Narcissus who fell in love with his own reflection in the water, then the conclusion is that THOSE shutters WERE an entirely different object concept person.
Which means that for EACH HOUSE / LOCATION, the actual object PERSON, is different. Our fridge being Freddy does not mean the neighbors fridge is Freddy (And that is also confirmed in Freddy’s dialogue about growing up as the runt of his family in the factory. They are not ALL him).
NOW, if we were to sell or donate Dirk / Clarence’s scarf, would he no longer be the concept of our clothes? Would he cease to exist? Or would he now be at some second hand store and no longer inhabit YOUR clothes? I don’t think so.
We can ask Lady Memoria if she’ll cease to be once we finish cleaning the attic of our old things. She reassures the player that now that she has been created / given form that she won’t simply POOF after the task is done. The simple act, it seems, of HAVING nostalgia now means that she will continue being real, whether your attic is filled up with old memories or not.
Thus, while the scarf is Dirk’s origin point, I’d like to think that he’s so thoroughly integrated as the player’s clothes that tossing the scarf, while it is indicative of him, will not simply make him vanish.
(How he might be effected IF the player did that and then a stronger clothes concept came in and took over, I’m not sure. My thought is perhaps Dirk would then inhabit one of the players most well loved pieces of clothes but would now be Out as the overarching concept of clothes).
Quick sidebar on this topic of objects sort of, state of being changing:
Tyrell. He tells us his sad backstory where he and towel buddy were left as the only survivors of a muddy day. He describes how things were as being a team effort between all the towels, thus perhaps it meant that in THAT house if one used the Dateviators, you might get a Hanks situation and be confronted with multiple towel people; the embodiment of the towels there was a Literal Team.
But, at YOUR house, Tyrell is the singular embodiment of all towels around the house and he has memories of your purchasing him from a thrift store. So again, either you did not have an object concept of towel in your house previously.
Technically I think he could have probably stayed at that house as its towel concept, but I think its possible that some emotional aspects go into it too. He was a group concept with other towels and suddenly was not. Additionally, we can perhaps infer his origin point as being that particular towel that was donated (along with towel buddy).
If he'd been the singular concept for towels at that house I'd imagine that he could have kept his position there even if that particular towel was donated, but because he'd gone through a great trauma and he'd been part of a collective, both the emotional and physical separation had his concept follow that PARTICULAR towel, leading to his being in YOUR house.
Some other not related to Dirk specifically things: Some items seem to take on stronger concepts / personalities when in use frequently or had many feelings placed upon them. Given that the high school graduation picture featured Teddy in it, Teddy could have very well have ended up just a lifeless teddy among Lady Memoria’s boxes, especially given that we first encounter him left in the workout room closet.
However, so well loved was he that he grew a strong enough concept NOT to be absorbed under Nostalgia’s umbrella.
Lastly I’ll take us back over to Mikey. Mikey’s children are a result of him (A micro transaction) And his ex wife, Stacy (The player can guess that Stacy is a stapler, but we’re corrected – she is a star).
Thus when Mikey says he and his kids discuss what concepts they want to be when they grow up & he tells you that child objects will become things not yet invented, you can put out there, ‘like a spaceship?’.
The way Mikey talks about talking about it with his children sounds very much like how adults will tell kids that they can ‘be anything’. And while technically true the reality is that many kids go into family businesses or things they have greater knowledge of due to familial knowledge.
OBVIOUSLY especially in this rapidly evolving world with so much information at our fingertips this is less the case now. But looking into the past that is how you end up with some classic last names, because they were literally naming themselves after their occupations & it was expected a child would go into the same business.
So, while yes, Mikey’s kids COULD be anything, Mikey himself tells you that he is the result of a roulette wheel and the concept of addiction. So, his being a micro transaction is a bit of a no brainer, just as Dirk / Clarence being the concept of clothes is a no brainer given that he came from a loom.
And being from a factory seems to box you in more to your given concept. (Scandalabra / John Wick, Kristof, Freddy).
(Not including Washford & Drysdale in the above because while we’re told they’re from a factory as far as I know we’re not given any insights into how that did or did not effect how they see themselves / told about any family at all – its only mentioned by Gaia as to why Drysdale is not a ‘traveler’ object: he SEEMS to have an accent but is from the same factory as Washford).
Scandalabra / John Wick tells us flatly that he is one among many identical mass produced candelabras and he wished to be different, thus creating his persona of ‘Scandalabra’ and trying to hide his humble origins. (Thus he felt his concept was already per-determined for him / unchangeable and or he was happy to be a candelabra just not a mass produced samey one).
Kristof speaks of rivalries in his factory home (Between his family, probably also work-out equipment, and a kingdom of collapsible bookshelves). Kristof has a lot of pride for his heritage and thus probably never thought to be anything but a cross-trainer / work-out equipment.
Freddy talks about his family and they all are yeti fridges. He felt a need to prove himself as a fridge so, again, the thought of being something OTHER than a fridge probably didn’t come to mind when the rest of his family were fridges.
So while one COULD branch out past your families concepts, or at least its implied one could just from how Mikey talks about it, it seems that the majority of objects accept following in their families footsteps or being an off-shoot of their parent’s concepts (Mikey being a direct off-shoot of his parents two concepts, while Johnny Splash is a shower just like his father).
So, there it is! All my silly little thoughts this go around.
Characters: Lucanis Dellamorte, Spite, Rook Laidir (Spiterookcanis) (When writing, @the-muffin-master 's Rook, Saar was the specific one in mind)
Summary: Out on a mission Lucanis mulls over the hickeys he received the night before (And he flies free with love in his heart).
Word count: 1,729
Assumptions were made. Rallying leaders, competent and deadly warriors. There’s something to be said about the confidence that that exudes.
But anyone within the inner circle of Rook and his ragtag team would know that Rook and the Demon of Vyrantium were both…hopeless. Love struck and obvious.
Arlathan forest. Rook, Lucanis and Bellara. Lucanis wasn’t sure he was the best one to bring here, specifically; wasn’t Davrin a hunter? A forest was a perfect spot for it. Then there was Assan of course. And hadn’t he heard Davrin mention something about his fellow Dalish here?
A little nagging feeling said he should bring it up, but when he went to open his mouth Spite had quibbled,
“Rook! Ours.”
A thrill ran down Lucanis’s spine and his head swam with pride that despite not being specialized in the area like Bellara was, that Rook time and time again tended to take Lucanis with.
Just because they were in a relationship didn’t mean he expected anything. He didn’t really have a basis for what to expect if he was perfectly honest.
So off the three went. He wasn’t completely useless – plenty of demons popped out of the forest. He could handle them while Rook and Bellara dealt with the magical elements.
Whatever treasure was behind the magical seal must be good if whoever was here – ancient Elves? – had sealed it behind three or four separate laser contraptions across the forest.
He and Rook were still working things out, though there was some comfort in being of similar experience levels. Pressure was taken off because of it.
Lucanis’s life was dedication and study to the family craft; assassination. And so, there was something…truly, purely freeing when he or Rook made a perceived blunder and ended up giggling and smiling over it.
He’d been taught the art of seduction. It was the sort of dance that he’d never mastered. Two left feet. But in privacy with Rook the expectation to be this way or that melted away and he was allowed to learn in a way he’d never been allowed to before; softly.
He leaned against a tree, his breath quivering at a memory. He side-eyed where Rook and Bellara were – still puzzling over things. Good.
One hand, two gloved fingers specifically, wandered up his neck, pressing under his collar to brush at his bruises, hickeys. From the outside maybe he looked as though he were checking his pulse. Which…strange. But fine.
Except for the amount of times he kept doing it. Each time he seemed distracted, not paying attention to the fact that he was doing it.
Lucanis’s gaze was hazy; he was looking off into the trees but it was obvious he was in his mind.
Rook had been figuring out how much was too much. Qunari were large in every respect and their teeth were no exception. He’d drawn back, brows furrowed with worry when he’d punctured Lucanis’s neck and drew blood.
Needless to say that in the moment, most of Lucanis’s blood had been down south (though they hadn’t gotten that far in the end).
Lucanis's neck had came out the other end a battlefield. And it hadn't gone unnoticed by his local demon, who decided to spend his precious free time pressing upon the hickeys for that delightful pleasure pain.
Lucanis had given Spite a scolding when time had marched forward and suddenly he was handed back the body with a raging boner and five minutes to mission.
He'd gotten it taken care of, as a professional does, but it had been tight.
And now here he was, grazing over the hickeys while out on mission. Perhaps he'd need to apologize to Spite, later....
There, a rustling. Even distracted, Lucanis’s body was coiled like a snake, ready to strike. The noise was subtle but there – and he was grabbed from behind. On instinct he kicked and got Rook’s voice in return.
“Ow, haha.” Rook's voice was easy, friendly and light. The fight left Lucanis immediately and he turned his head as far as he could in his position to look at Rook.
“Sorry.”
“Maybe sneaking up on an assassin wasn’t the best idea, huh?”
“Probably not, Rook.” He chuckled but didn’t try to get out of Rook’s arms. Lucanis looked around.
“Bellara’s up ahead.” Rook had seen the question in his gaze.
“Why are you back here?”
“Maybe because you’re back here. How's an assassin get so distracted~?” There was a smile in Rook’s voice. Even without seeing him fully Lucanis could imagine it in his mind’s eye.
"I..." He knew Rook was teasing him, so apologizing didn't make sense. But he couldn't conjure up the correct flirty banter.
Rook came in with the rescue.
"How pretty...where'd you get 'em?"
Before Lucanis could ask 'Get what', a breathy moan was pushed out of him; one of Rook’s hands had wandered away from his hips to curl under his collar to the bruises.
"You know well where I got them." Lucanis's tone was warm.
Rook’s hand kneaded gently against his hip. Lucanis bore a lot of restraint not to go with the natural rhythm of it and move. This wasn’t the time, they were out in a forest.
“Was it alright that I had you come? I realize I’ve been having you on all the missions lately. I should have checked in.”
Oh, Rook. That was something that made Rook a great leader instead of just a good one. Acknowledgement of what he could change, implementation of those things.
“LUCANIS. And SPITE. Are Rook’s. FAVORITES!” Spite bellowed in his mind. Lucanis could feel the rumble of Rook’s laughter.
“What’s so funny?”
“Spite…that’s sweet. He’s right, you know…” There was a soft vulnerability to the words.
“Oh.” Chirped Lucanis. He forgot sometimes that Rook could hear Spite now.
A beat of silence.
“UM!” There was a nervous sort of fluttering sound in Rook’s voice. It was adorable, really. He was gigantic but could still sound so small.
“Well, I mean that’s uh,”
Lucanis took this moment to turn around in Rook’s arms so he could face the Qunari.
“I think you must be my favorite, too.” Lucanis’s voice was quiet, rich and deep. Just for Rook. Rook stared at him for a beat, his cheekbones coloring. Then, the Qunari lunged forward, bending over to embrace Lucanis, hiding his face in the assassin’s neck.
Right in the middle of all the hickeys. Lucanis gasped and looped his arms around Rook in return, finger tips digging into his shoulders just a touch.
“Sorry, did I – does it hurt?”
“No, hah, it doesn’t hurt.” Lucanis’s voice was breathy.
“It's…alright then?”
Lucanis huffed a laugh. Maker, he adored Rook. “Yes, it's alright, Rook.”
With that explicit permission given, Rook nuzzled his nose against the crux of Lucanis’s shoulder and neck along the bite marks. Each time his breath ghosted across one or his nose nudged a bruise, Lucanis’s fingers flexed against Rook’s shoulders and his breath would hitch, near imperceptibly if Rook weren’t so close.
I love you.
The phrase bed itself in Lucanis’s mind. He squeezed Rook. He didn’t know how to say it out loud for real, not yet.
“Fly!”
The non sequitur made Lucanis’s mind halt in confusion.
“Pphhff, oh. The other night when you fell asleep, Spite and I got to talking.I told him that even with his wings, you probably couldn’t take me flying. But I told him that I could throw you high enough you felt like you were. Or, him. Both.”
Lucanis drew a hand back to hover over his mouth as he chuckled. Not that he really hid his smile at all.
“Fly. Rook, fLY!!”
It wasn’t as though Spite couldn’t speak fuller sentences, especially now that Rook had an inside listen to him even without his speaking through Lucanis. But it was just his way, the short, clipped sentences. Who needs a hundred words when your point is across in three?
“What do you say, Lucanis? Alright if I send you two flying?”
Rook’s soft eyes made his heart beat fast.
“Alright. But then we’ve got to get back to Bellara.”
Ever the professional. Rook grinned, crouched and hauled Lucanis up in his arms, princess style, as though he weighed nothing at all. Lucanis floundered, then cleared his throat as though that would make the flailing he’d just done disappear.
Rook said nothing, though the glint in his eye and the curve of his smile showed he wasn’t forgetting it. They were only a few paces from a clearing so that Rook wouldn’t throw Lucanis straight into a tree.
“Ready?”
Lucanis took a breath. He’d been practicing letting Spite in half way, a sort of meditation that Rook had been helping him perfect. A way to allow Spite to feel more of the bodily sensations without either of them missing things.
“Ready.”
Lucanis and Spite’s voices overlapped, mixed and melded. Rook counted to himself softly, one, two, he crouched and then: three –
Lucanis was in the air. Spite was in the air.
Lucanis, as all Crow children were, was taught acrobatics as a simple basis for future teaching. They had zip lines installed all across the city. Even before Spite had granted him literal wings he wouldn’t say he was unfamiliar with flying.
But Maker, this was something else.
Uncoordinated, completely free of expectations on his part. Rook threw them and Rook would catch them. There was no doubt in his mind. And his only job in this moment? Enjoy it. Feel it. Funnily, it was Spite who helped him key into the moment.
“HA HAH, FLYING!!!”
Lucanis was laughing too; Spite’s laughter was deep and rough. If you didn’t know him he’d sound downright villainous. Lucanis’s was open and airy, relief manifest. Their stomach twisted, anticipation, fear, elation, freedom.
Back down in Rook’s arms. Back up into the air.
Had Lucanis ever felt like this? But when he tried to begin filing through the memories, he was cut short, pulled back into the here and now by Spite.
“OURS. OURS, OURS!!!”
Spite bellowed into the sky, still laughing. Lucanis laughed more. Then safe in Rook’s arms. He curled in against Rook’s chest like a contented cat. That big, soft Qunari drew his fingers through Lucanis’s hair.
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Summary: Spite's taken a personal interest in the body he's bound to and wishes to replicate previous sensations. (Sequel to A Helping Hand)
Word count: 770
Content: Masturbation
Spite was irritating. Ridiculous.
But now he was voracious to boot. It seemed Spite had also felt the euphoria that came with an orgasm and now insisted at any sign of tension in Lucanis’s body that they have another.
Lucanis could only hope that the others didn’t notice how red in the face he’d been lately (He’d need to apologize to Emmerich later for his distance…but he couldn’t risk him hearing any of this).
“It's not an every day…occurrence!” Lucanis hissed out.
He was getting good at understanding Spite even when he didn’t say a word. He wondered if it had to do with what Spite was? For a spirit, was the simple act of thinking or feeling bleed out of them, regardless of whether they'd said so vocally?
In either case Lucanis wasn’t necessarily pleased with his further understanding.
“It is not something with a clear cut answer. I am saying it is not every day. For other people it might be.”
Spite went silent in his mind…then, perked up like a dog as though he’d found a clever work around.
“LuCANIS, sleeps. I won’t leAVe. Fire in the BELLY.”
Oh.
Well….
It wasn’t as though Lucanis didn’t need sleep. He needed it, desperately. And given how absorbed Spite had been when he’d been watching…he hated how normal this felt. Like bribing a pet with a treat so it didn’t tear up the rug.
“....Fine.”
He flopped down on his cot, then, thinking better of it, got back up and pushed a barrel heavy with potatoes and the like against the door. One boot, then two, and there went his pants and his underclothes, which he folded up. Now he was left in his shirt and vest, his cock out for the whole world. Or, the whole pantry.
He would not be having a repeat of being intruded on with his literal pants down. And it wasn’t as though he could persuade Spite to be subtle or quiet. This was already a massive breakthrough as is; trying to control the demon further would only cause headaches.
Okay. Now he could lay down. This felt awkward. Spite was practically vibrating in his mind. He sighed, closing his eyes, trying to relax.
Was it meditation or something else? Either way that space between asleep and awake was enough room for Spite to slither in and take control of the body, more or less. Lucanis himself was still…somewhat conscious. That typically wasn’t the case. So that was…interesting.
Spite’s touch was rough, initially. He’d grabbed at his (their? Maker, this was strange…) cock like he was grabbing for a weapon. Spite winced, learning quick that he couldn’t just handle it like that and have it feel good.
Then he was..petting it? Ghosting fingertips over and along its shape. Spite snorted and growled; frustrated at how strangely difficult this was. It was easy enough to yell at Lucanis to keep going and more, but now that he was having to try to do it manually there seemed to be a learning curve.
He turned around, laying on his stomach, with a hand reaching…ah. Oh. Lucanis understood. Spite had been curious about that…
“Stop, Spite. You’ll need…there’s a bottle in my pack. You’ll want to coat your fingers in the oil.”
“WHY. Oil?” He grumbled.
“It won’t feel good otherwise. It will hurt.” Lucanis was feeling what Spite was doing like some kind of strange echo. He was feeling it but not as though he was physically touching himself. The sensation was unusual but not necessarily unpleasant.
Despite his grumbling Spite followed the instructions given. He’d perhaps over-oiled and both his hands were dripping in it. Lucanis would bang his head against the wall if he could. Ah well.
How many times would Lucanis’s mind drift to ‘like a dog’ when it came to Spite? He wasn’t trying to minimize him but…he was bouncing and kicking a leg as he stroked their cock madly as though quite overcome. He wasn’t muttering or mumbling, it was all growls and throaty noises.
In fact, he apparently was so overcome that he came right there, giving the tip a good squeeze and twist for good measure. Lucanis couldn’t help chuckling. For all of Spite’s fight he was outdone quickly when forced to deal with the full restraints and restrictions that came with a physical body.
"Spite," There was a smirk in Lucanis's voice. "You forgot why you needed the oil in the first place."
Spite made a rumbling noise in the back of the throat, a little warning without any actual substance. Lucanis chuckled.
