#trigger warning Language

[redisrobinhearts]

TW EATING DISORDERS!! weight, numbers, anorexia

It was never about control, not really. Not the kind the media would suggest, not the way those tired, melodramatic movies tried to frame it. They always got it wrong, anyway. They called it a cry for attention, a plea for control, a side effect of perfectionism. But Tim didn’t want control.

If you asked him, really asked him, he wouldn’t be able to tell you what he wanted. Maybe that was the point.

He didn’t want to feel powerful. He wanted to feel nothing.

And so he chased emptiness like it was salvation.

Hunger wasn’t suffering. It was purity. It was silence. It was the loudest scream of existence he could offer to a world that wouldn’t stop looking at him.

He was addicted to the feeling. To the dull, knifing pangs in his gut. To the dizzy haze behind his eyes, the slow fade of vision when he stood too quickly.

It wasn’t control.

It was surrender.

Every morning he��d wake up, his room a mess and every morning followed the same rhythm, a ritual practiced so often it had long since ceased to feel like a choice.

Wake.

Drag himself out of bed, each joint stiff, each movement an effort.

Stretch. What if his limbs had thickened in the night?

Bathroom. Strip. Use the toilet.

Step onto the scale.

Wait.

Step off. Pace in tight, restless circles.

Step back on the scale.

Compare. Judge. Repeat.

Redress.

Go downstairs.

Smile.

A daily devotion.

Each time he’d glance to his rosary hung lovingly next to his mother’s, send a small prayer that the number on the scale wouldn’t ruin his day.

Because that’s what his days were based on.

Numbers.

That number on the scale was the first and most important verdict of the day.

If it went up? The day was ruined.

If it dropped? A good day. A small victory.

If he binged? Complicated. A good number could soften the blow. But if he binged and the number went up?

He didn’t have words for the way his chest would compress, his head would ring, his body would buzz with hatred.

It was as simple as that.

He couldn’t purge, not anymore at least. His gag reflex was gone, whisked away from years of fingers stuffed down his throat whilst he hunched over a pristine toilet seat.

Despite this, the schedule never changed. The ritual, never changed. He was fully aware it wasn’t normal, but it was necessary, sacred.

Looking at the sweet, expensive rosaries hung on his wall, he thought about if God was needed for his own little shrine of numbers.

But he knew God, or any, wasn’t needed to build a shrine, his existence was a monument to numbers.

In place of mass or communion he’d go downstairs, family already awake. He’d smile at Alfred and playfully roll his eyes at the man’s tutting to his habit of drinking so much diet soda while his first move in the kitchen was to retrieve a Pepsi max.

“Alfred, you know eating when I wake up makes me feel sick.”

It didn’t, but that same line was said every day. Like a prayer.

Damian, always around, would roll his eyes and comment about how unhealthy diet sodas were. Tim almost envied his younger brother, as tall - maybe even taller, than himself and only 14. Tim was 17. Bruce said he’d grow more, Tim knew he wouldn’t.

Tim knew his family knew there was something wrong with him. Tim knew they thought it was PTSD. Well.. he has PTSD, but, that wasn’t what was wrong with him.

He wouldn’t speak it out loud, never, though it had a name. A clinical one. It didn’t fit with a detective, the genius, a bat. Anorexic.

The word felt foreign, medical, clinical. But it was the truth. A truth that lived in his bloodstream, behind his ribs, inside the hollowness he carved into himself each day.

It’s weird to think, that he has this disorder, but he won’t speak of it to anyone. It’s weird that a family of detectives don’t recognise it. But, if Tim can lie to Batman, he can lie to anyone. And lie he will. 

Tim loves his little brother. And even if Damian shows it in this weird way, he knows Damian loves him too. It’s the cups of tea Damian brings him, it’s the attacks that are never to kill anymore - just to test his strength. Tim saves his strength for those, he knows it’s mostly Damian reassuring himself that his older brother is safe. That he can take care of himself.

He knows all of his siblings love him. He knows his whole family loves him.

It’s the way dick will always return home with a soft smile and warm eyes for him, ignoring the deep cutting insults, accusations and whatever else Tim had screamed at him the last time he was there. The way he’d ignore the next ones Tim would throw his way.

It’s the way Jason would tease him, the way he’d always bring a bit extra food for him. The way Jason would get him things related to his special interests. The way he’d pick up evidence for Tim, the way he’d place bugs and interrogate for him.

It’s the way Cassandra would step a bit louder when approaching him. It’s the way Cass would ask if he’d like to join her on walks. it’s the way Cass would sincerely ask about his special interests. The way Cass would happily listen to him for hours.

Tim knew his family loved him. Tim knew Bruce loved him. He knew his dad loved him.

It’s the way Bruce would stockpile Tim’s favourite (safe) foods and wouldn’t ask Alfred to get them. It’s the way he’d indulge Tim and let him sleep in the bed with him on bad nights. It’s the way he learned about Catholicism despite being non practicing Jewish. It’s the way he had a Catholic Church built in Gotham in Tim’s mother’s name. Tim never asked for it, but the gesture carved something sharp and sacred into his heart.

Alfred loved him. The closest he’d ever had as a grandfather. Alfred loved him. It’s the way Alfred wouldn’t clean or enter Tim’s room when Tim had asked. It’s the way Alfred would cook entirely separate things for him. It’s the way Alfred would sometimes not cook for Tim at all and allow Tim to make his own meals. It’s the way he never really stopped Tim from drinking diet soda or energy drinks.

His family loved him. They loved him with all of their hearts. But they never figured it out.

How could they have? Tim went through a lot of effort hiding it. He certainly didn’t want them to.

It was back to his bedroom for him, to sit at his desk and browse edtumblr or edtwt or any forum that fit his fancy.

“Would you like to walk through the gardens with me?”

Cass’ voice was soft. It was kind. It was sweet. She would always ask even though every time Tim would say no.

Each time she would smile, nod and tell him he can join her later if he wants.

He never would.

He’d spend the next few hours browsing, sipping from his rapidly going flat Pepsi max. His stomach clawing and consuming the carbonated fluid while it screamed for nutrients that it wasn’t sure it would get that day.

The hunger. This was how he worshipped nothingness. The gnawing feeling like his stomach was trying to digest itself. The pain. A penance indistinguishable from divine grace.

Tim knew he was pretty at least, if the media were telling the truth he was gorgeous. Likely to be named the most attractive man in Gotham to dick’s disappointment and Jason’s amusement.

He knew people thought he was beautiful. The magazines said so. The tabloids. The comments.

But Tim didn’t think he was pretty in the way he did.

He would stand in the mirror, minutes on minutes. The dark circles, sunken eyes, pointy hip bones, exposed ribs, concave stomach, air between his thighs. His image in the reflection is a reflection of the discipline he’d exuded. The pain a graceful reward for the numbers he’d sacrificed for divinity.

In the mirror, he saw bones. Sharp hips. Ribs like piano keys. A stomach sunken beneath skin that barely held shape.

Each pang of hunger was akin to a code, etching words beneath his ribs: Beauty. Divinity. Grace. Each pulse of hunger a compliment to the cavernous void of where his stomach resided.

His body akin to a temple, he wondered if it were a sort of blasphemy each time he bowed his head. Praying to God for lower numbers felt more like he prayed to the numbers for less, more divinity, the weightlessness would bring him closer to heaven, to God.

While floating in divinity, he floated closer to death.

Like when a morbidly obese bed ridden person continues to eat, they inch closer to death but don’t even realise they’re doing so.

He wasn’t even skinny he’d claim when reading about the dangers. He was smart, he took his vitamins and sure he was underweight but it was hardly skin and bones.

At 5’6” and 99 pounds, he told himself he wasn’t that bad. Not sick enough. Not thin enough. Not dying.

He was careful. Obsessively so. Ankle weights hidden beneath baggy sweats for monthly health check-ups. Protein water before blood draws. Vitamins taken religiously. The illusion of health preserved with surgical precision.

It took him to a swift bmi 16 to a bmi 20.3, Bruce didn’t suspect a thing.

It happened each month and like clock work he would apply the same methods to ensure his safety.

He’d say he wasn’t dying. But he was wrong.

Each day was built around numbers: grams, pounds, calories, steps. Each hour sectioned by rules only he knew. If the number was right, the day was blessed. If it was wrong, the day was punishment.

He lived in a shrine of numbers. His body, the altar. His rituals, prayers. His pain, penance.

Sometimes, in moments of clarity—or maybe just exhaustion—he wondered what he was worshipping. Was it God? Was it perfection? Emptiness? Was it the void itself?

Was he offering his body to a deity that didn’t exist?

He didn’t know.

He only knew that hunger felt like grace.

That the ache in his stomach was the only thing he could trust.

That the hollowness made him feel holy.

He wasn’t suicidal. He didn’t want to die. He just didn’t realize he was dying. But death took the form of a beatific void, inching closer with each number.

Not actively. Not with intent. But slowly. Quietly. Faithfully. Like a monk fasting for salvation that would never come.

Because you cannot eat beauty with a spoon. And you cannot fill a body that’s learned to worship its own starvation.

But the beauty he chased wasn’t for them. It was a private religion, one only he understood.

In the stillness of his room, surrounded by the glow of a laptop screen and forums filled with others like him—edtumblr, edtwt, anonymous boards full of hunger—he felt less alone. But never whole.

Each day he had a schedule.

Each day began with a number, each day was built from continuing numbers. These numbers symbolised who he was. His worth. His divinity.

It has nothing to do with controlling himself. For he could do just that. It was a matter of it controlling him.

Each day it had a schedule.

But for now, in this sole moment, there was the pain.

There were the numbers.

There was the shrine.

And he would keep worshipping.

[birdsong-warriors]

The claws are here! Plus some friends. uwu

Some random trivia: BloodClan uses hot tar to seal the talons onto their paws. Sunflower here is carrying an old rag soaked in vegetable oil, which breaks down the excess tar and keeps the medical damage to a minimum.

Firefall belongs to @zeekitties , and Sunflower belongs to @talkingtalltales !

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Part 1: Friend and Family

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[mercysought]

"You are note a fool." // for Orla

disco elysium / letters // accepting // @extravagantrook

a spiritual sequel to this :’)

Everyone had told them that the fade and dreaming would be simple, just as easy as closing one’s eyes and floating. At best, a world where the warmth of the sun never grew cold, at worse a place that made your insides burn.

Orla had assumed that she would be able to know - to understand - that she would be in it.

To be able to have a realisation that the space that the body now occupied was made out of the same thing as the waking world. Because this was a world that she had not belonged in. Intrinsically, Orla had believed (erroneously) that they would know it just as easily as breathing.

She had not dreamed or had nightmares, proper ones, since her younger years and her memory was a fickle mistress all the same. It held and withheld without reason or explanation and Orla had not deemed it worth to ask further. To peel the layers left only blood behind, after all. This was not closing one’s eyes, no floating. No burning.

There had only been four words: ‘Your work is done.’

The clicking of mechanical switches. The turning of the lights, the buzzing of magic and the smell of ozone. The fall. The deep, inky darkness. The murmuring of the crowd as they settle upon seats. The ruffling of heavy fabric curtains. Then—

ACT III Scene 1.

The lights in the sky are like smeared lines of paint in a dark, vanished black background. Bright, shiny and yet incapable of holding her attention; not when the warm figure with sown edges in lines of painted tears and hand sown lines look to her.

   [ORLA]    I’m not like you. I can’t make sense of half this shit and I’m terrified of the other half. Solas is right - about this at least. I’m just a blind piece in a game I don’t fucking get, a fool or worse. I’m a good enough obstacle, but what the fuck do I do when I know when it’s just a matter of time before he betrays me?

The snort that the other has at her question makes her eyes attempt to find theirs. Their face is blurred in shades of red and purple, sown at odd angels like a picture that attempts to refine itself. A grin upright twisting into a frown with each breath taken. Two naked figures without a face, hanging towards a dark abyss of dragged lights.

   [ASHA]    You’re not a fool.

A warm hand atop hers. A lyrium brand that hums in resonance and soothes itself under cheap linen that covers only part of her body. Shoulder against shoulder. A soft hum as they continue talking and Orla tries her best to believe their words. To truly believe their words. One expert to another.

   [ASHA]    You’ll figure it out. We’ll figure it out.

ACT I Scene 1.

The smell of old oil paint and varnish is intense. The wall is solid and flat behind the gloved hands. She is hiding. Hidden, that she knows. There are distant voices but all that is heard in the rattling in her skull is hear erratic heartbeat. The attempt at keeping her breathing smooth.

She knows she should be moving. Out of this hiding spot. A dark shadow against bright red walls, just on the edge of an impossibly brightly lit room. Three long shadows grow as the voices increase, but not her understanding. Gloved hands press harder against the wall.

A familiar perfume and the sound of a scraper. The burning smell of the start of a fire.

ACT II Scene 1.

Three children. Not older than twelve. Someone talks to Orla, but she can only see the eyes of those children looking back to her, terrified.

   [THE MASTER]    Dispose of them.

It scratches in the back of her mind, the chain pulled and pushed.

   [THE MAGEKILLER]    No.

The chains are pulled tighter. Hot as iron until her eyes burn. The lyrium on her neck, back and stomach pierce through muscle and bone. Skewering her, twisting muscle, cracking teeth in a closed jaw. This is a familiar pain, but in her lungs there is something that implodes, the ribs that rip both inwards and outwards. A blood vessel in her head that makes the struggling breath louder than the scratching, comfortable voice. It continues until she is done with the last ropes and the bodies are sinking into the darkness.

The sound of the horse. The dashing through the rain. The weight of her body against mud. The blood is heavy on her cloak as she travels and she is taken. The blood is heavier when she enters a dim house.

The sound of the horse. The dashing through the rain. The weight of her body against mud. Voices asking her questions. The heaviest when she climbs over corpses to the large oak doors. There is a sick pleasure that sings in her body when the blood feels the lightest: when she picks up the cane from the floor and the pool of blood. When she is called an animal. When the begging starts.

ACT I Scene 2. Scene 1.

The smell of oil is heavy and the gallery is as silent as a grave in the late hour. These walls were familiar. The frames and their detail familiar too though just in passing.

Red walls press against the back of her hand. The shadows are a deep, almost black tone of brown and they spread across the floor like an oil painting that had been attempted to be varnished before it had been fully dry. The taller figure points to the back. The other two shadows follow the direction - away from where she hid, into a wall with more and more paintings. Weapons in hands.

A hand extended, cigarette between fingers, a thin envelope with matches inside and a scraper.

   [DAMIANO]    THEY ARE IN THERE—

The match is lit, racked against the thin strip. Breathing accelerates. She knows what it is behind the walls that the shadows point towards. It is the reason why they had both agreed to meet in this particular gallery, time and time and time again. The shadows grow darker, breathing accelerating but body remaining still. There is a pulsing within her body that roars against the arresting of muscles, the fear that locks jaw and eyes alike on the shadows forms. That keeps her hidden.

There is silence coming from behind the walls. You need to do something, the twisted expression in a frozen body begs. But the mouth does not move. Not a single muscle does and the shadows grow only darker.

ACT I Scene 3. Scene 1.

Minrathous is a large city and Orla knows only part of it. This part is one that she knows better than most, perhaps. The many stairs up to the gallery. The address of the Magister that owns it, the face and hands of the magekiller that they own. The distance that they had stood when they first met overlooking paintings of angels that look down upon them both dressed in the black robes that souls such as them are provided: leather, utilitarian, easy to wipe blood from.

She would know his voice anywhere. In the small apartment, hole in the wall, space that she had come to call home in Minrathous. Against the bright red walls. In the hand that aided her smuggle people in and out of this building outside of the city - away for anyone that might look for them. He had called her crazy and she had called him crazy in return, but it still had been both of their hands that had unlatched the mechanisms that unlocked the holes in the walls that allowed people to come in and out.

Waiting for a signal.

But he stands before the painting of judging angels, with the same distance that she would usually stand. Two guards side by side. Both hands behind his back.

   [DAMIANO, a man with slicked back black hair, mustache. Wears expensive leather armour with a side cape of a rich purple with golden embroidery. Thin face with an easy charming smile. Warm brown, sharp eyes]    They are in there.

   [MAGISTER BATARIS’ SLAVE HUNTER 1]    What should we do with them?

Another match. Another raking through the scraper. The smell of burning.

   [DAMIANO]    Take them back. Or kill them,

There is a flickering of match being racked against a scraper. The pull of a cigarette. The scent of tobacco filling the space where the sickening and heavy scent of varnish was before.

   [DAMIANO]    It’s all the same to me.

This had been his idea. He had had to convince her.

There is no light but the dimmed enchantments that were left to showcase the paintings. That and the bright torches that the two guards carried that made their shadows so long. Orla barely has a shadow. A shadow besides what she feels like she is herself in that moment. So close against those same red walls that she might become a smudge of that same shade. Body frozen in the moment as she hears the steps drag across the floor, over creaking wood boards towards those same switches. Her body cold. Beyond her there is a child that looks at her from the frame of the painting - rosy cheeks, dark eyes, perfectly combed hair. Rich bright blue cloak over a white blouse.

A half parted book, a single hand that is lit by the brighter lights that pour from the figures. Pointing to them. She smiles - either in mocking Orla or in spurring her. It does neither. In the wild horse of a heart in her chest that screamed and lips that remained still. In her body that burnt but in hands that remained cold. The growing panic. The thought of what would happen to her when she was caught.

When word made its way back to her own master. ‘Do something’ is a voice that is barely heard as her body seeps into the shadows once more, from the path she took to sneak in - the same locks she had known.

Out once more into the city and the night that she barely knew in a city that felt all the stranger and mean now.

ACT II Scene 2. Scene 1.

Three children. Two with the face of the master, the third with the mousy brown hair. The eldest, no older than twelve stands in the front in defiance, the youngest is barely a smudge in the back, its elven form wrapped by its mother’s hands who whispered softly. The eyes of the older woman as it whispered soothing nothings to the child pull all colours from the space; all light atop her face, expression bleached of all but a silent anger and a plea.

An older woman’s whose face she cannot really see through the muddled vision talks to her. Begs her. Orla counts. Makes a list. And balances. There is a scratching and a burning and while her left hand fans the flames the right one attempts desperately to put it out.

   [MAGISTER BATARIS]    Dispose of them.

There is a turning of the stomach at the bodiless voice. At the strength of the command. Of the weight of a hanging hand and the flinch that takes over a body. The assassin’s head tilts to the side, left gloved hand pressing against the budding headache and the stomach that threatens to unravel.

The sniffling. The crying. She could hear it as well as see their shadows even as the eyes closed. The defiance on the face of the child closest to her. The desperation on the voice of the woman closest to her. Let them go. Turn around and lose track of them.

   [THE MAGEKILLER]    No.

Eyes remain closed and the breathing of the woman closest to her itches. Her eyes barely open when Orla is turning towards the small, worn down smudge of brown.

   [MAGISTER BATARIS]    No? I see how it is. I’ve been too lenient with you, of late. Maybe you forgot what happens when you push outside of the gifts I already give you. The kindness I have shown for your faltering and failures? We all know what comfort does to dogs,

Steps stop, even as muscle pulls and peels from salt burnt wooden floors. The white flecks on the floor as bright as the terror in the eyes of the woman that had held the youngest child.

   [MAGISTER BATARIS]    It makes them lazy.

The screech that is pulled as an engine is forced from one state to the next; it rears its ugly head and it pulls at her mind. Teeth sink into her own flesh until it is painted copper all the way down to her stomach. Until the sloshing she hears is not from her own body but from the sinking rope and stone and the soft shimmering of strands down into the salty depths. The curtains are pulled again but it is the wind that rips through, the salt on her tongue as the last shadow sinks into the darkness.

The leather gloves are peeled from her shaking hands, thrown in the pockets of the heavy suit. The lightest of meals she had eaten but a few hours ago follows suit with the bodies. The blood swallowed mixed with bile, catching dark strands of hair as she leans over the pier. With the strings loosened the flooding of awareness pushes through the body.

A guttural noise kept at bay with teeth that clamped shut. What now, magekiller? What now, perrepatae? Both naked hands pressing agains the bloody dark shirt. The heavy cloak and the rain above. The horse behind her neighs. And she pulls herself up from the slippery stones, cleaning her mouth with the back of her hand, flickering the sick to the floor.

The ride is misery. There unpaved roads turn into muddy traps to the horse but she rides the animal hard until landing on the beautiful stones in front of the Magister’s large doors.

The inside is dimly lit but for the shades that haunt the place just as she did. Dragging blood, mud - the assassin is not a shadow but instead the very physical aspect of one’s worse impulses. Someone tries to stop her from moving up the circular grand stairs.

They call her name and another larger figure approaches. Blocking her path. This shadow of a person stands before two bright smudges and she feels her hands shake. What now?

   [ELVEN SLAVE 2]    Is there a problem?

The shade of an animal. The rain pours down outside and it weights still down her cloak. When her eyes lift to look at the smudges in front of her, blocking her path, she doesn’t see anything other than the fluttering of hair, sinking into the depths. That bright white of scelera looking back at her in defiance, another in terror, in begging.

One hand presses against her shoulder. Blood sprays but she cannot get darker and she will not be stopped now. There are so many screams and the ghosts around her scatter - the thin lines of lyrium that had been sunk into her body push into muscle and into the bone, they gnaw at her like teeth and the soft song lightens the rain, the screams. It bleaches it all with a soft, gleaming blue that emboldens hands, pushes her through.

The bodies that didn’t move away from her quickly enough. The ones that fall as her blades carve a path. The steps creak under her step, under the weight, until she reaches the large door.

Inside there are five figures too. Two slaves. An older woman. A teenage daughter with a book and a hand that falls to the side pointing towards the fith and last figure. A blank face - a face that is quickly covered by the shadow that she is. The cane that had been held against him fit comfortably in her hand in a glimpse of a second.

The room is red at her fifth breath. The bright blue piercing through even the darkest and thickets parts of her armour. The cutting of the air. The figures that were on the floor were a mangle of colour and texture - an oil painting varnished too soon and attempted to be cleaned in a panic.

The teeth in the palm of her gloved hand, the ivory tainted in iron and red. And a smile, a laugh of madness and relief when she remembers the begging from a mouth that didn’t resemble it any longer.

ACT III Scene 2. Scene 1.

The small apartment is more akin to a broken into closet that could be called a home. The walls were tall and held no colour. Even in the darkest of night, it was just a continuation of the abyss. The assassin’s favourite part of the city had always been the view, the odd angle that one could see the Magisterium, the lights projected upon the cloudy sky. It was impossible to see the stars in Minrathous - but this was close.

Two assassins sit one beside the other. Both naked except for the thin excuse for a sheet and a think mattress dragged to an opening that could be called a window.

   [THE MAGEKILLER]    I’m not like you—

The conversation feels familiar. The words half die on her tongue. But not quite, the hesitance is an opening - however.

   [LE MAT]    You saw Varric. In the Lighthouse.

From the words her eyes flash towards them. The figure resting with their shoulder against her but eyes that don’t quite look at her. There is a spotlight above them both.

The assassin’s mouth hangs half opened.

   [THE MAGEKILLER]    It—

Yes. But I never told you.

How had Asha known? Who had known? Who had she told? There had been care to hide the scratching at the back of her mind, the illusions and awful little games. The thinness of the familiar clouding the edges of her eyes. The animal that crawled back in to the comfort of familiar chains.

   [THE MAGEKILLER]    It’s not him. Wasn’t—

The words stumble. The magekiller looks for their eyes. One cloudy and another brown. In the spotlight, however, there is nothing but the deep cast shadows that are the abyss. They don’t look at her. A dramatic carving of their lips in a half formed snarl is enough.

   [LE MAT]    You’re not a fool. You should have told me.

The words are familiar. The space crumbles around them both but the light remains. The disappointment burns, burns in the pit of her stomach and on the edges of her eyes.

   [THE MAGEKILLER]    I didn’t know.

   [LE MAT]    I deserved to say goodbye, more than you. It was because of you that he died. He trusted you and your gut instinct to do the right thing, and in that moment you crumbled, you got scared of what it might mean if Varric was wrong. With this insistent and blind search to become someone better you ended up getting him killed!

The room around them is gone. There is only the cold. The cold on her hands, on the pit of her stomach, on the anticipation that everything will always crumble - regardless of where the axle swung. One way or another, she was bound to loose.

The foolishness was not in the being tricked, it was in the attempt to change the outcome.

The figure that stands before her. Le Mat has their mask removed. Asha’s face is wrong in the way that the light casts the shadows down on them. The milky eye looks at her too intently and too bright - similar and familiar with the brands within her body and they burn with a hatred that twisted their face into something - someone that she never could come to recognise.

   [LE MAT]    The hunt was always a lost cause. You knew this and you still let him try. You should have told him to take the shot.

ACT II Scene 2. Scene 3.

The hovel was a known safe house to one that knew where to look, what to search for. To one that knew how to tell which veins still pulsed with life and which had been cut due to necessity. By the piers where escape would be easy to the boats heading South, there are houses that have been carved into and down the cliffs.

It is on some of those salt hovels that they were found. Three children, two elf-blooded and one human. Two women, one elven who clutched a small child around her arms in the back of the small room with half prepared food. A human, who stood by Orla after she had barged into the door after entrance had been denied.

The job was simple: dispose of whoever you find in the room. The assassin had expected it to be a hideout for spies working within the Bataris household, smugglers that worked in the docs, perhaps preparations for an assassin to make their way through the Magister’s family.

She had not expected to be sent to clean up after bastards.

The elven woman looks to her through tears of anger and fear and she whispers to the small thin child that everything would be alright. The older human child standing just behind the human woman looked at her in defiance as if to dare her to enter further.

   [HUMAN WOMAN]    We are not a threat to the Magister. You don’t have to do this.

The children were still frozen in space. The smell was intense, a mix of salt, sweat and half baked beans that now burnt in the small flame. The wind cannot come in and yet the place was deadly cold even in the light of day - one could only wonder the pains they were going through, waiting for the ship to arrive and take them away.

The child, the youngest, wrapped in the arms of the mother in the distance looked to her with large, wide eyes. Scared out of its mind, the body a simple vessel. She knows what that is like and when she looks to the face of the worn elven woman with fear in her veins, looking to Orla with a terrified light behind large brown eyes, she can only see the glinting of her own mother’s eyes.

   [MAGISTER BATARIS]    Dispose of them.

The anger she feels in the pit of her stomach is kept only within the pit of her stomach. Was that what she was now? A child killer for a man that could not face its responsabilities? Was she to be the hand that fixed responsibilities such as these? The magekiller’s eyes glance from the woman in the end of the room, to the older child, to the human mother. A step is taken back with her lips curled.

   [THE MAGEKILLER]    No.

The confusion of the woman face is clear, though it is not to her that the magekiller. Please she hears but barely. The pleading on the breaking of brows, the tension on the oldest child’s hand holding onto the table the had just been preparing for the meal. The two other children whimper, gleaming tears through the small light that pours from the cracks in the rock on the ceiling. The elven mother continues, as if speaking it quicker, holding the child tighter it might save her from the fate that the magister had bestowed upon them.

   [MAGISTER BATARIS]    No? I see how it is. This is what leniency leads to. Insubordination.

It would not be the first punishment for refusal that Orla would face, but it would be taken over this. A child killer, his child killer. They were too young to even be mages and even if they were, they would not have been a danger for her. A simple assassin would have done the job, but it wasn’t about simplicity. The cruelty was the point. Orla glances once more to the children’s faces and starts to turn.

   [MAGISTER BATARIS]    If I say that you bite, you bite.

The first signs are her head growing light. The dryness of the mouth and the shortness of breath. Stiffing muscles that Orla pushes through. This was not the first time, it would not be the last that she struggled against the direct pulling of strings.

   [MAGISTER BATARIS]    I say you jump, you fucking jump.

There is urgency in the way that she holds onto the handle of the door, attempts to push it only to find strength lacking. A heavy blanket that is wrapped around her arms like a jacket with tied sleeves. Teeth sink into her cheek, the pain allowing for another push. The creaking of hinges that feels both from the door in front of her but inside of her skull. The breath she’d been holding is pulled deeper into her body. Her eyes burn and she feels the balance start to go.

The darkness of the corridor that she had been seeking so desperately never reaches her.

   [MAGISTER BATARIS]    If I say play dead, you ask how realistic to make it.

Locked out but able to see it all. Statis was dangerous, both to the original person casting it but especially to the one that was to experience it. More, dangerous when the body and mind in statis was forced to work through familiar actions.

Left hand releases the handle of the door. The handles of her daggers know her palms though they can only know the warmth of her hands and not the intent that carries them.

It is over in less than five minutes and the deaths are swift. Thankfully. The humans first, in two steps. The elf blooded child doesn’t even get up from the chair, one of its major veins sliced and slipping into sleep in but a few seconds. The elven mother next, sparing her the sight of the murder of her last and smallest child.

She didn’t need to activate the lyrium brands. And they aren’t activated.

The bodies are prepared. Dragged across the dark corridor. If anyone sees the scene no one stops the figure dressed in leather. Ropes tied, heavy anchors. A part of the pier that would take the bodies deeper into sea. The bodies are light against her body as she raises them and watches them disappear into the darkness of the waters.

The youngest child is the last and it feels impossibly light on her arms as she cradles it. Holding the bloody head and the stone on the other hand. Her knees bend down to releases it. The brown hair swirls in the water. The forehead cleared from the blood and fear and it too disappears in the darkness.

When the darkness settles and the whistling of the wind returns, the darkness is allowed to show itself akin to a mirror - allowing her own reflection to appear. It is then only when she feels the stones against her gloved hands. The cold in her body and the warmth and heaviness of the blood against her armour. The blood caked in her hair and chin. The burns of robe against the side of leather as she had worked in similar movements. The sound of her ragged breathing makes her sick.

The smell of blood and iron. The light that comes from the clouds that roll over the sky above with the spattering of rain. Her throat burns as the small meal she had reacts to the treatment the body had gone through. The wounds in her chewed through cheeks making her bite a sob as her head bows against the pier. Tears falling from effort.

What now? The horse neighs behind her as gloves are pulled from her hands, thrown in the pockets of her cloak. She looks at the strong beast, feeling its beady eyes reflect her own. A terrible idea pierces through her mind with a clarity that feels like a divine command like no other. A demand that her body and the heavens must see through shaking hands. There are no thoughts in her mind as she cleans the vomit with the back of her hand, lifting from where she had stood.

They didn’t want to be this type of animal anymore.

The storm grows as she rides back to the mansion. The wind and rain falling on her head but unable to clean the blood or the thoughts that put her on a single thought: a throughline. She was not done killing.

It is that thought that curses her mind as she slams the door open. A half made shadow with nothing but a growing madness behind quiet, brown eyes and a bloody mess. She drags herself over expensive rugs and ancient woods, blank eyes beyond the slaves that look at her with horror at what they would need to clean.

Orla doesn’t see them. The assassin moves to the right, quiet on her feet despite the dragging of the bloody shadow. Eyes on the marble stone stair.

   [ELVEN SLAVE 1 - SELYN, a thin elven woman with a sickly frame. Dressed neatly exactly like any of the slaves that are allowed to work within the household. Her brows are knit in concern]    Mistress? The Master is busy, he’s not-

The woman stands on the side. Expecting the assassin to stop. The assassin continues, walking a single step beyond.

   [ELVEN SLAVE 1 - SELYN]    Mistress Orla?

The growing concern. In the voice and in the white of widening eyes. Seeking help. Another approaches, standing in her path. More figures walk behind them, up and down the stairs. Distant talking, music coming from upstairs.

   [ELVEN SLAVE 2 - MARZIO, a built elven man, wears the identifiers that mark him as a bodyguard]    Is there a problem?

I don’t want to be this type of animal anymore. The assassin’s eyes move from the stairs, the large door at the top. Down to Marzio in front of her. He had a family. A little one. Orla had held him, congratulated him and his wife. There were fifteen other people between the assassin and the door. Half of them house slaves. The other half contractors to set up a large chandelier in the center of the room.

She didn’t need to activate the lyrium brands. But she does anyway.

Three stabbings, all three in the chest drop Marzio. Left hand slices Selyn’s throat before she can scream.

Stepping over the gurgling corpse. Orla starts to climb the door. Three contractors do not turn before she gets to them. Two of them drop down the stairs, the last falls over the railing. The screaming starts. By the time she gets to the top, the bottom of her cloak - muddy and bloody is more red than brown.

The house is quiet. Those that had escaped left the large door to the mansion open. Orla’s hands push open the door to the Magister’s parlor.

Five people inside. The magister is already standing, eyes wide in a panic upon seeing the state of the mage killer. It is too late. It is too late to all of them. It is too late for her too.

Five people. The two slaves that attempted to escape but could not escape her daggers or her understanding of their threat. A teenage daughter with a book that ends up blood. It is a swift death too that welcomes her. Beady eyes in surprise, distant now, resting against her large comfortable chair - soaking it with her blood. A mother whose chest is covered in holes from the sharpened edges of her daggers as she stood in front of the magister.

A cane in her hands and the whistling that rises as her eyes are blind with rage, her mouth pressed until teeth feel close to shattering. The air in the room is siphoned by the lyrium, flickering out the flames from the mage’s hands. The staff kicked from an assassin too strong to be natural. To be good.

It is wrong how good it feels to feel the weight of the broken raven in the cane against a soft body. The screams and the panic as she lifts the cane and throws it down once more. The cracking of bones. The turning of the cane to break a jaw the same way that he had broken hers.

   [MAGISTER BATARIS]    STOP!

The gurgling through the words make her lift the cane once more. The blade piercing through cheek and the a loud screech of pain rock the very foundations of the mansion. The tearing of teeth. Those same teeth that she will later collect one by one in a daze once everything comes to a still.

The magister starts crawling towards the open doors, but it is too late for any of them. The magekiller holds onto his ankle, dragging him closer, away from the place that he thinks will save him. There is no one coming to save him. No one to save any of them. Turning her blades, feeling the warmth of her body she feels him attempting to crawl into her mind once more but there is nothing to hold onto.

There is only a wild animal on the loose with rage and appetite for one one thing: to feel his teeth in her hands like rotten seeds.

   [MAGISTER BATARIS]    STOP! YOU DAMNED ANIMAL!

He sobbed and it feels like digging into the lyrium brands, making them sing louder, press deeper into her muscle. Fuel to an already roaring inferno.

The assassin doesn’t stop. Not until there is nothing to soften her blow. Only when the object of her hatred is barely recognised as anything close to human. Until Magister Bataris can only resemble the monster that he was within.

She collects the teeth. Feels them in her hands. It doesn’t feel the way she thought. And yet it makes her laugh, laugh at this scene that plays before her. This dream that she will surely be pulled away from once the adrenaline wears out. The relief pulling at the long held breath from her lungs into a laugh that tastes like pure madness. This shadow of a person that feels nothing but dread, dread and relief all in one.

ACT III Scene 3. Scene 1.

When Orla looks out of her small makeshift window the lights could almost be compared to shooting stars. Varric had told her about them because Orla had never really seen one. There was something to be said about never looking up; but the more she thought the more she considered that even in Ventus where there wasn’t so much light emanating from the city that she was unlikely to be able to see them.

The Magisterium looms still but it is a distant concern. Not when compared to the chipped paint in the window sills from the humidity and lack of care. Not when compared to the company that stands just beside her, the warmth of their body still resting against her. The words are easy and they familiar.

   [THE MAGEKILLER]    I’m not like you—

The words die in her mouth. The sound of the city below sounds wrong.

   [LE MAT]    You saw Varric. In the Lighthouse.

The mattress is paper thin but it is warmed all the same by both of their presence. The shapes of their bodies had still been there. The scene, however, was wrong. The whole thing.

Asha’s hair is bright red and it feels like she can see their edges. The shadows are cast too deeply against their darkened eye. Her mouth hangs open as the lights from the Magisterium rear their ugly head towards them both. The next line follows, ‘You-’

   [LE MAT]    You’re not a fool. You should have told me.

I deserved it more than you. To see him. To say goodbye. Orla holds their hand with her left. The right moves to the side of their face that she knows is tender, that causes pain. The figure doesn’t move, it just looks to her - waiting. Waiting for her to say the lines.

Brown eyes look into the bright light that pools from the window. There is no city, there is just the blinding, bleached light and them both - and the abyss beyond.

The assassin has no other choice but to look in the perfectly drawn face of Asha. The thought that this might be the last time she might be able to see them, hear their voice, and it never truly being them. A trick, another trick of the fade, a trick of magic. A nightmare, just another one of the same iteration of a nightmare.

Another punishment.

One hand moves to hold the hand. One expert to another, one assassin to another.

   [THE MAGEKILLER]    You did. And I should have. Maybe it wasn’t him, but it could have been. And I still didn’t tell you. I didn’t want you to think- To think I was going crazy. Seeing things. That my mind was being messed with again. I was afraid I’d… I’d lose you.

That it might mean that he could see how much of a danger of being around her, close to her truly was. Worse, that she would make a jest of such a thing. Or that they would take pity, that it was a method of her ailing mind to attempt to heal over something traumatic. In the end it had been fear that had kept that information, especially as she had started noticing discrepancies in behavior and a terrible familiar shadow lingering in her mind like a blanket.

   [ORLA]    Varric made his choice. Long before we ever got to the ritual. I couldn’t have changed his mind, even if I had wanted to. You know this, because if the roles had been changed, you’d have done the same thing I did.

   [ORLA]    You have a good heart without trying and I just wish that was me. You don’t need to try, you just do. And even if I know I will need to struggle with it until I drop dead, I still want to do it. And that’s because of you. So, even if you decide to no longer be part of my life... I get it. I’m still going to do it.

She could lie down and quit, or she could keep trying to see through this and, perhaps foolishly, attempt to find a way out. Her cold hands rest against theirs, and Orla wants to hold them so badly but she knows this is not Asha. She would hate the thought of holding them and feel nothing but the cold aspect of stone resting against her. That was not Asha. It could never be Asha.

Varric had seen a future that didn’t involve her being this awful shadow of an animal. Asha saw that too. If they thought that Solas might be worth of redemption despite it all, why should she not be worthy of the same?

   [ORLA]    Because I know you’d do the same thing.

There was no other path to take.

     

   “There’s no other way to go but forward, hm, kid?”

These particular set of stairs are an unwelcome sight. As is the holder of the voice.

The assassin, the magekiller - Orla - looks back all the same. The choice is made to not correct him, that she was not a kid, not his at least. What point was there in correcting a ghost, or worse, whatever this place’s version of Varric was allowed to exist.

Varric looked well. Better than she had ever seen him in the Lighthouse. Perhaps there was a chance still that this was indeed him, some measure of him in this prison of hers. Or perhaps this too was another peeling of the curtain. Orla stands on the same spot that Varric had been before, but there is no Solas to stab her and there is no ritual to stop. There is only a dead silence of her failure: her failure to stop the ritual in a manner to avoid harm, her failure to keep Varric safe.

She stood in the light of the knowledge that she had done and respected what Varric had wanted - all the way to the end. Orla closes her eyes, tilting her head down.

   “No. There never is.” she stands there, as if waiting. And Varric walks up those same fated steps. Her hands are gloved and it always surprised her what she did look like in the dreams, what her mind or the space chose to keep and what to let go. Brown eyes focus on the dwarf “You try to hold onto something too tightly and it just turns to shit.”

   “Poetic.” he snorts, nodding with a breath that comes and goes from nowhere.

   “The lesson was a bit too on the nose.”

Whatever it is, perhaps even spirit if dwarfs could become so, it really looked like him. She wasn’t sure if that made her angry or sad, her body was too fatigued to feel much at all but at least he was clear in her vision. One last time. That was all she could ask.

   “You can put it in one of your books, though.” she offers with a crook of her brow, pulling the black, sweaty hair back. Barely a hint of a smile on her face “Free of charge.”

He laughs and her lip quivers, eyes moving away as she hears something. Just beyond the edge of the stone that made it Varric’s last stand, something shifts in the fade and voices can be heard. Orla tries to keep herself from feeling hopeful when those voices are heard. One more trick of this fucking place.

   “Maybe we’ll leave the writing up to you this time around.”

Orla glances to him, seeing him watching the fade shimmer and start to tear and the voices grow louder. Varric looks to her for a reply but the words feel jumbled. It has felt like a lifetime of torture only to be allowed a small moment of goodbye. It is not what she wished, but it is what they all would get.

   “Sounds like one of your worst ideas.”

Perhaps a flickering of a mind. Perhaps she too was dying. Not yet. She could suffer, but she wasn’t dead yet.

   Rook!

   “Yeah, well. You’re not a fool, got your head screwed on straight enough. I look forward to seeing how it will turn out, anyway.” he holds the side of her arm, pushing her towards the same spot that Solas had stood once. She looks back to him and in that moment there is the roaring of the ritual once more, the sky above them roaring. And Varric smiles “One step at the time, Rook.”

[titan-star]

Yoinks this out of his playlist. And yes he is singing along every single word in noise. Of course he makes sure that he is alone. Alone!

[stepmarchen]

[wronggalaxy]

We need to talk about the absolutely shitty way male presenting people are treated when raped, especially when it was a female presenting person who did it.

1) Most feminists need to shut up about how they "support male rape victims when men don't". If your support doesn't start until the rape happens, it's not support. If you only put support line cards in women's spaces, it's not support. If you always use she/her pronouns for victims and he/him for abusers, it's not support.

2) It's a lot harder for people presenting as men to come out about being assaulted because of the way they're sexualized, the lack of emotional support they receive, and the idea that all men are big and strong and aggressive.

3) All though female presenting people aren't taken nearly serious enough when raped, it's much easier for them to make it seem like their victim was the abuser than you think it is. Even when the victim is a child and the abuser an adult.

4) If a little girl starts sexualizing herself or others it's more likely people will recognize the signs of assault than if a little boy does.

And a billion other things to.

And BTW, I'm an AFAB female presenting genderqueer feminist who has been sexually assaulted by boys(my age and older), so don't even try and tell me it's just my gender or sex or political beliefs or lack of experience clouding my judgment. I know what I'm talking about.

[deeperheights]

Hi <3

New on tumblr and love finding people to relate to… and people I don’t relate to so I can widen my horizons! I’m an ENFP, 20 y/o, female :)

Interests: languages (mostly Italian atm), psychology (eg Myers-Briggs), traveling, people, writing, singing, music, medicine, etc.

Want to learn/do: as many languages as possible, drawing, professional-level singing, play the keyboard by ear, get my driver’s license, finish med school (5 yrs left), write a book, etc.

A lot of mental health struggles (see bio, tw).

Current life situation: unemployed, alternating between the psych ward and my parents’ (in Europe).

I’m a people pleaser and often overly nice. I’m also easily triggered by criticism & rejection so plz be nice to me :)

//Liz

[titan-star]

Since Titan can actually take a load off and he doesn't have to work anymore... He definitely did send this to Foxy as a joke. He got a lot of middle fingers back.

[broke-on-books]

Got tagged by @havendance to share my top 6 movies of 2024! (Technically tagged on the sideblog, but im putting it here)

Getting tagged in this game was really funny to me, because of the 22 movies I watched this year 14 of them were either DC movies or required for my Spanish class. That's over 60% of the stuff i watched lol. And the thing that makes it worse is when I include movies i watched for other school stuff it brings the number up to almost 80%. I've literally only seen 4 movies this year that weren't DC comics or required for school lmao. Anyways "top" 6: (bc some of these don't deserve the word top applied)

Yes these are vaguely in order though there's maybe some movement (1 and 2 can honestly go either way)

The Suicide Squad and Krypto and top tier in terms of enjoyment, while Sixth Sense and Akelarre (also titled Coven of Sisters but changing it for the English release was stupid imo so im ignoring that) I'd consider movies that are like Good that I also liked (though Akelarre specifically is depressing AS FUCK). The Batman id put in the middle between the two groups (but like it was also long and i got kind of bored at one point idk. Needs a rewatch in the post-Penguin world).

I feel like I'm cheating by putting the Star Wars Holiday Special on here bc it does NOT deserve it, but there was no obvious 6th pick for me (split between 3 mid movies and none rlly stood out) so I just went for recency bias (watched yesterday) and put Star Wars: THS, a movie which is like the horribly malformed and disowned lovechild between real star wars and a 70s variety show if everyone was doing cocaine (which they were!). Only recommend watching that one with friends really to inturrupt with jokes but honestly was better than I expected, despite being the worst thing I've watched this year.

Uhm tagging @threephantomrey @cometcrystal @tubapun bc they like movies 👍 (and also everyone else but yeah)

[cherry-chaos-cola]

jesus. there's been like 5 new fics/updates in the past 48 hours. 2024 is the year of the ghiralink

[avida-heidia-5]

And now for something…slightly different than usual. Same F1 content, but this time with a different author in mind.

For fans of Tianvette’s work, I’ve drawn a few scenes from some of my favourite fanfics from her. They are the following:

• Forget Me Not

• I Heard You’re A Player, So Let’s Play A Game

• Trust/Fall

• Baby’s First Apology

• Wider, Baby, Smile

• This Time It’s Personal

I haven’t done any drawings for Solar Flare yet, but that might be something to do for the near future. I hope you like them, Tianvette. 😊

[noirrelite]

So what's the story for sirerras independent movement? :eyes:

:screm: sorry for the late reply! I'm a bit shy sharing when it comes to telling rather than showing, it's still kind of a work in progress and writing isn't really my strong suit ^^' the short version: Sierra's a pre-tenno warframe but got a transference bolt to restrict her movement later on after transference was discovered. Alad V would later find her and broke her transference bolt to succeed in controlling her with the mutalist strain. Operator Tala encountered Sierra, destroyed the collar used to control her and rescued her after realizing that she might not be a "hollow warframe" after all, and she's been able to move of her own accord ever since. long ass version for nerds: Sierra was among the first generations of warframes that were capable of acting of their own before the Tenno came back from the void. After transference was discovered, the Orokin no longer needed/wanted the warframes to act independently anymore, so the older warframes like Sierra and the original Kullervo who were still potentially useful-- either because they managed to stay sane enough or were too valuable to destroy-- (Sierra was a bit of both but did end up losing it eventually from being forced to put down her crazed brothers and sisters) were retrofitted with transference bolts to suppress their movement and placed in cryosleep to be assigned to a Tenno later, while newer ones would have them by default. They never found a compatible operator before Prime variants of her model were developed however, so she ended up staying asleep in cryostasis forgotten for the rest of the Old War. Later on she was forced awake when Alad V found her pod in an abandoned Orokin facility and tried to take control of her with the Mutalist strain, but for his experiment to succeed he first had to break the transference bolt to allow the strain to take control of her body. Sierra was eventually pitted against Tala (in her base Rhino warframe) when Tala finally tracked down Alad's lab on Eris. Tala, being relatively inexperienced in combat, struggled, but Rhino's durability and the infestation's imperfect control over Sierra eventually gave her the advantage during their fight and she broke the control collar placed on Sierra. Tala noticed her hostility evaporate, seemingly accepting her impending death from the injuries she sustained during the fight. Fully convinced Sierra was a Tenno now, Tala asks the Lotus to allow her to rescue Sierra, promising to take full responsibility, and removed what remained of the Mutalist infestation from her with the helminth, recklessly hoping to either find a new Tenno friend and if not, add a new warframe to her barebones arsenal. Hope that answers your question! Here's more headcanons related to independent warframes below the cut (also for nerds)

In my personal AU, there's generally 3 (er, 5?) conditions for a warframe to be able to move independently:

they were originally human, which in my headcanon is most if not all orokin era warframes before the Tenno managed to find a way to create warframes without sacrificing people (albeit at the cost of being less powerful). The extent of how much of their memories and personality were erased by the transformation tends to vary for each individual, but in general the Orokin couldn't completely erase every trace of their original selves.

their movement isn't restricted by a transference bolt (either they don't have one or it's specially-made like umbra's, modified, or broken (It doesn't make sense for Codex Rhino Prime, the Orowyrms, and ravenous maws to have transference bolts, and Excal Umbra got one despite never having a Tenno assigned to him, which leads me to believe transference bolts aren't really needed for transference but are just there to suppress the warframe's movement/will for easier control)

they're conscious (many were in a vegetative state because of cryostasis and/or because of the traumatic experiences they went through, but they can be coaxed back into awareness with enough patience or in extreme cases where they sense that their operator is in danger for example) 3.1. Conscious frames with intact transference bolts can technically still move by their own accord so long as a Tenno is transferenced with them, as long as the Tenno in question is letting them take the wheel or is unconscious. 3.2. In extreme but rare cases, such Warframes, given they have strong enough wills (e.g. Rouge) can latch onto and keep their operator captive in a state similar to reverse transference, feeding on their operator's void energy to allow themselves to move while completely ignoring their will. However, these cases are so rare that they're generally considered a myth made up to scare Tenno to treat their warframes with care, and to consider carefully when adopting an operatorless orokin-era warframe.

[have-you-read-this-short-fiction]

[eth3r34l]

It was quiet. Too quiet. Unusual for this home —or rather house— it has never felt like home. Not to her. Then again, she barely remembered what home feels like. She forgot the meaning of it long time ago. But it didn’t matter anymore. This was her life. Was it the life she always wanted? Far from it. Yet, it was the one she had. Would she change how things are? Would love to. However, that wasn’t a possibility. Not now.

A sigh coming from her as she took off her wedding ring, placing it aside on the kitchen counter. Watching as the sink got filled up with water, her mind wandering back to simpler times. Times that were long gone. Just like the cheerful girl with long white hair and a spark in her eyes. She was gone. Perhaps could be considered dead. Replaced by this empty shell of a woman with black hair that she dyed every time the roots began to come in.

She shook her head, trying to get back into reality as she stopped the water. Her hands sliding into it as the dishes clinked against each other, pulling out one of the dirty plates to wash it.

The sound of the front door opening and closing again echoed through the dim lit room, making her tense up. Despite that, she tried to act casual, placing the clean plate on the drying rack. Not turning around as she felt a presence approach her.

“I told you, you don’t have to do this,” a voice said from behind, “We have a dish washer.”

“It’s faster this way,” she replied softly, not even turning her head to look behind her.

There was no reply, just two hands sliding around her waist from behind. Her breath catching in her throat as they made her turn around, now face to face with him as her wet hands stayed in the air.

“I don’t want these beautiful hands of yours,” he spoke to her, taking her hand in his. Grabbing a towel to dry it before placing a kiss on top of it, “Get ruined by that nasty dish water,” he finished his sentence.

Her head turned away from him as he spoke to her, not looking him in his eyes. Feeling him take a hold of her other hand as well, his grip tightening.

“Where’s your ring?” his voice firm as the energy around him shifted completely.

“I took it off—” her answer making him tighten his grip on her wrist further, making her flinch slightly. “Because of the dishes,” she blurted out, “Didn’t want to ruin it—”

“Look at me,” he ordered.

Making her close her eyes as her eyebrows furrowed. There was a hint of hesitation as she turned her head slowly to look at him like he asked. Or rather demanded. Her purple eyes meeting his for the first time since he got home.

“Never,” he said, his jaw clenching and eyes narrowing, “Take it off.” His voice far from gentle as he grabbed the ring from the counter and slid it back on her finger, “Understood?”

She nodded, her gaze dropping to the ground.

“I didn’t hear anything,” he said as he pulled her closer, making her stumble.

“Yes,” she said softly, her body pressing against his as he held her by the wrists.

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[flooffydergen]

I Gave the Entitytale verse Star Sanses A redesign. And I'm also going to do the bad sanses later.... (maybe.)

Redesigns.

[⚠️SENSITIVE LANGUAGE BELOW⚠️]

ReaperLolita. Former Lust Sans Lolita for short.

Background:Was originally A unlust who killed a Reaper With his own scythe taking his Job. Their Form changing to represent Their new job better. Spending several centuries doing their new job Enjoying it much more than their old one. (Stripper.) A Couple Eons latter Their Multiverse was falling into the Void Missing both it's Error and Nightmare. (A F god/NAJ transmigration Multiverse With Errormare) When Daylight found them and offer them a place with Her and Bubble. An former Underswap Sans from a different F God Multiverse far on the other side of the Omniverse. Lolita took one last look at their doomed multiverse And Accepted Daylights Offer. Daylight gifted them their mask. And later found out that Lolita is a young Heartbreak and Death dragon.

Blue raspberry former Underswap Sans Bluerasp for short or bubble His nickname.

Background:Formerly a Underswap blueberry Sans from a F god multiverse. He changed his style one reset Making Stretch his brother. Underswap Papyrus Go crazy at the change And try to lock him up and keep him in His Room. Bubble Quickly Broke out being a Escape artist And Ran into Fallenstar or better known as Daylight. A Dream Variant of unknown Multiverse who offered him a new home and Friend Group or family. I see the condition He worked with Her. Yes the Dream Variant identified as female. Bubble Excepted it. Gaining his new form a Nephlem hybrid (angle demon).

Soulful Is an Ink variant being born in a cannon Multiverse

Now living in Daylights OG Multiverse Known as Entitytale which is technically a MallAU And one of the Few Multiverses with the Creator in some form living there.Instead of tearing his Soul apart like most Ink variants Eras (A former Alpha Sans/Error 404 before being driven insane) Stopped him Before he could taking him to The Entitytale Multiverse introducing him to Daylight after she first Freed Herself from her Self inflicted Stone prison. (her brother Night. Now known as Nightterror Was put in the same prison by her During her rampage Both never Eating the Apples) she was still Traumatized And snappy She Quickly Adopted Soulful (who gained his name after Finding out his Soul is still intact just Severely Dented making forever have the mentality and height of his 6 year old self and Possessing the ability to look like anything he pleases choosing a crystal Alicorn.) as her younger Brother having Missed Night to much immediately Taking the first one that had a similar Emotional Aura As him. (years later she got better but still treats him like a little brother) Soulful now Guards the Entitytale Multiverse entrance from Variants that mean harm. While Living with his new family The EntityStars.

Fallenstar a Dream Variant Her true name Daylight

Adopting the name given to her by a Shattered Dream Variant. Being a Dragon angel Hybrid Formerly just an Angel Her power is immense. (treating the Shattered Dream Who she calls Lucifer like a Father) Lucifer taught her how to control her powers And helped her realize she's Trans. Teaching her how to use Magic She wears a Purple star earring made of Night's magic (E!Passive Nightmare) Almost 24/7 365 days a year She occasionally Travels the Omniverse Rescuing And friending Variants. Entitytale Is completely open to those who seek help shelter or protection or a new life regardless of the souls Past actions. She rescued Lolita and Bubble. an underLust Sans that Gained the Job of a reaper Sans. And a F god Underswap Sans whose brother went crazy at a Change in a reset.

She also Rescued A Underswap Reaperfell Sans. But that's a story for another time and I have yet to get their design into psychical existence.

[portuguesedisaster]

Gotta fucking love Fertagus.