#he deserves instead of examining his pattern of writing across all his books it’s a you problem.

[hauntedmoors]

wheel of time written by nuclear engineer robert jordan is actually about nuclear anxiety and the consequences of the development of new technology aiding and abetting unchecked usage of weapons of mass destruction. in this essay I will -

#that’s what balefire is! #rand contemplating how war tactics will change to accomodate gateways? mat feeling unhappy about aludra’s invention of the cannons? #the seanchan hesitating when they think elayne deployed a powerful weapon to obliterate their forces? the race to get their hands on the #gateway weave? it’s all right there. #text #wheel of time #and brandon sanderson went ahead and glamourised it. bye. #<- lmao I know this tag is going to piss so many people off like stay mad! if you want to interpret his writing with more generosity than #he deserves instead of examining his pattern of writing across all his books it’s a you problem. #brandon

[happyandticklish]

Remnants of Humanity

Notes: Read through Ender’s Game recently, and holy fuck is that book ever taking over my life. Decided to write something for it because the characters were so great and deserve to have some tk content for them!

Summary: Valentine remembers something from Ender’s past and shows him just how much humanity he still has left. 

Ender’s legs dangled off the precipice of the dock, the edges of his toes flirting with the water. It wasn’t the same as Earth, but it was such a close approximation that his chest throbbed with long forgotten memories. He had been here for three years now, slowly cultivating the planet into something livable. Shakespeare had soon grown to be a land quite like any other, with people who fought and laughed and died all the same as they had on Earth. There were a few key differences, of course. Here there was no Peter. Here he wasn’t responsible for the death of an entire species. Here he didn’t have to be a killer.

He had come to the lake on a whim, on the way back from a walk with Valentine. He had explained that he only needed to check up on something back at the base, but they both knew that was bullshit.

In all fairness, it did take her quite a bit of time to finally track him down. By the time she had, he had almost lulled himself into a vague imitation of sleep. Not completely. Never completely. Still, she did manage to startle him when she called out, “So this is where you’ve been going.”

Ender cursed his jump. He hadn’t realized the effect peace would have on him and he wasn’t sure if he liked it. Before, sneaking up on him would have been a laughable concept; now it was a common reality.

“I like it here,” he answered as she sat beside him. Her feet couldn’t reach the water. There had been a time, long ago, when she had towered over him. Not anymore.

“Because it reminds you of Earth?”

Her voice was gentle, familiar. He didn’t answer; he didn’t need to. Valentine often knew his thoughts before he even knew them himself.

Instead, he said, “Do you think I can ever get it back?”

“Get what back?”

“Childhood.” He was fourteen now and already mostly an adult. He hadn’t been a child since he was three. “Getting to be a real person instead of a commander. Playing games and worrying about school, eating an entire cake and then throwing up afterwards. Do you think I could be like them?” He pointed across the lake, to a group of children who laughed and stumbled through the grass, pushing each other out of the way as they raced after some object.

Valentine watched them too and, like he knew she would, shook her head. “No. Childhood is a concept we were never allowed to believe. Once you learn what it’s like to be an adult you can never go back.”

Ender nodded. He had always known that, but it made him feel better to hear the words out of her mouth. He glanced back over the lake and the two fell back into an almost peaceful silence.

Valentine examined him. He had grown so much since that day eight years ago when Graff had first shown up on their doorstep. His arms and legs were gangly and long with corded muscle, and the bulk of his chest was evident underneath his shirt. Even his hair, which back then had been overgrown with soft curls, was now cut back into a neat shave. Technically speaking, he could have grown it out long if he wanted to, but Ender had confessed that he liked having it out of the way; it was a constant that he could always rely on.

Of all the changes, the most apparent was in his face. His eyes were no longer wide with childlike wonder. Now they held all the pain of the universe in them, pain he had caused, pain he had felt, pain he had fought to prevent. There was a profound sadness reflected in it, but it was sadness he had already felt long ago and accepted. Now it lived with him, a reminder of everything he had been forced to become. There were no words she could say that would change that.

She reached out and placed a hand on his knee as well, a simple fragment of human touch to remind him that he was still just that—human. He didn’t move away or even show that he acknowledged her touch, and she took that as a sign of acceptance. She could feel the muscle and bone underneath her fingertips, all the different parts that made up the enigma that was Ender.

She was reminded then of a moment long ago, of a different lake and a different Ender, of her hand on his same knee. It had been so long since then, that she wasn’t sure if he even remembered. It was that memory that prompted her to do what she did next, hoping against everything that it would work this time.

Suddenly and without warning she squeezed her hand right above the bone of his knee. Last time she had done this Ender had caught her. This time he jumped, his leg jerking in her grasp.

His head snapped to look at her, their eyes locking for several, tense seconds. Then he glanced away and coughed, staring at the water. “Oh. Right. I almost forgot I was ticklish.”

Ender Wiggin, the war hero, ticklish. The idea was ridiculous even as she thought it. Who would believe her if she told them? Who would be brave enough to try?

Watching him to make sure it was okay, Valentine squeezed once more. Ender jumped again, seemingly unable to prevent his reactions. A smile slowly, unwillingly crept onto his features. He still wasn’t stopping her.

“I won’t, if you don’t want me to,” she assured him, giving him an out, as well as an oppurtunity he hadn’t been given since he was still living at home; an oppurtunity to be vulnerable once more.

When he didn’t say anything she started to take her hand away, disappointed. The second her hand left his knee, however, he reached out suddenly and grasped her wrist, placing it back where it had been. He wouldn’t meet her eyes and he continued not to speak, but she could read the answers in his face. He needed this; that much was obvious.

He let go of her hand after a moment, after he could see that she had understood his unspoken wishes, and waited for the inevitable. One squeeze. Two. A smile, wobbling. Three. A muffled noise that almost resembled laughter, not that anybody would be so bold to assume so. Four. Then she moved her fingers up slightly, using her thumb and forefinger to dig into the sensitive bundle of nerves contained there.

Ender snorted. They both paused at the noise, shocked by the sound of Ender Wiggin laughing. The sound was stilted and awkward, unaccustomed to being in use, but the potential was there. It was in that moment that Valentine made up her mind to make up for lost time, and dug in with real vigor this time.

Both hands now, both knees, and endless squeezes and pinches that had Ender nearly flying off the dock. All manner of noises escaped him now, chuckles and squeaks and snorts from before, each one adding an extra year onto her life. The sound of his laughter, loud and carefree, quickly became addicting. She discovered that spidering her nails over his kneecaps caused him to giggle, something she had never known before because Ender had never opted to stay still for this long. Even now, his legs shook and jittered underneath her touch, his body’s attempt to save himself from the sensation.

“W-Wahahait!” he cried when she went for his torso, hands colliding with his sides. She knew he didn’t mean it, otherwise he would be stopping her right now. Ender didn’t let anyone do anything to him that he didn’t want. It was almost a reassuring quality about him, something she could always count on. She climbed her fingers up his sides, smiling at the way he crumpled underneath her.

“I can’t believe you’re still this ticklish,” she commented, feeling brave. There was always a moment of hesitation now when she talked with him, where she couldn’t be sure if she was speaking with her brother or to the commander of the IF fleet. There was no question in that moment, however, about who Ender was. “I thought all that soldier training might have made you immune.”

Ender fall back against the dock, a victim to her playful assault. “Wehehe w-weheheren’t trahahained agahahahahainst t-tihihickling!” His legs curled up defensively, but his arms flailed about wildly in the air as he struggled to keep himself from stopping her.

“A shame. Could you imagine if the enemy got ahold of this information?” Valentine teased, poking his stomach relentlessly. Ender squeaked, both hands shooting down before coming back up to cover his face. “You would be doomed for sure.”

“I-I wohohould nehever l-lehet thehem get that clohohose!” Ender insisted, grinning underneath his hands.

“And if they did?” She squeezed his hip, chuckling at his resulting spasm. “What would you do then? What brilliant counter-strategy would you employ, oh great war hero?”

Ender’s hands came down to grab her wrists, the flood of ticklish sensations too much for him to bear. “I-I wohould launch a cohounterattack!”

She furrowed her eyebrows, trying to grab her hands back. “What do you mean—ahaha, Ender, nohoho!”

Valentine squealed as Ender’s hands flew in devious patterns all over her torso, squeezing her hips and sides and vibrating fingers into her ribs. It had been too long to since she too had experienced such a simple thing as tickling, aside from the teasing poke from Peter on occasion. It certainly wasn’t the same as this. She found that she was far more sensitive than she remembered, and instantly collapsed on the ground, weakly batting away his hands.

“W-Wahahait, thihihis ihihihisn’t fahahahair!” she insisted, bursting into giggles as Ender scribbled fingers all over her stomach. “Y-Yohohou weheheren’t suhuhupossed to fight back!”

“Always expect the unexpected,” he reminded her, a smirk playing at his lips that spoke of his victory, and she quickly dissolved into laughter and squirming once more.

It was nearing late evening by the time the two finally backed off of each other; though Ender had eventually let her go, she had turned it quickly back on him and the night had become  a series of quick pokes and teasing jabs. They lay side-by-side on the dock afterwards, watching as the sky glittered with the approach of stars. Night on Shakespeare had been strange at first, as the star patterns here were completely different from Earth. Ender had created his own constellations for them in his mind. He never wrote them down or told anyone, leaving them as one of the few leftover things he kept for himself.

“Thank you,” he said after a beat of silence. “I think I needed that more than I knew.”

He felt a hand on his shoulder and glanced over to see Valentine smiling at him. “Anytime. It’s nice to see you laugh after…”

She didn’t finish, but the rest of the sentence was implied. After everything that happened to you. Ender was grateful too. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift off to sleep in the presence of another person for the first time in almost three years. 

#enders games #ender's game #ender wiggin #valentine wiggin #tickling #fanfic #fanfiction #tickle fic

[saphscribes]

Champagne [Gladio x Reader] [NSFW]

Hi my name is Saph and my specialty is writing fic for people who are having a shitty time of it. This time around is for @cupnoodle-queen ;o; chin up, Mish!!!

Also tagging: @louisvuittontrashbags @hypaalicious @vashiane @sonsoflucis @xnoctits @insomniascure @noxfreyas @sailormars109 @wolfgoddess77 @paopuicecream @ultimoogle @taconinja7 @misssarahdoll @elloquench @ffxvhoe @roses-and-oceans @themissimmortal @cherryblossomcheesecake @me-yasato @kidolegend @the-lucian-archives @thegoddesseos​ @fortheloveofeos

Hyperboles be damned: this whole week had been a crick in your neck.

And speaking of which—you thought you were starting to get one from all that desk work. Gods above, sorting through all that paperwork had been brutal; you don't know what you would have done if not for those occasional supportive text messages from Gladio. Whether it was a picture of a thumbs-up gesture, or a simple You've got this, baby girl three-quarters of the way through your shift, the gentle buzz of your phone every so often was more than enough to put a flutter in your stomach, or make your face light up.

(You knew it did, every time. You didn't even have to look in the mirror to know.)

It was even almost worth every pinched step in your walk back up to your apartment, almost worth the intermittent pain that shot up your legs from having to wear heels for hours on end. And definitely worth the sight of Gladio stretched out on your couch in nothing but a tank top and low-hanging, heather grey sweatpants, one hand in his hair and the other delicately fingering the book in his lap.

He craned his neck over the arms of the couch, looking at you upside-down as you dropped your keys in the bowl by the door and wobbled out of those damned shoes, and a grin spread across his face and lit up his eyes. "There's my girl," he said, a low hum in the pit of his throat.

Your response was nothing more as a groan as you doubled over for dramatic effect, and through the curtain of your hair you heard him coo in sympathy and swivel onto his feet. Within seconds, he'd picked you up in his arms, laughing at the way you latched onto him with your legs around his waist, and started a slow walk toward the bathroom.

"Wanna do something for you," he murmured in your ear, kissing the shell of it before dragging kisses along your cheek and the law of your jaw. Each was more tender than the last, a contrast from the dull ache that had, to your chagrin, jolted its way up to your hips.

"What is it?" you asked, with half an idea of what it might be, but Gladio refused you with another kiss, only setting you down on the toilet and beginning to draw a bath.

Before you could question further, or protest, he was already shuffling out of the bathroom, and returned with a couple of small paper bags. "Go on," he said, pulling out the contents of one of the bags and turning it this way and that. After a moment, he gave you a pointed look. "What're you waiting for?"

You blinked, your gaze darting between his eyes and the the sphere in his hand. "Is that... a bath bomb?"

"Does it look like a bath bomb?" He grinned, nodding toward the tub; the steam was already starting to crawl along your skin. "Less talking, more stripping, babe."

With a flutter in your stomach, and his gaze burning over your body, you slowly slipped out of your work clothes. When you peered into the tub, Gladio had already dropped the bath bomb in, along with the contents of the other bag, and a few moments later, he turned off the water and held his hand out to you to help you in.

The first thing you noticed was the scent, silky and smelling of vanilla and musk. The second thing you noticed were the bubbles that topped off the bath, and the last thing, as you settled with your knees propped up, was the heat, licking over your skin and causing you to shudder in relief.

"That's more like it," Gladio was saying, satisfaction seeping into his voice as he stood in the doorway. "What kind of candles do you want? Woodsy, or champagne?"

"Champagne," you replied after a moment of buzzing thought. "Matches the bath. And you're all the woodsy I need right now, anyway."

"Damn right I am," he said with a rumbling laugh, and your eyes fell shut to the flick-flick-flick of a lighter, and the switch of the bathroom light. They didn't open again until battle-callused hands scaled the length of your neck and began to braid your hair.

"How'd you know about all this?" you asked, surprised at how dazed and relaxed you already sounded.

When you turned to look at him, his eyes were glittering, the most genuine smile playing on his lips. "I know what my girl likes," he said simply, and leaned over to press a soft kiss to your forehead.

Gladio stayed kneeling on the bathroom floor until the bath grew cold. His book lay beside him, and maybe he meant to read it while you soaked, but instead he spent the time tracing idle patterns along the skin he could see above the surface, or urging you to vent about your day. (You didn't. The moment deserved better than that.) And every once in a while, he'd scoop up a handful of bubbles, examine them before blowing them away like a dandelion puff, and burst into laughter when a few of them landed on your nose. Sometimes the laughter was enough to ease just a little more tension in your shoulders.

"Surprised you haven't tried to cop a feel," you teased once, sinking into the bathwater until your shoulders were submerged.

Gladio only grinned. "I'll get to that later."

When most of the bubbles had popped and the goosebumps started to prickle along your arms, you pulled the plug and wobbled to your feet, and Gladio wrapped you up in a towel as he helped you out. He'd already pushed his book out of the way to ensure you didn't get it wet; he seemed to be extra careful about those things nowadays, ever since Ignis had borrowed one and accidentally dropped it during a soak of his own.

You were about to tell him, just as you realized, that you hadn't brought a set of pajamas with you, but the look in his eyes seemed to tell you that you wouldn't need them. He sent you off to the bedroom with a gentle smack to your behind, laughing at the blush that blossomed across your cheeks as he picked up your discarded clothes.

The bedroom was no different than usual, other than a white sheet that covered the comforter, so maybe this was a little more impromptu than you'd originally been led to believe. A nudge from behind had you stumbling toward the bed, and Gladio's lips were at your ear, a finger tugging at your towel.

"Take this off for me, would you, babe? And lie down on your stomach."

The towel rippled to the floor almost instantly, and within moments of following his instructions, music began to play from the speakers on your dresser, and the champagne candle burned away on your nightstand table. There was a weight that eased itself down just between your legs, and a pair of broad hands found purchase at your shoulders. They squeezed, lightly, and your breath hitched, and the hum that Gladio let out was nothing short of satisfied. "Just relax," he murmured, making his way down your back.

As if that were the easiest thing in the world.

Well, at least he made it a bit easier.

You knew there were knots all over your body without having to feel them yourself, and Gladio worked at each one he could find, slow but firm circles that had you whimpering softly and grabbing at the sheet beneath you. He breathed out in time with you, and you squirmed, and every time you did he pressed down a little more emphatically on your hips.

"Stay still," he said, just a hint of teasing at the edges of his voice. "Jeez, you're almost as bad as Noct."

You only folded your arms, resting your cheek on them; if you looked far enough out the corner of your eye, you could catch sight of the ink on his forearm. "Could you do me a favor and not mention Noctis when I'm naked underneath you?"

That made him laugh and dig his thumbs further into the small of your back, and your breath caught in your throat.

The candlelight in all that darkness made it all the more intimate, because there was little to focus on besides Gladio's touch, or the raggedness of his own breath, or the sighs and sated moans you barely realized were coming from you. Every stroke of his hands released that much more tension in you, until you were all but putty under his touch, and the bed began to creak under you, slow but rhythmic.

Wait.

Rhythmic?

Blinking back to awareness, you shifted under his weight, only to feel a familiar, insistent hardness at your ass, and you craned your neck the best you could. You didn't need to look him fully in the eye to know he was grinning with just a hint of pride.

"Told you to keep still." The words were a teasing growl, deep in his throat, and he rolled his hips forward again. "You and those sounds of yours."

"Can't help it." With every motion, he pressed harder against you, until you were spreading your legs to accommodate, sure that soon enough there might be a wet spot lingering on the front of his pants. "You just—ah, shit—have that effect on me..."

Gladio's response was nothing more than a groan, every protest from the bed just loud enough and every movement just firm enough that you couldn't help but rock back against him. His hands slipped under your hips, lifting you up slightly, and the friction of your heat against his clothed length had you tensing all over again.

"Thought you were trying to help me—mm—relax," you said, every word more breathless than the last.

"I am." Another drive of his hips, coupled with the way his nails bit into your skin, and you couldn't help the moan that spilled out of you. "I'm just taking the scenic route."

"You're usually more direct about things, aren't you?"

"You're saying too many things that aren't my name," he shot back, and, as if to scold you, stopped all movement and scooted back.

You were about to protest when you felt his fingers at your core, spreading you open and gathering your wetness, teasing trails from your entrance to your clit and back again. Your breath hitched before you could say anything, and all you could manage instead was a soft moan as he eased one inside. "Just relax," he said again, every word dripping and devious.

Teeth sinking hard into your lower lip, you turned your focus to breathing, in and out with each pump of his hand, and how it seemed to fall in time with the slow, heavy beat of the music. Your fingers curled more tightly into the sheet, and every sensation and sound pulsed through you, until you were barely aware of Gladio sliding a second finger in alongside the first.

"I told you." His words were a bitten-back groan, aching as much as you supposed the rest of him was to push your face into the mattress and take you right there. "I know what my girl likes."

You shuddered, sure he could feel it with every clench of your walls, and his free hand pressed you down at the small of your back, keeping you still. All you could do was whine his name into the sheet, over and over again, hoping that what little leeway you had to move your hips was enough friction against your clit.

It wasn't. Of course it wasn't. Nothing was ever enough until you had him inside you, and the way he was working, it wouldn't be for a while.

"Gladio," you panted, turning your head, limbs shaking. "C-C'mon, baby, please..."

"Please what? Do this?" With the lightest curl, his fingers pressed up against that rough spot inside of you, and your back bowed of its own accord, pushed back down under his palm. "Touch you here?" he asked, knuckle-deep. "Finger fuck you till you come?"

His movements weren't furious, but they ate at you piece by piece, until you were trembling from head to toe, and every sighed yes was a plea as much as it was an answer. It wasn't until the sweat beaded behind your knees and in the dip of your back that he lifted your hips again, just barely, and his free hand reached around to rub slow, tight circles into your clit.

"This what you wanted?" The question was a buzz under your skin, a burn, but you'd tumbled too far into the sensation to answer him. Desperately, you rocked back into one hand, forward into the other, until you could only keep still and cry his name, over and over, as his touch undid you from the inside out.

When he lowered you back down, your legs were still shaking, and your throat had gone dry, but his hands, still coated in your slick, were pushing your thighs apart again. "Keep 'em like that," he said, the weight between them lifting bit by bit. "We're not done yet."

A fresh wave of desire blanketed over you, and sound alone narrated the fiddle of a drawer, rustling clothes, tearing foil. The bed dipped down under his weight again, and the head of his cock, heated and hard, slid between your folds—only teasing, never pressing further. Gods, you were starting to shake all over again, in anticipation instead of satisfaction. Already you wanted nothing more than to back into him, to feel him full inside you in turns.

"Think you can relax enough for me?" he was saying, poised to enter, a smile curling at the edge of his question. "Cause I'm not gonna do a thing until you promise you can keep still."

Your answer as you sank into the bed, was a smile you weren't sure he could see, but he'd been with you long enough to know your habits. "Try me."

He laughed, somewhere deep in his chest, and it took everything in you not to get in one last insistent rock of your hips. "I'll hold you to that, baby girl," he said, and guided his cock in with one slow, fluid stroke.

It always took a moment to adjust to the thickness of him, even when you weren't meant to keep still. You could feel him leaning into you from above, and every soft grunt that tumbled from his lips while he waited for the green light, and gods, did it take you long enough to steady your breathing all over again. One last sigh gave him the okay, and both of his hands were at the small of your back once more, holding you down.

Whatever consciousness you had of anything around you melted away almost instantly. It was easy for that to happen, when you were so consumed by the weight at your hips, the wet in-and-out of him above you, and inside you. His strokes were slow, deliberate, deep enough that you ached with longing each time. And staying flat and still was enough of a task already; his hips would press flush to yours, and the feeling of it pulsed all the way down your thighs.

Heaving breath after breath, you scrabbled to grip at the sheet, or a pillow, every thrust making it that little bit harder to find purchase. "Faster," you moaned, and a jagged sigh followed as your back arched. "Faster, c'mon, I need a little more—"

"You deserve more," he growled, jerking his hips particularly hard; it nearly knocked the wind out of you, and a part of you almost wanted him to fist a hand in your hair and press your face downward. "You always deserve more. You deserve so—much—better—" Another hard thrust with every word, and starlight danced behind your eyes. "than what they're giving you in that shithole.”

Part of you wanted to cover your mouth, head off the sob that was beginning to ball up in your chest, but you decided against it. He always loved every sound. "What—ah, yes, right there—makes you say that—?"

His palms pushed down that much harder, as he leaned most of his weight on you. "Because you're my girl," he said, something primal in the knowing of it, "and my girl always–deserves—the best."

"Fuck—" The pressure was building up in the pit of your stomach, inching toward the edge, and bath be damned—it was worth dirtying yourself all over again.

"Say it," he breathed, laying his weight on you until his chest pressed flush against your back. His hips still moved, and while one hand eased around your hips to find your clit once more, the other reached upward, fingers sliding between yours. "Say you deserve the best."

"I do," you cried out, more a babble than an affirmation, and every time you said it, Gladio moved just a little more feverishly, his fingers losing just a little more finesse. "I do, I do—"

"That's right," he groaned, the bed squeaking insistently underneath you, and a flick of his wrist and a slam of his hips had you toppling over the edge again, singing your own praises as Gladio shuddered above you. Moments later, while the aftershocks danced out from your core and along your nerves, he growled again, teeth sinking hard into your shoulder as his thrusts slowed little by little.

He was still squeezing your hand.

Gladio let out one final breath, a shudder between the two of you, and eased out, rolling off beside you and lazily tying off the condom. In all the excitement he'd managed to shuck his clothes off and fling them into some corner, and a sheen of sweat glistened on his skin and plastered his hair to his neck. But the only thing you savored now—the only thing you regretted not seeing—was the fire that lingered in his eyes, intensified in the champagne candlelight.

"I wasn't joking, y'know," he said, and rolled over just enough to kiss the angry mark he'd left on your skin; it hurt deliciously. "Any chances of quitting on the horizon?"

You shook your head, resting your cheek on folded arms, and he kissed your nose in sympathy. "Food and rent are kind of important."

Slowly, he reached out to brush a lock of hair from your eyes and tuck it behind your ear—every inch of what he was before, and yet the opposite of his most recent self. "Job hunting date this weekend. So you can put your two weeks in."

You laughed, softly, and shifted to turn the music off. "Doesn't sound like much of a date to me."

Gladio grinned. "Most dates with me are like that."

Before long, his fingers began to trail feather-light along the dip in your back, the broadness of your shoulders, until your eyelids grew heavy. Every blink, and he was still watching you; every yawn, and he was still on fire.

"You're gonna remember this tomorrow," he murmured. You didn't know if he meant the impending soreness or your own capabilities, but in the moments he kissed you to sleep, it didn't really matter which it was.

#ffxv fanfiction #ffxv scenarios #ffxv headcanons #ffxv imagines #ffxv reader insert #gladiolus amicitia #gladio x reader #TAKE IT AWAY JOEL #HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!

[haphazardlyparked]

monopoly (more of it)

oh god i can’t stop myself

part one part two

part three

Because Rex didn't believe in talking shop before breakfast – I would’ve called bullshit, except that it also gave me time to pull myself together – I fled back to my room to shower. Sensing the answer to what the actual shit is going on would lead to the headache to end all headaches, I opted instead to run through the pros and cons of whether I should maybe tell Crown about this new development in my life. While I lathered, I also ran through my mental shields and tried to find traces of Rex's shameless mental fingers.   I didn't find any. It didn't mean they weren't there, but I got the sense that beyond surface thoughts (which neither of us could be blamed for picking up) and communication, Rex had been respecting my mental privacy. After the way he’d waltzed through my brain, I didn't think that should count for much, yet I was oddly touched.   I was in the middle of buttoning up a plaid shirt when the oven timer dinged. When I re-entered the kitchen, feeling again like a guest in my own apartment, Rex had already pulled the banana bread from the oven and had it cooling on a rack set at the table. I didn't know I had a cooling rack -- actually, I cooling racks were one of those things that I often thought I’d like to have but couldn’t quite justify owning -- but whatever. Such inconsistencies in my life had stopped bothering me somewhere around the two-week mark.

There was still coffee in the pot, so I busied myself with staring at it while, pouring myself a cup and set it down at the table, across from Rex. I snagged a couple of plates from a cupboard before going to meet my coffee.

“So,” I said, when I sat down. I handed Rex the plates. I took a sip of my coffee. I brushed against Rex’s mind, and found his usual subtly deceptive defenses in place. Rex didn’t say anything, but he rebuffed my questing senses in a way that felt almost indulgent, before slicing the bread and passing a plate back to me. He even slid the tub of butter across the table.  

Seemingly unconcerned by the mind boggling weirdness of us quietly eating breakfast in my apartment, Rex continued writing in his stupid little notebook, pausing only to take an occasional bite. If my staring made him uncomfortable, he didn’t give any indication of that. And I did stare. Intensely. For the entire time it took me to eat, and believe me I ate slowly, because just like everything else these past weeks, the bread was just a little too sweet and thus exactly how I liked it. If I was going to be ruined for all other food, I was at least going to savor it.

Just as I contemplated then decided against eating a third slice of bread, Rex set aside his notebook and looked up at me.

“So,” he said casually, like his timing wasn’t eerily perfect.  

“So.” I took another sip of my coffee. “This strange domesticity has been nice.”

“Yes,” Rex agreed. “But now you want answers.”

“Oh boy, do I.”

“I won’t play games with you, Monopoly.” I laughed at that, and Rex had the grace to look rueful. “Not about this, at least. I’ll cut to the chase. A man name Isaac Wells will approach you sometime within the next three weeks, with a job offer you can’t refuse.” He paused, then said firmly, “So don’t refuse it.”

I arched a brow at him. “Why are you telling me to accept an offer I can’t refuse, if it’s an offer I can’t refuse?”  

“Because I know you.” He flashed a wry smile that cut more than he probably meant it to.

“Oh fuck me, you do.”

It was one thing to be treated to my favorite foods and have things in my apartment fixed like magic elves had made me their pet project, but it was another thing entirely to be reminded of how freely and deeply Rex had examined my mind. He knew me with an intimacy that scared the shit out of me when I finally thought about it. Jesus fuck.

“I won’t apologize,” Rex said bluntly. “But I won’t use it against you, either.”

“What d’you call this, then?” I jabbed a finger at the banana bread and the butter, which were so precisely what I loved that I felt very stupid for not fully putting two and two together earlier.  

“I call this using it for you?”

I thought about that for a moment. Strangely, I believed Rex when he said he wouldn’t use what he’d learned about me against me. I didn’t know why, but that matter-of-fact statement eased some of the anxiety in me — apparently, I didn’t mind being an open book. (Apparently, I also trusted Rex, but I decided that obsessing over the revelation was too much of a hassle and promptly stopped thinking about it.)

“Alright,” I said. “That’s fair.”

“Really?” Rex said, like he couldn’t believe I was giving in this easy.

I shrugged. “You haven’t murdered me yet,” I said, which sounded way less crazy than god help me, I trust you.

“You know,” Rex said, and he was grinning now, bright and unrestrained. “I think the most disturbing thing here may be your placid acceptance.”

I winced. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’ve let a supervillain traipse about your apartment for a month and a half.”

“If you’re expecting me to complain about all the free food and amazing water pressure in my shower, you’re going to be waiting for a long time.”  

“See?” he asked rhetorically, in an almost wondering way. “I attempted to murder every single soul in this city, and you don’t care that I made a copy of your apartment key and then upgraded all the locks.”

“I care,” I objected. “I was very annoyed, when I came home to find myself locked out of my own apartment. But then I found the new key you hid under the mat.”

Rex stared at me pointedly.

“Right. So we can agree that it was exceedingly creepy of you to do all of that shit, and the fact that I didn’t really care was somewhat disquieting. But besides that — ” I paused, because of course this was what finally made me hesitate. “Besides that, regarding the whole citywide lobotomy thing… I don’t think you ever mean to go through with it, Rex.”

The chair scraped against the floor loudly, and suddenly Rex was standing. His expression was casually neutral as he tucked his notebook into a back pocket and stuck his pen behind his ear. I gaped at the speed of his retreat.

“Hero-ing is a part-time gig, at best, with nonexistent hazard pay,” Rex said, before heading for the door. “Accept Wells’s job offer, Monopoly. And some friendly advice – try not to run into Quickdraw too much.”

“I know Quickdraw is an asshole who will deserve it when Gazelle finally snaps and drowns him in a tub,” I said. New to the team, I had only ever met Quickdraw over a conference call, but those three hours had been more than enough time for me to pass judgement on him. “He’s also got at least two months left on his prison sentence in Korea, which Seabird refused to bail him out of.”

“How convenient,” Rex said, and I could tell he wasn’t really talking to me anymore. He opened the door.  

He locked the door behind him.

“How conscientious.”

I heard Rex’s laughter in my head, followed by, Take the job, Monopoly.

Fuck off, I shot back, and resolutely did not think about how this was becoming a pattern.

•

"I would appreciate you staying out of my mind, thanks," Isaac Wells said politely. He had dark hair and reminded me of that time my middle school librarian scolded me for getting jam all over one of the books.

I glanced away guiltily. "Reflex, sorry. How did you know?"

Wells had the shields of someone who had been taught to ward off mental attacks, but they lacked the shifting liveliness of a psychic. I had thought my touch would be light enough that he wouldn't notice.

"Lucky guess," he demurred. “The odds tend to favor me, every now and again,” he added, which wasn’t cryptic at all. 

“Sorry again. I’ll respect your privacy, of course."

"It's fine, really, I understand curiosity. The job is still yours," he reassured me. "That is, if you want it."

"I'm still not sure why you’ve made the offer," I confessed. It was slightly less honest than saying what really bothered me, which went more or less along the lines of There is something seriously fucking wrong with you but I can’t figure out what it is. “What could I possibly offer to a VR firm? I struggle with my home computer.”

This was not an exaggeration. Rex had updated my operating software, and all the shortcuts had changed on me.

"I’m of the opinion that a psychic's unique insight into individual’s perspectives could really help us improve our storyline and world construction."

That made a perfect amount sense. My skin crawled. "I'll think about it," I hedged.  

Rex was right: it was an offer I couldn’t refuse. Well-paid part-time consulting, that would both cover my bills and still leave me the flexibility to stay on the team. And just as Rex said, I wanted to refuse it.

"I really hope you will put serious thought to the idea," Wells said in earnest. I knew he was being sincere, genuinely so too, but I also thought his sincerity was hiding something else that was just as genuine.

“I have your number, so…” I trailed off, smiling awkwardly.

“Take a few days,” said Wells graciously. “Friday would be a perfect time to call and discuss where you’re standing.”

•

On Friday, I called the number. “Hi, this is Min Huang, for Mr. Wells.”

“Hold on just a moment.”  

There was a beep.

“Min, I’m so glad you called,” Wells’s voice came over the phone a moment later. “Please don't think me rude, but I’d love if we could jump straight to business. Where do you stand, if you don’t mind me being blunt?”

“I’m interested,” I said. I was still being honest; Wells’s act-that-was-and-wasn’t-an-act intrigued me. Normally, I would have erred on the side of caution and ignored my interest, but on top of that, I was curious about what Rex wanted to happen.

“Well, I hope I can push that interest into you signing! You know what? How about you come over to our offices, and I can give you a tour. I think if you can meet the rest of the team, you’ll really get a sense of what a unique operation I’m asking you to be a part of.”

I had to hand it to Wells – he was a persuasive man. “All right, I think I can agree to that.”

“Great – I’ll have my assistant send you the address. Come around three? Great!” Wells said, his enthusiasm jarring. “See you then, Min.”

•

“And this,” Wells said with a flourish as we came to the grand finale of his office tour. His research firm had the whole three-story building, though he had only lead me through HR and the media teams before taking me to the basement, where R&D lived. Our tour ended before a room surrounded by four glass walls. It had a large conference table in the middle and easy view of the rest of the R&D desks behind us, the hallway, and the labs on the other side of the hallway. There were two people sitting at the table, a man and a woman. 

“This is Research and Development, Psychic Division. Welcome!”

Wells pushed flung the doors open. It would have been more dramatic if I hadn’t already seen the entire room through the glass.

He’s likes to make a scene, the woman said.

Flinching, I threw up my shields with a bit a sting tossed in, learned from when Rex’s automatic ones had pinched at me. A minute later, I sheepishly removed the sting and lowered my shields. A little.  

Jesus fuck, I broadcasted. Warn a person.

“Are you already introducing yourselves?” Wells cut in, politely drawing attention back to himself. “I’m afraid I can’t tell. Allow me to offer verbal introductions – Min Huang, this is Allison Kent and Leonard Yalt. And the director is around here somewhere…”

“Isaac, you’ve brought by the recruit,” Rex said brightly, stepping through the door and managing to surprise me. It had to be superpower, because that was a glass fucking door he somehow hid behind, how was he still able to do this?

Rex was thoroughly unapologetic when he thought at me, Oh, did I forget to warn you. “You must be Min Huang,” he said out loud. He held out his hand. I tried not to gape. “I’m Karl Simon. Has Isaac been doing a good job of wooing you?”

You unholy ass, I thought, and shook Rex’s hand. “It’s good to meet you, Mr. Simon. Yes, Mr. Wells has had a lot of fascinating things to say. I’m nearly persuaded.”

“Please, call me Karl,” Rex said, and suddenly my head was filled with Rex’s laughter and the etymology of ‘Karl’, which once meant ‘common man.’

“You can still call me Min Huang,” I said, refusing to give him an inch. It means, ‘You’re not actually funny, asshole.’

You should be nice, I’m about to become your boss. Rex turned towards Wells and beamed. It was unsettling. “How soon can we get Min Huang on board, Isaac?”

“As a matter of fact, I was just about to see if I could tempt Min up to HR with me,” said Wells. “Though perhaps I was feeling a little overconfident?”

It took me a minute to realize that was a polite question. “Oh no,” I said. “This tour has really – made an impression. I’d love to accept the job.”

Wells clapped his hands together. “Absolutely fantastic. Karl, as division director, why don’t you take Min up to see to the paperwork? I’m afraid I’ve got a conference call with some partners in Korea regarding tech.”

“Certainly,” Rex said. “Min, let’s head this way.” 

“It’s an honor to be working with you, Karl,” I said to be polite.

“Believe me, Min, the honor is all mine.”

You bet your ass it is, jerk. 

#prompt response continued #excuse me while i fill your dash with a superhero named because SOMEONE misread 'gender neutral name' as 'gender neutral game' #then decided monopoly is gender neutral #monopoly #superheroes #writing #year of the orange

[i-minato-chan]

I should have been working but I have a headache so I wrote fanfiction instead.

Cosmere fans, have an awful thing I did.

Fitch,

                I maintain that the Blad defence is a perfectly reasonable application of defensive Rithmancy. Combining it with the Taylor defence in the way Henrys suggests is, I think, foolish. It’s far too convoluted – I tried drawing his form in a practice duel. I mightn’t be the fastest duellist, but I’d like to think I have enough skill to get these Lines down. But I digress. Simplicity is the way to go, I think.

 On a lighter note, I’ve found the book you were looking for. It’s a ragged old thing – I’m going to copy it out for you, rather than risk sending the original. I see why you were so interested in it – the contents are fascinating. I hope you don’t mind me co-opting your research somewhat, but there’s something incredible that brooks no delay. I’ll elaborate next time, if I can.

 I got your other note, by the way. Thank you.

                                                                                Andrews

 P.S. If you wouldn’t mind enlightening me – what date does Armedius start teaching again?  

Andrews,

                The Blad defence may well be effective, but the use of Lines of Warding in such a way is not going to enhance defensive practices without some considerable study. I’m inclined to agree that combining it with the Taylor defence is somewhat unnecessary, but Henrys will do as he does. Best to let him experiment – he may hit on something we have missed. Given the amount of time we have available, at least in theory, we should look beyond the quickest defences and at the sturdiest Lines possible.

 This indeed is wonderful news – I shall wait in anticipation. I hope my work on the SB is useful, though I’m not sure there is enough of substance there to be significant. We don’t exactly get a great deal of time to examine the Rooms, do we? I suppose it helps the church maintain an air of mystery.

 The first day back in lectures is the fourth of September. I gather you start back on the sixth?

                                                                                Fitch. 

 The letters didn’t exactly come often. Fitch’s post was collected every week, with urgent letters coming straight to his office. It normally took Professor Andrews’ messages about a fortnight to get to Canadia and back. Sometimes they took longer, like when Andrews had been censured for something or other. He hadn’t detailed why, and Fitch hadn’t pressed too hard. Andrews hadn’t sent anything over the summer, which was unusual. Fitch had kept him updated on a few things in his research, not really expecting a reply to the dryer letters. That wasn’t really the point of the correspondence.

Today, however, was one of the urgent-letter days.

 Fitch,

                Breakthrough. Here is the copy of the book I promised. I’ve included my notes on the SBs and on Calculation. There is one more thing – a present for the young Master Saxon. Another note is included in the box.

                I trust you’re right about him.

                                                                                                                Andrews.

 The letter was scribbled, obviously written in haste. Andrews’ handwriting was normally immaculate, precise, in the manner of most Rithmatists. Fitch had never seen the younger man’s script anything less than perfect, even when he’d been writing at furious pace. He shrugged it off, and examined the package that had been delivered with the letter. Contained within was a stack of papers, as promised. They were written in Andrews’ normal hand, annotated with a certain kind of shorthand that Fitch recognised instantly. The title read Shadows of Calculation. Fitch had assumed it was just an early Rithmatic text, but Andrews appeared to think differently.

Beneath the papers was another, smaller package. Carefully wrapped in several sheets of paper was… a stick of chalk. Fitch picked it up curiously. The colour was unusual, a sort of greyed-out gold, and it was shaped to provide a sharp point. Rather than the normal round end, it had been set into a six-sided pattern. It looked like it was supposed to last – the base of the chalk was wrapped in a sheet of metal almost the same hue as the chalk itself. It didn’t seem at all unusual, and Fitch set it back in confusion. This was a gift for Joel, so really, he had no business looking through it.

  Master Saxon

                I do hope this gift finds you well, as there are many things it must convey and not much time or space in which to do so. Professor Fitch kept me up to date with all of last year’s ‘adventures’, as he put it. I quite approve of your involvement, but thought you might need an… edge.

Context, quickly – my husband is a chalkmaker, like your father. They kept up a correspondence, much like Fitch and I. (My condolences on your loss, even if it is nearly a decade late.) His constant desire to refine new types of chalk was, in some sense, the inspiration for our work.

I digress. Suffice it to say, my husband and I thought that you of all people deserved to have this, and that if you have any more adventures like the last series, you might need it.

                                                                                             Professor Andrews.

 The letter sat on the table in front of Joel. His breakfast, half-finished, lay forgotten next to him. In his fingers, he turned the piece of strange grey chalk over and over. It felt strange to the touch, and try as he might Joel could make no mark on the table with it. The letter included nothing that might tell him what it was, why he’d been given it, or what he was supposed to do with it. He had nothing to do for today – lectures didn’t start until next week, and all his paperwork had already been sorted. Might as well work on this problem today, before all the students returned. 

 “And you say you can’t do anything with it?” Melody asked, holding the chalk up to her face and scrutinising it closely.

“Nothing.” Joel shrugged. He’d tried pressing lightly, softly, at different angles, everything he could think of.  Nothing worked.

“What a mystery.” Melody said, dramatically placing the chalk against a piece of paper she’d been using, practising a Rithmatic drawing.

“What do you th-” Melody started, then stopped. Joel was looking down at the paper.

The chalk was marking the paper, bleeding out like ink. Melody dropped it, and it stopped.

               “What was that?” Melody asked as Joel picked the chalk up.

               “I… don’t know.” Joel admitted absently, focused on the chalk stick. “What did you do?”

               “Nothing. I was going to draw…” Melody frowned. “A Line of Making.”

               A Rithmatic Line. Joel placed the chalk against the paper – and drew a single, perfectly circular line about a handspan across.

               “Wait, that worked?” Melody asked, confused. “Why?”

               “Because I was thinking about what it should be.” Joel was breathless with excitement. He drew a few more lines, adding until the circle was the centre of a tiny Eskridge defence.

               “Eskridge, right? So what?” Melody asked.

               “Send a chalkling at it.” Joel said, excitedly trying to sketch a Line of Making. He’d never drawn a creature before, so the stick man turned out oddly proportioned. Melody looked strangely at him, but complied, drawing a unicorn with more detail than any professor Joel had ever seen. It pranced towards Joel’s stickman, and both students held their breath in anticipation.

               The unicorn hesitated for a moment just out of reach of the immobile stickman, probably a reflection of Melody’s confusion. Then it advanced, trying to pass the stickman by.

               The stickman’s arm moved, striking the unicorn on the head. A tiny puff of chalk came away, and the unicorn spun around. It ripped the stickman to pieces in a heartbeat, Melody’s incredible Line of Making far outclassing Joel’s.

               “Dust!” Melody gasped. “Joel, did you-?”

               “Yeah.” Joel grinned from ear to ear. He tossed the piece of chalk in his hand, then held it up to the light. One face was ever so slightly lighter than the rest, where the chalk had been used. This was something his father had, apparently inspired – and now it was his.

               “Let’s go. I need to talk to Fitch.”

#cfsbf #rithmatist #fanfic

[sopheronipepperoni]

mansuetude

“Oh!”

Fenris looked up from the book, seeing Hawke hunched over the rough hewn table, clutching her hand.  She set the knife down on the surface, away from the berry tart in its parchment wrapping.

“Are you alright?”

She glanced at him, a sheepish grin on her face.  “It’s just a scratch.”  She put the finger to her mouth.  Knowing her propensity to underrate wounds, he rose from the bed and went to examine her for himself.

“Really, I’m fine, Fenris.”  Taking her hand, his calloused fingers ghosted over her pale skin, and in the flickering firelight he saw a thin line across the tip of her finger.  A bead of blood welled.

“It is fortunate that you are a mage, Hawke, if your skill with this knife is any indication.”  There was a wry twist to his mouth.

She scoffed.  “Honestly, Fenris.  You’ve seen me use a knife plenty of times.”  Embarrassed at his concern, she removed her hand from his and turned away.  He felt her magic slide into the space between them, its presence soothing to him as it mended her skin.

The small glow faded, and Hawke reached for the knife again.

“Allow me.”  She shot him a withering  glare, but let him finish cutting the berry tart without complaint.  When he was finished, she ate her piece with her fingers.  Small crumbs caught on her bottom lip and the fabric of her tunic.  Fire danced in her hair; Fenris turned away in a sudden fit of shyness.  In that moment, he felt so underserving of her, undeserving of this time with her as they moved to stay a step ahead of the spreading mage rebellion.  

The tart was sweet and sour and buttery on his tongue, a bright note against his darkening thoughts.

Her hand was cool on his skin as she touched him.  “Are you alright?” An echo of his words not long before.  “You seem distracted.”

He shook his head.  “I could ask the same of you.”

Hawke flushed.  “I don’t—”

“Really, Hawke.  Not only did you cut yourself, but you had been hunching over the table for near on a quarter hour.”  He had her and he knew it.

All of the air rushed from her in a sigh.  “I guess there’s no point hiding it, then.  I’ve received word from Varric.”

He felt a smile tugging on his lips at mention of Hawke’s friend —his friend too, now— before he registered that Hawke should be happy.  Instead, her lips were pursed, and that thin line of worry was visible between her brows.

“What is it?”  He himself frowned, and a knot of worry took root in his stomach.

“He’s decided to ally himself with that rising force we’ve been hearing about.  The ‘Inquisition,’ they’re calling themselves, after the late Divine’s wishes.”  She removed something from underneath the tart’s wrapping —Varric’s letter, he assumed.  “What he’s written…it’s troubling, Fenris.”

He took the letter, scanning it himself even though only a handful of words were discernible in Varric’s messy scrawl.  Demons and army and magic and breach stared up at him from the page.  “We shall keep an eye on it, Hawke.”

She looked like she wanted to say something, but she swallowed her words instead.  He set down the letter and reached for her.  The knot of worry hardened inside him.

First Kirkwall, and now this?

Another month passed.  They continued to move from town to town, avoiding pockets of mage-templar conflict, and staying off of the roads when they could.  Hawke refused to discard her staff, instead settling for removing the blade and disguising it as a walking stick.  Even tucked away from the Waking Sea, they still heard tales of Kirkwall, and the fires Ander’s actions had sparked.  

Through whispers in forest and tavern alike, Hawke determined to find the Wardens and learn more about Meredith’s cursed sword.  Rather, what they heard was news of the spreading rifts into the Fade, of demons coming in the night, of the growing Inquisition and its so-called “Herald of Andraste.”

Snow lay on the ground, and at nights they huddled together to stay warm.  

One such night, Fenris woke to find the space beside him empty, the blankets of the inn bed tossed aside.  

Lifting his head, his eyes roamed around the room blearily, finally settling on Hawke.  She was sitting before the fireplace, paper in her hand.  Varric’s latest letter.

A spark of anger ignited in his gut, joining the cold ball of worry that had made his stomach its home ever since Hawke received the first epistle.  He knew it was not anger at Hawke; he thought it was not even anger at Varric for writing to her.  Rather, it was anger, hot and sharp, at the injustice of it all, of finding some modicum of peace and hope with Hawke, only to have even that comfort shaken.  

He dragged a hand down his face before rising from the bed and joining her in front of the hearth.  He didn't bother pulling on a shirt; Hawke had taken to wearing his, anyway.

“Hawke.”  He saw her flinch at her name, saw the way she seemed to draw into herself.  Frowning, he took the letter from her hands —they were trembling, he realized with alarm.

“Hawke.”  His voice was gentler this time, and he gathered her to his side with one hand, reading the cursed letter in his other.  It took some moments for him to puzzle out the letters into words.  This time, he made out attack and Frostbacks and Wardens missing and red lyrium and—

and—

Corypheus.

He sucked in a breath, the air hissing between his teeth.  

“Did I do this, Fenris?”  Hawke’s voice was small and uncharacteristically bleak sounding, under his arm.  “Carver…Maker, I haven’t heard from him in ages…I just thought he was so busy with Warden business, I never thought…do you think…?”  She trailed off, a note of panic entering her words.

“Hawke—”

“And Corypheus!  I should have just left well enough alone—”

“Be reasonable.  He was trying to make an attempt on your life.”  His voice was fierce, and he felt some solace to hear her fall silent at his admonition.

Heartbeats stretched between them, a regular counterpoint to the crackling of the logs in the fire.  He tried to dispel the feeling of mounting dread and panic by shifting to wrap her more firmly against him.  Her fingers traced patterns against the lines of lyrium on his arms.  “I feel so guilty.  So responsible.”  

He had no words to heal her, not these wounds.  He had been there, fighting next to her against the twisted and ancient Magister.  “You don’t have to shoulder this weight alone, Hawke.”

But he knew she would not listen to him.  Corypheus had been after her blood, not his.  

“I failed to destroy him, it seems.  Therefore, I helped set him free, Fenris.”  

His brow furrowed even more, deep grooves etching into his face.  He heard an unspoken decision in her words.  “I will remain at your side, Hawke.  You must know that.”

He felt her shudder, and was surprised to feel wetness against his skin.  “I cannot ask that of you, dear one.”

“It would be folly to ask otherwise.”  He rested his chin against her hair, his hands smoothing over her.  “If you wish to commit to this path, I will go with you.”  There was finality in his tone, brooking no argument.  

Her fingers scrabbled against his shoulder as she moved to sit up.  Her eyes were wet, and her lips tilted upward against the tear tracks down her cheeks.  She cupped his face in her hands.  “I know you will, Fenris.”  She brushed her lips against his, voice a tremulous murmur.  “I know you will.”

He was on the edge of sleep, later, with Hawke curled against him, when he heard her say, “It is decided, then.”  The odd note in her voice was forgotten in the new day.

A week passed, and they were leaving yet another town behind them.  They were unsure of where to go next, only seeking to gain any information about Grey Wardens and the Inquisition.  But even north as they were, the Inquisition was still just a specter, and reliable information of any sort was hard to come by.  Here, even fears of demons were talked about in tight-lipped whispers.  

Even so, a smile flitted across his face as he picked his way across the ground, ducking beneath a snow-laden tree bough.  

Hawke, insisting upon going to the market to get more supplies by herself, had flitted away through the crowd, promising to meet him at midday at the river a mile outside of town.  It had cheered him to see some of her liveliness restored, even though that knot of worry still stayed inside him.  

He did not relish the idea of yet more conflict, bringing yet more opportunities for something to happen to Hawke���ah, but that was why he was going with her, he mused.  She was his, and he would protect her until his dying breath.  

A breeze whistled through the wood, and Fenris hunched his shoulders.  Above him, the tree branches creaked and bent around him like a chantry’s cathedral.  The small parcel he carried sat warm and unassuming in a pouch next to his skin.  It was a small token of his affection, but somehow just as symbolic as their red ribbons.  Within the first weeks of fleeing Kirkwall, they had made their vows, their fates forged hot and strong through the years.  Hawke’s desire to split up and gather supplies alone had finally given him a chance to purchase a pair of simple metal bands.

He knew she deserved better, and that she did not require a ring, but he was excited just the same to finally slip the token onto her finger.

The forest around him was still, with only the intermittent birdsong.  He saw rabbit tracks in the new snow fall.  His breath crystalized in the air.  The thought of Hawke waiting quickened his steps.  

Ahead, he could see the glint of sun off of ice.  Stepping out of the trees, he shaded his eyes, looking around.  The river wended away from him, partially frozen.  Cattails and rushes clung desperately near the bank.  

Hawke was not there.

He paused, checking the sun’s position in the sky.  Turning, he scanned around him, looking for her.  His heartbeat was loud in his ears.  Despite the unease he felt, he hunkered down underneath a gnarled tree at the edge of the wood, determined to wait.

The sun climbed higher, and then began its descent.  As he sat, huddled against the cold, the conversations over Varric’s letters came back slowly to him.  Along with it came Hawke and the feeling of renewed purpose she had adopted over the weeks since, the way she had kissed him last night as they had lain together—

With blinding clarity, Fenris knew.  

He knew.

The ball in his stomach frosted over as pain lanced through his heart.  His vision flashed white, impossibly hot.  Without looking, he knew his brands burned on his skin.

In a fury, he scoured the terrain for her boot tracks, anything to give a clue about which direction she had taken, if she had even come this way at all.  But there was nothing, only the soft susurrous of the wind.  His knees buckled beneath him, and he fell to the snow.  

Betrayal and rage warred within him.  He let them, giving them their heads; better to feel those so strongly, rather than give into the sense of despair and despondency that loomed heavy on the horizon.  

Had she thought she was doing him a kindness, by not telling him goodbye?  Had she thought she was being gentle, by making his choice for him?

Memories of his confessions to her danced through his mind.  

Nothing could be worse than the thought of living without you.

If there is a future to be had, I will walk into it gladly by your side.

A wolf howled in the distance, a haunting and mournful sound.

Stepping from underneath the overhang, Hawke raised a hand to shield her eyes against the bright morning sunlight filtering into the courtyard.  The crisp mountain air was a welcome change from the somewhat stuffy infirmary, clearing her head.  She rolled her neck, feeling the ache that still lingered from the fighting and marching from Adamant.  The unsettling fatigue of depleted mana hovered over her, a malaise that was retreating with each day.  She refused to take lyrium potions, as a sort of atonement.

After escaping from the Fade, Hawke had felt paranoia and fear seep deep into her bones.  In her sleep, shadowy figures haunted her, taunted her.  The images of demons that visited her each night set her nerves on edge, one of the only times in her life she had worried about possession.  She had hardly slept since returning to Skyhold.

A footstep sounded off to her right, and she tensed.  Her line of thinking stopped.  “Feeling more restored, serah Hawke?”  One of the Wardens.  After Stroud’s sacrifice, the remaining Wardens had deferred to her without hesitance; Hawke felt out of her depth, and sensed underlying confusion and resentment flowing among the soldiers.

Forcing herself to relax, she dropped her hand from her neck.  “Yes, I quite think the worst has passed.  What of yourself?”

“We’re ready to move at any time; the troops are getting restless.”  He drew up his shoulders.  “I would recommend moving out in the next few days.  Inquisition scouts tell of a storm front blowing in; we would do best to put at least a day between us and it, or we must stay here until the passes clear again.”  

“What would you advise?”  

Approval shone in his eyes as he straightened, more at attention.  Hawke wondered if it was a conscious move.  “I would suggest readying to move by tomorrow, and setting out with the dawn.  We would keep the sun on our side.”

She nodded her agreement, and seemed to look at the Warden for the first time.  Exhaustion still lined his visage, despite the refuge offered at Skyhold, but he still stood straight and proud.  Unbroken by Corypheus.

For a moment, she envied him.

Refusing to pick at that particular wound, she turned away as he moved off to tell the other Wardens.  Instead, she braced herself for the coming journey, trekking through the Frostbacks and all the way through Orlais.  They would need to pass through war-torn lands, crawling with demons and Maker knew what else, and Weisshaupt loomed heavy in her mind.

That wound was too painful, too.  From the Warden stronghold, where would she go?  Where could she rest, with the world so in turmoil?  Kirkwall surely would not be ready to receive her as Champion yet;  she was no Commander of the Grey to remain in Weisshaupt.  And Fenris-

The bundles of letters, wrapped in oil cloth inside of her pack, seemed to accuse her for her silence.

She was a coward, Hawke.

For nearly every day after leaving him, she had penned a letter to Fenris.  She hadn’t even sent one herself, instead telling Varric to send one on her behalf.  He had managed to keep her abreast of Fenris’s whereabouts as best as he could for the past months, and the rumors the dwarf had shared of a lyrium-lit demon hunting down slavers in a hellish rage had near broken her heart.

The fear that the Nightmare had brought out in her, the sheer terror of losing him for good, was fresh in her mind.  And because of that, she had resolved herself to helping the Wardens, at least for a time.  She viewed it as a kind of penance, for running from him, and for surviving when in many ways it should have been Stroud.  A bitter smile stole onto her face.  After all, she was very good at running, at surviving.

The flight from Lothering.

All of the years in Kirkwall, fighting for justice while running from her feelings.

Fleeing Kirkwall after the destruction of the chantry.

And now Fenris, her faithful ghost who would have gladly marched into Hell itself at her side, the only home she had come to care for the past three years.

An icy breeze swept around her, and she stared balefully up at the keep itself.  She supposed she should consult with the Inquisitor about leaving.

Hawke stood, holding the letters in her hand, when the knock came late that afternoon.  Curious, she opened the door; the air rushed from her lungs.

There he was, right in front of her.  Windswept hair and green eyes, with relief written clear on his face.  She noticed that he wore a fur across his shoulders and a thicker tunic under his breastplate.  Her breath hitched, and despite her fears and doubts, Hawke threw her arms around him with a wordless shout.

He fairly crushed her to him, and it settled her to feel him around her, like no wounds were between them.  After a moment—too short— Fenris released her.  “May I enter?”  She shivered at his voice, so rich and achingly familiar.  Her heart stuttered a bit, though, at the deeper meanings behind his question.   She ushered him inside, dimly aware that she was not eager to have it out with Fenris in view and hearing of the garden and mage tower both.  Fenris set down his pack before turning back to her.  His olive eyes were unreadable in the room’s light.  “Hawke.”

“Fenris…” His eyes burned into her. She had imagined their reunion a thousand times, and still she knew not what, exactly, to say.  She settled for honesty, and braced herself for his anger. “Fenris, I’m incredibly sorry.”

For a moment, his face was stone, the air in the room brittle.  She couldn’t breathe.  Then something about him softened.  “I am somewhat mollified to see that you are in one piece.” He seemed to struggle with something.

“I understand if you are angry—”

“Angry?” There was a sardonic twist to his lips, and she felt the tension harden, momentarily shadowing his relief.  His voice was quiet in the deadly still way he had. “Anger is a quaint word, now.”  She flinched, turning away and hugging herself.  It felt like another failure of hers; she couldn't even face his anger.  “I nearly went blind with rage when I discovered what you had done.  I lost myself for a time, before the quiet acceptance came.  I could not even bring myself to keep hunting after you, taking my fury out on slavers, instead.”  A fresh wave of heartache broke over her.  “To leave, after all that…”  She felt, rather than saw, him take a step towards her.  “I would have walked anywhere by your side, Hawke—”

Something within her broke.  “I couldn’t let you, Fenris.  I was so afraid of something happening—”

“So you made the choice for me?”  His face screwed up at that.  “It was never yours to make.”  The echoes of the cold fury—the anguish— in his voice pierced her, sharp with unvoiced accusations.  “I would have followed you anywhere.”

Now she felt tears prickle.  “ ‘Would have’?”  She felt she was in another nightmare, this one somehow more terrible than anything from the Fade.  While she had expected their reunion to be…turbulent, she had also hoped for more time before they sifted through the jagged edges between them.

All at once, Fenris quieted, and heaved a sigh.  “Will.  That has not changed, now that I am here.”  She saw a glimmer of hope in him, buried beneath his relief and pain.  She remembered another time, where she had carried a similar hope within her, when she had visited Fenris in his mansion after three long years of waiting.

Her voice was a quiet, fragile thing when next she spoke.  “I am willing, if you will still have me.”  She tried to convey all of the unspoken things through her gaze.  Fenris took another step towards her, and another.

Numbly, she felt his gauntleted hand brush against her cheek.  “I told you before, Hawke.  Nothing could keep me from you.”  His green eyes bored into her, but this time she did not shrink away from him.  “We have much to discuss.  I was angry; I felt abandoned…” He sighed, glancing away.  “And then I was resigned, once I received Varric’s first letter, that you would send for me when you were ready…”  Her breath caught, at the last bit, and his eyes snapped back to hers.  “ I will remain at your side.  Should you have me.”

Hawke broke into a watery smile, choking.  “After everything?  It is a wonder that you do not hate me.”

Fenris scoffed.  “Hate you?  No.”  She could still feel the emotions surging within him, but he mustered a half-smile, in that slightly exasperated way he had.

“I wrote to you.”  

His brow furrowed, the smile fading as confusion crept into his voice. “Varric was the one who told me you were safe, when you first arrived, and when you returned from Adamant.  I heard no word from you.”

She backtracked, shame bubbling to the surface.  “I was too much a coward to send them, but I saved them all.  They are yours to read, when you desire.”  She pressed her palms against the sturdy stone behind her.  “Perhaps I am a coward still, but they contain all of the things I have wished to say to you.  I understand that this has caused a great rift between us, one that may never fully heal.”  A shaky breath found its way into her lungs, and his gaze sharpened.  “I had my reasons for acting as I did.  I could not let you die; but now I see that, in a way, would have perhaps been kinder than what my leaving did to you.”  

Her heart wrenched at the look he leveled at her, and tears came anew to her eyes.  Silence hung in the room, softer than before.  After a moment, he said, “I will read them.”  His eyes searched her own.  “I heard rumors, that you came out of the Fade.”

She closed her eyes, trying to shut out the terrible memories, and he moved closer, his hand resting on her shoulder.  “Yes.  We went into the Fade, and fought an Aspect of a Nightmare demon, a terrible thing of fear.  It spoke of our deepest terrors; to hear it taunting me of you…” Hawke shook her head to clear it, catching Fenris’s concerned look.  “I offered to stay behind, to give the others time to escape, but Stroud took the task on himself.  Now I feel responsible for the Wardens, in his absence.”  

She forced out her next words, a rueful smile stretching her mouth.  “Selfishly, I was, and am, relieved that he stayed, giving me a chance to reconcile with you…”  Hawke trailed off, feeling the old familiar ache of survivor’s guilt.

“Even there, I would have come for you.”  The rough certainty in Fenris’ voice was as an anchor, and she felt warmed from within.  He reached out with his other hand, fingering her hair in the sudden stillness between them.  “It is shorter than last I saw you.”  

A small laugh startled its way past her lips.  “And yours looks a bit shaggier.”  Fenris flashed a brief smile, before fumbling for something at his belt.  Hawke’s cheeks colored, her heart racing at the abrupt shift in his demeanor, before she felt something cold being pressed into her hand.  As she registered the simple shape, she felt a peculiar lightness blossom in her chest, at odds with the heaviness she had carried with her out of the Fade, which had further retreated at Fenris’s appearance.

His voice was gruff, answering her unspoken questions.  “I suppose it is presumptuous of me, with all that remains to be said.  But I had long wished to give you a token of my own.”  His fingers found hers, and she let him slip the simple band onto her finger.  New emotion welled within her; she reached for him.

“Fenris.”  She tried to impress all of her longing, her shame, her fear into his name.

“Hawke.”  He took her in his arms again, urgency coloring his embrace.  His lips were warm on hers, and it felt like coming home.  She knew, as he kissed her, that this reunion was treacherous ground they would need to navigate with care.

Both of them had deep wounds that were still tender to the touch, wounds that would only heal with time.  The pain of the past months had changed them, and Hawke feared still to see the consequences of those changes. But they would rebuild and repair the ruined time between them, as they had done so often —too often— in the past.

As the years had proven to her, Hawke knew that they would weather this storm together.  She and Fenris would yet again grow to be something more, something stronger, than they had been before.  Maker willing, there would be time enough for words later.  For now, she was content to press him more firmly against her, mansuetude and ferocity all at once.

After a moment, Fenris pulled away, resting his forehead against hers.  She reveled in the feel of him, here with her.  “What are your plans now, Hawke?”

She closed her eyes, feeling his breath puff against her lips.  “I had planned on leaving with the Wardens, tomorrow.  With Stroud gone, it falls to me to inform the Wardens at Weisshaupt what has happened here.”  

The words burbled out, more a formality than anything.  But she felt they needed to be said, just the same.

“Will you come with me, Fenris?”

His smile was full.  “Gladly.”

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