#more pointless ficlets

[peppermintquartz]

Eames is an enigma.

Arthur, ever since he was a kid, likes solving puzzles. He likes thinking through problems and finding the steps to the answer. Languages were not his strong suit, back when he was in school, until he realized that a word could be a key to understanding the mystery of a person.

Eames, though... Eames is nearly inscrutable.

Eames is only a few years older, but by the time Arthur met him, he's lived several lives in several skins. The easy grin and ugly shirts hide the incisive mind and incredible adaptability of the forger. Have one meal with him and he can ferret out everything about you, and you will know only his entrée and his drink for that evening.

Arthur envies Eames' ability to conduct small talk to gather information. It's one thing to read medical records and job interviews and psychiatrists' notes to know that a mark is paranoid and resentful of authority, quite another to chat with him over a water cooler to work out that he used to be locked up in the garden shed until midnight by his grandpa for not finishing his dinner.

The puzzles Eames solves are people. Arthur struggles to figure them out and has to rely on secondhand data, because he can't act, he doesn't know how to appear non-threatening or casual, he just can't. It is a useful trait because it keeps people from underestimating him for his youthful appearance, but it also keeps people from being open with him.

But Eames - that maddeningly opaque man - is always willing to answer Arthur's questions. Sometimes the answers are obvious lies, said with a leer and a wink to get a rise out of Arthur, but sometimes... Sometimes, when it's the two of them in a makeshift office or down in a dream, Eames is startlingly honest.

Arthur doesn't abuse the privilege. Eames' trust came slowly, like drops of water wearing a hole through a pebble; they'd worked together on at least a dozen jobs and Arthur's proven himself thrice over that he will watch Eames' back that the latter tells Arthur what he really likes to eat.

Bits and pieces of his life Eames shares with Arthur, some contradictory, some complementary. Poker games as a means of keeping his observation skills sharp. His preferred bourbon. How he likes his eggs at breakfast, wink wink. Black coffee or tea with two sugars or a mug of Ovaltine, depending on when Arthur asks.

But Eames is infuriating too. He ruins some of Arthur's jobs for nothing more than a lark, or sets up false leads that distract Arthur from the task at hand, or sends Arthur tickets to Greek islands that have nothing in the way of amenities.

Arthur is aware that Eames likes him in a more-than-platonic way. Eames knows that Arthur knows. There is no other way to interpret the looks Eames gives him, how the older man brushes his hand over Arthur's arm, the way he snarls at anyone who even dares to challenge Arthur's role as point man. Make fun of Arthur's stuffiness, sure. Provoke him about the smallest details? Why not. Make him the butt of jokes and pranks? Eames will be the first to suggest some tricks.

But suggest that Arthur be replaced? No. Where Arthur goes, so goes Eames' kingdom, if they are on the same project.

It's less a date and more a dare when Arthur invites Eames to dinner. Eames accepts. And over dinner, Arthur learns a little more about how to make sense of the puzzle that is Eames.

For one thing, Eames doesn't like eggs at breakfast.

[klaissance]

indulgent established klance long-distance boyfriends coalition paladins/BOM keith reunion event GO:

keith gets to the dinner early

he had to ask kolivan to put him on the list as one of the BOM agents going and if that dude ever laughed at anything keith would swear he was laughing at him when he uninvited somebody else to put keith on the list

it's this gorgeous bigass hall with lovely vaulted ceilings and the biggest longest table keith has ever seen

aproned aliens are in set-up mode, scurrying around setting utensils and plates and namecards and chairs all around this table

keith has his mask up and everything and he nods respectfully at some of the staff as he starts to walk the length of the table

it's been too long since he saw the team he knows that and they know it too

he knows they miss him, knows it in his bones that they miss him at least some fragment as much as he aches for them (which is so much all the time)

pidge hacked a touchpad to let it transmit through the signal jammer outfitted at the BOM base so he does get to message and call home sometimes but tbh he's not on-base very often before he's jetting off to the next crazy mission halfway across the galaxy

anyway he's in this hall scanning the namecards and letting his mind wander while he waits for the guests--but mostly his former team--to show up

he finds his own card next to kolivan's, only it just says "blade of marmora guest" anonymous and replaceable, just like usual

allura is set to be seated at the head of the table with the other important people and key speakers

keith smiles despite himself at the thought of allura pacing the halls of the castleship this past week, running through versions of speeches for anyone who will listen

the smile turns into an ache when he thinks of lance, perched on the kitchen counter, legs swinging, or draped across the lounge couch, head tipped off the edge, listening and humming appraisingly at all the right moments

turning those warm brown eyes to the ceiling and pretending to think hard on it when allura asks him if he thinks she's ready

"of course princess" he'd say, placing a hand on her shoulder and squeezing gently

"I think you were born ready"

because lance has always been good at that, at making you feel like the most capable person in the Universe

halfway down the opposite side of this grandiose table, keith finds what he hadn't known he'd been looking for: four name placards right in a row, each labeled with a name and "Paladin of Voltron"

takashi shirogane, pidge holt, hunk garrett, and lance mcclain

keith frowns sourly at the next name, some alien duke or duchess or whatever the fuck, somebody important who has just won the diplomacy dinner lottery by being offered the seat next to the blue paladin

he looks across the table from here to his own seat, looming positively miles away across and down this long ass mcfreaking table

who made this chart anyway???

keith is still grumping about it as people begin to show up and he shrinks a little into himself, scanning the room for those familiar faces, the anticipation buzzing under his skin

he's so lost in the looking that he forgets himself and gets totally ambushed by a voice right up against his ear

"Getting on just as socially as usual, I see"

he whirls ready to FIGHT but it's allura !!! and the relief and joy at seeing her in person for the first time in multiple space-months is such whiplash that he pitches straight into her open arms and holds tight

when he recovers he takes down the mask and squirms awkwardly

allura is gentle and kind, knows he hates the diplomacy part, knows he's only here because he misses all of them, one of them in particular...

they do small talk for a bit, allura growing worse and worse at hiding her amusement as keith continues to turn and stare at the door with increasing frequency

her eyes are sparkling the way they do when she gossips and she asks him point blank "so, you must be excited to see your boyfriend again"

keith's mind goes blank "n-no" yknow like a liar

she's downright snickering at him and he still can't resist scanning the room

she throws him a bone, tells him the other paladins are running late coming back from the parade but will arrive soon

keith is like coolcoolcool no doubt no doubt but really cannot stop staring at the door and feeling like he might throw up and is his hair okay he didn't really think about this before he showed up, hasn't even seen it in actually days because he's had the suit on, and the suit is DUMB what the fUcK--

they get approached by other diplomats from various coalition planets and allura turns on the schmooze

keith checks his touchpad--there are three messages from lance

"SORRY BABE RUNNIGN LATE"

"c u so SOON :3 <33333333"

"*RUNNING"

" :D "

[apute11as]

Liability - Alexia putellas x reader (+platonic Lucy bronze)

Based on this little request of ficlets (more will follow) x

Warnings: no warnings just Alexia being overly protective

- part of the “everything happens for a reason” universe 🤗

It was around 9pm and Lucy had just returned from dinner and analysis with the team when her phone started to ring. Glancing down at it, she was met with a picture of Alexia bent down as you poured champagne into her mouth out of the Champions league trophy, a contact photo that captured a rare moment of pure joy from the Catalan midfielder. Lucy wondered what on earth would her captain be calling about this late at night, worried it was to yell at Lucy for not telling her that you were pregnant, the second she found out. Hesitantly, Lucy accepted the face time.

“Ay dios mío Lucia today would be great” scolded Alexia.

“Sorry Ale but may i ask why you’re calling me out of the blue?” She replied

“Y/n is pregnant.” She stated bluntly.

Ah yes Lucy could see this one coming but she was not about to be blamed for anything Alexia was ready to accuse her of.

“She is. Congratulations.” Lucy responded in an equally blunt tone.

“I’m very happy” Alexia added.

“You really sound it Ale” Lucy mocked

“Excuse me?” exclaimed the blonde, a hint of annoyance laced her voice.

“Why are you calling me Alexia, I’m very happy for you both too but this phone call seems rather pointless, like something that could’ve been done over text?” Said Lucy, hoping her captain would get to the point so she could be on her way to bed.

“Right yes, there was a point” Alexia stated, clearing her throat as though she was preparing a pre-match speech. “I love y/n very much but she’s ridiculously stubborn, I mean she hid a whole pregnancy for a while just so she could play in this tournament. Whilst I’m mad at her, I can’t say I wouldn’t do the same so with that being said, I’m asking you to watch over her for me.”

Lucy was taken aback, she was not sure what she’d expected from this conversation but this wasn’t quite it.

“You’re asking me to babysit your wife?” Laughed Lucy

“Sort of? I’m just saying I know I already told you to make sure she didn’t do anything stupid, like play through and injury and when I told you to keep an eye on her sickness and stuff but now she’s carrying mi princesa, even more of a reason why I won’t let her do something dumb.” She explained

“Alexia you and I both know how stubborn she is, if I start hovering she’ll kill me” Lucy argued

“Fine I tried to be nice, she always tells me if I use my captain voice it’s not fair but Lucia I swear to God if anything happens to her or my baby I will get you benched for the rest of the season and then kill you” Alexia responded with a stern, demanding voice.

“Okay okay but if she finds out and calls you to complain that’s your fault not mine” bargained Lucy.

“Si si, of course! Make sure she eats enough, lots of vitamins, make sure she doesn’t train too hard, make sure she gets lots of sleep and-“

“Crshhhhh lo siento Capi the phone is- crshhhh breaking up- crshhhhh”

And with that Lucy hung up, rustling her crisp packet worked every time with Alexia as she had been told by you, bless Alexia and her inability to understand technology.

Just as Lucy opened her hotel room door, Mary came running down the corridor with you on her back, Alessia and Ella hot on her heels. Dear God what had Lucy gotten herself into.

[raina-at]

I owe you another ficlet, so here it is. It was written for the brekfast challenge, and I think there's a longer story in this, so maybe I'll return to this one day. Meanwhile, have a ficlet.

It’s been eleven days since Sherlock Holmes jumped off a building. Three days since the funeral. One since John stood by Sherlock’s grave and begged him not to be dead.

There’s a constant fog of unreality in John’s head. The world seems muffled, far away, slowed down. He has a difficult time telling day from night, dream from waking, truth from fiction. 

The worst thing is the numbness. There’s a well of pain right inside John somewhere, but he can’t feel it. He can’t feel much of anything. 

Mrs Hudson sobbed into his shoulder at Sherlock’s funeral, but John has yet to shed a single tear. He knows it’s self-protection, that something inside of himself has shut down to prevent him from breaking. 

It’s not pleasant, but it keeps him alive. Barely. 

He forces himself to eat when people are around, and he gets a few hours of fitful sleep, but he’s losing weight rapidly and the dark circles around his eyes are getting more pronounced. Nobody’s said anything to him yet, but he knows it’s a matter of time before he’ll get a kindly-meant intervention from Greg, Molly and Mrs Hudson.

He thinks of leaving. Just getting on a train or plane or boat and disappearing somewhere he can waste away in peace. The thought is comforting.

But he knows today will not be this day when he gets a text from Mycroft Holmes summoning him to a breakfast meeting at a coffee shop around the corner of the Diogenes club.

John knows it’s pointless to refuse.

So he goes. It’s a nice day, and he walks. 

He gets there ten minutes late, but Mycroft isn’t here. He gets in line to order a coffee and a scone. If he’s here already he might as well eat. 

He orders, then waits for the barista to make his coffee.

She seems vaguely familiar. Red hair, freckles, tattoos. 

“John?”

He looks up. She smiles at him. Hands over his drink. Holds his eyes. “Here,” she says, winking at him. “I think this is what you asked for.”

He looks down at the cup and sees she’s put her phone number down. He smiles politely. He couldn’t be less interested if he tried.

“Don’t call right away,” she says, winking again, then turns to the next customer.

Mycroft isn’t here yet, so John decides he doesn’t want to wait and leaves.

He sips at the coffee as he wanders back to Baker Street.

The coffee has grown cold by the time he’s back in the flat. He wanders into the kitchen to throw the cup out.

That’s when he notices there’s writing under the phone number.

John

07975777666

And below that, in a handwriting he’d recognise blind, backwards and under water, two words:

Vatican Cameos

The cup hits the floor as John’s knees buckle.

The coffee seeps into the kitchen rug as John stares at the cup, at the two words. He thinks of the barista. He recognises her now. She was one of the people who held him back from Sherlock’s body when he fell.

It takes him ten minutes to realise that he’s crying, that the tears are falling freely now, that the knot of numbness and pain in his chest is finally dissolving. He’s shaking with it, with big, heaving sobs that shiver through his entire body. 

Alive, alive, alive.

Mrs Hudson finds him there, sobbing and shaking on his knees, and she holds him while he cries.

She thinks it’s grief.

He knows it’s relief.

*-*

It’s midnight and he can’t stand it any longer.

He tore the flat apart looking for the Adler woman’s phone because he knows he can’t use his own. His charger wouldn’t fit, so he had to go out and buy a new one, and then let the bloody thing charge.

It’s better this way, anyway.

It’s dark and he’s sitting in Sherlock’s bedroom, on the floor next to Sherlock’s bed.

His hands shake as he dials the number. 

Maybe he’s delusional. 

Maybe the barista just wanted to mess with him.

Maybe nobody will answer.

It rings. He’s nauseous with nerves, shaking with anticipation.

If this isn’t real…. He can’t even think about it.

The line picks up.

A voice he’d recognise anywhere. Uncharacteristically hesitant. “John?”

John’s breath hitches and he lets out a laugh that’s mostly a sob. “Oh, you unbelievable bastard.”

There’s a small smile in the voice as it answers. “You asked me for another miracle. How am I doing so far?”

John smiles through the tears that are running down his face unchecked and unheeded. “Pretty well.”

“I just wanted to let you know…. I heard you,” Sherlock says, quiet and gentle, in a tone of voice that makes John's heart hurt. “I heard you.”

“Sherlock-”

“I have to go. But I’ll come for you soon. Wait for me.”

The line goes dead.

John stares at the phone for a long time. Wondering if any of this is real.

Finally, he nods at himself. I believe in Sherlock Holmes, he thinks. He always has, and he always will. 

In the meantime, he will wait. 

That makes 31 ficlets, making my collection complete. This was so much fun, thank you all for reading and liking my ficlets, I've had such lovely responses.

Tagging a few people.

@calaisreno @discordantwords @keirgreeneyes @jrow @peanitbear @lisbeth-kk @shiplocks-of-love @iamjustreading @the-reading-lemon @thetimemoves @fluffbyday-smutbynight @helloliriels @topsyturvy-turtely @catlock-holmes @7-percent @khorazir

[bilbosmom-belladonna]

A Steddie summer ficlet! Also posted on ao3. 500 words, no TW. Inspired by Stay (Wasting Time) by Dave Matthews Band

You Could Fry an Egg

It was hotter than hell.

Steve squinted under the bright sun and tried to move closer to the scant shade along the side of the road. Even the shadows had retreated from the cracked, scorching hot asphalt they were walking along. He was a little concerned his sneakers might start melting.

Ahead of him, Eddie was walking backwards, trying to distract both of them from the heat with a rambling story about his uncle's trucker days. The empty gas can in his hand flopped around as he gestured, smacking him in the arm.

Steve watched and listened as he trudged along. He wanted to be mad at Eddie—he was the reason they were stuck halfway along I-70 with an empty tank, after all—but he could never manage it for long. Eddie could sniff out when people were annoyed with him like a hunting dog after its prey; usually so he could double-down and make himself even more irritating.

But for Steve he always found a way to turn things around, get back in Steve's good graces. And Steve could admit he never tried very hard to stay mad.

He felt a bead of sweat roll down his forehead and catch in his eyebrow, threatening to drip into his eyes. Steve stopped for a moment and wiped it away with the back of his hand. It was pointless; he was sweating so much he'd probably turn into a puddle before they reached the gas station. He could already feel another trickle making its way down from his temple and along the line of his jaw.

But before Steve could wipe it away, Eddie stepped in close. Long narrow fingers reached up and caught the sweat just on the underside of Steve's chin. He pulled his hand away and—eyes dancing with mischief—stuck one fingertip at a time in his mouth, sucking on them like he was savoring the last of a delicious meal.

Steve stared at him. It should have been gross. It should have been gross and weird and off-putting; it should have been too much, like so much of Eddie was too much. Too loud, too crazy, too angry, too manic. 

Instead Steve dropped his eyes and smiled, helplessly charmed. When he managed to look up again, the smile on Eddie's face was brighter than the summer sun above them. 

Steve reached out and grabbed Eddie's hand. It was still a little damp, a combination of Eddie's spit and both their sweat; he intertwined their fingers and gave a squeeze. Eddie beamed back at him, scorching. If the asphalt didn't set Steve on fire first, then that smile would.

He tugged and they kept walking, the empty gas can thumping against Eddie's thigh. It was much too hot to be holding hands but Steve clung on, even as their grip grew wet and slippery. It was pretty gross. But Steve was finding that maybe he kind of liked gross. Maybe too much was actually just right.

~~~👑🎸~~~

Want more Steddie summer fun from me? Check out my one-shot Summer Lovin' Happened So Fast on ao3!

[laughhardrunfastbekindsblog]

What Needs to Be Done

Summer of Bad Batch | Week 13 | Prompt: Crashing Hard

Summary: Crosshair was so sure he made the right choice, the only choice... But now he has doubts.

POV: Crosshair

Rating: PG

(Word Count: 650)

Notes: I've been wanting to delve more into what Crosshair might have gone through in season 2 before "The Outpost," especially since I think his confession to Hunter of "I've done things. I've made mistakes" refers to far more than just the Imperial missions we saw him on. I might expand on this storyline in the future; for now, here's a short little ficlet since there's only so much Crosshair angst I can write at the moment.

"CT-9904, report to Captain Dask for your next mission."

The operation involved relocating the inhabitants of Quwan to an Imperial holding facility to await the construction of a factory on their homeworld, a factory they would man in service to the Empire. Those who did not appreciate the opportunity, those who resisted, were not given a second chance, and so the people learned very quickly not to resist. The families cried as their homes were burned to make way for the factory; the children cried as they were hustled onto ships by armed troopers. Crosshair had completed operations very similar to this before; but for some reason, this time he heard Hunter's voice echoing through his mind: Crosshair, I've seen what the Empire's doing, occupying planets and silencing anyone who stands against them. You know it's not right.

But it didn't matter what he thought was right. "Good soldiers follow orders," he thought to himself, though the words had started to grow stale. "We do what needs to be done," he repeated like a mantra, drowning out the memory of Hunter's plea.

******

He heard the rumors, whispers about an attack on Rampart's Venator, intel extracted that proved instrumental in causing Rampart's demise. The Defense Recruitment Bill was passed, but Rampart was gone. And while no one had been able to ID the infiltration team, Crosshair listened to the details of the attack, and he knew who had done it. "They were fools, they won't let themselves see the bigger picture," he told himself, ignoring the painful wrenching in his gut at the reminder of his old squad, though the traitorous thought crossed his mind that he wished he had been with them, wished he was with his brothers now.

******

"Three CTs have gone AWOL and were recently spotted in the market district," the lieutenant addressed the hand-picked squad. "You are to apprehend them. One chance to surrender, one chance only. That is all."

"Traitors," he scoffed to himself, pushing down his unease upon learning that the CTs in question had been part of his detachment during their most recent operation on Vurun. He knew nothing about them, they hadn't even spoken to him the entire mission... so why did he worry about what he might have to do? And why did wish he could have left too? Going AWOL was pointless; they were tracked down soon enough.

"Traitor," he thought again, carefully aiming as one of them tried to run, though his finger trembled on the trigger...

Cody weighed on his mind, haunted his dreams for weeks afterwards...

******

He waited outside the ship preparing to depart for Barton IV; there was no point standing any longer than he had to inside the ship with all the other clones who always ignored him. A group of unarmored clones passed by, questioning an Imperial officer about forced retirement. He knew more clones were being decommissioned, but he wasn't concerned. That wouldn't happen to him. He was useful to the Empire. He had purpose as a soldier.

And he tried not to think about the long years stretching before him, serving as a soldier until the day he died, no friends, brothers gone, all alone.

******

Mayday.

Gone.

He had served as a soldier until the day he died, had outlasted most of his friends, all his brothers gone, and the lieutenant was now ordering Crosshair to leave him... to leave him all alone.

Crosshair had believed the Empire offered him purpose.

He didn't believe it anymore.

"Lieutenant," Crosshair said, the only warning he was willing to give.

He released all his anger and doubts as he avenged Mayday, and suddenly found that this release had sapped all his strength, sapped all his belief in purpose, and he collapsed, no longer caring what happened to him.

I... It needed to be done, was his final thought as the darkness closed in around him.

@summer-of-bad-batch

[carnivorous-parasite]

Have this tf2 thought that has been plaguing my mind today (and potential fic/ficlet idea for you to steal if you feel inclined 👀):

I adore the headcanon that medic gives all the mercs check-ups, and it gives me the idea of it being spy’s turn and medic does that one thing where doctors feel your stomach to check out your organs but surprise surprise…it tickles 🤭 and OF COURSE spy cant admit/reveal that, he’s a mature adult who is NOT ticklish 🙄 but medic is not dumb and he notices and teases spy about it 🫶

“Whats the matter? What is so funny?!” “Stop moving, im trying to make sure you are healthy, mein freund!”

Spy then promptly melts into a puddle…poor fella

Anyway god bless ticklish old men *salutes*

OHOHOHOOOO 👀👀👀👀 I LOOOVE THIS I hope my writing can do it justice o wise one

Routine checkups. Medic did them once every month. However pointless or unnecessary they felt to Spy, Medic went out of his way to ensure everybody recieved theirs, and he was no exception. 

Medic pulled him from his thoughts by rather rudely snatching the cigarette from his lips. "How many times do I have to tell you not to smoke in here? Especially not during a check-up, for gods sake." he scolded as he had countless times before. He knew Spy had no intention of listening, of course, but even still insisted on arguing his point. What was he if not persistent, after all?

Spy only rolled his eyes. It was a response he offered quite often. 

Not bothering to push it, Medic continued on with the current task- he knew just how impatient Spy tended to be.

He moved his hands to Spys stomach, lightly pressing his fingers into his skin, only to then have the Frenchman jerk rather suddenly away from the touch. 

"Are you alright?" Medic asked, quirking a brow, "Did that hurt?"

Spy, on the other hand, had never wanted to crawl into a hole and die more in his life.

"I'm- fine. Startled me, is all. Your hands are cold." he lied, trying his best to keep his tone nonchalant. He hoped and prayed his expression wouldn't give away the fact he was lying through his teeth. "..You may continue."

Spy cursed himself in his head for stumbling over his words the way he had. In quite literally any other scenario, he was an excellent liar, even when it came to making something up on the spot- it was part of his job, after all- so then why on earth was this proving so difficult for him?

But Medic wasn't born yesterday. He was insane, yes, but stupid? Absolutely not. This was far from the first time he'd elicited such a reaction from a teammate.

"Ah, I see. My apologies." Medic replied in the most innocent tone he could muster. The checkup could wait. It wasn't often he got to see Spy vulnerable like this- and, come to think of it, he couldn't remember the last time he'd seen him crack a real, genuine smile.

Medic continued, though now he was much more purposefully pressing his fingers into Spy's stomach. "Hmm, you are quite tense, though. Are you certain there's nothing wrong?" 

Spy opened his mouth to reply, but whatever he'd been trying to say was cut short by an undignified squeak as the Doctor prodded at one of his sides. If Spy had to hazard a guess, he'd say his face was just about the same red as Medic's gloves right about now.

Before he had any time to process it, Medic had started kneading at both of his sides, and he couldn't for the life of him hold back the wave of giggles that came up his throat, though his hands quickly shot up to cover his mouth in some attempt to muffle the embarrassing noise. 

"My, someone is rather giggly today." Medic grinned, as if he didn't know damn well what he was doing already. "Is something funny?"

Spy had no intention of dignifying him with a reply, much less did he trust his voice at the moment. He moved one hand from his mouth to try and shove Medic off (to no avail, of course). 

"Ah-ah, none of that, Herr Spy. I need to ensure you are healthy!" Medic chided, taking both of the other man's wrists into one hand and holding his arms firmly above his head, his free hand continuing its spidering and scribbling at his sides. "Why ever are you wiggling so much, anyway? You've never given me this much trouble."

"Doctor-!" Spy managed.

Medic paused, if only to allow Spy to speak. "Ja?"

Spy took a breath, trying to compose himself as if it would recover even a shred of his dignity. "You- this- This is highly unprofessional-"

"What is?" Medic asked coyly, resuming, moving from his sides to his stomach, sending him right back into another fit of giggles. "I don't see what's unprofessional about me giving you a checkup. You're the one being fussy about it."

His hand travelled upwards. "Do try and hold still. I need to make sure you have all your ribs." 

"What- what do you mean, 'have all of'- of COURSE I do!" Spy protested indignantly.

"We can't be sure unless I check. I'm the doctor here, Spy." He scolded, running a single finger down his ribcage. "Let's see- one, two, three.." 

Spy jerked away, biting his lip and holding his breath to stifle any laughter he could trust to escape. Medic clicked his tongue. "No, you come back here, silly! You made me lose count." 

Oh my god, Spy thought to himself, he is trying to kill me.

It took 4 more tries, but eventually, against all odds, Spy was able to hold perfectly still. Unfortunately, he wasn't able to hold his giggles, but he took the small victories where he could. Finally, Medic released his arms, withdrawing his hands. 

"Hm, everything looks good! Though maybe next time I could do without the squirming. You nearly kicked me." he scolded playfully. Spy hugged himself for protection, still just barely giggling under his breath.

Medic's grin widened. "You know, I can't help but notice you didn't ask me to stop. Not even once, in fact."

Spy couldn't argue with that, as much as he wanted to.

i. got carried away writing this one

it started as a lil ficlet and soon i was hitting 1000 words ;-; 

anyway i hope this is good???????????? i love the idea so much its so canon. feedback always appreciated <333

[bigjumpervibes]

Gonna start uploading my NanagoFest / GonanaFest24 stuff 🤲🩵💛

Day 1: Pacific Rim AU

Ficlet under Read More 👇

Warmth.

Warmth of a lover’s hand on his, warmth of the sun hanging lazily in the sky, warmth of a fire too close to his skin… No, on his skin, tearing through his skin, or was that a sword through his chest, which memories were his and which were Gojo’s?

Steadying himself from another jab Nanami was forced to acknowledge what he’d known since day 1 of the academy, he and Gojo were drift compatible, their ghosts crowded around them while they threw shot after shot at each other.

Sparring to test their bond was pointless, a formality more than anything, ever since blue met hazel Nanami had known he was cursed to be tethered to a man fate had claimed for herself. Wherever Gojo’s life took him Nanami was condemned to follow until he couldn’t, no matter who they were bound to at the time, nor how far he strayed from their path - their clocks where synced to each other.

A forearm trapped Nanami against the wall and where their skin met a white heat bloomed, people he’d never seen and people he knew well faded in and out of his mind amongst flames, he gritted his teeth to brace himself.

“Looks like we’re drift compatible Nanamin”

Gojo looked calm, maybe even playful if his relaxed smile would reach his eyes. His expression was as light as his tone and he showed no sign of feeling the same intense imagery - off feeling his skin burning or the pressure of a hand gripping his shoulder asking him to erode his sense of self for greed.

The only way Nanami could be assured the other was aware of their connection was the faint feeling of a hammering pulse from the arm under his neck and a guarded vulnerability that flickered in sparkling eyes.

“Of course we are”

[somuchbetterthanthat]

A little Gwen&Alice with heaavy alice/sam, because I needed to write something after that last ep and tumblr ficlets are less intimidating than full fics.

In hindsight, hiding in the loo is dumb. Sam's making her dumb, which is aggravating and bothersome and does not horribly ache like it used to, before, in those last few weeks they'd stayed together in the same flat while Sam prepared his trip abroad. Alice's a Cool Girl. Cool girls don't hide in bathrooms because their best friend who just so happen to be their ex arrived to the office at the arm of another woman with the sparkly bubbly smile that screams I had such a good time this weekend Celia is awesome at sex.

Then again, Alice's pretty sure her Cool Girl's crown's been stolen the moment Celia walked in with those stupid donuts for the first time (and it is painful, in a way, that Celia is cool to hang around with; pretty and fun and chill and blessed with the same ability Sam has to be friendly with everyone she meets immediately).

Whatever; Alice's excellent at building new narratives and looking away to survive. She'll withstand having Sam back in her life and then feeling like she's loosing him all over again like a fucking champ -- but she has to admit, hiding in the loo was just not a good move, 'cause now she's got to not only deny her sad moody depressing feelings, but also the fact that Gwendolyn Bouchard is clearly weeping on the stall next to hers.

"Hey," she whispers, after three long minutes of wondering whether she wants to deal with this, then deciding it's the sort of night where she'd definitely rather think of someone else's problems than her own.

There's mouvement on her left, then a sharp exhale. "What?" hisses Gwen.

"Want to tell me what this is all about?" Alice asks, staring at the door.

"No," Gwen snaps. Then: "We're in a bathroom, Alice, for god's sake, do you have any sort of decorum--"

"Exactly!" Alice cuts her off. "We're in a bathroom. That's basically being in a confessional for us ladies, innit? Sure we're not drunk out of our heads at the club or whatever, but I think this qualifies all the same. Everything you'll say is sacred in here my dear. Any sin is between you, me, and those awful scratchy paper roll that we're always out of. Hope you've got an handkerchief ready, by the way."

It must strike a nerve, because Gwen stays silent for a good thirty seconds before she mutters: "Anyone could come in."

"Oh, please," Alice snorts. "We both know Lena's not human enough to have to use the loo and Celia's too busy getting lost into Sam's eyes, we're fine."

"Why do you say that?" Gwen asks, her tone suddenly more alert.

"...'Cause Celia is getting lost in Sam's eyes? I mean, I know you have your whole thing going on and you're wayy better than us now that you got that shiny promotion you wanted so much, but they've literally been building this whole sickening little office romance just in front of our noses for like, two months, surely you haven't missed that. Kinda surprised you haven't actually told them this was against regulations or whatever."

"No not Celia, I don't care about her, or whatever's going on with Sam (Lucky you, Alice thinks meanly, and has to bite her tongue very hard). I mean about Lena. Do you think she's --" Gwen stops, exhales shakily. "Now, that'd be ridiculous. Obviously. She's nothing like --"

Oh, Alice thinks. Oh, Gwendolyn. She wishes people would listen to her, when she says to look away. Sam and Gwen are similar that way, she notes. All too ready to dig themselves into messes that are much too big for them to take on.

"I was making a joke," she tells Gwen. "I do that, sometimes. Oh, not very often of course, you know me, all too serious for this sort of nonsense, but I have heard before that it can lighten the mood here and there--"

"God, you are unsufferable."

"Is that how you talk to your priest, Gwendolyn? Shame on you."

"I'm leaving now. This is all pointless, and we've got work to do anyway."

"Do we ever," Alice sighs.

"You've been here for like, twenty five minutes, by the way," Gwen adds. "If you want to keep pretending you're not the one mooning over Sam, you might want to come out soon."

[peppermintquartz]

Playroom!verse

Damian Priest, Drew McIntyre, Finn, Fale

*

Becky and Paige were the ones who talked about this ax-throwing bar, which is why Finn is here with Fale and Drew, on a Wednesday afternoon. There are about three other customers inside, and so it is a nice place to sit back and relax.

Their server is a tall Puerto Rican man who apparently has a penchant for leather and eyeliner. Drew is eyeing Damian with some interest, and that interest doesn't go unnoticed by Finn. Fale is throwing axes into the board with lazy efficiency, hitting the target eight times out of ten.

"Need a top-up?" Damian asks as he passes with another booth's orders balanced on a tray.

Finn smiles. "No, we're good for now."

"I could do with some food," Drew says, flashing his dimple. "Come back round and we'll place our orders."

"Sure thing."

Finn watches Drew watching Damian, and then leans forward with his elbows on the table. "Like what you see?"

"I see potential," says Drew. The Scotsman downs his lager. "Someone who may be able to pick up some of Sasha's jobs, now that she's pregnant."

Finn sighs. "Most of her clientele like her because she's a petite woman. They like the incongruity."

Drew picks up his beverage. "Incongruity? A big word for an Irish punk like you."

"Fuck off." Finn motions to Fale, who approaches and hands Finn's wallet to him. The Irishman plucks a business card out of it and gives the wallet back to Fale.

When Damian circles back with three menus tucked under his arm, Finn turns on the charm and passes the server a discreet black card.

"What's this for?" Damian asks, turning the card this way and that, his eyebrows rising when he sees the embossed number catching the light with the sheen of gloss.

Drew exchanges a look with Finn, then says, "You want a side hustle? We are short of one professional dom. Comes with plenty of benefits, if you're up to it."

Finn tilts his head and adds with a hint of purr in his voice, "We could do with another tall, dark and handsome."

Damian narrows his eyes, but a playful smirk is lingering on his lips. "I'm flattered, but I don't do men."

"Come by the Playroom anyway." Drew holds out his hands in a nonchalant manner. "You might like what you find."

Damian seems almost hesitant, before he tucks the card into his black jeans. "I'll think about it."

[alpydk]

One more prompt, and it's totally ok if you skip this one (or any that I send) if it's not your vibe!!! I really liked your ficlet on the woman who stalked Gale and engineered their relationship.

What if Gale was in a relationship at the time?

He fell for Tav because they saved his life, and convinced him life was worth living... but after some time he realizes that Tav is not his soulmate, his moon and stars. Maybe Tav changed, maybe time opened his eyes. He loves Tav, but maybe he's not *in love* with them anymore.

Then he meets someone else, and its completely different. He doesn't need someone to save him, to help him live. This new person isn't his entire world, but he is *better* when they're around. Yet he still goes home to Tav.

xoxo - 🐕

Honesty.

I went off the rails with this. Sorry OP. It sort of went with the prompt. Gale realises he's not in love with Tav ✅ He knows he doesn't need another person ✅ He goes home to Tav ✅ Angst ✅✅✅✅✅

Word Count - 3100 - CW - Angst, Not a lot of comfort. Therapy, arguing, References to Mystra

“She’s writing again,” Tav mumbled, her pointed ears caught on the sharp scratching sound of the quill in the hands of the elderly woman before her.

The black ink sank into the parchment, and Tav tried her best to read the scribbles from the distance. She couldn’t stand the way she felt judged in the small study, as if she were on a pointless trial of her own making. Gale had explained that this was for the best, that after everything that happened a year ago with tadpoles and orbs, eventually they needed to deal with it all on a deeper level. That was three sessions ago. They’d tiptoed around the actual problems that neither wanted to utter, spoken a little about their current relationship, how they were both happily married. That was before the cracks had inevitably appeared in the discussions.

Gale sighed; another simple observation stated out loud. “Yes, my love, that’s what therapists do.”

Tav was growing impatient. They’d come here so things could get better, not worse. “Are they not meant to listen and ask questions?”

“Well, not all of them have an eidetic memory as you do,” he swiftly replied.

She sucked in a breath, trying to keep her composure. Too many times he had made insults masked as compliments, too smart for his own good and hoping she wouldn’t take offense at them. “See, this is what I was talking about. Passive aggressive.”

The therapist lowered the quill and turned to the pair, her voice slow and calm, the lilt of a faint accent making her sound trustworthy despite no evidence to confirm it. “Hm, you have used the term before. And how does that make you feel when Gale speaks to you in that way?”

Slumping her shoulders, Tav answered. Another ridiculous question asking her about her feelings, like any of it even mattered. She was paying. She simply wanted the answers on how to fix things and then to go back to the tower and indulge in his body, just like they had when they’d first arrived in the city. The inquisitive eyes of the therapist watched her like a hawk, every subtle gesture, every subconscious reflex. She had to answer, even if she didn’t like it. She was paying, after all. “Like I’m inferior or something. ‘Eidetic memory’ – Why can’t he just say it like a normal person?”

Gale interjected quickly, a knee jerk reaction in the defence of literature and intellect. “At the academy, such verbiage would be considered ‘normal’.”

“At the academy, of course,” she uttered distastefully.

The quill was raised once again. “Tav, do you have an issue with Gale’s place of occupation?”

She tried to get comfortable on the leather chair, the wooden back designed for someone who spent long hours indoors and not someone who’d spent many a year travelling forest trails and getting bruised in battle. “No... Maybe? It’s where he met his... um, how would I describe her? His ex?”

How was she supposed to answer the question? Blackstaff, the place he had wanted to work, to teach. The place where Mystra had entered his life and made him the man who sat beside her today. Was she okay with him being there each day, knowing that the Goddess watched over all who commanded the Weave? At any moment Gale could be taken again, could choose to leave again.

“And you worry he may go back to her?”

The question was an innocent one, but a gateway to the insecurities Tav had tried to bury long ago. It was difficult to understand the relationship between a mortal and a god: the power dynamics that came into play, the age differences, the span of time that passed outside of the mortal realms. Eighteen months were the blink of an eye for an elf, but for a god, they were most likely a grain of sand in the cosmos. She pondered over the question, turning it in her mind, trying to work out how the topic could be focussed more on his previous relationship than that of their current one. “Well, it’s complicated. He’s never really got over her.”

“My love, I believe I was quite clear when I stated that with you, I forget all about her.”

Tav remembered that night all too well, the conjured boat ride across astral seas, the words that came from his flush lips so poetically before they had made love under the eyes of the gods. She had believed them wholeheartedly, each syllable. It had only been later that the doubts had risen, as magic continued to play a role in their life, as Mystra’s name had come up accidentally during the throes of passion. The Goddess was never far away from their minds. “Oh, come on. How does a person even forget a relationship like that? She was your first love; you were with her for a millennium, at least.”

The rising tensions were quickly picked up, the conversation diverted back despite the tense participant’s readiness to argue. “Do you compare yourself often to his ex, Tav?”

“Why are you asking me all the questions?" she was quick to snap back, her eyes fixed on Gale. "I’m not the problem here,”

“Hm. You believe the problem lies with Gale and this previous relationship?”

What a stupid question. That’s all it ever came down to. Gale and Mystra, the orb. Everything that bitch had done to him, and how he would always be in her palm. “Exactly. And then he does all this reading, starts telling me about co-dependency and stuff. Just feels like unless the world is ending, we’ve nothing in common.”

“I merely stated that perhaps our initial courting was a little hurried.” He was aware of the reading; of the topic he had broached to her in the hopes it would spark a conversation about their lack of communication. He didn’t want to admit that he’d made a mistake in rushing into marriage with her. Four months of intense desperate nights fuelling the need to start living after so long planning to die.

“Well, apologies for not being able to bend time and space.”

Another dig at his Goddess, another remark that he placed with the rest. They were there to be honest with one another, but just as was Tav’s way, she went on the attack. The best defence was a good offence, and it had been that way ever since the goblins at the grove. Gale went to object but was cut off before the words managed to escape him, a moment of gratitude as another repeated argument was prevented.

The calming voice settled over the room, the need to move on clear to them both. “Maybe we can get back on track. In your last session, we were discussing your anniversary. You said it had not gone entirely to plan. What exactly happened?”

Tav forcefully turned to the therapist, sitting straight as if she were a student in school seeking a gold star for behaviour. “His mother came by.”

“You agreed that she could,” Gale remarked, quick to not be painted as the enemy in the tale.

“Yeah, to keep you happy.”

“Why didn’t you just say-”

Tav had been preparing for this fight, the words scripted and prepared to show that it had been his mother, his relationship, that had ruined everything. She was innocent and had only been the polite, dutiful wife. “You wanted her there. She’s your mother, after all.”

Gale shook his head; the act so fake he was almost insulted she would try it in front of him. “Tav, we both know of your dislike for my mother. You’ve never been the best at holding your tongue when it comes to the matters of my family.”

She pursed her lips, irritated that her previous actions had caught her out. The quill scratched the paper again. More notes about Tav’s failings, she was sure. “Fine then. What was the point of me saying anything? You would’ve just explained to me how family relationships were and integral part of marriage and blah blah blah”

“They are. Research has shown that-”

Cutting him off before he could continue, she spoke insistently to the therapist, hoping to make her case. “See. This is why I don’t bother. Anyway, Morena showed up, made snide comments about how I looked and again, he just let it go.”

“This happens often?”

“Not as often as Tav makes out.” Gale had few people in life of whom he would choose to protect. He had believed that Tav would always be one of them, but as she placed the attack on his own mother, he couldn’t help but feel the anger burning deep inside.

The words slipped out, Tav's mind and body ready to confront him fully. “Mummy’s boy...”

The remark did not go unheard by him, one which she had mumbled in the past as she had retired to the library with a glass of wine in hand. “Apologies. What was that I just heard?”

The ink on the parchment could become a full novel for all she cared at that point, the session one which had needed to happen after so many months of passive comments and trying to play the perfect couple. “Now I know why you were interested in her. Looking for another mother to take care of you.”

“'Her'? His ex, I’m assuming?” The therapist asked curiously. Despite the tension in the air, they were reaching the heart of the matter.

“She was nothing like my mother,” Gale hissed, the comparison between the two abominable in his mind. Tav had stooped to a new low and he could feel his heart pounding as the woman he loved became someone he barely recognised.

The smallest smirk came to her lips as she heard him and knew exactly how to reply. “You wouldn’t describe your ex as inimitable and unavoidable?”

It was rare that she could catch him using his own descriptions and phrases, but on this occasion, she had. Eidetic, indeed. “Well... unavoidable goes without saying, and maybe I would have described Mys- Melissa as inimitable at some point as well, but that’s besides the point.”

“Melissa is also an older woman too, I’m assuming?”

“Understatement there,” Tav muttered under her breath, interested to see where this would go now that Gale’s relationship was finally in the spotlight.

Black ink flowed once again. “And out of curiosity, how old are you, Tav?”

She didn’t like what was insinuated in the question. “Two hundred and twenty-six, but I’m an Elf. It’s different.” She was nothing like Mystra. What was two hundred years when compared to a few thousand? So, he was in his thirties, but that was an adult and practically the same as she was in some ways. What was age in this regard? “You’re writing again.”

“Merely notes.” Soft eyes were moved between the pair. “Gale. When you met Tav. What drew you to her?”

He took a deep breath, trying to relax after the earlier outburst. It had been some time since he had lost his temper, and he refused to let it happen in the company of a stranger. “That is quite difficult to go into detail about. We were in a rather unorthodox situation, fighting for our lives-”

“Figuratively I presume?”

“But of course,” he answered with an uncomfortable chuckle. “And Tav, as you have probably determined, is a particularly strong-willed woman. A quality that I certainly desired, no... needed at the time.”

The therapist slowly nodded, an understanding in what he had said. “Would you say you still need that quality?”

Gale didn’t know how to respond. If he was honest, it was not something he needed, at least not in the way Tav provided. Over the year, her strong will had become almost controlling, and he’d found himself no longer seeing her as the one to be devoted to, worshipped. He now saw her as he saw Mystra, someone he loved, but could not give himself to any longer. “I... That’s not something... I love Tav.”

“That’s clear.”

“But it may be possible that I am not in love with Tav.”

It was as if the air had been sucked out of the room, the words heavy. They carried a weight that Tav had not been ready to hear, even if deep down she already knew and felt them herself. She, too, loved Gale, but no longer with the desperation she once had.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Her question felt hollow, pointless.

“My love.” It felt so fickle to call her that, and yet he continued. “You must realise we are not the same people we were but a year ago. We’ve changed, grown into our own. I have grown.”

“And what? Now you don’t need me?” Thoughts swirled and burst in her mind. An idea that she had been used, that she had used him, that she wasn’t good enough, that she had made the wrong choice, that she had pushed him away. The guilt, the self-loathing, it hurt too much and, as she had always done before, she lashed out. Attack and survive. “Gods, I was stupid, wasn’t I? That’s all it ever is to you, isn’t it? Just constant ambition. If you’re not getting something out of the relationship, then it’s worthless to you. Mystra - sorry Melissa -, and now me.”

“Tav...”

She rose to her feet, the conversation over before she could do any more damage. She didn’t care that the therapist was trying to cool down the two of them, didn’t care that the Goddess’ name had been uttered, that divine eyes would be watching them yet again. “Don’t Tav me. At least I now know where I stand.”

“Just sit back down. Let’s discuss this, and maybe we can work through it.” As Gale spoke, he couldn’t hide the slither of hope in his voice, that maybe she would leave. That he could finally break the cycle of needing and wanting. He could learn to be comfortable in his own skin, using the tools that Tav had given him so long ago. No longer trying to prove himself to the world around him, but simply being. One last attempt was made, a reminder of better times under aurora painted skies at the forefront of his mind. “We could go back to how we once were.”

Tav shook her head, an anger, an acceptance in her quivering voice. She had to let him go, for both their sakes. “I can’t be that person to you. Not anymore.”

Empty words drifted through the open door as she left, existing simply for the sake of existing. “Tav, don’t leave me... Tav...”

---

Gale’s walk home was slow, a heavy weight in his chest similar to a deep grief which he could not shake. The tower loomed in the distance and the dread he felt seemed to grow just as the grey bricks on the horizon. Love, but not in love. A cycle of needing and wanting. Being. Maybe it was not grief he felt, but fear at what was to come. To be alone and love himself rather than rely on someone else. To find comfort in himself when he had known none before.

He lingered in the doorway to the bedroom, watching as Tav threw various items of clothing across the floor towards an open bag. “You’re quick to pack.”

Slumping down on the edge of the bed, she held a white shirt in her hands, focussing on the ruffles between her fingertips. “Figured I’d head back to Baldur’s Gate, stay at the Elfsong. There’s that guy who owes me a drink.”

Gale entered the room, choosing to sit beside her and looking at the pile of mismatched clothing on the floor. Some pieces she had arrived with, others he had bought her. Now he would no longer see her in any of them. “Of course there is...”

“Don’t give me that,” she scorned. “This was your fault.”

“My-” Over a year of bad habits tried to force through. “Tav, you cannot be so blind as to have not seen this coming. The arguments, the silence that followed, the nights where we both longed to be apart.”

“Yeah, but I hoped we would get through it, that I was enough for you.”

 “You were.”

“But not anymore.”

Her words hurt, but he couldn’t deny the truth any longer, not after all of it had been exposed. The therapy would not be enough, the lies would continue, he would be in her palm forever if he chose. He needed to set them both free and hoped she would understand. “Now...now I need to learn to stand on my own two feet. You were right, after all. So long as others offer me something, I’ll continue to take. I’ll continue to long for more.”

“And if I want to offer you more?”

He saw the hope in her eyes, the unspoken promises that she would give him everything if only he continued to love her, but he had been down that lonely path before and he could no longer pretend. “Then you’re no different to Mystra.”

The words cut like daggers, so final, as if carved deeply in her heart. There was such certainty, a strength in Gale’s eyes, Tav had seen so rarely before. Sadness, anger, guilt. So many emotions pushed themselves upon her, but merged among them was a sense of pride in him and what he was doing. She’d only ever wanted what was best for him, and if this was it, then so be it.

“Then I guess this is it.”

He watched as the bag was filled, as the brown leather began to pad out with the addition of clothes, a white ruffled shirt, a red dress, a white gold ring she’d sworn never to remove. As she left for the door, he called out to her.

She glanced up at him, her footsteps halted, her heartbeat quickening that maybe this had all been a mistake, a nightmare she would soon wake from.

Gale approached her, taking her soft hand in the protective warmth of his own. “Maybe another night, in a distant future of conjured stars, things could be different. I could be the man you once saw me as.”

A cold weight was placed in her Tav’s palm, Gale’s own wedding band heavy as he closed her fingers around it. He looked at her with such love, just as he had under eternal night skies, over woven seas, on sunlit docks. Maybe another night.

[optiwashere]

Hello, I love your work!! 🥹

If you’re still taking prompts: E3 for Shadowheart/Isobel. May or may not be romantically inclined (but if throuples are your thing please sprinkle some Aylin in there too)

Heya, that's so sweet of you to say! I took a bit of a break from writing these ficlets, but there's only two left in my inbox so I figured why not finish these out (I'm not taking any more at the moment!)

Thanks for asking for this one 💜

---

E3. A clash over differences in deities

The discovery of a shrine underneath the Last Light Inn wasn't quite a surprise to Isobel, she knew there was something about the place that had an almost tranquil enchantment threaded into it. When she was within the inn, she could weave her magic with a more precise touch than even she expected.

Learning of the shrine wasn't a surprise. No, the surprise was who she found there the evening after the fall of Moonrise.

The unexpected attendant did not sit in prayer. She didn't kneel, she didn't look in wonder at the meager offerings to the Lady of Silver. Shadowheart stood in front of the forgotten holy site, and she stared as if she were inspecting dirt underneath her fingernails.

There was another look in Shadowheart's eyes that Isobel couldn't quite place. She didn't know Shadowheart, but the spiteful invective she spewed towards Isobel and Selûne were lost in that hollow stare.

Isobel's footing slid as she tried to approach, sending a tumble of rocks out in a loud clatter that alerted Shadowheart to her presence.

"I knew that Selûnites were unsubtle," Shadowheart said just loud enough for Isobel to hear, "but I didn't expect them to be so noisy."

Not quite eager to approach yet, unsure where Shadowheart's mind lay after a single night had done so much to uproot what she thought she knew, Isobel remained on the edge of the wooden platform. "As subtle as a Sharran praying at a Selûnite shrine?"

"I am not praying."

"If you insist. Though, I must ask — why are you here of all places?"

"My... the Dark Lady demands silent reflection when faced with moments of uncertainty." Shadowheart sighed, never once taking her eyes from the mostly worn-away visage of Selûne. "I was always told the Moonwitch didn't care for disobedience, and that she let every disciple seek out their own penance when faith is uncertain."

"I doubt you Sharrans worded it so politely," said Isobel.

Shadowheart turned away at last to glare at her. The mask was flimsily constructed, and Isobel saw the frightened girl underneath immediately.

"Is it true?" asked Shadowheart, ignoring Isobel's remark.

"Is what true?"

"That Selûnites are given that freedom? They aren't punished, tortured for a lapse in faith?"

Isobel nodded. "The Lady of Silver only cares that we search for the path, not necessarily how we find it. There's a reason you've not lost your magic. It's fitting."

"It's a fitting way to find a knife in your back wielded by a Sharran that claims her goddess has betrayed her, isn't it?"

Isobel waited a moment. She let what Shadowheart said hang in the air, though not to consider it. They were empty, pointless words. The dying gasps of whatever rotten darkness Shadowheart believed to be her former Lady's trust, love, and affections. Someday, she might even realize just how little of her sharp tongue was in those words. Isobel wasn't certain it would be soon.

As they stood in silence, Shadowheart turned back to Selûne's statue.

A Sharran doesn't stare enraptured, curious, expectant like this, Isobel realized.

"I think I'd like to be left alone now. To be with my thoughts," Shadowheart said simply in a resolute, quite voice.

And so, Isobel left her to face a struggle that she needn't face alone. Isobel knew that to dig in her heels then would only draw out a bitter response from Shadowheart.

Later that night in sweat-coated sheets on a too-small bed, after Isobel and Aylin both needed a moment's respite, Isobel turned to her angel she thought she'd lost. They breathed and sighed and drank in one another and became lost in the sight of the other's contented face.

And still, Isobel could not help but think of the lost look in Shadowheart's eyes. She wanted to be lost in Aylin's, but the thought of that poor woman sitting alone in the dark kept nagging at her. A sharp ankle-biter for the Dark Lady turned to wonder and worry without another soul to help her.

"You are thinking of the once-Sharran?" Aylin whispered, propping herself up on her elbow.

"I—"

"It is all right, I sense her sorrows. She is lost. She requires a light in the darkness, and I dare say she refuses to allow Selûne into her heart just yet." Aylin stood and began dressing herself. "It is our duty to guide her."

And when Isobel saw the determined look etched across Aylin's face, she knew that there would be no denying her. Once set on a path of action, none could stand in the way of Dame Aylin and her quarry.

[queerofthedagger]

Here to take you up on your ficlet offer (pls send me a prompt if you like we can have a tiny fic exchange 💜) with this prompt from the "types of kiss" list:

One person stopping a kiss to ask “Do you want to do this?”, only to have the other person answer with a deeper, more passionate kiss.

For Dream/Hob or Arthur/Merlin, whatever speaks more to you. My ao3 is softestpunk 💜

Thank youu, I hope you'll like it! 💙 This is a bit later than it was meant to be, so happy belated Christmas? 😄<3

build your heart a home

Hob trips on the last step up to his flat. Dream reaches for him before he has made a conscious decision to do so.

It earns him a smile, which almost makes the failure to anticipate his own actions worth it. Almost.

“Still can’t believe you actually agreed to spend Christmas with me,” Hob mumbles as he tries to unlock his front door.

His words are slightly unsteady. Not slurred yet—he isn’t drunk in the unfocused, frenetic way that Dream is familiar with from the dreams that drift into his youngest sister’s realm—but he is tipsy. Tongue loose and hands a little lazy. Dream rather likes him like this, the thread of carefully concealed caution that Hob tends to display at all other times unspooled and tangling.

Dream swallows the repeated insistence that the concept of Christmas means little to him. When Hob finally pushes the door open, he says instead, “It was important to you.”

The hallway, when he follows inside, is dim; the only light comes from the yellowish gloom of the streetlamps outside, and the electric candles on Hob’s Christmas tree in the next room.

It feels awfully close to home, in the way that throughout the last year, Dream has spent a number of evenings here that he has lost count of long ago. In the way that he can hear Hob’s fond demand to leave his shoes in the hallway, and how he has a side on the sofa, now. How the tree—rich green and still smelling of pine—may be more dream object than real, because Dream had drawn the line at carrying a tree. Up the stairs.

Hob had laughed at him, and then his eyes had gone soft when Dream arrived with this one. Dream had rather liked that too. He rather likes all of it an awful lot.  

When he looks at Hob, he finds him already watching, dark eyes fixed on Dream as if there is nothing he would rather look at.

“It was; you made a difficult night not only bearable but warm,” Hob says, voice soft.

Dream cannot remember ever having been called warm, and it unsettles something within his chest that seems impossible to thrust back into containment.

“I am glad,” he says. His fingers itch to reach out; he allows them to brush the sleeve of Hob’s jumper.

Between them, the air seems to shift, and Dream is not sure he could look away from Hob even if he wanted to.

The odds that, after months of this, Hob can read it all on his face are infinite. And yet.

As if to prove that point, Hob steps closer, certain despite his unsteady feet, and curls his fingers around Dream’s hipbones. There is a dare pressed into the slope of his mouth that Dream desperately wants to answer.

He fists his hands into the soft, well-worn fabric of Hob’s jumper and tugs.

Hob goes willingly; of course, he does. Dream cannot bring himself to feel anything but terrified awe at it.

“Stop thinking so much,” Hob murmurs, vowels tripping and swallowed, and then he presses his open mouth to Dream’s as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

Perhaps it is; Dream’s pointless heart is thrashing inside his chest, and he sways on his feet. Thinks that if he is made to give this up, he might as well take the world down with him because what is the point of it if Hob’s lips are not pressed to his? If Hob’s tongue does not meet his, clever and certain, as Dream can feel barrier after barrier inside of him crumble?

Dream has been here before, though. He forces himself to pull back, to frame Hob’s face between his hands and look at him.

Hob does not seem willing to wait, pushing forward again, his mouth finding Dream’s, and it would be so, so easy to let himself drown in it. It would be so, so easy to believe that perhaps this time, it will be different.

When he pulls away from Hob a second time, Hob lets him.

The hallway is still dim and quiet around them. The tree still twinkles in the living room, and the world has not yet begun to collapse around them.

That is… promising.

“Are you sure that you want this?” Dream asks, and he does not rush the words, but it is the closest that he will get.

Hob laughs, a low, incredulous sound. It curls fondly around Dream’s bones as Hob simply kisses him again—with more force this time, teeth sinking into flesh and nails finding skin.

“If you leave again,” Hob breathes, eyes closed, “I will find you, no matter where you are. I am not letting you go again.”

The affection spills into Dream’s mouth so sweetly, there is nothing he can do but draw Hob impossibly closer and pour it down his throat.

Breaking the kiss again is inconceivable, so Dream does not. The words, when he thinks them, sink their way right into the marrow of Hob’s bones.

“I will not take my leave of you again,” he says, biting the vow of it into Hob’s tender mouth. “You will have no need to search for me.”

The sound Hob makes in response is beyond pleased; Dream rather plans to build himself a home out of that, too.

[shy-urban-hobbit]

Modern au Lambden ficlet.

C/W for very brief implied suicide.

Lambert smiled to himself as his phone alerted him to the now expected notification.

'Home safe X O '

Was it unnecessary? Probably - considering they exchanged enough messages throughout the day to know exactly where the other was and what they were doing; whether it was Aiden sending him a picture of something he'd seen out on his morning run or Lambert sneakily texting him during a work meeting to bitch about how pointless it was. It had become a habit at this point, Aiden expected the same thing and would panic if he didn't receive a text, even if it was just after the 20 minute drive between their apartments.

It probably wasn't so unreasonable in the grand scheme of things though. Afterall, they both knew first hand how quickly someone or something could disappear from your life - all it took was being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Lambert checked his phone again, his leg bouncing as he tried to focus on whatever his brother was talking about and not the unpleasant feeling which was growing steadily stronger whenever another quarter hour passed. There'd be a logical explanation for why Aiden hadn't messaged him yet: his phone had died, the meeting ran late, he ran into someone he knew, he'd got stuck in traffic - it had happened to Lambert enough times.

"If you're that worried, just call him."

Lambert shrugged, trying to look as relaxed as he forced his attention back to the conversation happening around him, "I'll give him another 15 minutes." He lied. Geralt didn't need to know he'd already tried calling Aiden five times under the pretense of going to the bathroom or grabbing another drink - all going straight to voicemail.

Lambert slouched into his apartment after a too long day of trying to ignore the date and poured himself three fingers of whiskey as an act of acknowledgement. Three years. Three, far too long years of searching and hoping. The police had done all they could but with no body and no new leads, they'd called off the investigation after not even a year.

No body, no evidence, no signs....no reason he was aware of for Aiden to just up and disappear. Something he'd told the various officers and detectives numerous fucking times, to the point of questioning it himself which then made him feel even worse. How many people did he have to convince that they'd been happy!!!? At least his and Aiden's collective siblings and parental figures had had his back on that one (Cedric back near the beginning of all this had told him half joking between helping Lambert through another drunken night hugging the toilet that he'd never seen Aiden act so much like a lovestruck teenager even when he was a teenager), otherwise he just might have ended up taking himself off for a wander he didn't come back from on the particularly dark days.

Days which were becoming more frequent as more and more people started dropping gentle and not so gentle hints that maybe it was time to start moving forwards - something he'd had more than one argument over. Just because everyone else had given up didn't change the fact that something about this wasn't right and Lambert was going to figure out what and why even if he had to do it alone.

His phone buzzed in his pocket and he was almost tempted to ignore it. Word would've got out about his shouting match with Eskel so it would be either Vesemir or Geralt bugging him and if he ignored their text, they'd just end up calling him and he seriously didn't want to speak to anybody right now.

He fished out his phone and almost dropped his glass.

'Home safe X O '

He felt his hand start to shake. He didn't recognise the number, it could easily be a hoax, or a wrong number. There were a thousand other possible explanations...

He pressed the call button and listened, struggling to get enough air in his lungs to even breathe, let alone speak when the ringing at the other end of the line stopped.

"....Aiden?"

[caustinen]

Self-rec tag!

Thank you so much lovely @middlingmay for the tag <3 Go read all of their stuff!!

I’ve been writing for a couple of fandoms over my years and I will probably never get to the same level of mania with it as I did when I wrote a 200k+ fantasy abo bts fic (💀💀💀) in high school but even so fic writing/coming up with scenarios for any current fandom has actually become a dear hobby, even though I don’t usually think of it like that. The level of talent in this fandom is off the charts and I feel my own stuff is still very mid compared to most mota content out there but this is a nice chance to reflect a bit!

Hollywood au — idk if it counts because it’s still unfortunately not a real fic, but i’ve never had this kind of a silly headcannon that just kept rolling and got so much engagement, it genuinly wouldn’t have been more than that original hc + the fake social media posts if it wasn’t for the anons asking for more. i’ve enjoyed that one more than anything else in years, even though now i feel i might have overdone it a bit (idk if other people who write fandom stuff get this but sometimes i fear i ”ruin” my own au if i overdo it if that makes sense?). i’ve never approached headcanonns/writing like this, fragment at a time, usually i have the whole outline ready when i get started on particular scenes, so it has been so good to me as a writer also outside of fandom to see how fun it is to put the pieces together little by little! thank you everyone who contributed 💘

summer kisses//in my body — my first mota work, something i worked with for quite a while even though it’s just mindless pointless smut — just something about the intensity and calm always present in both of them is so sexy, something about wanting and being wanted in the same way, the electricity between the two of them… that’s all there is to this particular fic but i still find it to do well what it set out to do even if it’s not all that much. also summer kisses/in my body from ELVIS soundtrack continues to be one of the sexiest songs ever and it fit them so good!!

sharp dressed man — idk why but i just really liked this one even though the smut gave me headache and i never really got truly happy with it. i’ve never been one for college or high school aus but somehow in this fandom i’ve fallen from them hard, and imagining them in this kind of a safe environment where the stakes are much less serious than in war it’s so sweet to just bask in the sunlight of their love, no matter what universe or stage. 🥰 idk why i felt like this one never really got to people, maybe it just wasn’t as good of a concept or execution as i wanted it to be and that’s also fine, if you start writing with only reactions in mind you get lost very fast 🫡

honorable mention: regency au hc + ficlet of morning after wedding night — i just really love regency aus and i think their dynamic would fit it so well 🥹 just imagining all the walking… the heavily loaded dances… the way class and pride and everything could be sowned together through them… muah!!!

Thank you again!!! I think I’ve seen everyone tagged quite a few times but i’ll still tag a few of you who i’d love to hear more about, @avonne-writes @joeyalohadream @anachilles @rambleonwaywardson @c-goldthorn @onyxsboxes @evlia

[greypetrel]

thank you for answering, here is my reaction request, feel free to deny it if it's something you don't feel like doing:

Dragon Age 2, between Acts 1 and 2. Mage!Hawke, Fenris, Varric, Aveline + whoever else you would like to include. FenHawke being the main focus:

Hawke faints while walking around Kirkwall, surprising everyone, eventually they find out Hawke has been starving themselves to make sure their family has enough to eat… I headcannon that magic and spellcasting consume a lot of the bodies natural resources, so mages need to consume more calories, hence why they like bread and cheese so much

Hello!

Sorry if I’m late, it took me a little thinking and I am generally a little intimidated from writing Fenhawke, as much as I love to read it. It feels like so much has been told already, but I eventually took the courage. Thank you for pushing me towards something I wouldn’t have done on my own, I hope you’ll like it!

I interpreted it as “how each would react seeing Hawke faint” and went with it. For Fenris, it’s a little ficlet. I had my fenrismancer Hawke in mind, but I tried not to make it too specifical for him. I only allowed myself one little concession, which is some terrible humour (and a reference to pop culture, let’s pretend in Kirkwall they know Backstreet Boys as a travelling band of dancing minstrels). Adding Sebastian too even if he's not recruited yet. It felt bad to leave only him out, and I think it'll be sweet to have him around. everything under the cut, because with no one's surprise, IT LONG.

Varric: “Hawke? Shit, Hawke! Don’t do this to me, you’re too heavy for me to bring you back.”

He will bring you back on his own if he has to. You’ll wake up in a room at the Hanged Man, with Varric and Anders in the room. Anders will sigh and bid you good morning, and comment that you have been lucky in not bumping your head against something. You just need to eat, and plenty. Before going, he will tease Varric about acting like a mother cat defending her kitten. Once alone, Varric will sigh and tiredly scold you: You only should have told him that you had trouble with food. Didn’t you trust him for help, already? After Bartrand, you’re a little like family, and he’ll love to help at least you. No, he’s not at all offering you a room and plenty of food because he may or may not have made you the main character of a thing he’s writing. Pointless slander.

Aveline: “Hawke? Hawke, wake up!”

She didn’t move you, in case you bumped your head too strong. She called a guard passing by to bring Anders here, you’re waiting for them to be back. She’ll ask you how you’re feeling, you fell down like a wet shirt and she got worried. You’re also looking pale, and she told you that you were overdoing it and she doesn’t want you to be sick and- Her rant gets interrupted by Anders. He heals you, checks that your skull isn’t in fact broken, does a check up. He frowns and tell you that you really need to eat. Aveline’s worry only grows: You’re not eating? Why? How? Why didn’t you ask for help? Of all the shenanigans and reckless things, she wasn’t expecting this. She grumbles, helping you stand and forcibly bringing you to the first inn in sight. On her: she never really thanked you for helping her out of Fereldan and into the city, this seems a good chance as any. And oh, the Guard Captain will know that people in Lowtown have no food. He’ll know it.

Anders: “What- Hawke!”

You’ll wake up with him glaring daggers at you, complaining that you’re an idiot, and you thought you could hide it with him? Oh no. He knows of being hungry, and you really only had to ask him. He’ll produce from his pocket a linen cloth with some homemade snack in it. It’s a bar made with cereals and honey and dried nuts: the wife of a patient gave some to him this morning, he’s happy he was late to meet you and he forgot the one he wanted to eat for breakfast in his pocket. He’s fine, he ate yesterday and you didn’t. He’ll urge you to eat: it’ll give you enough strength to make it home. He'll tell you that you can’t help anyone if you starve yourself: and that if you need help, you have friends to ask for. You can ask him, after all: you showed him your friendship more than once already, and he’d be glad to give something back.

Isabela: “Hey! It’s too soon for swooning!”

She managed to drag you into a shady corner, out of the way. She’s sitting beside you with a dagger out, to make sure no one gets any ideas. She’ll ask you if you made sweet dreams, and tease you that she’s beautiful, but you could at least contain yourself and avoid swooning. It was really embarrassing on your part and look, she was forced to show a conscience and that was very rude of you. She’ll tease you while fussing over you, and a joke after the other, it’ll turn out that you’re just hungry and not eat it. You can tell her, or your stomach will grumble. Her smile will turn sad, but she’ll cast everything off with a joke. That’s just it? You’re hungry? Why didn’t you say sooner! She knows just the place: the dirtiest hole in the Docks, it’s not the Hanged Man but it can hold its own. More interestingly, the innkeeper owes her a favour, and it’s surely lunchtime, somewhere. She could eat and she will: you can come with her if you’d like. She won’t make you feel bad one minute, and accepting her help will only seem like your own decision, not as pity.

Merrill: “Hawke? Hawke! Oh Mythal, no no no!”

You wake up with a balsamic smell in your nostrils: focusing, it’s Merrill’s hand, crushing some dried leaves with her fingers. Your feet are up on a wooden crate, and she rolled her scarf under your head as a makeshift pillow. She smiles when she sees you’re awake, and lowers her hand to start trafficking with her pouches. She tells you that she got worried, and didn’t know what to do. Thankfully you were close to the stalls she buys her fruit from, and she asked the kind lady that owns it for help to move you to the side. She also gave her the crate, you know that when you faint is very important to keep your feet up? So the blood can rush to your brain again, you need that more than your feet. Not to say that you won’t need your feet anymore! She fumbles with words, and soon enough you’re both laughing. She keeps smiling, and tells you that when people fainted, in the clan, the Keeper always said that some sugar was just what was needed. She picks some dried fruit from a pouch, and urges you to eat it: it’ll make you feel better right away, she’s sure. She dried the plums herself, and always carries them and some roasted nuts with her, as a snack. You can have it, come on. She gave you a full handful -your handful of it, but if you make her notice, not thanking her right away, she’ll casually shrug and say she can’t never tell with humans, you’re all so bigger than elves. Her pouch is already secured at her belt.

She’ll wait for you to eat and be ready to stand up again, chatting all the way about her clan, and what she did when someone was sick. She pushes on good food and plenty of rest, very casually. Once you’re ok, she’ll insist to stand by your side, and accompany you somewhere. She’ll suggest the Hanged Man -it’s close!- or Anders’ clinic, but will walk you home if you insist. Anywhere you go, you’ll be discreetely served food without an explanation. It’s not lunchtime, but people are eating with you. If you go home, the next morning there’ll be a basket full of groceries and food. No note, nothing at all: but a small pouch filled with more dried plums.

Sebastian: “Sweet Andraste, Hawke!”

You wake up in a shady corner, this time under the covering of a stall. He knew the stall-owner, they met in the Cathedral and prayed together. He sells cheese, here, you can have some, lad, it will make you feel better. Sebastian isn’t doting on you, properly, but he is helpful. He asks you if you’re feeling well, and if he can help. Please let him help, it’s the least he can do to repay you from your kindness. Pointing out to him that he doesn’t have to do it, you didn’t help him to have anything in return will make him sigh, heavily. It’s with the utmost seriousness and sincerity that he’ll answer, promising you that he’ll help you nonetheless. Not only because the Maker wants him to, but because your differences don’t matter much. He won’t leave any companion he spent time with in need. He may not be sure of what he wants to do in life, but he’s very sure that he wants to help you and show you some kindness. As you have shown him. Can he offer you something? Can he help? Your choice in accepting it or not: he won’t recognize what’s going on, but whether you want to be brought at home, to Anders or anywhere else, you have him by your side. He’ll stop by your house the next day to check you’re all right. The moment he’ll know you haven’t been eating? It’s not stealing from the Church if the food was meant to be shared with those in need.

Fixing a Hole (🎶)

[ FenHawke || No warning || 2389 words ]

And it really doesn't matter if I'm wrong, I'm right Where I belong, I'm right Where I belong See the people standing there who disagree and never win And wonder why they don't get in my door - Fixing a Hole, The Beatles

The world blurred first, and then it quickly became black.

“Hawke?”

It was the last thing Garrett heard, noticing with exhilaration what was happening. A last moment of clarity when he felt his limbs losing strengths and saw the world shifting. Fenris’ voice sounded alarmed, which only contributed to the excitement of the moment. Thankfully, everything went black and he lost conscience before he could blush.

He dreamt of the farm.

A sunset in early summer: the air was still warm from the long day, and the sun painted the wheat field in firey oranges and golds. Everything looked gold, and Garrett smiled at the sweet memory. He could smell the fields, the earth baked by the sun, and he knew that if he turned, he would have met with Bethany, leaning out of the windowsill and calling him for dinner. He longed to turn and see her, and at the same time knew he shouldn’t. It was still too painful, at least in his dreams, to see his little sister there, smiling. If only…

You can have it.

Someone whispered, voice brought by the wind. Garrett closed his eyes, away from the sunset, away from childhood and happiness. He had been happy, then: he didn’t fully realize until everything was lost. But it was not the first time he dreamt of home. A home where they thrived, a home where they had been happy, a home where he didn’t let Bethany die, and Carver hadn’t hopefully been killed by the Wardens he left him with. A home where he could look at his mother in the eyes without feeling blame and guilt creeping up his throat.

It wasn’t the first time and he knew what to do.

Take a deep breath, concentrate on how your chest rises and falls, on the sensation of air filling your lung. Stay in the moment, in the present, the past is gone and the future an illusion. The dirt under your feet, the smell of summer in the air, the warm caress of the last sunrays: they are gone, you can’t have it, they don’t exist anymore. They burnt and you couldn’t have done nothing to prevent it.

He concentrated on the good things he had: he was alive, his mother was alive, things were looking up and soon enough he would have sold everything and had the money to get a home for real. He had some friends, some real ones that knew he was a mage and he didn’t need to hide from. He loved them, and they loved him back. They wouldn’t want for him to stay there, lose himself in dreams. Kirkwall was nice, from the bazaar in Hightown the sunsets were pretty. Prettier, when he was there, leaning on the balcony and chatting with-

“You can have this. You can have me.”

He startled, his eyes opened as he felt a hand closing on his own. At his side, there was Fenris, looking at him with his usual serious expression. Something melted in his eyes, tho: something soft took place of the constant challenge he saw in them, the suspicion and mistrust. His heart did a double leap as he saw his lips curve up in a smile.

“You just need to say yes,love. And we can stay here. Forever. Far from Templars, far from Magisters. Far from guilt. It will be just as you want, and I will never leave your side.”

For the first time in years, Garrett felt tempted. He didn’t realize he had it so bad for the elf: he was good company, reliable in battle, and he liked him, sure. Physically, and his humour. He also knew it was impossible, between him being a mage and the other’s past. And now… He realized that yes. That was what he wanted. Something impossible in real life, and…

… Something was wrong.

The way Fenris turned, the way his lips opened in a wide smile, showing teeth, and he leaned so minutely towards him, still holding his hand.

“What about Danarius?” Garrett forced himself to ask.

“What about him? He doesn’t matter.”

“Don’t you want to get your freedom? End the chapter?”

“It doesn’t matter anymore. I have you, I’m happy like that.”

Garrett closed his eyes, the illusion clear as day in front of him. He held his hand, lingering on what never could have been for a moment still. It had been nice, until it lasted.

“He would never say that.” He opened his eyes and smiled at the demon. “And I would never say yes to him. Not in this way.”

He explained. Kindly, because it was just the way it was. Getting angry wouldn’t have brought him anyway.

The face of Fenris rippled and twisted in a snarl, the details got blurred.

I know your one desire.

“Oh well, as the wise man said.” He sighed, letting that hand go. It had started to grow talons and pinch uncomfortably against his own, anyway. “Ain’t nothing but a heartache.”

He quietly sang, stepping back and snapping his fingers.

Magic, at least, always came easier in dreams. He watched, as flames engulfed the demon, Fenris’ shape twisting and morphing, showing horns until he blinked, skin turning purple, teeth growing sharp. A piercing shriek filled the air, and soon enough everything was on fire. The wheat in the field, the old oak tree at the end of the courtyard, the chicken coop, the well and the farm, Bethany still on the window, frozen in place.

Would you set your own home on fire? The demon shrieked, in a last attempt at swaying him.

Garrett smiled, genuinely sorry for ruining the demon’s day like so. It was its nature, after all, and a part of him was grateful for the small glimpse of clarity it gifted him. It was easier to fight, if you knew your limits and what you wished.

“I already did.”

His eyes opened, and he looked blearily at… Wooden planks that looked old and like they were just about to crumble to dust.

Not the sky framed by Lowtown sandy buildings.

Weird.

“You’re awake.”

Garrett turned, blinking bleariness away. He didn’t recognize the place, but he recognized that voice.

Fenris was sitting on a stool, leaning his back against a wall whose paint was so scrapy and dirty that it could only mean that they were at the Hanged Man. For a moment, Garrett thought it was yet another dream. But the elf was typically grumpy, and frowned at him with an expression that was all too familiar.

“Am I?” He asked, still dubious.

“Hawke.” Fenris rolled his eyes, already exasperated.

It only made Hawke grin, calming down as he realized that it wasn’t, maybe, a dream. Only one way of knowing it. He just needed to wait for the right occasion for it.

“Where are we?” He asked instead.

“The Hanged Man. You fainted on the street, we were close.”

“You brought me all the way up here? I’m flattered.”

“So little you think of me, to believe I would have left you in the middle of a street?”

Hawke turned to his side, to face him better. His head still spinned something nasty, and he knew that standing up would not have done him any good. He saw one too many patients in Anders’ clinic to know that he would have had to be dragged up to bed again. It wasn’t a particularly appealing option. Or well, it was, but the context was wrong, and as many things he would have joked about, that wasn’t one. So, he just settled down better, and looked at Fenris in front of him, turning serious.

“I do not. But thank you anyway.”

“For what?”

“For staying.”

He saw the other scoffing, averting his eyes to the side and shrugging it off with a remark on how irresponsible it would have been, after a whole year of looking up for one another in battle. It brought a smile on Garrett’s face.

“How are you feeling?” Fenris asked, after a while.

“I’ll be good, I just need to lie down a bit.”

“Hawke.”

“I swear! I’ll take a nap and be as good as new. Nothing happened.”

“Hawke.”

“What’s the worse it can happen? Maybe I’ll die, so what. Everybody dies, sooner or later, is just another part of life. Never understood why people are so scared about it… I’ll be one Mage less, at least.”

“Hawke.”

There, the chance. He didn’t think about why that “Hawke” sounded different. It was all typical, but…

“Do me a favour.” He asked him, sighing as he rolled back heavily on his back. “When I die, cremate me.”

“Are you-”

“It’ll be my last chance to have a smokin’ hot body, after all.”

He arched his back, stretching just for show. The low, exasperated groan that followed was part a victory, part a relief. It wasn’t the Fade after all. In the Fade, all the demons laughed at his jokes, they were a great appreciative public.

“If you’re jesting, it means you’re feeling better.”

Hawke turned, grinning from one ear to the other as the elf, in a clear complaint, kicked back the stool and rose up. He saw the faintest trace of a smile on his face, and it was then impossible to pretend he was sorry.

“Leaving me so soon? All by myself? What if I die.”

“I’ll risk having you on my conscience.”

He reached the door and opened it, placing half a step on the threshold. He hesitated then, eyes lost fixating on something in front of him and brows furrowed in thoughts. Hawke stayed there, not that there was much choice but that.

“I am not so cruel as to leave you in such a state.” He said, finally, as if each word burned in his throat. He turned towards Hawke, still a crease between his brows that wasn’t totally obscured by a silver lock of hair. “I know we have… Our differences, but the next time, please tell me.”

Hawke frowned at that.

“Tell you what?”

He couldn’t know, could he? He would expect Anders to notice, or Merrill. People with experience in treating others. Surely not the broody warrior. As much as he tried to flirt with him, suddenly the idea of being so much in the open, so vulnerable and raw, scared him. He swallowed, not daring lowering his eyes first.

“Just tell me, Hawke.”

He didn’t say another word: just nodded to the side, casting him a look that was all too eloquent, and on another person, another less broody and aloof person could almost have been taken for worry, went out the room, without a word more or waiting for an answer.

Hawke turned on his back and groaned aloud, covering his face with both hands. Of all the people he could faint in front of, it just had to be Fenris. His typical luck. The one he shily wanted to impress, and the one that he didn’t really feel like he could complain about his situation without sounding whiny about it.

He wondered how he was gonna pay for the room.

He wondered, a little later, how was he gonna pay for the full meal that was brought inside the room. Steaming soup, a whole roast with vegetables, drowned in gravy on the small table before he could protest. Peas and potatoes with a thick slice of ham. Two pints of beer.

Hawke almost fell ashamed, but it was a fleeting moment. Fenris shrugged, as he took a big gulp from the tank and scrunched his nose in disgust, glaring at the offending beverage. It broke the tension, and soon enough they both were eating and drinking, friendly arguing about whether beer or wine was better. Hawke laughing and Fenris smiling.

“Fenris?” Hawke asked, in the end when conversation has naturally ended and he felt better, both physically than emotionally.

“Yes?”

“I do not think you’re cruel.” A pause. “I never did.”

An eyebrow rose in his direction, skeptical, as the only answer he got.

“You just have shitty opinions about us mages, but cruel? Nah.”

He huffed, shrugging it off, and rose again, changing the topic abruptly and informing him it was time for him to go. And that the room had been taken care of and not to worry about it. He could stay until the next morning. A pang of guilt and shame rose back in Hawke’s throat, but he nodded, without complaining.

“The next time you feel like I need to change my mind, please find better ways to prove it.” The elf told him, helping him out the bed when Hawke insisted to at least rise up to bid him goodbye. With his belly finally full after days, he felt strong enough for it.

“Were you worried?” Hawke meant it as a mock, but it slipped out of his lips without a bite. It sounded all too hopeful for his tastes and he would have bonked his head against the wall.

“Yes.” Fenris just replied, seriously enough.

“Ah.” He averted his eyes, embarrassed. “Well, I’m sorry and… Thank you, I mean, for helping me. You didn’t have to.”

There was silence, for a full minute, heavy and tense. Or maybe it was Hawke reading too much into it, as the topic fell dangerously close to feelings and crushes he knew were totally one-sided and would never have been reciprocated.

“I am of the understanding, that helping is one of the basic requirements of friends.” Fenris finally spoke. “It would be pointless to be so lucky as to have some, without accepting help in return.”

He patted, quickly, his shoulder, and nodded a goodbye, leaving him for the night. Hawke, smiling again, stepped out of the door, watching his back as he strode down the corridor.

“Fenris?”

“Yes?” He stopped and turned.

“Is the mysterious benefactor that paid for this Varric, or is it you?”

Fenris bent one corner of his mouth.

“I promised not to tell. But I’d order the lobster for breakfast.”

Garrett Hawke hated Kirkwall. He missed the countryside, the wheat fields and the pumpkin patch, fresh vegetables and a clean stream. Today, tho, he hated it a little less, and let hope bloom in his chest.