Haven't written anything smutty in a while. So this is probably a little rusty. Anyway, hope you enjoy!
Edit: I added breaks between the different pov changes for ease of readability. Reviews would be welcome, as I haven't written anything smutty in a while. Can't decide if this is smutty, or just silly. Maybe silly smut!
For A Little While. . .
"Fenris?" she asked, a bit surprised to see him in her home. His was the last face she expected to see as she made her way from her bath to bed. But there he was, in her front entrance.
Of all her friends, Fenris had only come to visit her here once in the three years she'd lived here in Hightown. Once. A week ago. After the death of Hadriana. And that time things had not gone very well. Between the shouting, the sarcasm, his self-loathing, and his disgust for all things magic, herself included. . . well. . . it had not gone very well.
She hadn't thought to see him again for at least a month, given his penchant for brooding. Let alone find him in her foyer.
He stood the moment she crossed the foyer from the bathing chamber, her favorite soft robe wrapped around her, and came towards her with strong, purposeful strides. He stopped a handsbreath from her. Closer than he had ever been to her before, save in the heat of battle when she guarded his back.
Close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off of his body.
Close enough that she wished she was wearing more clothes. Or less. . .
Close enough that she could see see that his pupils were dilated. His whole body seemed to thrum with the effort to control himself. His hands were balled in tight fists at his side.
Close enough that when he spoke, she could feel his breath on her skin.
"I have been thinking of you. In fact, I have been able to think of little else. Command me to go and I shall." His voice, like his stance, was tight, barely controlled. They'd flirted for two years now, in stolen moments between battles, and over an occasional bottle of wine at the Hanged Man. Cautious flirting. Steering clear of all things magic. She'd thought, at times, that he might come to like her. If things were different. If she weren't a mage. She wanted him to like her. But, could he?
She searched his face, needing to be sure. But she saw resolve and determination there. Still, she waited. This was Fenris after all. She didn't want to push. Maker knew she had fantasied about this moment, but she wasn't a fool. She knew he was a complicated man with a world of pain and inexperience in his past. She knew that, in many ways, she embodied everything he hated. She wouldn't push. She waited.
The silence stretched between them, but he said nothing more, nor did he move. Heat coiled between her thighs as she allowed herself to briefly hope that he was serious. A grin spread across her face of its own accord, her pulse quickening. She could feel a blush staining her cheeks, and didn't give a damn. Let him see how his presence affected her.
He raised an eyebrow in question, uncertainty registering in the depth of his eyes. She nearly laughed aloud, but didn't. She didn't want to wound his pride. "Did I say anything?" she asked softly, one hand reaching up and caressing his cheek. "Did I command you to go?"
A primal moan tore itself from his lips as he bent his head into her caress. Her grin grew wider, threatening to split her face in half. Yes, he was serious. She curled her hand around the back of his head, running it through that soft, thick, white hair that had tormented her daydreams for so many long months. Rising up on tip toes, she drew him down to her and softly pressed her lips against his.
It began gently. She'd meant for it to stay that way. But the force of his response shook her to the core. It was as though her soft, chaste kiss had broken a dam within him. His arms came around her in a crushing embrace, as though he were drowning. One hand fisted in her hair, drawing her head back, giving him better access to her mouth. Another moan broke from his lips, swallowed by the kiss they shared. He pressed against her, and she returned the pressure. Closer. Needing to be closer. His mouth angled over hers and, without even thinking, she pulled his lower lip between her teeth, biting down softly. His body shook against her, and she felt the satisfying rise of his cock, straining against the fabric between them, pressing into her belly.
Releasing his lip, she teased the corners of his mouth with her tongue. Hesitantly, he opened it. Needing no further invitation, her tongue darted inside, dancing with his own.
He groaned, his knees buckling. She was dimly aware of her own limbs shaking. Her body was thrumming in rhythm to the strokes his strong hand was making as it ran up and down her back. From the curve of her buttocks to the nape of her neck he stroked her. Pressing her body into his own. Rocking his hips against hers. She dimly wondered if he had any idea what he was doing to her.
Stumbling against him she pressed him back, grinding her breasts against the strong planes of his chest. He sagged against the wall, and she pressed against him further, mindlessly seeking a way to eliminate all the space between them, hooking one leg around his waist. His hand came up under her knee, holding her leg in place. Releasing his mouth, she laid soft nibbling kisses along his jaw.
His breath, now that his mouth was freed, came in ragged gasps. His body stilled, quivering slightly as she slowly nibbled her way towards his ear. Slowly, softly, she traced the delicate point with her tongue, before taking the lobe between her teeth. Spasms wracked his body again, and she pressed herself against him harder, pressing him against the wall. Trapping him so that he couldn't fall.
"Fasta vas" he gasped, using the hand fisted in her hair to pull her mouth back to his own. She laughed a wicked and joyful laugh at that, a laugh muffled by his kiss. But he heard it all the same, and it stilled him.
"Do you mock me" He asked, pulling away from her as much as his position would allow.
Shit. She'd forgotten his inexperience, and his past. She drew back, unhooking her leg from his hip, and met his gaze squarely. His eyes held uncertainty again. Uncertainty, anger and a hint of fear. "No," she said.
"You laughed," he replied. "Are my efforts such a laughing matter to you? Am I merely an amusement, a story you can tell Isabella—"
"No," she said again, cutting him off. "I liked your reaction." Once again, she felt heat rising in her face, but held her voice steady. "I liked that I was the one to cause that reaction," she unwound her fingers from his hair, tracing them down the side of his neck, and watching the way his pulse leapt under her fingers. "It excited me to know that I can excite you. It gave me joy. So I laughed," she shrugged and traced her fingers along his jawline, running her thumb over his swollen lips. "I'm not commanding you to go, Fenris. But you don't have to stay." She said it, knowing it was the right thing to say. But oh how she wanted him to stay. She was literally aching for him to stay. She'd never known a man to arouse her so quickly.
"Do you want me to go?" he asked, his voice grave and wary.
"Maker, no," she said, smiling.
"I," he hesitated. "I wish to cause a reaction in you."
Oh, you are, she thought. But instead she gently reached up, untangling his hand from her curls, and laid his fingers against her own ear. He looked quizzical for a moment, but then traced her ear with his fingertips, sending her shivering. "But you aren't an elf?"
"Human ears are sensitive too," she whispered breathlessly.
"Ah," he leaned over and traced the pattern again with his tongue, causing her to gasp aloud as he tugged on her earlobe. This time he laughed. A warm, rich laugh, full of wonder and delight. She couldn't remember ever hearing him laugh in a way that wasn't laced with irony or pain.
"What else is sensitive?" he asked, purring in her ear. "Show me."
She tilted her head to the side, sweeping her hair out of the way, and laid her own fingers down the length of her neck. He bent, following her trailing fingers, leaving small nibbling kisses along the curve. When he reached the point where he neck met her shoulder, she gasped slightly. He looked her in they eye for a moment, before returning his attention to the area, biting down softly in a way that made her groan aloud.
"I am not well versed in this, but I believe a bed would be in order?"
She hesitated for a tenth of a second, thoughts darting across her mind. I should tell him to go home, or promise another night, this has gone far enough, her cautious, rational mind said. But her body had other plans. She found her head nodding in agreement before entangling both her hands in his hair and drawing his mouth down to hers again.
He chuckled again, that deep rich sound she had never heard before tonight, before sweeping both hands under her bum and lifting her up against him. Laughing in surprise, and wrapping her legs around his waist, she cling to him. "Hold on," he whispered as he activated his lyrium in order to deliver them to her bedroom in record time.
She smiled, stepping away from him slightly. "Are you in a hurry?" she asked, arching an eyebrow in amusement.
"I am simply trying to make up for lost time," he answered, smiling. "What else is sensitive?" he asked, his eyes darkening as his hand rested at the open collar of her robe.
She suspected he needed no guidance, and his wicked smile confirmed her suspicions. Still, watching him carefully, she guided his hand down beneath the robe until he was cupping her breast, her nipple hardening beneath his touch. She closed her eyes and whimpered as his fingers explored her nipple, swaying on her feet until his other hand came around her waist, drawing her back towards him.
"We are wearing entirely too many clothes," she murmured against his lips, before delivering another bruising kiss. He nodded his agreement, deftly removing the sash that held her robe in place, and peeling it off her shoulders, leaving her standing only in her smalls. "Unfair," she chided him, her own hands already restlessly working at the buckles and ties of his armor. But there was so much more of him to disrobe, and long before she was done, he had removed all of her clothing and his fingers were eagerly exploring every inch of her.
"Maker," she gasped as his fingers slipped between her legs. "I thought you were not well versed in this?"
"I've always been a quick study," he answered, circling his fingers around the sensitive spot that had caused such a reaction in her.
"Distracting," she panted, alternating between clutching his shoulder to hold herself upright and working furiously at the buckles of his armor. Too slow to cause her to climax, but fast enough to render her mind a blank, and her limbs unresponsive, his fingertips circled and circled.
Finally, she had disrobed enough of him that she could slip her own hand down the coiled muscles of his abdomen and dip below the waistline of his leggings. He hissed as her hand wrapped around his full length, already straining with desire against the fabric.
The change was instantaneous. His mouth came down on hers with a primal demand as he gripped her tight with one hand, and steered her towards the bed. His other hand worked furiously at what was left of his clothing, leaving a trail of discarded garments in their wake. She could feel the desire coiling between them, Fenris's body trembling like an overly tight bowstring and a shiver of excitement passed through her at the thought of what would happen when it snapped.
But she had not considered Fenris's years of self control. They reached the bed, somehow, both divested of their garments, and he lowered her gently, rising above her on his elbows. With her hand still on his cock, she guided him to her slit, drenched with desire and aching to be filled. He entered her slowly. Tortuously slow. Whatever she had been expecting, it had not been this. The slow, controlled and measured way he moved was so at odds with the insistent, demanding kisses he was still giving her.
She bucked her hips, twitching beneath him in desire and frustration, pressing her hands to his back, his buttocks, and lacing her legs around his hips. There must be something, anything, she could do to urge him on. Harder. Faster.
He broke the kiss and studied her face for a moment. "I have thought of this for two years," he said in a voice torn ragged with desire. "I would savor every moment." It was not quite a question, but his tone went up at the end, and his eyebrows lifted.
She nodded, following his lead. Slow. Maddeningly slow. Though she couldn't help the insistent moans escaping her lips, she couldn't help the way her body shook and writhed under him, seeking a release. And she could hear, by his own hissing breath, that he felt the need for urgency too. Still, he slid into her slowly. And she rose, with every measured thrust, meeting him.
Until he could not keep the leisurely pace anymore. His face suffused with need, control slipping, muscles straining. He wanted to move slowly, but she could see that even his self-control had its limits. She cupped his cheek, "let me," she said, her voice no more than a strained whisper as she guided him onto his back.
Straddling him, she ran her hands down the length of his chest. "Savor, was it?" she asked. He nodded, watching her like a starving man, pupils so dilated that the vivid green of his eyes was almost lost amid dark pools of desire. His hands helplessly clutched her hips, pressing her down on his length even as he bucked up to meet her. But she would not be swayed. If he wanted to savor, she would ensure that he did.
She rose, tormentingly slow, earning a low desperate moan from him as she released his length almost completely. But before his cock sprung free of her, she slid down, impaling herself inch by delicious inch. He closed his eyes, making the most satisfying growl she'd ever heard, hands sliding up her sides to cup her breasts.
It was just as she had imagined. No, better than she had imagined. Nights of frustrated fantasy and her own fingers had nothing on this. She rose again. Riding leisurely swells of desire, while his hands did the wickedest things to her breasts and her clit. Reduced to sensation, she rode, following the slow burning tempo that he had set and been unable to maintain.
She followed it for as long as she could. Until her legs were shaking with something that had nothing to do with exhaustion.
Until the bowstring of Fenris's self-control snapped for good.
Until he rose up, wrapping his arms around her and flipping her over amid her own squeal of gleeful of surprise and his devilish laughter. Until he drove himself into her again and again. Until their movements became erratic and her cry of his name was drowned out in his own groan of release. Until both were gasping, muscles tensing, legs straining, clinging to each other as though they might drown if they let go.
Until they lay, limp, and languid in the aftermath of desire. Tangled in each others embrace.
Until sleep claimed her, laying on Fenris's chest, with the slowing thump of his heart under her ear.
He had never slept easily around others, but Hawke's body war warm, and limp, and her breath ghosted across his neck in a way that caused his skin to goose-pimple and his cock to twitch. Desire was rising again, but it wasn't as sharp as it had been when he waited in her foyer mere hours ago. It was slaked, and mellow. Her magic dancing along his lyrium brands only added to the sensation. It felt extraordinary.
Extraordinary to lie here, unprotected, this close to another person. A mage. Like a dream. Like this was happening to someone else. Like he didn't deserve this. Couldn't trust it. There was a stillness here that he was afraid to shatter. H didn't want to move an inch. Didn't want to risk waking her. Didn't want to lose this moment of peace. Of calm. Of happiness.
And in that space, in the calm after his climax, with Hawke's welcome weight across his chest, Fenris slipped into sleep.
Familiar and strange, the dreams danced across his mind, painting the black canvas of his memories in a rich riot of colours, sounds, textures and, most of all smells.
Faint. The scent of belonging. The scent of home.
Children's laughter. Free and unfettered. His own.
Someone was crying. Shaking and crying. An odd feeling of anticipation, fear and a need to protect.
"Take Varenia with you. Keep an eye on her."
His sister tugging at his hand. Familiar annoyance, indulgence and a need to protect.
A rueful smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
His sister tugging at his hand. Begging him to play with her.
Danarius eying the children. Varenia trembling.
"Keep an eye on her."
Anticipation and fear. The feeling of rough shingles beneath hands and feet. Sneaking into the Magister's courtyard.
"Take Varenia with you."
Mouth-watering delicacies, all the sweeter tasting for being stolen. Sharing his prize with his sister. Annoyance and indulgence. A rueful smile pulling at his lips.
Tears. His sister tugging on his hand. Danarius eying the children.
A need to protect.
Danarius eying the children. Someone was crying.
Shaking and crying.
Magic rending the fade. His sister tugging on Danarius's hand. Trying to break free of the Magister's grasp.
A need to protect
The feel of rough stone beneath hands and feet. Blood. Sweat. Exhaustion.
A need to protect.
"Keep an eye on her."
The whispering of a spell. A feeling of strength in his body. Hefting a blade he could never have carried alone.
His sister's laughter. A rueful smiling tugging at his lips.
"It will work. Danarius will never know. And you'll win the tournament."
A tournament.
The need to protect.
A victory, all the sweeter for having been stolen. Sharing his prize with his sister. Her freedom. Her laughter.
A rueful smile tugging at his lips.
"Take your sister with you. Hide her."
Shackles. The feeling of rough stone beneath hands and feet. Magic rending the fade.
Don't let them find out about Varenia. About the spell.
A need to protect. To protect a mage.
His sister tugging at his hands. Begging Danarius to free him. Crying.
A need to protect a mage. "Danarius will never know"
His sister tugging at his hand.
Shaking and crying.
Calling out his name.
His name. . .
"Fenris."
Reality slammed into his consciousness with the force of a charging Qunari. He woke up with a frustrated whimper. His name. It was almost there. His name. Not 'Fenris,' but his actual name. The name given by his parents, if indeed he'd had them. The name called by someone. Who? Someone important.
The need to protect.
But reality cared nothing for the fleeting images of dreams. What had been strong, bold, vivid scenes only moments before melted like a delicate pastry on his tongue.
All the sweeter for having been stolen.
Disoriented, he held perfectly still, blinking as he stared at an unfamiliar canopy. He was lying in a comfortable bed. Something was lying across him.
It shifted.
It—she—nuzzled her head against his neck. His body began reacting. Desire coiling at the base of his spine.
He ignored it. Desperately ignored it. He needed to remember. Who had he needed to protect? What had he stolen? And what was his name?
She shifted again, slightly. Her breath tickling his ear. Softly. Gently blowing away the last wisps of memory from his mind. Leaving a black canvass.
He closed his eyes and bit his lip. Searching. Straining. Something had been sweet. Someone had laughed. But even that was fading. Had it be laughter, or tears? He didn't know.
He didn't know. And a wave of profound loss broke over his body, drowning out everything else, even the faint stirrings of desire her breath caused. Tears leaked out beneath his closed lids. He nearly cried out in frustration, but his throat felt thick and raw, choking his cry off before it could begin.
He dashed his free hand across his face, impatiently, and took a deep breath, trying to settle his emotions. But he couldn't. Couldn't with her breath ghosting along his ear, and her hand resting on his chest. Couldn't with her scent filling his nostrils, her magic snaking along his markings, and the memory of what they had done mere hours before rising before his mind's eye, coiling tight flames of desire deep in his belly. His cock twitching to life in answer to desire's insistent call.
The desire was what undid him. He wanted to give in. Had a physical need to give in. But what then? Would he dream of his forgotten family, only to wake to lose his past, his home, his name, and his identity again? Could he bear it, again? It hurt. It hurt. His marking burned as though they were fresh. As though he had just received them yesterday.
He had no memory of receiving them.
Shaking and crying. Begging Danarius. . .
Loss.
Slowly, he eased her head off of his shoulder. She murmured his name again in a deep, sleep-roughened voice. The sound caught at his heart, reminding him of the noises she had made, he had caused her to make, only hours before—a rueful smile tugged at his lips—and the way that same voice had cried out his name in rough, ragged gasps.
No, not his name. His name had been taken from him.
Loss.
Could he bear it again? Again and again? To have the answers so close only to lose them all? And why were they so close? Why now? He had never remembered anything before. Was it Hawke? Her magic? Something else? He didn't know. But he needed to think. His markings ached, as did his heart. He should never have come here. Never have given into his weak urges. He was not free. Was a slave. Would always be a slave.
He closed his eyes in frustration, balling his fists in the sheets. He was tired. So tired of the pain and the fear. Of the running and the hiding. And now unbidden memories too. Was there anything that magic touched that it left untainted? Anything? Including himself?
Once, he would have said there was Hawke. But these memories had tainted that too. Her magic now crawled along his aching tattoos. It hurt. It reminded him of Danarius. A mage, like Danarius. Torturing him, even though she didn't mean to.
He stood up restlessly, and, because it was always the first thing he did upon rising, he methodically put on his armor. It felt good. Right. Normal. Something he was in control of and knew how to do.
She woke as he settled the great war hammer on his back. Hefting a blade he could never have carried alone.
"Was it that bad?" She asked, a musical laugh touching her voice. Her face was candid and playful—a rueful smile pulling at the corner of her lips.
"It was fine," he replied automatically, trying to sort through how to explain what had happened.
She arched an eyebrow at him, pulling a face and mouthing the word 'fine'. But behind the comical expression, he could see her hesitation and uncertainty.
"No," he stilled his own thoughts with effort, focusing on her. None of this was her fault. He owed her an explanation. A need to protect a mage "No, that was insufficient. It was better than I had ever dreamed." Better. . . and worse.
"You need better dreams!" she smirked, but the smile didn't touch her eyes. She was taking in his armor, his posture. "But something is wrong?"
"I—I started to remember. Just flashes. Of my life before." He gestured with his hands, as though he could recapture some of the lost memories just by reaching out physically. "But I lost them."
"That's good, right? If this brings your memories back, maybe we should make a habit of it!" She tossed off the covers and bounced to the side of the bed, swinging her legs over the edge, smiling up at him in unselfconscious nudity.
"No. . . I" he looked away. Looking at her was proving to be too distracting. "You don't realize how upsetting this is."
"It's not good?" She sounded confused. As well she might be. He couldn't explain the maelstrom of emotions within him to himself, let alone to her. But he tried.
"To have it all come flooding back, all in a moment, only to lose it all again. It was too much. This is too fast. I—I can't. . . I can't. . ." The words tumbled out of him before he could stop them, before he could really consider what he was saying. They didn't express the pain, fear and frustration that had been churning inside of him when he awoke. But he didn't know how to express it. Helpless, he fell silent.
Eyes lowered, with one hand gripping the fire mantle to steady himself, he waited for her rage, or her tears. Her accusations. All would be well deserved.
He heard her moving, but she said nothing. He waited until it was finally unendurable. Raising his eyes, he found her standing before him, clothed again in her soft robe. She was close enough that she could have easily reached out and touched him, but she didn't. She studied his face, chewing her lip. Finally she nodded.
"Okay," she said softly.
He blinked. Swallowed. Ran the conversation over in his head again. But her response still made no sense. "I'm sorry," he said, not knowing what else to say.
She nodded, and smiled sadly. "But this is as far as it goes." It wasn't a question. "Don't be sorry, please. I'm not." She smiled, but it was a ghost of a smile. Her eyes swam with unshed tears, that neither of them mentioned. But she held his gaze, and stepped back a fraction, giving him the space he'd need to leave her room without having to come into physical contact with her.
"I—I just wanted to be happy," Fenris said, his voice thick with emotion. The need to explain himself, and to justify his actions, driving him to spill words before her in the hopes that one of them would repair the damage done to their tenuous friendship, and staunch the flow of his guilt. "Just for a little while. Forgive me." He turned and walked past her, heading for the door, needing to be alone. To think.
"Were you?" she called as he crossed the threshold of her bedroom. He stilled and turned back, his brow furrowed in question. "Happy," she clarified. "Did I make you happy?"
"I—yes," he answered, shortly.
Her face was drained of all colour, eyes red-rimmed, but she smiled a genuine smile at that. "Good," she said.
He didn't deserve her. Didn't deserve her understanding or her sympathy. Unable to face her again, he turned away, bolting from the room and down the stairs as quickly and noiselessly as he could, activating his lyrium the moment he existed her mansion, and running like a ghost through Hightown.
She stood in her bedroom, clutching her robe to her, with silent tears rolling down her cheeks. She heard the front door open and slam shut, and still she didn't move. She wasn't sure exactly what had happened here tonight, but she was fairly certain she had only herself to blame. She knew what a load of emotional baggage that elf was carrying around. And just in case she was blind and stupid, both Varric and Anders had warned her to stay away from him (though, in the latter case, it struck her as a bit hypocritical). She closed her eyes and allowed the sobs to wrack her body. Folding and crumpling onto the floor, she hugged herself and cried out her hurt and anger.
Tonight, she said to herself, you get to cry. Tonight you get to be weak, and mopey, and broken-hearted. But only tonight. By tomorrow, you need to move on. You are stronger than this. You are not going to be brought low by one broody elf and one stupid decision to give into desire.
But it was more than desire, and she knew it. Still, only tonight, she pledged, ignoring the deep ache in her heart that illuminated how much more than desire this was.
People depended on her. Bodahn and Sandel needed paying as did her newest addition to the household, Oriana. Mother needed someone to provide for her, especially now that Carver was gone. Lost in the deep roads. Both her siblings and her father dead now, and she would not, would not lose another member of her family. Gamlin needed someone paying his exorbitant bills at the Blooming Rose, and keep an eye on him when he staggered home from it. Anders needed someone to keep the Templars off his back, and soften the raw edges of his radical hate so he didn't get himself killed. And Hawke was still trying to untangle the mess Merril had got herself into.
There were people who depended on her. And there were friends she could depend on too. Varric, and Aveline. And Isabella would be more than happy to help her find a rebound guy.
And Fenris would need her too. Danarius was still out there somewhere, and the damned prickly elf had no one else to turn to for help. Some day, if he could get over the loathing of being further indebted to a mage, it was likely that he would ask for her aid. And Maker help me, I'll probably say yes. She closed her eyes and groaned, a little piece of self-loathing lodging in her heart at that admission. That she could conceive of helping someone who hated her very nature so thoroughly. Who would leave her naked and alone in bed after tumbling her. Did she have so little self-respect?
Maybe I deserve it. What are mages really if not abominations in the making? But she would not think of herself that way. She would not. Because she wasn't just a mage. And mages weren't just potential abominations. She would not be defined by her magic, or his hatred of it. She had a choice.
It's not a weakness to help those who fear us. It's the only real way to make any change. To prove we are not monsters. That was her father's voice. She clung to that memory. If she helped Fenris, (if he asked) that would not make her weak. She knew that. But it was hard to remember tonight.
Tonight she wasn't the Champion of Kirkwall. She wasn't the savior of anyone. She wasn't some high-born noble reclaiming her family estate.
She was just a woman with a bruised heart.
So, she allowed herself to cry on the floor by her fire in her bedroom, like a foolish romantic teenager whose heart had broke for the first time. She let herself cry in secret and in shadows, her body shaking in silence. She let herself cry for her own foolishness in flirting with a man who so clearly hated everything she was.
And she let herself cry for him as well. For the past that haunted him. For the scars on his soul. For the wounds he bore that prevented him from accepting her as she was. For the happiness he claimed to have found and lost in one night.
But she kept her promise. By morning, she was through with tears. And if Varric or Aveline noticed her slightly puffy eyes, neither made any comment about it.