#because yes I could send her an email but I'd have to set up a new one because I don't want it attached to my deadname

[the-laws-of-physics-were-harmed]

Why you should read Frances Hardinge's books:

Most of them have little to no romance (I hate amatonormativity)

She is really good with words? Like idk how to explain it but the way she uses them is... idk how to describe it

A lot of her protagonists can be seen as autistic or having ADHD if you autism hard enough /hj

The book covers are always absolutely gorgeous

Some of my story Under a Golden Moon's worldbuilding originated because of Deeplight (I will not elaborate for reasons of Spoilers)

Her social media is full of things like this:

which is just. Relatable.

I occasionally make references to her books. I don't think I've made any here but there's a first time for everything :)

Her worldbuilding is so cool like seriously

The first book of hers I read was A Face Like Glass when I was about eight or so (I think?) I got it for Christmas last year, and it's somehow better than I remember?

She's definitely influenced my writing style a lot because her writing is just ridiculously good???

I think I've read most of her books, if not all

[copperbadge]

Still badgering away at The Chicken Salad War and I did not realize how delighted I was going to be by introducing semi-masc nonbinary Jes Deimos to gallant butch Ylias Lazaar. I don't quite know where their subplot is going to go if anywhere but I feel like it may be somewhere awesome.

"Mr. Lazaar," said a familiar voice, and she turned to see LeFevre at her elbow, looking pleased. "A great success for you, I think." 

"Seems to have gone all right, yeah," she agreed. "I heard you were going to crash."

"Alas, I could not -- I ended up invited," he said, grinning. 

"And you brought guests?"

"Ah, I didn't mean to bring the royal family down on your head so soon," he said, leaning in. "They are terrible gossips; I should have remembered when I told King Theophile that he would likely share the information. Still, His Grace Gerald is pleased you use his oil and His Grace Michaelis enjoyed the matbucha greatly."

"And you? No constructive criticism?" she asked. 

"Not tonight. I have never opened a restaurant myself, but I can understand this is your triumph! And in any case they are small quibbles. I will need to dine here more times before I speak," he replied. Someone tapped him on the arm, and he turned, then nodded at the person standing just behind him -- the one who'd been speaking with the old king a moment before. "Mr. Lazaar, may I present Ser Deimos, who came with His Grace. This is Mr. Lazaar, the chef of the hour. She/her," he added with a smile. 

Ser Deimos looked amused. "They/them," they said, holding out a hand. "We're honored to be able to attend -- I don't think we realized when Gerald told us he was going that it was your soft open." 

"It's my pleasure. Not everyone gets to feed the royal family on their first night," she replied, bowing over their hand. "And you're an ornament to any dining room." 

Deimos looked delighted. "Thank you, that's kind of you to say. If I'd known the food was going to be this good I'd have scared up a party. I have a lot of friends in from out of country at the moment."

"Well, we open reservations tomorrow morning -- but for the royal family, I can set aside a table," Ylias replied. 

"Don't, just yet," Deimos said, looking around. "I'm thinking more of a party. Could we rent the restaurant?"

"The whole restaurant?" Ylias asked, blinking. Simon looked smug. 

"If not, that's fine -- we'll take the offer of a table -- but my son's graduating next week, and we were thinking of a group dinner the night before. Simon here is catering the night of," they added. "It'll be twenty or thirty people, and some of them have been doubtful that Fons-Askaz could live up to New York, foodwise. Yes, I felt the same," they added, catching Ylias's expression. "The only thing Fons-Askaz can't offer that New York can is the pizza, and only because our Eddie hasn't got the time to open a pizza restaurant." 

"I hadn't..." Ylias fumbled slightly. "I'm sorry, we have a catering menu but I hadn't arranged any kind of contract for renting the space. It'd need to be a handshake deal and I couldn't quote a fee off the top of my head."

"Of course, I threw this at you with no warning. Here," they said, reaching into their pocket for a wallet and pulling out a card. "Email or phone is fine. If you can send me a proposal by Sunday, I can make a deposit on Monday. I'm comfortable with an informal deal as long as we have terms written out over email. If you don't feel ready, just let me know -- we'll definitely be back regardless." 

"I'll be in touch," Ylias managed. Deimos gave her a bow and a smile, and retreated to their table.

[Then, later]

As they left Plate & Press, full of good food and possibly slightly tipsy, Jes leaned against Michaelis's arm and said, "Holy shit."

He gave them an amused look. "Yes, the food was very good. Nice space, too. I can't remember the last time I had such a pleasant evening out."

"Well, yeah, but I meant the chef," they said. He glanced at them, frowning.

"The Lazaar fellow?"

"Lady, I think. Uncertain, actually. Butch, possibly. She/her but Simon called her Mr. Lazaar." 

"I noticed her, but I didn't see anything particularly unusual. Why?" 

"I love you to bits but you're hopeless," they said. "You really didn't think she was hot?"

"I don't form opinions about sex appeal, generally," he reminded them. "Present company excepted." 

"Well, she is hot in a very specific way -- like you, actually, sort of masculine and chivalrous -- and she called me an ornament to her dining room. I may have had a little moment." 

He laughed. "Oh dear, am I going to have to fight a chef for your favors?" 

"No, it's just nice to know I still got it." 

He kissed the side of their head, affectionate. "You're an ornament wherever you go, but I'll make a note to remind you of it more often. Seems she's making a stir -- Simon likes her also, I think. Sometime soon we're going to have to kick Gregory and Eddie out of the residence for an evening, and I think I'll recommend that place for dinner. Gregory loves Tunisian food and I think Eddie would find a lot to interest him."

"You just want to spend a whole evening cuddling babies," Jes said. 

"Joan and the twins all require the benefit of my wisdom on a regular basis," he said. There was a wolf-whistle directed at them from somewhere over their heads; some young wag, out on the second-floor balcony of a small hotel, clearly getting an early start on Pride. She waved a pink-and-blue flag in their direction. 

"You can't have him!" Jes called. 

"I was whistling at you!" the girl called back. 

"I'll take him," her friend offered from the chair next to her. 

Michaelis chuckled. "Drink some water, young ladies, or you'll be in no condition for the parade this weekend," he called. 

"Vodka's sixty percent water!" someone on another balcony shouted, and someone else yelled for everyone to keep it down, and the discussion went on without them. 

[fairycosmos]

girl hey how are you?? any tips when you get rejected from a job you really wanted?? 🤡🤡 please send me your wisdom also hope ur doing well hows georgie give her a kiss from me xx

godddddd i'm so sorry to hear this!! the job-hunting landscape is fucking awful at the minute and i know it's extremely difficult to hold out any sort of hope when stuff like this keeps happening. i feel like whenever this has happened to me that i was always told to just kind of move on and pick myself up and while that's true to an extent it's also like ok but i'm losing my mind this is the fucking worst so i think you should allow yourself room to feel like shit over it. don't judge it or try to push it away but don't internalise it or drown in it either (e.g don't fall into the trap of thinking in absolutes such as "this is always going to keep happening" or "i've got no chance of finding a good role because that was my only shot" - it just leads to pointless despair that often isn't based on anything factual.) it's ok to cry or vent or write or scream about it, it's ok that you feel bad because something bad happened. and no it won't always be like this and yes you will have ample opportunity in the future to find another version of your dream job but recognising that right now you're in pain can be healthy and good, too. whenever i'm job-hunting i always try to get to a place where rejection just feels like a dull hit and then i move on to the next, like truly i just force myself to go in with no expectations, fuck it nothings real, trying out whatever persona i think they'll like best and then leaving it all behind me when i get the rejection email LOL. but when it's a position you deeply want, understandably, you'd need some time and space to process not getting it. i rmr what sometimes made me feel a tiny bit better was going over what i learned from the experience, even if it was just getting more comfortable in an interview setting or answering a question well, and building a plan to optimise my approach and basically give myself a better shot at the next interview based on the one i'd lost out on. i could console myself by saying at least i'm growing and at least i'm building up my interview skills and how i present myself every time i do this crap. i can say it wasn't a waste of time even if i didn't get it. if they offer feedback ask for some so you can work on whatever so-called "weak" spots they perceived if any (at the same time though seriously! do not internalise anything job people say to you as like a severe moral flaw like these people would reject an applicant for not smiling enough it's truly meaningless. but for the sake of job-hunting it's just something to keep in mind.) anyway i've noticed sometimes we feel a bit better about this sort of thing if we're able to exert some control over it, if there's some actionable steps we can take like working on our speaking skills or upgrading your CV or whatever. ultimately i think it's good to remember that there are so many different ways for your life to turn out well. the illusion of one path being the absolute key to everything you've ever wanted or dreamed of is just that, an illusion. there's endless versions of the future spanning out in front of you and you have happiness in so many of them - when it comes to friendships, jobs, dating, whatever - there's no singular right way to "be." sending you a massive hug. i know words ring hollow then you feel terrible so maybe come back to this another day if you want to. will give georgie the biggest forehead kiss from you <3 mwah xx

[chiaraswritings]

Anxiety

Disclaimer: I do not own DC or their characters, or their settings. This is certainly not canon.

Warnings & Topics: Social anxiety disorder. 18+, if you please.

Word Count: 1.7K words

Summary: fem!Reader is struggling with social anxiety while attending Bruce Wayne's birthday party, but then she meets a woman named Barbara who helps her escape. Very happy ending. Just fluff & stuff.

Author's note: Thank you all so much for reading. I hope you enjoy.

How the hell did I end up here, I asked myself. 

I pressed my back to the mahogany wall as colors and watched the pastel colors swirl past me. I should have never come to this event, this celebration. I'm not even sure how I got invited to this. I had barely ever crossed paths with Bruce Wayne. Sure, I'd edited news stories covering his spotlight before sending them off to be published on the internet, but I could never bring myself to meet with him face to face. I'd talked with him over the phone, fact checking a wild take that a journalist had submitted, but in the two minutes and five seconds that we had chatted, he had obviously decided I was suitable to be invited to his birthday reception. 

That's what I absolutely love about my job. I can sit in a dark office all day, I don't have to see anyone face to face, all submissions and communications are sent via email. I'm trying to make arrangements to work from home, so the stress of being so close to the other offices won't be on my mind. My job only requires a computer and phone, after all. 

My boss was overjoyed when he heard I had been invited to the big event. Any more excitement, and he would have started a fire with how fast words were spilling out of his mouth. His thrill, however, did not match my own by a long shot. I thought back to when I was sitting in my comfy, swiveling office chair, staring up at the balding, sprightly man who was positively demanding I accept the invitation and attend the event. I don't think I even verbally responded to him at the time. My plagued mind overtook my body, and still had ahold of it even then as I tried to blend into Bruce Wayne's wall.

Social anxiety disorder, my constant companion. My nemesis, my excuse, my greatest hurdle. The only reason I stood there in my old prom dress is because my boss has been on such edge lately, and like my coworkers, I wasn't ready to risk the consequences of saying no to him right then. My anxiety was to blame for that too, coincidentally enough. 

As the sea of long dresses and black suits moved past, I tried my hardest to remember my therapist's favorite phrases. Be aware of your body. Be aware of your surroundings. How is your body reacting to this situation? I could answer the last question easily enough. My heart was beating out of my chest, my stomach was churning, sweat was appearing on my trembling hands. Fear was wrapped around my throat, my breathing labored. An older gentleman in a very nice suit gave me a concerned look before his glamorous college-student wife pulled him towards the dance floor. Yes, please go, stop looking at me. I wonder how many people are looking at me right now. 

Be aware of your surroundings. I tried, I really tried. I tried to take in the luxury of the room. The velvet curtains, the gold trim, the expensive art, the... was that a tapestry? Be aware of your body. I attempted to become aware of my physical senses. Deep breaths, eyes closed, trying to relax my tense muscles. 

"Ma'am, are you alright?" 

My eyes flew open. A young waiter with a tray was quizzically observing me from a couple feet away.

I can't do this anymore. "Yes! Yes, yes, I'm alright." Fight or flight mode had been activated. Not bothering to thank him, I slipped past the waiter and made a not-so-graceful getaway to the hall. Lush ivy and large chairs decorated the long room, along with a huge mirror that I planted myself in front of, my entire brain trying to retake control. But no, the sickening, uninvited fear had ahold of my entire body.

Looking up into the mirror, I was not exactly pleased by what I saw. My eyes were full of adrenaline and my mascara was running slightly. My dress was wrinkled by where I clutched it at the hip. My hair was the only thing that didn't look frazzled (thanks to an hour of straightening before I had left for the party). Using the tip of my finger, I tried to clean up the mascara around my eyes.

"Did you get bored too?" 

My finger nearly went into my eye, startled by the unexpected and unwelcome voice. I wanted to run like a deer being threatened by a panther. I turned nervously to the owner of the voice, and my fear alleviated if only for a moment by the spectacularism of the person I saw. A red haired young woman in a black velvet dress had approached me, a single party-goer from the roar of festivities behind her. I could see the door swinging closed from when she had entered. My anxiety lurched and I could feel liquid coming up in my throat. A hard swallow later, and I assumed my most casual pose. "You could say that."

The redhaired woman turned, pulled her lipstick from her clutch, and repainted her red lips in the mirror. "I'm not even sure why I'm here, my father is the one who actually knows Mr. Wayne."

"I don't know him at all. Bruce, I mean. Not your father." Oh, that sounded so rude. "Sorry... about that." 

She turned back around and gave me a shiny smile. "Are you okay?" 

Hell no, I'm not okay. "Yes, of course." My hands were still trembling and my cheeks were flushed. Breathing hurt. The radiant woman in front of me could obviously see through the lie. Her head cocked, her beautiful, wavy red hair swayed. 

"You don't seem okay," her concern was evident, but I wasn't in the mood for people being concerned and trying to make me talk about it.

"I'm okay, I just haven't eaten today. So... I should probably go do that," that wasn't even a lie. I had only had coffee today so I wouldn't throw up from nervousness tonight. 

"What's your name?" asked the woman who was freshening her eyeliner in the mirror. 

"(Y/N) (L/N)."

"I'm Barbara Gordon. It's good to meet you. And funny enough, I'm hungry too," the stranger straightened and shook my still shaking hand. "Want to go get something? I can't fill up on shrimp and caviar." 

"Neither can I, seafood isn't my favorite." I was shocked at my own boldness. My fear had released its painful grip slightly, but it was far from gone.

"Me neither. I could go for Chinese," Barbara smiled at me. "Want to join? My treat." 

Now this was an unexpected decision. She seems nice enough... I want to so badly. It'd definitely be a way out of here, and with a nice person. But what if she's not nice? What if she's not who she seems? What if I mess up in front of her? What if she invites more people? "I'm not sure..."

"Hey, it's okay. I'm chill, I need a way out of this place too. I mostly came for my dad, he loves Bruce. I'm just... not in the right place to party like this." 

How about this, my brain bargained with itself. If it turns out bad, we never have to see her again. If it goes good, then we... still never have to see her again. "What the heck. Got a place in mind?"

"Of course, come on! I can't think of a better time than two well dressed girls getting the best Chinese in town. We can take my dad's car." 

My hands had slowly stopped trembling. I think it's going to be okay.

...

My escape with Barbara was a needed lifesaver. She made the car ride pleasant, complimenting my dress, asking me about my job, commenting on my hair. I think she sensed that I wasn't as comfortable talking about myself, so she told me about her own life. She was a college student, she was multilingual, she lived with her dad at the moment, but was looking into getting her own place. Listening to her talk was relaxing, knowing I didn't have to talk about myself, no risks of stumbling over my words like I did earlier. 

We arrived at what looked to be a family-owned place, it wasn't a chain restaurant, which I sort of admired Barbara for. The best Chinese food came from small restaurants, and she seemed to acknowledge that. The woman assured me she knew exactly what I would like, telling me she'd order then come join me. 

I slid into one of the empty booths. Actually, all of them were empty. Too late at night for most people to get takeout, but Barbara and I were evidently not the same as those people. She joined me at the table with trays that smelled much tastier than the takeout Chinese that my boss had delivered at the office every day for lunch. "This looks amazing, thank you so much."

"No, thank you for coming with. It's nice that I found a friend to do this with." Barbara smiled before picking up one of the cartons.

Friend. The word felt so new. "It's been a really long time since I've had a friend." Anxiety brewed and steamed in my throat, but I forgot all about it when she slid her phone across the table to me, a new contact form ready to fill out on the screen.

"Well, now you have one," the redhaired woman said with a smile, before taking another bite of the food. 

...

That was four years ago to this day. It's Bruce Wayne's birthday again, but neither of us are on the guest list. That's perfectly okay, we have our own party going on for us. Empty Chinese takeout cartons lay on the coffee table, an actress on the television screen dramatically screams in fear, and I am laying on Barbara's chest, my finger becoming accustomed to the new diamond ring.

I look up at her, admiring how her fiery hair glows in the pale light of the television screen. Anxiety? Hah, not around Barbara, not anymore. Finally finding a person I can experience only joy around... that feels good. Her hand rests on my head, holding me close. Her eyes are focused on the television, but by her smile, I know her mind is somewhere else. She notices I'm no longer interested in the film, turns off the TV, and smiles down at me. Butterflies, not anxiety, fill my stomach. 

"Did you get bored too?"

"You could say that."

[notebookmusical]

Hi Cossette! I've been spending the last few days gathering some 2024 media releases that I hope to check out this year and I'm looking forward to (to name a few!):

Emily Wilde's Map of the Otherlands by Heather Fawcett

A Tempest of Tea by Hafsah Faizal

The Mars House by Natasha Pulley

The Warm Hands of Ghosts by Katherine Arden

Faebound by Saara El-Arifi

and ooh! I'm also very intrigued about Allison Saft's upcoming adult debut!! I hope it will be good 🙏

I also prefer standalones! While there are times where I'd love to revisit my favourite worlduilding + characters, I tend to find the storytelling & character development more properly fleshed out within a standalone (comparing to books within a long series).

That's totally valid! It certainly took me some time to get into Alix E Harrow's writing - not that's it's poorly written (it's very artfully written), but it's pretty dense and the story pacing is on the slow side. Also as much as I enjoy taking notes / annotating beautifully written prose, I feel you effort required to analyse the writing 😅

Speaking of The Starless Sea, the aesthetic / vibes of the book reminds me of Taylor Swift's Midnights - very atmospheric and with a strong focus on storytelling. I've been meaning to make something showcasing parallels between songs from Midnights & sections of The Starless Sea since late 2022 (this was pushed back for various reasons), so I was very happy to post the edit today :D

If you could assign your favourite books as music albums (based on thematic / aesthetic similarities), how would you pair them up?

P.S. Yes!! I love the album & vinyl artwork for Kali Uchis' new album and I hope you have the chance to listen to Orquideas later this year! (and I hope you all the best with the 365 albums challenge 💖)

hi jennifer!!! i have an arc of a tempest of tea, but i don't know if i'll get around to it before publication date 😭 i'm really intrigued by the premise, but struggled a bit with the fantasy in we hunt the flame (i struggle a lot with fantasy/have to be in a very specific mood for it)! i haven't read any of katherine arden's stuff, but have seen a lot of it on the internet over the years; maybe i'll check it out!

i feel like a common question i see on bookstagram is "what's your favorite series" and i always struggle to answer this because i am just not a series girlie! i think the few favorite series that i love (that aren't duologies) are probably either the raven cycle, or series of romance books that are set in the same universe but follow different characters so they essentially operate as standalones! i wish i was a series girlie, but i just ... am not one. i actually just put alix harrow's ten thousand doors of january on hold on libby — it might work better for me as an audiobook! sometimes i do better with fantasy via audiobook than physically reading it, for some reason.

i saw your starless sea/midnights gifset and am obsessed. i know i've told you this before but i loveeeee your gifsets so much, especially the ones where you find parallels between things!

oh this is so hard! i feel like it's easier to assign specific songs for me, rather than entire albums to books, but here goes:

beach read: honorable mention to emails i can't send by sabrina carpenter (title track) for january's relationship with her father, but unsure of what album would fit january/gus best!

normal people: i think either sam fender's seventeen going under, or noah kahan's stick season? i think both albums have a similar theme of being homesick and also home sick, which i feel like plays a big role in the plot of normal people!

honey girl: i feel like paint my bedroom black by holly humberstone? like the themes of growing up / moving away / being lonely / figuring out your life?

the starless sea: maybeeeee evermore but this does not feel like a good fit to me still!

les miserables: ... going to cheat here and say the les mis cast recording

i'm still stuck on portrait of a thief, and book lovers though! what about you? what book/album pairings do you have in mind?

[rhysismydaddy]

Prisoner's Game Pt. 2 (Rowaelin)

Part 1

~Rowan~

Rowan didn't think he'd ever been so pissed off in his life.

The only time that even came close was when he lost his first and only court case, but over the years he'd come to live with that.

This though?

This immature, childish, irritatingly clever woman... he had a feeling he'd carry the rage he felt against her until the day he finally died of it.

Although, if he was honest, his returning move had been a little childish, too.

He'd ordered one of the guards to strip her cell of everything except the chess set. Her mattress, the makeshift knife he shuddered to think she'd had in the same room as him, her pillow.

If she wanted to steal his shit, he'd steal hers, too.

He'd also had the guard move one of his pawns forward on the board.

Not the most creative, but he didn't have many options.

What did you take from a woman who had nothing? How did you punish someone who was already serving the longest punishment available?

The bank had seized her assets when she'd been locked up, and the lease on her apartment had long since run out. She didn't have any personal items with her, didn't seem to even care about anything besides making his life hell.

Case in point, when he got home that night, exhausted from dealing with Aelin and spending a long day at the office, he'd discovered her retaliation.

She'd stolen his bed.

The whole goddamn thing, frame and all.

How she'd managed to get it out of a penthouse condo with security not realizing a thing, he had no idea. He knew from experience it wouldn't even fit through the door.

It'd seemed if she was going to be uncomfortable, so was he.

Steaming with anger, he'd showered and flopped on the couch like an idiot, not even able to sleep thanks to the rage she'd worked him into.

She was completely kicking his ass. From the inside of a jail cell.

He hadn't gotten more than a few hours of sleep before giving up on even trying. At six, he'd dressed and driven to Whitehorn and Salvaterre, the law firm he was a partner at.

If he couldn't sleep, he'd at least figure out how the hell she was pulling this shit off.

Looking through her folder, he went through her daily schedule, seeing nothing out of the ordinary.

Eight am wake-up, breakfast, shower, lunch, yard time, dinner, lights out at nine. Between activities, she worked out in her cell or read a book from the run-down prison library.

In the eight years she'd been in prison, she hadn't had a single visitor. Her cousin Aedion--a playboy Rowan couldn't be paid to associate with--delivered a care package on the first of every month.

Strange, considering nothing of the sort had been in her cell.

She'd been in solitary confinement ever since randomly attacking her cellmate a little over a month ago. She was still allowed yard time and meals with the other prisoners, but she was chained at all times.

Also strange, considering Aelin wasn't the type to do anything randomly.

Rowan watched the security tapes he'd strong armed the guards into giving him, going through the past few days to see how she'd gotten out of her cell to rob him.

He watched as she was escorted to the yard, watched as she ate breakfast and lunch and dinner alone, watched as she put herself through vigorous training in her cell.

Days of footage, and he didn't find anything.

Feeling like a bit of a creep, he watched the nighttime footage of her sleeping, but there was nothing out of the ordinary.

She didn't move too much or too little--both of which would indicate it wasn't really her under that thin blanket. There were no attempts to pick the locks in between her wrists and ankles, no digging into the wall behind her toilet.

Nothing.

Which meant someone was helping her.

He could go through the official channels and ask the police for her known connections, but he hadn't reported either of the robberies yet.

Partly because he wanted to deal with her himself, partly because he felt a bit stupid getting robbed from a woman in the most secure prison in the city.

Which means he'd have to go about it a different way.

Grabbing his keys from his desk, he debated how else he could make her miserable, unfortunately finding nothing else he could do to her, no revenge he could get from robbing her tiny little cell.

No, he'd have to try something new.

Maybe he could bribe her into confessing. She didn't have anything right now, but maybe he could give her something to lose.

He'd bring her lunch, force himself to apologize for yelling at her, and just politely ask who her accomplice was.

He thought on it as he rode down the elevator to the garage. It probably wouldn't work, but he didn't know what else to do.

And besides, he knew from experience Aelin didn't respond well to his anger.

Checking his email to make sure he wasn't missing any important meetings, he pressed the button on his car fob, expecting to hear the resounding beep from his designated parking spot.

Except the beep never came.

Slowly looking up, Rowan had to amend his earlier statement.

Now he didn't think he'd ever been so pissed off in his life.

He stormed over to the security booth, hardly refraining from grabbing the man inside and throwing him to the ground.

"Where's my car, Rolland?"

"In your spot, boss," the stout little man replied instantly and surely, snapping his gum and looking at him in confusion. "Haven't seen you drive out yet."

"Yes, exactly. Which is why it's a mystery why it's no longer in it's spot."

Rolland caught up slowly. "You mean... it was stolen? From here? From you?"

Jaw so tight his molars were practically fused together, Rowan growled, "Just let me see the security tapes from this morning."

The guard nodded quickly, eyes nervous as he typed something into the desktop in front of him.

"That's weird," he muttered a moment later, typing faster and sending Rowan a nervous glance.

"What?" he asked, trying to calm himself down with a few of the breathing techniques he'd learned over the years.

"The tapes are gone, but there's... this."

Rolland turned the screen so Rowan could see it, and all the breathing in the world couldn't keep him from slamming a fist into the side of the security shack.

The footage was gone, and on the blank black screen read: Bishop to J7.

He was going to fucking kill her.

~Aelin~

"Enjoy your taxi ride here?" she asked sweetly, leaning back in her chair and crossing her legs.

Rowan scowled at her as he crossed the small room inmates could use to talk to their lawyers. He yanked the chair across from her out, then threw himself into it. "You are such a pain in my ass."

She just shrugged.

He sat across from her, angry and broody, and for a long time, he just stared at her.

Finally he asked, "Why are you doing this, Aelin?"

"I told you. You locked me up for something I didn't do. I want you to be as miserable as I am. It's simple, petty revenge."

Nothing about it was simple, but that was besides the point.

He was quiet for another moment. "Why now?"

She sighed, but she wasn't upset. Truthfully, she'd been waiting for him to ask that question.

"I want to tell you a story."

He stood up suddenly, face exasperated. "I'm not fucking joking around. And I'm not going to let you waste any more of my time."

He made his way to the door, and his dismissal of her pissed her off enough to say, "Sit down, or your car's going off Whigsby Bridge."

He smiled like he'd won their little game. "So you admit you have it."

"Sure," she said casually, honestly not giving a shit about the car.

His brow furrowed. "You're giving up? Just like that?"

"You're a fucking idiot if you think this is about your car, Rowan. But sure, I admit I know exactly where it, and your bed, and your little dagger are being hidden."

He narrowed his eyes. "This conversation is being recorded, and you just admitted to being an accessory to robbery, so-"

"You aren't going to press charges," she cut him off, pulling a cigarette out of her pocket and lighting it.

Nasty little prison habit she'd developed, smoking.

Or maybe she just did it because she knew he hated the smell.

"Oh, really?" he asked incredulously, eyeing the cigarette with disdain.

She grinned. "Once you sit and hear my story and realize I'm telling the truth, you're going to feel so guilty you won't even care about the car. Now sit down. I'd hate to see a classic get totaled because you're being stubborn again."

He glared at her, but came back to the table and sat down again.

Then reached over and snatched the cigarette from her lips, putting it out against the steel table top.

She just pulled out another, lighting it with one of her last matches. The irritation on his face made it worth the loss.

He waved a hand as if to say Get on with it.

She'd debated how to tell him this story for a long time. It was long, and messy and not particularly pleasant for her. But she wanted him to know the full thing, so she'd decided to start at the very beginning.

"My parents died when I was four," she began, ignoring his dramatic sigh. "I went into foster care, and as you can imagine, I was a particularly unruly child."

She smiled at the few memories she had. "I stole from the nuns, snuck out of my room at night and ran through the house, set all the clocks back an hour so we could sleep in. Small stuff. But it irritated them, because they couldn't prove it was me."

"Sounds familiar," he grouched, making her grin.

"I was adopted by Arobynn Hamel a year later."

As she'd predicted, his mouth fell open at that.

Arobynn was the known king of the underworld in Rifthold. He had a hand in every aspect of crime, yet no one could do anything about it because he never committed the crime himself.

His name was revered, so much so no one ever dared to cross him.

"But your record says-"

"That I stayed in foster care until I turned eighteen, I know."

Arobynn hated public records and had a deal with someone in the system that he'd take some of the kids off their hands if they kept quiet about it. Illegal as hell, but he wasn't someone you refused without suffering serious consequences.

It was the perfect crime. No one would miss unwanted kids, and it gave the system one less mouth to feed.

"I didn't know it, but he'd been watching me for a while. He... I don't know, saw something in me. Natural, innocent talent he could work with and turn into something different. He adopted me on my fifth birthday. And then he started training me."

"To do what?" Rowan asked, shoulders tensing.

"Everything," she answered with a shaky laugh, taking a long drag from her cigarette. "Stuff I wanted to learn, like how to pick a lock or walk without making sound. But as I got older, he taught me other stuff. Stuff I didn't want to know."

"How to kill," he finished, picking up on her tone.

She nodded, finishing her cigarette and flicking the butt on the floor.

"I was good," she told him quietly, looking down at the table. "By the time I was fifteen, he said I was the best he'd ever had. None of his other... children could beat me in a fight, not even the older ones who had a hundred pounds on me. And I could steal anything and not leave a trace."

His eyes didn't show an ounce of doubt, and she didn't know how to feel about it. But she kept going anyway.

"I was his favorite. I was his best asset, and I didn't care about anything that would compromise me. I lost my parents, and despite how much he wanted me to, I never loved him. I had no weaknesses. Except Sam."

"Another of his students?" Rowan asked, and it wasn't lost on her he said students instead of children.

She nodded. "We were adopted around the same time, grew up together. He was a year older, and whenever I had a problem, he was the one I'd turn to. He was good to me, and by the time I was seventeen, not a small part of me loved him."

Aelin broke off and took a deep breath, wishing she had another cigarette and trying to figure out how to put into words how much he'd meant to her.

"Was?" Rowan asked, so softly and quietly and understandingly that she was reminded of the man he'd once been, the one she'd loved.

Shaking her head to clear it, she said, "He made a mistake. He went on a job; he was supposed to break into one of the underground casino's owned by Arobynn's competitor and memorize the ledger, but he got caught. It was messy and horrible and stupid, and the owner wanted blood. Arobynn promised he'd kill Sam as retribution."

Rowan's eyes widened, almost like he hadn't realized how brutally she'd been raised until that moment.

"I begged him not to. Sam had saved me and helped me so many times that I couldn't not do the same for him. I told him I'd do anything."

She studied her hands, regret and guilt thick on her skin. "Arobynn said if I took ten of the jobs Sam was supposed to do, he wouldn't kill him. I thought they'd be similar to the one he'd messed up on, small break-ins or robberies. So I accepted."

A tear rolled down her cheek, and she batted it away as she continued, "The second I shook his hand, Tern--another of Arobynn's--shot Sam in the head."

Rowan's face blanched so quickly, she thought he might pass out.

He started to say something, but she spoke faster. "I... snapped. I killed Tern, tried to kill Arobynn. You called me a murderer, and that's true. I am, and I don't regret it. Tern was a sadistic bastard, and I'm glad he's dead. And one day, I'll kill Arobynn for what he did."

Rowan shook his head, confusion and shock and something similar to pity in his eyes. "Why didn't you leave, run away?"

She leveled a look at him. "I didn't exactly have a choice, Rowan. My punishment for Tern lasted for over a year."

There was a long pause.

"Punishment?" he asked in a breathless voice that made something in her chest hurt.

She looked at the table again, skin pebbling at the memory of that year. "He locked me in a cell in the basement, in the dark. Once a month he'd come in to ask if I knew someone named Sam. It took me ten months to get confused, another three to say no."

Still not meeting his eyes, she looked at his hands, noticing they were clenched so tightly the knuckles were white. And a part of her, buried under all the rage and resentment and sadness, warmed at the thought that he was... he was angry for her.

"It took me a long time after to figure out what was real and what wasn't. But Arobynn never let me forget our deal. And right before I met you, he told me the first job."

"What were the jobs?"

Aelin looked back up at that, the air thick between them as she said, "You already know."

"The murders."

She nodded, somehow managing to keep her spine straight despite the feeling of a hundred pound weight being lifted from her shoulders.

He at least knows why now, she thought to herself.

It was one of the things that had bothered her over the years. That he didn't know why she'd done what he thought she'd done. That he thought she'd.. wanted to do it.

He was silent for a long time, just watching her with a carefully emotionless face. "Thank you for telling me that," he said eventually. "I never could understand why."

Then he stood and walked to the door again, and it was only when his hand was on the handle she spoke again. "You asked why I'm doing this, and why I'm doing it now."

He opened the door but paused. Waited.

"It's because I tried to tell you this all those years ago, and you didn't care. You just assumed I was guilty because the evidence looked like it."

She spoke around the lump in her throat. "I told you I didn't kill those people, Rowan, and you didn't even care."

He spun around, slamming the door so hard it rattled, and in a split second, he was in front of her. A hand on the table, the other on her chair, he leaned down and got in her face.

He was so angry, so unbelievably enraged she couldn't believe it. He was angry?

"I didn't care? I didn't fucking care, that's what you think? Watching you get dragged away in cuffs was the worst moment of my life, and you think I didn't fucking care?"

Shock hit her like a bucket of ice water.

That moment was crystal clear in her mind, and she couldn't put what he was saying with what she knew.

He'd watched her with that same expressionless face, with cold eyes that had haunted her ever since.

She opened her mouth to say something, but he wasn't done.

"I fucked loved you! I thought you were the love of my life, Aelin. I begged you to tell me something that would help, tell me anything. But you didn't! You just kept saying you were innocent; you didn't give me anything to actually work with."

"I-"

"I found that stupid fucking list five days before I reported it, did you know that?"

She shook her head, because she hadn't.

"Exactly. You don't know what the hell you're talking about," he growled, eyes flashing. "I spent five days investigating it myself, trying to make sense of why you'd know those names. After your arrest, I spent two weeks trying to find anything, a single piece of evidence, that said it wasn't you. And after the trial, I spent another two months trying to poke holes in my own goddamn case."

He slammed a hand into the table. "I did everything I fucking could! I was desperate for it not to be you. I argued my case so your lawyer could plead circumstantial evidence. I put you on the stand so you could say anything you wanted. I went for life sentences instead of the death penalty to give you time to actually tell me what the hell was going on!"

She was breathing heavily, heart breaking and reforming over and over again at what he was saying, what he was implying.

"I didn't assume shit," he said in a low voice, so close they shared air. "You didn't tell me anything."

Aelin's voice trembled as she croaked, "I tried."

He shook his head, letting out a breath of amusement. "No, you didn't. If this past week has proven anything, it's that you don't try to do anything, you do it. You didn't tell me anything, Aelin. You're still not telling me anything."

"I'm telling you to look again! I'm telling you you didn't look hard enough, because I left breadcrumbs only you could find, breadcrumbs that explain everything."

"Stop playing games with me!" he shouted, eyes flashing with a fresh wave of anger. "It's been eight years! Stop holding onto whatever secret you're holding onto and just tell me!"

Gods, she wanted to.

He was the one person she couldn't trust with this secret, this stupid, most important secret, and yet he was the also the one person she wanted to tell it to.

She opened her mouth to tell him, but what came out was, "I didn't kill them, Rowan. I promise I didn't kill them. I can't... I can't tell you anything else."

"Jesus, Aelin," he spat, pushing off the table and turning to leave.

"Just look into it," she called after him, fingers digging into the table to resist the urge to try and follow him. "I promise you can figure everything out, and you'll understand everything. Please."

She knew why, after all this time, it was so important for him to know the truth when that hadn't been her original plan.

It was because she'd spent eight years believing he hadn't tried, believing she hadn't been a good enough person for him to even look into the possibility it wasn't her.

And maybe it was because he was once again leaving her, or maybe it was because she felt like she was in that courtroom again, begging him to believe her, or maybe it was because of something she didn't even understand yet.

Regardless of the reason, she found herself saying, "I loved you, too, you know."

He looked at her with sad eyes that she was sure mirrored her own and shook his head. "Not enough, apparently."

"You don't believe that," she argued, shaking her head and trying to keep the building emotions down.

"If you'd loved me, you would've told me. You would've given me the proof, whatever breadcrumbs you're talking about. You wouldn't have let me watch them take you away."

"Rowan-"

"You wouldn't have thought, for a second, that I didn't try to fight for you. And you sure as hell wouldn't have waited eight years to do whatever it is you're trying to do."

"I had to," she whispered, even as she knew it wouldn't be enough.

She shook with the effort to not tell him everything, but even after all he'd told her and how everything had changed, she just couldn't. Not yet.

He stood at the door, watching her with those eyes she'd once thought looked like the most beautiful emeralds. "Sometimes I think about it, you know. What life would be like if I hadn't tried to fix your sink in the middle of the night."

She smiled sadly. "Me too."

Rowan shook his head, gaze taking in her face like he thought he'd never see her again.

He thought it was over now, she realized. He thought that now she knew he hadn't given up on her immediately, now that she'd told him the story she'd wanted to tell him, that it was over and she'd give up.

"Look again," she whispered. "You know I didn't do it. It's why you're here, why you kept looking after the trial ended. You know I wouldn't."

"Goodbye, Aelin," he said instead, not telling her any of the things she really wanted to hear.

It wasn't until the door shut behind him she finally let herself cry.

She'd told herself that it didn't matter; that in a month the truth would come out and everything would be normal again.

She'd told herself she was only messing with Rowan for revenge, not because she wanted to see him again or test that he'd find the clues she'd left for him.

She'd told herself this was just a game.

She'd told herself all sorts of things that turned out to be lies.

~~~

Part 3

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[tennessoui]

oh my god literally every single prompt on that list is gold and i'd love to see your obikin take for all of them. hmmm... if i had to choose i guess first 13. co-stars au?? thank you lots of love !!!

ah bless!! thank you so much!! i'm slowly working my way through most of the prompts on that list so you might see many many more before I'm done with my ask box. I think after two more, I'll put em on ao3 to keep em more organized too. this has been soooo fun!!

13. Co-Stars AU(/7. Fake Relationship AU)(2.5 k)

“No.”

“Ani, darling, you can’t say no.”

“Don’t call me that. And secondly, I can. I just did. This is my personal life, the company has no control over that.”

“While you’re filming its movie and it’s giving you money, you’ll actually find that it does, Anakin.”

Anakin sits down heavily on the bench outside his trailer, leaning forward until he can put his head in his hands. He wants to run his fingers through the mess on his head, but they’re in between takes right now and the make-up department will definitely kill him if they have to fix him up again.

“Asajj, please. You know how hard it was to get to come out as bisexual. If the first person I date after that is a woman, no one will remember! It’ll just be completely erased, and I’ll be Anakin Skywalker, Playboy Actor again.”

“But you do like women,” Asajj points out. “So either way, you’d be confirming your sexuality.”

Anakin sighs and leans his head back against the metal of the trailer. “And it would be different if I was actually in love with Padme, but she’s just my co-star and--”

“Anakin, she’s your co-star. You’re in a blockbuster movie where you dramatically save her life and then kiss her as the credits roll. This is just business. You like her. You’re friends. Think of it less like dating, and more like going to grab lunch together. And coffee. Maybe a fancy dinner. Several times a week.”

“For how long?” Anakin asks, resigned and despairing and hating the fact that he ever got into acting.

Asajj sounds relieved. “Just until the movie’s out and sales are doing well.”

That could be months. That would be months. “And I have to?” he asks.

“Yes,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

Anakin doesn’t say it’s fine. It doesn’t feel like it is fine.

“They’re not looking for anything to be confirmed. If asked about your relationship with Padme, tell them you think she’s a great woman and you’re enjoying spending time with her. No comment on any sort of serious relationship.”

“Because a break-up afterwards might hurt the chances for a sequel?” Anakin asks drily.

“Exactly! We’ll get you a head for the business yet, Anakin. Okay, I have to go, but I’ll send you the information now, just so you know what you’ll be expected to do. We’re thinking a dinner tomorrow to start things off strong, and then slow afterwards!”

She hangs up before he can say anything else and he slumps back boneless against the metal trailer. God.

It’s not that he doesn’t like Padme. Ventress is right. They were friends before this project and Anakin knows they’ll be friends after as well. They genuinely get along, and it’s probably one of the reasons Anakin was cast in such a big name production: the chemistry between them when they’re acting is undeniable. She’s one of his favorite people in the entire industry.

“Anakin?” One of his other favorite people in the entire industry asks hesitantly from in front of him. “Are you alright?”

“No,” he says.

“May I sit?”

“Yeah,” he says.

Like he’d ever turn Obi-Wan Kenobi away.

“Are you wearing your costume?” he asks, without opening his eyes. Obi-Wan’s playing the villain of the movie, and Anakin has a hard time focusing on anything else when Obi-Wan’s around him wearing that skin-tight white turtleneck and cape combination, with his hair slicked back and fake glasses perched on his nose.

Obi-Wan sounds amused. “No, I’m finished for the day. Heading home now. You don’t have to see how silly I look today.”

Anakin smiles slightly, despite everything. In one of his better acting moments, he’d told Obi-Wan that his costume was distracting because it looked so funny on him. Really, it was just hot.

(Of course, Obi-Wan had taken his criticism seriously and gone to the director and the costume department. They had decided that it would make Obi-Wan’s character more threatening if he pushed up his sleeves in almost every scene to reveal heavily tattooed forearms. Anakin had hated himself and his big stupid mouth for days afterwards.)

“Is...there anything I can do to help, Anakin? I hate to see you like this,” Obi-Wan places a hand gently on Anakin’s knee, and Anakin has to fight a shiver at the touch.

They’d met at the script-reading for the movie, a handful of months ago. Anakin had set two clocks in his head the moment their hands grasped each other and Obi-Wan smiled charmingly up at him. “So you’re the one to kill me?” He’d winked. “Tall order.”

One clock signified the weeks it would take for him to fall in love with the older man. The starting number was pitifully small, but Anakin had been watching Obi-Wan’s movies and interviews for years before meeting him. He’d known something about the man, which of course had paled in comparison to knowing the man himself. They’d spent two weeks choreographing the steps of the final fight scene, just the two of them in a repurposed ballet studio.

Looking back, Anakin isn’t sure how he’d survived. And he had never wanted it to end.

Which is the other clock, still ticking down in his head. The moment filming ends, and they go their separate ways. They’ll probably keep in touch, but Anakin won’t see him constantly, won’t be able to lean into the weight of Obi-Wan’s hand on his shoulder, his knee, sometimes even on his cheek when he leans down in between takes to tell him how good of a job he’s done.

“Anakin?”

“Sorry,” Anakin snaps to the present. “Sorry. I was in my head. I. I don’t think so, no.”

“Oh,” Obi-Wan says, tensing his hand as if he’s planning to remove it, which Anakin wouldn’t appreciate in the slightest.

“My agent says that the executives want me to date Padme. To drum up hype for the movie. Because I guess people will think it must be good if the co-stars start fucking each other?” He runs a hand across his face. “Um. Sorry, excuse my language.”

“Anakin, I’m forty-one, I think I’ve heard someone say fuck before,” Obi-Wan sounds amused again.

“Yeah, I just. Don’t want to? I guess maybe--I mean you probably didn’t see, but I came out as bisexual a year ago, and I haven’t dated anyone since, and I just know the way the rags will write about me and Padme if we’re seen together. And it’ll be like I just. Never came out.”

Obi-Wan makes a sympathetic noise but doesn’t interrupt. It’s one of the reasons Anakin loves talking to him.

“And my agent just sent me this contract, or I don’t know, list of things I have to do because there’s no way for me to get out of this and it just makes me feel trapped. But they don’t even want me to confirm if we're dating or not dating, they just want to create rumors about it, but it’s my life. I want to do what I want to do with my life, date who I want to date.”

“Do you...have anyone you want to date?” Obi-Wan asks, hand stilling from where he’s been casually rubbing circles on Anakin’s knee.

“No,” Anakin says too quickly and then grimaces. Does he really get paid for acting? He’s always so terrible at lying.

Obi-Wan hums. “I could...take a look at whatever papers your agent sent you?” He suggests. “I’m obviously not really an expert, but I have been in the business a fair bit longer than you.”

“You’re not that old,” Anakin responds by rote, but hesitates, curious despite himself. “You wouldn’t mind?”

“I’ve nothing planned tonight except to have a glass of wine and pet my cat, Anakin. It would be a pleasure to help you any way I could.”

“Okay,” Anakin says, reaching out to lay his hand gently on top of Obi-Wan’s. He’s never done that before, never responded so openly to Obi-Wan’s touches. It’s an amazing thrill.

Obi-Wan flips his hand around until they’re holding hands, basically. In the middle of a public area. God, Anakin’s letting his crush get the best of him when Obi-Wan isn’t even gay. “Thank you,” he says, standing up and pulling away from the older man. It’s the right thing to do. The last thing he wants is for Obi-Wan to think he’s...predatory.

A harried looking crew member spots him as he stands and gestures to him to get back to the set. He smiles ruefully at Obi-Wan who gives him an unreadable expression but also a soft goodbye.

Later, in between takes, he forwards Obi-Wan the emails Asajj sent him, both the papers and the message at the top that says “dress nice for tomorrow at Delfino’s!” followed by a little smiley face he can’t believe she’d ever mean.

He knows nothing’s going to come of it, but. But he has to try.

----

Padme’s dressed to the nines in front of him. He’d compliment her outfit, but he’s already complimented her hair and her make-up, and he thinks she’ll scream if he continues to act as stilted as he’s being now.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs quietly after the waiter leaves with their drink orders. “I know I’m being--awkward. I just.”

They’re seated in the middle of the restaurant, and Anakin knows there’s two paps already outside, taking pictures through the windows. The rest will have arrived by the time they pay the bill and leave. It’s a circus and he’s the main event.

“I understand,” Padme responds, the angel that she is. “I don’t particularly want to be doing this either.”

Anakin presses his hand to his chest, jokingly wounded. “What are you trying to say, Padme, my beloved, my dearest?”

She laughs and he does too, but in the back of his head he can hear the sound of a camera’s shutter clicking. Everything feels fake, and he feels like he’s about to crawl out of his skin.

A hand lands on his shoulder with startling familiarity and for a second he thinks it’s a very brave member of the wait-staff, before Obi-Wan Kenobi is swinging into his field of vision, pulling up a chair from god knows where and sitting right in between Anakin and Padme, never once removing his hand from Anakin’s jacket.

“Sir--” someone says in distress, “This is a two-person table.”

Obi-Wan raises an eyebrow and looks down at the table. “Well it certainly can fit three, so I would go as far as to say that tonight it can be a three-person table. Anakin, what did you order to drink?”

“The house white,” Padme supplies when Anakin makes no move to respond, instead choosing to gape at Obi-Wan like a fish out of water.

“Excellent choice, darling,” Obi-Wan says, rubbing at his upper arm absent-mindedly. “I’ve never been here, tell me. Do you serve a good seafood dish?”

The waiter stammers. “We have an acclaimed oyster platter, sir--”

“Oysters?” Obi-Wan smiles at the man, all teeth. “The aphrodisiac? What are you trying to get these kids in the mood for?”

Anakin blushes. “Obi-Wan!” He hisses, aghast. Obi-Wan’s eyes cut to him for a second before he smirks back at the waiter.

“I’ll take the oysters for the main course,” he says dismissively.

Somehow it’s that sentence that tips Anakin off, more than anything else he’s done tonight. Obi-Wan spends hours talking to the people that run the crafts table. He would never be so cold or rude naturally. He’s...playing a character, one that Anakin recognizes as being the villain from their movie (although without all the blood and murder).

Anakin only recedes into personas when he’s nervous about something. Can the same be said for Obi-Wan?

Padme, at least, looks amused. “Hello, Obi-Wan,” she says. “I see you’ve decided to crash our very romantic date.”

“Well that’s interesting, isn’t it?” Obi-Wan replies, turning to face her but keeping his hand on Anakin, although it slides down to rest on the crook of his arm. “I had Anakin send me the paperwork, mild curiosity, you know how it is, and I realized the strangest thing while I was reading over it.”

“Oh?” Padme asks.

“It never states which co-star Anakin should be seen with, just that he must be seen with a leading actor. And I don’t want to focus on the numbers here, of course, but in the rough-cut of the movie, I have thirty-four minutes of screentime. And you, my dear, have thirty-two and fifteen seconds.”

“Tragic,” Padme says, taking a sip of her water. "You may be considered more of a leading actor than I am."

“Certainly,” Obi-Wan gives her a friendly smile. Anakin is still stuck on the fact that Obi-Wan is here, that he read the paperwork, that he’s arguing semantics for the purpose of--of--

“And I suppose you’re here to offer yourself as a replacement?” Padme asks, leaning her head on her hand as she watches the two of them.

“Only if Anakin wouldn’t mind,” Obi-Wan says, turning to face him.

Anakin isn’t sure what he’s thinking right now. “But you’re not interested in men.”

“I am,” Obi-Wan says.

“But...you’re not interested in me.”

“I am,” Obi-Wan says.

“You are?”

“Excuse me,” Padme says. “I’m going to go to the restroom.”

“We’ll wait to order until you come back,” Obi-Wan reassures her, without taking his eyes off of Anakin.

Anakin bites his lip and hesitantly brings his hand up to sit palm up on the table. Obi-Wan doesn’t hesitate to intertwine their fingers again, like they had been just yesterday.

“I’m a very private person, Anakin,” Obi-Wan says quietly, all traces of any sort of persona dropped from his voice. “I’ve never come out, never wanted to. But I was so proud that you had when you did. And I--well. I suppose. You already get to fake-kiss Padme on screen, I thought that perhaps you’d like to try to fake-kiss someone else for a change.”

Anakin ducks his head and gathers his courage. He can’t not ask. A fake relationship with Padme would be awful, but one with Obi-Wan? That would be torture. Cruel and unusual punishment. He’s still reeling from the information that apparently Obi-Wan does like men and apparently he likes Anakin enough to come out for him.

But does he like Anakin enough to touch him and mean it? He has to know. He looks up at Obi-Wan’s earnest face from beneath his eyelashes. “What if I want to real-kiss you?”

Obi-Wan blinks, and a smile breaks out across his face. “Then you don’t even need to have to ask, darling. Kiss me all you want, if you’re okay with a clingy old man in your bed.”

“Not that old,” Anakin argues, smiling so hard he’s afraid his face will crack in two. “But I don’t want to kiss you tonight.”

Obi-Wan turns solemn, although his grip on Anakin remains tight. “We can go as slow as you’re comfortable with.”

“Oh, you can have me later,” Anakin says, waving his free hand in the air. “I just don’t want our first kiss to be for the cameras.”

Obi-Wan catches Anakin’s palm and brings it up to kiss lightly. “You’re right, Anakin. That should just be for you and me.”

The rough brush of his lips over his skin causes Anakin to shiver. He’s never felt so on edge, as if his body is a live-wire. “Good thing you ordered the oysters,” he mumbles, blushing bright red as Obi-Wan laughs loud enough to fill the whole restaurant with its sound.

[anobscurename]

ocean eyes – chris evans

previous part: PART XVII — masterlist

concept: you surprise chris for his birthday while he's shooting in italy. the slowest of slow burns. the ever anticipated part eighteen of many.

pairing: chris evans x reader

word count: 4.3k

warnings: fluff. just prepare to melt.

author's note: everyone can thank @tonystankschild for this one. she was deep in the dm's asking for fluff and i intended to deliver the fluffiest of fluffs.

You liked to consider yourself a rational person at the best of times.

That consideration, however, was entirely negated by the fact that you were now on a flight to Italy to surprise Chris for his birthday. There was nothing rational about it.

But you had saved for this trip, and Chris had done so much for you in the past year or so, that you had wanted to do something for him.

And you had decided that no one should be alone on their birthday, no matter how far away they were.

You had caught a flight from Boston after making the forty-four hour roadtrip to drive Dodger there, not having the funds to fly him to the Evans' household. The fees of bringing an animal on board were astronomical, and you were still balking from how high the number was.

Chris was a wealthy man, however, and those types of costs never quite fazed him as much as they did you.

So you had driven him to Lisa's, a thousand thank yous on your lips as she delivered you to the airport to minimize on the extra cost of leaving your car at the airport parking lots.

Scott – who had still been there from the Patriot's game, "tryin' to get as much family lovin' as he could" as he put it – smiled knowingly at you when you had brought Dodger in.

"You go, baby vamp," he'd whispered to you. It was an outdated saying, but you knew it anyways, and laughed him off.

"We're just friends, Scott."

"Yeah, just like these highlights are from the sun."

He had given you a tight hug, wished you luck on your trip, and – like Lisa would later do at the drop off – made you promise to wish Chris a happy birthday from them.

When you touched down in Italy, it was early morning, that hovering between night and dawn.

You had once again called Chris' agent – Mark – to get details on the shoot, ones which he reluctantly handed over.

You thought that perhaps he was trying to save Chris the PR scandal of being seen with another woman while publicly in a relationship with Lily, but you had pointed out that you had been clearly established as friend of the couple with your global third wheel memes. It didn't take much pressing, because Mark knew how much you both cared about each other and how happy you being there for Chris' birthday would make the actor. So he emailed you the shooting location, with a schedule and call sheet. The tagline was very quick: "Don't interrupt shooting :)"

After a quick shower at the affordable three star you'd rented for the weekend, you got ready in spite of the weariness the plane left you with. Hot water did wonders to waken you, and a touch of makeup never hurt.

You stepped out in the warm breeze, the wind toying softly with the skirt of the summer dress you wore. You easily hailed a cab, and, after failing at the pronunciation of where you were headed, let the cabbie read the location off your phone.

The first person you saw when you got out of the car was Chris.

He was stood off to the side by the craft table, a crewmate quickly doing a last minute adjustment to his hair as he went over his lines. Dressed in an Italian pinstripe suit, you remembered what the film was about.

The indie flick told the tale of an arranged marriage between the son of an Irish mob boss and the daughter of a New York mafia don. Most of the film, however, was set in Italy, where the son, Mickey, had to travel to win the favour of the extended mafia family for the blessing on the union. Briefly, the scene with the strawberries popped into your mind.

You were stopped by security, but Mark – who had been waiting for you – vouched for your admittance.

You stood a little ways away from Chris, within eyesight, but not obvious. It was a surprise, after all.

You called him, watching from where you leaned against his trailer wall. Chris, ringtone blaring for his attention, quickly patted down his suit pockets before finding the device. His glance at the caller I.D. was followed by his whole face lighting up, soft smile on his lips.

"Hey there, Sleeping Beauty," he said into the receiver. "Isn't it a little late in L.A.?"

"It is," you replied. "But it's your birthday tomorrow, and I couldn't resist."

"You know, I've been told I'm irresistible before," he chuckled. "Just never thought I'd hear you say it."

"Well, what can I say? Suits do it for me," you smirked, dropping your first hint.

Scott was right. Chris really could be clueless. "You'd love the one they just put me in then," he murmured, distracted by the food on display at the craft table as he perused the options. "A real classy number."

"What are your plans for the rest of the weekend?"

"They gave me the weekend off to celebrate, but you know me... Probably will go wine tasting by myself and look at some art or something. Oh, man, read a book. Yeah, haven't done that in a while."

You watched as he plucked a strawberry from the table, and your stomach fluttered.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Hmm?" He hummed as he bit in to the sweet fruit.

"Aren't you sick of strawberries by now?"

Chris froze, eyes wide in shock. Running his tongue over his teeth smoothly and swallowing the bite, he began swiveling his head, trying to look out for where you may be hiding. "Where are you?" He grinned.

"Guess."

And then he saw you.

And then he had you wrapped in his arms, the force of the running tackle hug sending your back crashing into the trailer, metal creaking.

You laughed breathlessly, hanging up the call as you hugged him back.

"Chris," you strained against the bone crush of his fierceness. "Oxygen–"

He loosened his grip, but didn't take back his arms. "You have no idea how much I missed you."

His whispery breath in your hair as he deeply inhaled the apple scented shampoo clinging to you had electricity coursing through your veins. "My bones have some idea, I think you might've fractured a rib."

The rumble of the chuckle reverberated through his body and into yours, and heat dusted your ears and cheekbones. "Sorry, I just can't believe you're here. I had to make sure you were real." And then, the question you'd expected: "Where's Dodger?"

"Dodger is in Boston with your mom. And I'm here, I'm real," you reassured him, smoothing your hands over the back of the meticulously woven cotton of his suit. "But you also have a real job to get back to."

"Oh, right," he groaned sheepishly. In his joy, he'd almost forgotten where he was. "Just hang around for a bit, we're only filming a little today before we're off."

So you did. You got given a seat, just off camera, and watched Chris do his thing. His performance was breathtaking, the way he embodied such a dangerous man. It was enough to make you flushed, the square of his shoulders, the confidence in his stride – the danger lurking under Italian silk lined cotton. You'd never quite seen him like this.

And it thrilled you to see a man you usually felt so safe around look so menacing.

It was the love proclamation scene that served to be your undoing, however.

The director kept hounding Chris, demanding retake after retake. He wanted that genuine love to flow through, and it simply just wasn't.

"Think of someone you love," the director suggested. "Put them in your mind's eye. You have a girlfriend, yes? Would it help to bring a picture for you to look at off camera? Tell the picture you love her. Someone get me a picture of this man's lover, please! Imagine you've never told her how you feel. And you've been feeling it for a while, and even though it was very... what is the English word? Uncommon? It was uncommon meeting circumstances you met... You love her. Si?"

Chris grit his teeth and nodded, ready to comply. And once the picture was brought out, the call for quiet on set rang out.

But once the director called action, Chris didn't look at Lily. Your heart clenched, your breath catching in your throat.

No, his eyes found you.

"I love you," he said the words you'd never thought you'd hear him say – at least not to you – and the sincerity in his cracked voice was overwhelming. His eyes were watery, relief dropping his shoulders – as if he'd kept this inside for too long and a weight had been lifted. He sighed it again and again, as if it was the only thing that was going to save him, as if it's the only words he'd ever known.

And when the director called cut, singing Chris' praises, he was still looking at you.

———————

"I still can't believe you're wearing that," Chris chuckled.

You dipped your sunglasses lower on the bridge of your nose to observe him critically. He was leaning against a Vespa, arms folded, the sleeves of his loose white cotton button down rolled up to his elbows, barely containing the bulge of his muscles. Black trousers clad his legs, on his feet a pair of black Italian leather loafers he'd gotten as a gift from his co-star. He wore his own pair of sunglasses, hair swept back, being tousled by the passing breeze.

The statement had been made in reference to the silk scarf you wore, twisted around your neck delicately in a way that was reminiscent of Audrey Hepburn. "If I'm going to have a Roman holiday," you giggled, tripping a little on your way to the Vespa – Chris moved to catch you, but you righted yourself, "you best believe I'm going to fucking look like it."

You had gone to a wine tasting in a vineyard on the outskirts of Rome, somewhere far into the countryside. You had both goofed off the entire time, earning yourselves scolding looks from the sophisticated tourists and the locals, who had wanted a peaceful afternoon at the farm.

You sniffed the wines, obnoxiously listing all the strange terminology the haughty wine connoisseurs would throw around casually, before taking your sips.

It became somewhat of an inside joke between the two of you, finding yourselves lagging behind the group because you couldn't stop laughing. And whenever you were shot a dirty look, it would only make you laugh more.

"You're meant to taste it," he'd whispered to you.

"I am tasting it," you shot back.

"No, you're chugging it like a sixteen year old whose parent made the unwise choice of leaving unsupervised."

The tour guide had been eyeing the two of you up, waiting for your silence. The rest of the tour group turned their critical gaze too, and you gave Chris' foot a soft stomp to get his attention.

Both of you shut up, giggling under your breaths as Chris had practically bowed in his gesture for the guide to continue.

But now it was time to go back to the inner city, and Chris had waited patiently for you by the Vespa while you'd gone to freshen up a bit. The cobblestones were hell for your tipsiness, but you were wine and laugh drunk, and hadn't a care in the world.

"You know how they say there's always that one pair of annoying people on wine tastings that ruin the experience for everyone?"

"They do?" Chris' brow creased in question as he grinningly handed you your helmet.

"Of course they do. Well, I couldn't find them, so it must be us."

Chris clicked his own helmet in place as he caught sight of the hostess by the front door giving you both a dirty look. "What finally gave it away?"

He slid easily onto the Vespa seat, heeling up the kickstand and righting the orientation.

"Hop on, princess," he beckoned you with a nod. You regretted wearing a dress for this part, but you were serious about the Roman Holiday aesthetic.

Serious enough to risk flashing someone as you mounted the scooter behind Chris. But luckily you didn't.

"Hold on tight," Chris called over his shoulder. You complied, encircling your arms around his waist, pressing your bodies together.

You could feel his heart rate pick up, but before you could think too much about it, he took off – cobblestone streets and ivy climbed buildings flying past you in your bliss.

————————

Two of the three worst things that could've happened to you while riding a scooter in the countryside did.

The scooter had broken down and it had started to rain. Not only rain, but fucking pour. You were drenched through to your skin, pulled over on the side of the road, Chris trying to kickstart the machine into working again.

After his fifth attempt, he came over to you, squinting in the rain.

"It's not working," he shouted over the droning rainfall. "Let's just find some shelter and come up with a game plan!"

There were nothing but open spans of green fields and wheat as far as your eyes could see. But a little while back, just over the hill, there had been lights in the haze of rain, a little nondescript sign on the side of the road that you'd whipped past suggesting the shelter that you so desperately craved.

"I think there was a house back there," you yelled back. "Maybe they could help out."

He nodded imperceptibly in the shower of droplets, hand on the small of your back, fitting so seamlessly in the curve of your spine, and began guiding you.

You both dashed across the road, and then you were tearing through the long grass in a shortcut to the twinkling beacons of the lights in the windows, looking like eyes peering at you in the darkness.

Somewhere along the way, you'd found out that Chris was a little ticklish at his waist, and after you'd discovered it – he'd flinched away from you and begged you to stop, but you'd continued just to antagonise him – you wouldn't let it go. It took you much longer to get there than would be normal, but soon, you were both stood, shivering and drenched on the porch step.

There was a sign on the door telling you it was a little inn – an underused bed and breakfast, most likely for road weary travelers on their way to Rome.

You didn't bother knocking as you entered the lobby, spilling inside with laughter still on both your lips. Muddied shoes squelched, and your sodden clothes dripped onto the floor.

You immediately moved to the fire while Chris went to go confer with the front desk.

His two months in Rome had taught him a fair amount of Italian, but it was still quite broken, and he found himself floundering with a lot of the words.

The landlady – a portly old woman with an extraordinarily kind smile and crows footed crinkles by her eyes – understood the predicament.

She explained to him in English – loud enough in the silence so you could hear over the crackle of the fire – that the road services would probably only be available to come out so far tomorrow morning, and that it'd be best to stay the night.

She didn't seem like someone who would scam you into staying at her little roadside hostel – even going so far as to give Chris some white fluffy towels for the both of you.

He paid for the last room available with soggy money, and returned to you, fresh towels in his arms.

He draped one over your shoulders first, and when you reached out to cling it to your frame, your fingers brushed.

That same electricity jolted through you both, travelling with lightning quick velocity down both your spines to spark alive the restless butterflies you had well and truly thought you had put to rest. You were the first to withdraw, allowing Chris to put a towel over himself.

He ran it through his hair, the pieces that had been plastered to his skin with water raising into spikes.

You laughed, reaching out a tentative hand – giving him ample time to withdraw should he need to – to smooth it back and away from his face.

But your laughter died down, as it inevitably did whenever he looked down at you like that. Because how the hell were you meant to function when his eyes were on your lips the way they were now?

And you damn near choked when he started leaning down, lips pressing closer to yours...

But before they touched, he broke into a gut-wrenching smirk, moving past your tingling and awaiting mouth to whisper in your ear. "I dibs the shower."

And then he was sprinting up the stairs.

You were so in shock that for a minute you couldn't even register what had happened, and when you did, you cursed at him, following him up, swearing you'll skin him alive.

And all the while, the landlady was watching the two of you, a knowing glimmer in those kind eyes. She muttered something in Italian, one she repeated many a time during your stay, a saying you would come to know as "young love."

And she didn't even care that you had tracked mud into her hotel and soaked the carpets through from your wet clothes.

She just cared that there were still kids in love in this world.

———————

Once you had both taken a shower and were wrapped up in your complimentary hotel bathrobes, you realised that neither of you were tired.

Your clothes were laid out, sprawled over the backs of chairs, drying by a fire Chris had taken the liberty of building.

So you both decided to go downstairs, and see what activities you could engage in with the other guests. It would do well to help you forget the prospect of having to share a bed with Chris.

According to the landlady, this was the last room available. And of course, Chris had offered to sleep on the floor, as gentlemanly as ever.

But you couldn't do that to him on his birthday, so you'd told him it would be fine, as long as a pillow fort was built to prevent any unnecessary contact.

The common area was woefully empty, save for a couple of sleepy looking musicians, poised atop their makeshift stage, on the brink of passing out on their instruments.

When you and Chris entered, however, they livened up, striking up some traditional Italian melody you may have heard before in passing.

It wasn't that late, so the bar was still open, and Chris managed to purchase a bottle of wine.

Most of the seats had been stacked on the tables, and he helped you pull some down before seating yourselves.

He poured you both wine, and you sat there in your robes, listening to the music.

The landlady came by, at some point, to light the tea light candle on your table.

When you thanked her, she said the same thing she had said earlier – in Italian, so you struggled to understand.

Chris, however, who had been taking a hearty sip of wine, nearly choked. "Mille grazie," he winked.

She scoffed, patting his cheek affectionately, much like a grandmother would her grandson. You didn't catch much of what she said, aside from one word. Cacciatore, in reference to a flirtatious man.

"What did she say to you?"

"She said amore giovane. It means young love."

You turned to try and find her – wanting to correct the innocent mistake of having her assume that you and Chris were in love. Fact of the matter was, there was still with Lily, and you couldn't stand to think of the PR nightmare it would be if it were to get out that he was at an admittedly romantic bed and breakfast with you of all people. "Oh, no, we aren't..." You faded out awkwardly. "He has a girlfriend!"

"Actually," Chris said softly, as if he had been wanting to tell you this for a while. "I don't. Not anymore. Not since the last day at the Hamptons."

Relief flooded you, followed by something undetermined – hope, you would later discover – before you were floored with absolute sympathy. "Oh, Chris. Chris, I'm so sorry."

You reached over to link your fingers in a reassuring hand hold, and his focus was pulled to that singular touch, that point of joining.

"If there's anything I can do to help..."

"No, it just..." He swallowed, finally pulling those ocean eyes to you. "It just wasn't meant to be, I guess. She wasn't the one."

His eyes told a story much deeper, hinting to something that you didn't have the strength to uncover. You'd been hurt too many times by these false feelings, you really weren't sure how ready you were to face them once more.

"What happened?"

"She thinks I'm in love with someone else." When you didn't say anything again – too stunned to do so – Chris cleared his throat. "I, uh," he tried for a smile, "I believe you owe me a dance."

It took you a while to recall him asking you to save him the last dance at the charity gala, and when it registered, you grinned, questions of who dissipating. "Let's go dance."

The band saw you and Chris approach the dancefloor, and immediately switched to a slow waltz. Chris took you in his arms, and as you both swayed to the music, you could almost imagine you were back in Vegas, before Lily, before everything, when the biggest problem in your life was that you had kissed your best friend on your birthday.

His body was so warm pressed to yours, that you felt every tense muscle in your body relax. That hand – forever fitted so perfectly to the groove of the small of your back – traced delicate patterns through the flannel of the gown.

Your cheek was on his chest, and your eyes were closed, and you couldn't see the way he was looking at you.

Because in his eyes – those beautiful ocean eyes – was a love. The love that you were incapable of seeing, but one that everyone else had – including Lily.

There was worship in every sapphire fleck, and there was pure adoration in the inky depths of his pupils.

And as he held you, body nestled so perfectly against his, knew that the angels would damn themselves for you. Because he sure as hell would.

———————

When Chris had gone to get more drinks – the bottle you had shared being finished – you had gone to speak to the musicians.

And surprisingly, they had what you had requested.

Chris was uncorking the bottle when you had hopped up on stage.

There was no microphone this time, and the musicians were glad to receive a break, joining the landlady at the back for a drink – leaving you and Chris alone in the room. Their departure caught his attention, and he glanced at you, before doing a double take.

You were sat at the edge of the stage – feet dangling off to graze the floor every now and then – and in your hands was a ukelele.

The memory of the last time you played for him was chased away by the excitement of this next song.

You were tuning it when you finally noticed Chris watching you. He had that look in his eye – one you were so used to seeing, but one you never quite let yourself understand – and he slowly sank into his seat to watch you. He propped his head on a fist, candlelight flickering in his eyes.

And without much of an introduction, you plucked at the strings delicately, beginning a ukelele rendition of "La Vie En Rose."

His smile broadened into a beam when you started singing. Never had he felt absolute peace like this – at least without having you in his arms.

Hold me close and hold me fast

This magic spell you cast

This is la vie en rose

You looked up at him, your expression earnest. You always found yourself being much more capable of conveying emotion in your actions, rather than with your words. Words made things messy. Music... that was beauty incarnate.

When you kiss me, heaven sighs

And though I close my eyes

I see la vie en rose

Chris breathed in deeply, his heart stuttering, but heavy in his chest. The hold – that spell – you so flawlessly cast on him was rising again, and he knew, with all certainty, that he would not wish to break the enchantment for anything in the world. He was Icarus, and you were the sun – the magnetic pull he felt was that strong.

When you press me to your heart

I am in a world apart

A world where roses bloom

Your eyes found his and you grinned, beguiling him. As you played the interlude, you mouthed to him "happy birthday;" and it was. It was perhaps one of the happiest birthdays he'd had in a while, because it was the one he'd spent with you.

And when you speak, angels sing from above

Everyday words seem to turn into love songs

His heart was swelling, throat thick with emotion. His eyes burned, but he was almost certain the tears gathering was from a lack of blinking. He didn't want to pull his gaze away from you, not for a single second. He had told you he had loved you earlier that day – and this felt like more of a response than he'd ever receive. He knew how difficult it was for you to say those words. And he was okay with that. He'd take what you gave, and you were giving him this – a song as lovely as the woman who was currently singing it. And he thought he was going to simply die when you looked up at him with those eyes, and that smile, and that voice reaching out to him, singing that final verse.

Give your heart and soul to me

And life will always be

La vie en rose

Little did you know, you already owned those things.

You'd owned them since the night you met.

[philologer-mosaic]

Hey! Fellow writer here! I was curious as to how you learn to write characters and /keep/ them in character without it being overly stereotypical or stiff? I've read your work and I'd love to learn from you ;^;

Hi! Glad to meet you, and wow, I am so flattered to be asked this. Happy to help out a fellow writer, and I’m always down for rambling about writing-related stuff! I’m not sure how helpful some of this will turn out to be, but here goes.

I’m not sure if you’re asking about characterisation in general including crafting OCs or specifically about writing canon characters, and a lot of this advice will be relevant to both, but I will say this straight off: I’ve seen a fair amount of quibbling about how fanfiction won’t teach you how to worldbuild and maybe that’s true, but there is nothing like writing fanfiction for teaching yourself how to craft character voices. Especially when your source material is a movie/ TV show/ whatever definition RWBY falls under. So: rewatch! Pay attention to all the little details. What turns of phrase do they use? How do they stand, how do they move? What’s their usual emotional range? Pick a line they speak, think about what descriptors you’d use to get across their tone of voice or their emotional state if you were writing the scene in a fic. When you’re writing new dialogue for them, try to hear it in the actor’s voice (if that’s a way your imagination works; some people don’t have great auditory imaginations. Mine can be kind of hit and miss!).

Rest of this advice is going under a cut, because this got looong!

With canon characters: start from what you know, then extrapolate. Especially with characters we don’t see all that much of, boil them down to a handful of personality traits/ ways-they-present-themself first, then consider what might underly them. And in reverse: take the things we know about their status and backstory, consider what that implies about them as a person.

So, Clover: I think I boiled him down to ‘confident, friendly, professional’, and what’s underlying ‘confidence’ is really obviously his semblance: he’s never had to hesitate about anything, he always knows he can rely on himself. So in his internal monologue, he’s not going to second-guess his decisions. He calls Qrow out on deflecting compliments, so he’s good at reading people and also wants to help them; I assume that applies more broadly than just to Qrow. He’s leader of Ironwood’s flagship team of Specialists, and semblance or not I made the assumption he didn’t get there without working for it [that is an assumption, though! People less inclined to think well of Clover will make a different assumption, in-universe as well as out, and how he responds to that is also something to consider], so he’s got to be smart, dedicated, a good tactician, a good leader. And building from that: he’s smart and perceptive but we know he’s also loyal to the bitter end (very bitter); what sort of personality can we project that reconciles those two, what sort of person would respond like that? What I went with is that he trusts the system because he understands enough pieces of how/why it works that he trusts the bits he doesn’t understand are also created with the best interests of the people at heart. (Even when that’s really not true.) So then that’s a consistent philosophy-like thing that underlies a lot of how I write him: he understands the reasons for a lot of why things are how they are and then assumes the best of all the rest.

– This looks like a lot, now I’ve written it out. I thought all this out while working on the early chapters but I never put it some of it into words really. In coming up with the plot or story idea you’ll have made plenty of these assumptions and extrapolations already. Take a second look at them; take them further, find places to link them together or pit them against each other.

And remember, these are your interpretations. There’s not a right or wrong way to flesh these out. Work with semi-canon stuff like the mangas or discard it as you wish; follow fanon or argue with it or throw it out entirely. I interpreted Yang as ‘normal outgoing teenage girl in a non-homophobic world’ and wrote her as having dated people from Signal before she got to Beacon; the other day I came across a tumblr post interpreting her as “a rural lesbian”, by which standard she definitely didn’t have any romantic experience before canon; they’re both entirely plausible takes! Where we don’t know stuff for sure, slot in whatever your story needs, or whatever you think seems interesting. I settled on Clover’s backstory for Soldier, Spy mostly by going ‘ok, what’s an interesting way to contrast him with Qrow?’ And in some of my other fic ideas, he’s different.

Limited third person perspective (or first person, if you can pull if off) is the best for dropping in characterisation smoothly. Though I’m probably biased because I love it so much. Omniscient third person POV is when the narration’s impartial and uninvolved, and skips between person A’s thoughts and person B’s thoughts and pure description of what’s happening, objectively speaking; limited third person is – when the camera’s always over one person’s shoulder in a given scene. It’s less close in than first person, but we get the POV character’s thoughts and no others, we only see/notice what they notice and pay attention to, descriptions are coloured by the way the POV character thinks about the world. I don’t want to be setting you homework, but, a neat writing exercise, if you want it: pick an object, place or person, and consider how two different characters would see it differently. Write those two descriptions. For fun, pick something that at least one of the characters is going to really look down on or dislike parts of! (Qrow’s snark is so much fun.)

This is cynical, but: people lie to themselves a lot. When you put yourself into a character’s head, they’re going to be telling themself a narrative in which what they’re doing is the best thing to do and makes them a good person. (With a few exceptions, the big ones being depression- and anxiety-brain, which instead do their best to convince you you’re the worst.) Get your characters to justify themselves to you.

Goals, motivations, priorities. It feels like a massive oversight to write about how to characters and leave that one out, but honestly I can’t think of anything I can say here that hasn’t been covered better by tons of other writing advice. [Incidentally: https://www.writersdigest.com/ . Subscribe to their email newsletter, it’s free, they will try to get you to buy their how-to courses but there’s no need to, the website has all kinds of articles about the craft and details of writing and the newsletter will send you all the new ones plus curated picks of what’s already there. And also: https://springhole.net/writing/index.html . There’s some stuff specific to fanfic in there, and also general writing advice.] Just: keep it in mind.

Related to that, but a separate thing and one that I haven’t seen other writing advice talk about so much: how does the character try to achieve their goals? What are their skills and resources? And more than that, what’s their preferred approach? In the simplest terms. It’s a matter of mindset, and what options they see as available to them. So the things I would keep in mind for this are: Who’s got social skills/ is good at thinking in social terms, and who isn’t/doesn’t? (Not just interpersonally speaking. James “not really concerned about my reputation” Ironwood is a good example of a character who always thinks in terms of hard power over soft power; even when public opinion is an important strategic consideration he only thinks about it in the broadest and most simplified strokes.) Who would rather work within the system, and who prefers to do an end-run around it? (That doesn’t have to correlate with who’s actually got power, though obviously there are trends. I’m writing Clover as tending to take charge even when he officially shouldn’t because he’s more concerned with solving the problem than with rank, and that’s a case of circumventing the system, it’s one of the things he’s got in common with Qrow.) Who’s more analytical about their approach and what they’re trying to do (which means their failure mode is overthinking and decision paralysis) and who reacts with their gut instinct (which means their failure mode is getting in over their head)?

… I could talk about this one at length. There’s a whole framework I use to categorise characters in this way (I came across it in, of all things, the flavourtext of a supplement to an RPG no one’s ever heard of and it just stuck with me, and I’ve made it my own in the years since) and I could go into all sorts of detail about how it works/ what it means. But I think this is enough to be getting on with, on that topic. If you want to know more, send me another ask? But no one else talks about this thing in writing advice, it might be completely orthogonal to the writing process of anyone but me.

So! Related to the topic of characters’ skillsets, a really great tip I can’t remember where I picked up: how do you write someone who’s smarter/wittier/better at tactics than you? Spend minutes or hours turning something over in your head that the character is going to come up with in seconds. The great advantage of writing: it’s so much easier to be eloquent when you’ve got time to think. [If you had asked me this question in person you would have got ‘i don’t know?’ and then half an hour later I would have thought of half of this stuff and kicked myself. A week and change later, you’re getting the other half too :p ]

And lastly: you said you were worried about your writing getting “overly stereotypical”. And my immediate response to that was stereotypes bad, yes, but archetypes great. The difference being: stereotypes are lazy and offensive writing that let ‘membership of a social category’ stand in for ‘actual characterisation’ and if you’re asking for advice on characterisation you’re obviously too thoughtful to commit them; archetypes are pre-made sketched-out personalities that you can take as your own and flesh out into your own thing. Tropes are tools. No one ever said ‘They were roommates? Ugh, how unoriginal’. By the same token, ‘lone wolf who pretends he’s fine and doesn’t dare trust anyone no matter how much he secretly wants to’ is a fantastic trope that exists for good reason, the CRWBY used it for good reason, and when we found out Qrow’s semblance I went yes please I will have some of all that angst and then laughed at myself because when it comes to fictional characters I have A Type. I’m pretty sure I’ve never written the exact scenario ‘pushes themself way too hard and passes out, wakes up in unexpected safety and immediately condemns themself for not sticking it out longer’ before the opening of Soldier, Spy, but I know I’ve come up with plenty of things that were like it, and if they’d made it to a state of publication you’d be able to see that.

It’s like artists using references. Just because they looked up how to draw that hand and that pose doesn’t mean the final product’s not their own. There’s no reason not to start with your ideas of the character (no matter how ‘stereotypical’ they feel) or a collection of traits you’ve grabbed from other characters that seem like they’d fit – or, for OCs, an MBTI type or a roleplaying class/background combo or one of these or some other personality type you feel like you can find your way around the basics of – and just take it from there. When you start writing/outlining/daydreaming-about-ideas you’ll run into scenarios/setups you can’t copy across from but you can see what responses might come up, and that’s how the template becomes your own unique iteration of it.

… Because really all writing advice does come down to: just write. In your head or on the page, try things out, see what works, see how it goes. I’ve been doing this a long time; most of it never made it to words on a page, let alone to the internet at large. Read across genres, read things people write about themselves and how they live and think and feel, and just – go for it.

I hope this helps! Once again, I was really glad to be asked; feel free to ask me to elaborate on any of this, or about anything else you want advice about. I wish you all the best in your future writing!

[mama-ghostie-61542]

A Thousand Lifetimes

Rated M++ for language and themes

If you recognize it, IT AIN'T MINE.

Sorry for the OOC-ness

Chapter 4

Wolf--

"If I hear the word 'Mom' anytime in the next five minutes, you are, all three, gonna lose grandparent privilege's! Enough with the fighting. 'Kala, you need to get over there and do your homework."

"But, Mom," my younger son shouted. "I can't do it alone."

"Yes, you can, dear. All you have to do is write the words in the blanks."

Mornings here were always crazy. This year, they got worse, with all three kids home all day and me working three jobs from home, while taking a few classes to keep up my certification. But what would do my head in were the constant conflicts of scheduling the boys services around project deadlines. Especially when my childless brother was my boss...One of them.

A text came through ~'Hey, Bry, do you have those reports ready? I have to submit them to the bank this afternoon.'

Loveland Demolition was well known in the Midwest, and had been doing well before the pandemic, but now, we were expanding again. I dug around in my ever expanding pile of outgoing paperwork for the fax copy of the expense reports my brother wanted. Why everything with this end of the family business went through me, I would never know. Maybe it was because he had named me our VP of NE Operations. Like I didn't have a decent job already. I mean, I didn't get my Doctorate for it to look pretty on my wall.

Speaking of, I have a class in 15 minutes. Botany of Common Herbs.

I sent off a quick message, ~ I faxed them yesterday. Did you not get them before the boys did?~

My brothers pit bulls were notorious for grabbing the pages as they fell out of the fax machine and shredding them.

A few minutes later, he replied, ~Dammit, Pita! The Pain got 'em. Already in transit?~

~Yep. UPS grabbed it yesterday. Email?~

~Ok. No. Need hard copy. Will reschedule with the bank. Do good in class today!~

About that time I got a plastic cup thrown in my general direction with my oldest son yelling, "More water! Please, Mommy."

Thankfully, my Botany Professor understands me being a little late, as she has a Downie of her own.

I get his water, and as I am standing at the sink for a few seconds extra to breathe, I feel a cold spot on one hip and the pressure of a thumb on my cheek.

'You are amazing, my Queen. You've got this.'

I smile as the feeling, and the ghost of his smiling eyes fades. How does he always know when the stress is getting to me and just what to say; just what to do. It's like I don't have to say a word, he just knows.

Great....Now I am gonna be all giggly the rest of the day. Probably gonna get an email from my Professor, too; nosy old bat.

Kihyun PoV

It was almost 22:00 when I felt the wobble in thin silver thread that connected us. As I reached for it, I felt her stress and frustration start to bleed through and somehow, instinctively knew what to do. It bothers me when she gets this stressed, because she forgets to take care of herself. And then the tension lodges in her back, manifesting as a knot just to the left of her spine.

Settling myself into my meditation, I could almost see her standing at the sink, working on something. Always working, this girl; whether it's on her actual job, her side hustle, an Etsy store where she sells knit caps, or the boys' homework. She ALWAYS has something going on. Her brothers hare-brained decision to expand the family business does not help in the slightest.

As I settle in, I can hear the din of the kids yelling, a timer going off on something, and from some where, another louder ding. She is amazing, how she can just take it all in stride. Some how, I know, she just needs a second to breathe, so I imagine my hand on her hip; stopping her right where she stands.

I visualize my hand cupping her cheek, and whispering to her, 'You are amazing, my Queen. You've got this.' I can't help the smile that spreads across my face as I see her smile. That soft, sweet smile, that just borders on the verge of blushing. I send how I feel seeing her smile down that thread and, some how, just know that she will be smiling all day now.

Awakening from my meditation, I glance at the clock. Hmm. Time for bed. But first, I am curious about the next chapter. How in the hell, with everything else she has on her plate, did she find the time to write this.

I set back on my bed, my pillows piled up behind me, and start reading.

Still Joey

I couldn't sleep so I got up at sunrise and made coffee. Sis woke up a little while later. I heard her alarm go off and then, I heard her sniffle a little. As she stumbled to the kitchen for her morning coffee, her whole bearing was like all the wind had been sucked out of her.

My heart went out to her.

"Sis. What's wrong?"

"Nothing, Joey. Just my own brain. Think I am going crazy. That's all."

I'm right there with you.

"Explain," I said.

Rather than use actual words, she put on 'Comatose' by Too Close To Touch. "This says it better than I ever could."

I set aside the story and brought up the song. As I sat there listening, I could almost feel how hurt she was. How she thought she was going crazy. I wanted, so much, to fly to her, where ever she was.

"Sissie," I sighed, "What is the matter?"

"I think I am losing my mind, Joey. I just don't want to remember, if remembering is always going to hurt. I'm afraid that it will cost me the one of the two things I am most afraid to lose; my kids or my mind."

"You aren't going crazy, Sis. Who told you that you were crazy for feeling like that?"

"Mom. According to her, I am. Apparently, it is all just a construct of my own mind. Can't be real because it's all in my head, but it is all that I could ever dream of. It makes me want to sleep until it is real. I want to forget the way his voice sounds, cause it hurts too much to hear it when I am alone. I want to forget the color of his eyes, but I see it everyday in my coffee. I want to forget it all, so it doesn't hurt anymore. There is no way he can be real. No way his smell can be real. The more I remembered, I guess, the more I want to forget."

"Bryn, tell me about him?"

"What does it matter? He is no more than a fantasy my own mind created," she said as she dug in a cabinet and added a more than generous amount of Jack Daniels to her coffee.

"Bry! Really??"

"What," she groused as she sipped on her coffee flavored whiskey.

"It is barely sun rise and you are already drinking. What would he say if he caught you?"

"Doesn't matter," she grumbled as her bottom lip pulled in a little and blinked rapidly, a sure sign she was fighting back her own tears. I could see her start to fold in around herself.

'No, my dear, I am very real. And very disappointed.'

"Bullshit," I yelled. "It does matter! I will prove you wrong. I'll prove to you that he is very real," I growled in my own temper, as I leaned over the table at her, "and I know him. He would be so disappointed in you, right now. Instead of working with the connection, you were trying to drown the memories in whis-," I came to a dead stop as I realized what was actually happening. "How long have you been fighting them? The memories, I mean."

'Told ya. Wait. What!? She'd been wrestling with our memories? Oh, my stubborn Wolf, you were never meant to carry them all yourself.'

She deflated and slid the mug away from her. Resting her head on her arms, she whispered, "I was 14 the first time I remembered anything. At the time it was no more than a whisper, a cold spot when I was upset or hurting. Which, lets be honest, was a lot of the time back then. When I was 16, I finally worked up the courage to talk to someone about my dreams. My mistake was telling Ma."

I cringed. I had heard nasty stories about her mom, but sat still and let her continue.

Is her mother really that bad? How much of this had she been keeping from me.

"She went off and let loose a litany of my supposed short-comings. I still remember it, to this day. 'You are so stupid. Why would any man, especially one like THAT, want anyone like you. Anyone else would be better than YOU; you stupid, worthless, ignorant, ugly, child.' After that, I went back to keeping it all to myself. This one," she said as she brought up Forest Blakk's 'Find Me', "Says it all."

I put on the song and knew how it had hurt her for years. My anger burned when the artist spoke of being told you were crazy. 'I want her, you Crazy Bitch. Good Mother, Please,' I started, before thinking better of the prayer that had been on my tongue a moment ago. 'Please watch over her, Grandmother.'

Hearing her own mother call her those things, was tough to listen to. But I could tell she still wasn't finished yet. I let her go, she had years of this pain to offload.

"As I got older, it changed. I was almost 26 when the burn of a kiss landed on my cheek. My ex-husband, at the time, saw the blister it left and went ballistic. Woke me up by kicking the end of the bed. 'I want a divorce. I don't know who he is, but I plan on making you pay for it. Now, get your stuff and get out.' And I paid for it, alright. Didn't even bother to ask if I had it the night before, just assumed I was sneaking out. I never did. Looking back now, maybe I should have left the first time accused me. The ink wasn't dry on the divorce papers when he got remarried. Literally, got them both done in half an hour."

"Are you kidding me? He wanted to accuse you, but he...," I will admit that I was finally starting to see just how messed up her life had been. "Did you love him?"

'Messed up,' I thought, 'No, Sir. Her life has been a craptastic shitshow of epic fucking proportions. Honestly, I would like to know what fucking moronic bastard ordered this shitastical fuckfest for my Queen! I'd like to fucking throat punch him.'

She shook her head. "No. My mother sat it all up. Literally walked into the house Friday afternoon and said, 'You are getting married on Monday at 9.' He was getting deployed and she thought he would be a good fit for me, that she would get grands out of the deal. She didn't find out he was fixed until he was already gone. That is where I learned to keep my hair really short. He used to drag me around by it and scream about all of the things I did. The next day he would scream and drag me around by it to yell about all the stuff I didn't get done."

"So it was more or less arranged?"

"Yeah. After that, I met the asshole. The day he left, I had just buried a brother, and I had lost my job; all on my birthday. After all that, I fell into a deep depression. To the point where I would wonder sometimes why I was still breathing. It was in that place that I saw him. It was no more than his eyes, the exact shade of my coffee, and that voice, but still; if not for him..." she trailed off, a haunted look in her eyes.

After a few minutes of her staring off into space, I prodded, "If not for him?"

She turned and looked at me, "I wouldn't be here. I would have cut ties with this world and willingly walked right into that darkness. I can remember him telling me once, 'Don't you give up. Don't you dare give up. Get up, keep moving.' It was those eyes though, watching them seem to burn in the darkness. They stayed with me so much that I drew them at least a thousand times."

"Really?"

"Yep. Dark eyes that burn," she chuckled. "Got called crazy for that one, too. 'Why do you always draw the exact same thing, ya crazy bitch? How about a tree or a nice mountain. Why is it always those damned eyes, Not that a worthless bitch like you can draw anyway.' So yeah, there's that."

"Hold it. She actually called you worthless?"

Bryn just nodded. "Multiple times, and ugly quite a few times. At the end with the ex, she told me, 'I hate that when I, and she stressed the 'I', put a block in your path, you seem to dance around it and go off into the woods and still end up on the other side. That you whip off of the beaten path, going God knows where, on some barely visible game trail, and somehow still come out on the other side, just where you meant to be'. She said nothing pissed her off more than my ability to adapt."

'That's my Ghostie,' I thought as I smiled proudly. 'Her ability to see things others miss, explodes lower minds.'

Now, I have seen pictures of her mom and old photos of Bryn when she was younger. Let me tell you, when she was young, Bryn was coltishly pretty before becoming ethereal. Not that you could tell it now. Now, she jokes that she traded looks for brains about the time she got her doctorate.

"So, how did you end up with Clark?"

"He was there and I was getting tired of waiting, tired of my Auntie's trying to set me up with whatever boy they could find. One tried to set me up with her ex-nephew. That was nothing but awkward. We are still good friends, almost family. He has said before, 'I love you to bits, but that is icky, you are like a sister to me. Now, please, go throw on a skirt, you have amazing legs and should show them off.' That boy can turn up the girlfriend vibe in 3 seconds...flat.

I know someone who can do that. Weird.

"In the end, I got tired of the pitying looks I would get at the family things. Truth be told, when I told him to either commit or get out, I thoroughly expected him to take off at a run, like he couldn't get away fast enough. Before I knew what had happened, he told everyone I had proposed and picked a Saturday. After that, it was a whirlwind and I almost took off."

"Took off? Eloped?"

She snickered. "No. Ran away. Far away."

"Oh. So you almost pulled a runner?"

"Oh yeah. Had my bestie stand up with me because I knew that if Haka showed up and objected, he would have knocked Clark to the floor to give me time to run."

'I very nearly did show up.'

I thought back to what I said when he finally left.

"What did I say?" I stood there, leaning on the doorway, arms crossed over my chest, fingers tapping on my bicep. The look on my face was thoroughly parental.

"That it would never work."

"And....."

"You were right, I was wrong, I am sorry."

"You gonna listen to me from now on?" My face was passive, but there if she had looked she would have seen the anger in my eyes. I wasn't mad at her, I was more than a little upset with him, though.

"Yes, Dear."

"Good Girl. I'll be home as soon as I can." I cupped her face, kissed her forehead, and said, "Don't do it again. Next time you won't get away with it, my stubborn Wolf."

"Next time?"

I was turning to head back to my body, "First one doesn't count. It was arranged. This one, you got swept up in. Don't do it again. Now, go to sleep."

I had to breathe a minute against the anger building in my chest. Then, I went back to the story.

"You call him 'Haka'? That's cute."

"Yeah, he's Heyhaka, the Elk. Haka, for short. Then there is Sweet Pea, and the occasional Assbag."

"And is he often a jerk?"

"Nah. Only when he is making promises he has no intentions to keep."

'Listen here, Lady! I fully intend to keep them when they are made, Woman!'

"I really don't think he would make them if he didn't intend on keeping them, Sissie. Sometimes, circumstance gets in the way, and then they don't get the focus they deserve. How does he phrase it?"

"All he says is 'Soon'."

I laughed. "The word 'soon' is not a promise. It's an open guarantee."

"What?"

"It's a half promise. He can't put a time on it so he just says soon. You know, sometimes you can be kind of dense."

'Exactly. You are kind of thick sometimes, Darling.'

Bryn's cheeks pinked. "Aww, shut the fuck up," She laughed.

"You've got a potty mouth!"

My jaw dropped. 'Naughty.'

"Like you didn't know or don't have one of your own. Has he not told you the extent of my sailor's mouth?"

"He doesn't know that I know you. I get to hear about everything from both sides. Kinda makes me wanna poke my ear drums out sometimes."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't worry about it. You two are fuckin' perfect for each other."

'I guess we are, huh?'

About that time, the kids started waking up. Davidd was first, followed by Mattie, and then Darryn. I was sitting on the couch, getting the walkthrough of how to turn on the cartoon channels when Mattie climbed up next to me and curled up in my side.

"Morning, Munchkin," I said cheerfully.

She sagged against me and whispered, "Morning, Uncle Joey. Can I have some new milk?"

I was taken aback by the simplicity of the request. "Shouldn't you be asking your mom for that?"

"I would but Daddy called and him and mama got into another fight."

'And that just cashed out my good night.', I thought as I could have sworn I heard a knock at my door.

A-N:) Please don't shoot the messenger. Spirit put up some of the tags. Lol.

[itsbenedict]

nonanalogue: Hey, yo, do you have a second?

itsbenedict:

nonanalogue- "I should probably, like... message you more with things that aren't Dunkables (tm)

so as to lower the amount of suspicion when you see a message from me"

itsbenedict: but yeah, i've got a second

itsbenedict: what's up

nonanalogue: I wanted to know if you'd ever played Ori and the Blind Forest?

itsbenedict: i haven't, no

itsbenedict: what's it about

nonanalogue: So understand I haven't played it either, but from what I understand it's about a spirit and its spirit friend that have to save the world. Metroidvania.

nonanalogue: The reason I bring it up is because I regularly binge on The Cutting Room Floor articles.

nonanalogue: Are you familiar with TCRF?

itsbenedict: not that either, i'm afraid

itsbenedict: i'm 0 for 2

itsbenedict: which i guess is good protection if this is a pun setup

nonanalogue: Lord. Okay. That website I bet you'd be a fan of. It's a giant catalog of unused content in video games.

nonanalogue: Like, seriously, check it out later, you'll really dig it.

nonanalogue: Anyway - so I was looking through articles I hadn't read yet and ended up on Ori and the Blind Forest.

nonanalogue: And they had details on this absolutely wild cut sidequest.

nonanalogue: Do you mind if I go into more detail? Because it's something else.

itsbenedict: i'm sure it is

itsbenedict: and i'm sure none of it is made up

itsbenedict: as part of a nefarious scheme

itsbenedict: continue!

nonanalogue: So we're in agreement.

nonanalogue: Anyway, so the main characters, like I said, are these two spirits. Main character is Ori, their sidekick is Sein.

nonanalogue: Ori ends up getting shrunk to the size of a coin, which becomes useful when they have to use said coin to cross the water - like a surfboard.

nonanalogue: Sein, on the other hand, strays from their normal Spirit Flame powers and uses Spirit Fruits.

nonanalogue: Very tropical theme.

nonanalogue: So with the coin and the spirit fruits, and a third partner they pick up who's an old-school Roman type guy,

nonanalogue: they have to release a bunch of mythical creatures from the spirit world, ushering in a new era of prosperity for them.

nonanalogue: Isn't that wicked?

itsbenedict: oh god

itsbenedict: this is going to be some Pearls Before Swine tier shit

nonanalogue: I dunno what you're talking about -

itsbenedict: anyway sure it sounds wicked and extremely real

nonanalogue: it's just: the cent Ori's on, Sein (durian), centurion: centaur eon.

itsbenedict: aUGH

itsbenedict: that's

itsbenedict: that's disgusting is what that is

itsbenedict: you oughta be ashamed of yourself

nonanalogue: Way ahead of you!

nonanalogue: I figured you'd say something like that, so I got a jump on the 'feeling shame' bit.

itsbenedict: i guess you didn't need to warn me, because it telegraphed itself pretty hard

itsbenedict: you coulda sent some kind of signal- maybe morse code with a flashing ray of light

itsbenedict: should've sent a ray on

nonanalogue: Beautiful.

nonanalogue: That's so bad.

nonanalogue: You oughta be tarred and feathered for that sin. Sin tar, yon.

itsbenedict: god, fuck

itsbenedict: that gets an A for effort

itsbenedict: stamped right in the middle of the assignment

itsbenedict: center A on

nonanalogue: Yes! Yes! Excellent! The spirit of this series burns like fire! Or electricity! Cinder/ion!

itsbenedict: christ that's bad

itsbenedict: i'm gonna have to mail it to my enemies

itsbenedict: but maybe have my friend do the mailing for me so it can't be traced back to me

itsbenedict: sender: Ian

nonanalogue: Ah, for that, I'm gonna re-mail something back - one of my favorite Japanese animes.

nonanalogue: Sent: Yuri On.

nonanalogue: (ice.)

itsbenedict: ffffshut the fuck off

itsbenedict: you need to go to church

itsbenedict: and fast

itsbenedict: sinned! hurry in!

nonanalogue: *Italian chef kissing fingers gesture*

nonanalogue: Say, speaking of,

nonanalogue: you know what I hate in my Italian food?

nonanalogue: Sand, urine.

itsbenedict: ugh, is that the best you can do?

itsbenedict: boring

itsbenedict: that'll make me yawn for a REAL long time

itsbenedict: a century yawn

nonanalogue: You know what made me yawn for a real long time? I got an email from this big guy with a beard at a mall about my order for a new overhang for my porch.

nonanalogue: From Santa, re: awn.

itsbenedict: countless millennia in the future, historians found the dessicated corpse of jocey nonanalogue sitting in her chair, waiting for a response that would never come

itsbenedict: years of sunlight had baked her corpse into a mummy, preserving it for all that time

itsbenedict: she sunned her eon

nonanalogue: Did you intentionally wait a while to send that one? Kudos.

itsbenedict: no, that was a product of a simple fact

itsbenedict: that i am completely fucking out of material now

itsbenedict: and if you can counter it, i'll have to cry uncle

itsbenedict: i'm setting a five minute timer, by the way

nonanalogue: Nah, that sounds pretty sane there, eh, on top of all that.

itsbenedict: well, fuck, if you can bring in the "th", that changes the game

itsbenedict: you got some theory on how THAT shit is allowed

nonanalogue: Nah, see, it's with the regional accent. Sane dere, eh, on...

nonanalogue: But if you think I might be fishing a bit too much with that,

nonanalogue: maybe I'll use something different.

nonanalogue: A seine? Dare I? On with it!

itsbenedict: god damn it

itsbenedict: all my efforts are wasted

itsbenedict: just like on Buffy

itsbenedict: when Xander, 'e un-did everyone's hard work in that one episode

nonanalogue: I applaud that. You know the waveform of applause? I like the one that also represents constellations-

nonanalogue: Sine d'Orion.

itsbenedict: god, this is going to go on forever

itsbenedict: i'm going to have to pass it to my kids

itsbenedict: i can't be too pushy about it, though- they need to have time to relax between bouts

itsbenedict: "son, tarry on"

nonanalogue: I'm not having any kids. Just gonna spend my golden years in California. Gotta get my Santa Rey on.

itsbenedict: you already used santa, you-

itsbenedict: no, i can do this

itsbenedict: the pressure's on

itsbenedict: so much pressure

itsbenedict: so much pressure it'll compress ore into japanese currency

itsbenedict: sinter a yen

nonanalogue: You know what you'd say to someone who did that, maybe to convince them to hire someone from Myanmar? Treasurer-san, try Ohn.

nonanalogue: (Also you reused eon. :P)

itsbenedict: what, when

nonanalogue: Eon was literally the first thing I came at you with! Centaur eon.

itsbenedict: fuck

itsbenedict: okay, um

nonanalogue: So I'll call it square!

itsbenedict: this is making me feel that one feeling, that fuckin made-up word that only shows up in that one tumblr post about really specific words that are probably fake

itsbenedict: making me realize that everyone has a complex inner life that they aren't spending making godawful puns

itsbenedict: sonder-y, in this case

nonanalogue: Well done! That one didn't stink at all! The Scent Area Involved here is small.

itsbenedict: you're cutting it real close with those syllables

itsbenedict: but fuck, i'm coming to my limit

itsbenedict: my breaking point

itsbenedict: you're gonna sunder i, on this day

itsbenedict: (fuck, really good extra one that reuses a thing from earlier- "elles sont d'orion" with some bullshit hunting metaphor)

itsbenedict: (but that doesn't count)

nonanalogue: Nah, man, I wouldn't do that to you. If I'm gonna wear someone down or grind them to dust, I'd rather sander Ian.

nonanalogue: (it IS good)

itsbenedict: ALREADY USED IAN, TRY AGAIN

itsbenedict: 2:10 remaining

nonanalogue: Sander Eoin.

itsbenedict: fuck

nonanalogue: Is what I meant by that typo.

itsbenedict: that's a low blow

itsbenedict: man i can't believe that nazi guy is surprised about the warrant out for his arrest

itsbenedict: "how could the law come after ME, an innocent Aryan?"

itsbenedict: (also regardless of whether you get this next one in time, i have to go do a thing and this has taken up too much time already)

nonanalogue: Yeah, he should head over to some of the islands near Russia, where he could escape. His steps: Saunter, Ayon.

itsbenedict: (so this is for all the beansFUCK

nonanalogue: 👌

itsbenedict: fucking *ayon*

itsbenedict: ugh

itsbenedict: you win this round

itsbenedict: or more accurately, no one wins this round

nonanalogue: I accept your graceful concession and apologize for taking up so much time!

itsbenedict: there is nothing graceful about this concession

itsbenedict: it is a bitter, spiteful concession

nonanalogue: I take what I can get.

[codango]

I'd love anything (100) with Aone! or 3. 'You don’t have to worry, I’m here.' with anyone from Haikyuu if you're not feeling Aone rn. I'm excited for the drabbles regardless of what you write!

EDIT: It occurred to me, Anon, that you might not have asked this because you knew about my Aone fic on AO3 (That’s not what he’s saying). Hence, a short explanation: I answered your prompt as Chapter 2 of a short fic about Aone falling in love with an OC of mine, Tatsu. Tatsu makes his first appearance in another Haikyuu fic of mine (Wingmen are supposed to be supportive).

I really hope this clears up any confusion I may have caused!

--------

You don’t have to worry, I’m here (2,432 words)

It began with breakfast.

Aone didn’t think anything of it beyond how the conversation was somewhat awkward. How could it not have been? Breakfast the morning after, with Tatsu and Tatsu’s sister and Tatsu’s sister’s boyfriend, who happened to be the best friend of one of Aone’s teammates, was plenty to be dealing with on its own.

Aone didn’t even realize Tatsu had paid for breakfast until Tanaka started protesting. Loudly, as was his nature.

“You aren’t paying for shit,” Tanaka insisted. He was behind the bar, cleaning up the last of the breakfast he’d made for the four of them in his father’s pub.

“Of course not. I’m paying for an excellent breakfast prepared by a professional chef.” Tatsu shrugged on his coat, not so much as glancing at the cash on the bar. He looked at Aone. “Ready?” So casual. Like friends leaving a once-a-month get-together.

Tanaka ran a hand over his shaved head, clearly exasperated. “Look, you can’t—I mean, I just—not when I—” He waved his hand helplessly at the tall blonde woman bringing the last dishes from their table.

Tatsu raised a delicate eyebrow at her. “I can’t pay for our meals because you’re banging my sister? Need a hand there, Shizuku love?”

Shizuku set the plates down on the bar with a touch more force than necessary. “Always lovely to see you, Tatsu, bye now.” Her face was staining pink.

“But he can’t—” Tanaka tried.

“Let him leave his entire goddamn wallet if he wants to!” Shizuku barked. She shot Aone a look, half pleading, half threatening. “Nice to meet you, Aone-san. Get him out of here.”

Aone did not think for a moment of disobeying. He cupped Tatsu’s elbow, bowed his gratitude to Tanaka, and walked Tatsu firmly out the door. Reaching for his back pocket, Aone opened his mouth to say something about paying his own way when Tatsu put a hand to his chest and stretched up for a kiss.

Visions of last night exploded behind Aone’s closed eyes, and his hand reached for that pale ponytail. He wanted to pull it loose again, wanted to feel it against his face like he had hours before.

Tatsu stepped back, hand still flat on Aone’s chest. His smile was pleased. “I have to get back to the gallery,” he said softly, gray eyes roaming Aone’s face at leisure. “I have a client meeting first thing tomorrow morning I have to prepare for.”

“Oh.” Aone willed his hand to drop from Tatsu’s hair. It wasn’t easy. Of course he had to go back. His work, his life, was two hours away from the college campus. Tatsu was an adult, with responsibilities Aone had yet to know. Of course he couldn’t while a Sunday away. Frankly, Aone couldn’t afford to either, there were exams to consider—

“I can hear you thinking,” Tatsu teased.

“My apologies, Tatsu-san.” Aone bowed his head. “I’ve kept you from your obligations far too long. I can show you the nearest station.”

Tatsu blinked. “I know I should be used to your abruptness by now, but I confess my ego is reeling.” He brushed the back of his hand against Aone’s jacket collar. “You want me away so quickly?” His voice was low, with a tone that sent shivers up Aone’s spine.

“It’s not what I want,” Aone managed.

Tatsu looked up at him. “Do tell?”

“I want…” to take you back to my room. To be lazy with you today. To forget what our Mondays will bring. “…to see you again.” Aone held his gaze firm. “If I may.”

Tatsu’s eyes went wide. “Well,” he said after a moment, “it has been quite some time since someone asked so sweetly for my company.” He slipped his arm through Aone’s, his lean frame pressed tight against Aone’s side. “Show me to that station?”

Aone might have been disappointed that Tatsu really did leave so quickly. If, that is, he hadn’t pulled Aone off to the side for a long kiss and some heavy breathing. If Aone hadn’t felt Tatsu get half hard against him. If Tatsu hadn’t whispered, “I’ll call you tonight,” with his lips against Aone’s ear. Then, yes, Aone might have been disappointed.

As it was, he was staring sightlessly into his textbooks that afternoon before he realized that he had never paid Tatsu back for breakfast.

———

A couple days later, a box arrived at the house. Kuroo delivered it to Aone’s door with his dinner balanced on top. “Kawatabi made curry and way overestimated how much. You can grab a bowl if you drop some cash in the jar next to the stove.”

Aone nodded but wasn’t really listening. He hadn’t ordered anything recently. His mother always sent him an email ahead of time if she was sending a package. He set it on his bed.

Inside the cardboard shipper was a sleek black box. It was stamped with silver in a brand name he didn’t recognize. The lid lifted to reveal, nestled in un-dyed tissue paper, the most beautiful briefcase Aone had ever seen. Soft-sided, it was made of leather worked over so finely as to feel like velvet. He took a moment, exploring the pockets, testing the zippers, admiring the tooled strap, before he noticed the small card in the bottom of the box.

A-To aid in your pursuit of knowledge. Best luck in your studies,T

Aone set the bag aside immediately and reached for his phone. Two hours later, Aone was staring red-faced at the ceiling of his room, wondering if he could make it to the shower or if he had to jerk off right there. He’d intended to make a simple thank-you call. Tatsu’s voice over the phone had a way of making more complicated things happen.

Aone clenched his eyes shut, bit into the flesh of his thumb, and slid a hand down his jeans. At least he knew he wasn’t as loud as Kuroo.

———

Spring came, and so did a selection of fine shirts from a brand Aone did recognize. His father favored the workmanship but only indulged in one a year.

A-Will you be viewing the cherry blossoms with friends?The blue one would be stunning against the flowers.T

Aone went with Kuroo, Azumane, Nishinoya, Tanaka, Shizuku, and two of Shizuku’s friends to a nearby park that weekend. He handed Shizuku his phone and asked her quietly if she could take a photo. She was a little less likely to tease than the others, and he wanted to look as relaxed as he could. Not an easy feat.

“Ohhh.” Shizuku cooed over the first photo. “That blue is amazing against the blossoms!” She held up the phone to take another, and Aone felt himself smile.

Aone sent the photo late that night. Tatsu texted him immediately after. Thirty minutes later, Aone sent another photo of himself wearing the blue shirt. Technically wearing the blue shirt.

———

During one late-night call, Aone confessed to nearly sleeping through a class.

“You’re not getting enough rest?” Tatsu sounded concerned.

Aone wiped a hand over his face. “Practice, workouts, end-of-year projects. It adds up.” He would not breathe a word about how his deplorable sleep schedule was mostly down to Tatsu and his sinful phone calls.

“Ah.” Tatsu apparently bought the excuse. “It’s important to stay organized with your time management in these situations.”

Kuroo raised an eyebrow when Aone wore his new smart watch to practice that week, but didn’t say anything.

———

The team’s house didn’t have a wine cellar. It would never have occurred to Aone to let Tatsu in on this fact. When the industrial wine rack showed up with an assortment of fifty vintages ranging from rare to trendy, Kuroo rolled his eyes and helped Aone clear out some space in the garage.

A- Would love to hear your opinion on the 2004 Kaesler shiraz.T

“Surprisingly floral for something so dry and smooth,” Aone said. He’d brought a bottle to Tanaka’s pub one night, with serious instruction that it was to be enjoyed with intentionality over a careful menu. Tanaka had risen to the occasion masterfully, and he and Shizuku had been fabulous to compare notes with about the wine. The three of them had gotten a tiny bit buzzed from finishing the bottle themselves that night, but what else was to be done really?

“Exactly what I thought. I wasn’t as put off by the bouquet as I thought I might be.” Tatsu laughed. “But perhaps it was where I had it? The Barossa Valley would make anything taste like heaven.”

“It must be gorgeous.” Aone had mixed feelings when Tatsu shared stories about all the places he’d been. It made him feel at once far too young for him and far too excited about all the wonder the world held for him to see.

“It was like nowhere I’d seen before.” Tatsu was quiet for a moment. “We should go someday.”

Aone caught his breath. The statement had been casual. Light. There was too little there to read into.

“Perhaps,” Tatsu went on. “After graduation of course? And if you’d rather go somewhere else first, we should talk about that.”

Aone’s lungs released softly. “The Barossa Valley sounds wonderful.”

Tatsu hummed, low and sensuous and just right for setting Aone’s skin on fire.

———

The last game of the season ended with a sound victory but at the expense of Aone’s shoulder. He’d come down from the winning block, slipped on a sweaty patch of floor, and the ligaments, overworked from three hard matches, let go on impact.

Through the ambulance, the ER, the manhandling required to set a dislocated shoulder, Aone had kept up his impassive face. Inside, his mind was a spiderweb, crawling with worry.

Dislocated joints are always weaker.

The scholarship is no good without volleyball.

The therapy will take time, but at least this happened at the end of a season.

Months of hard work and maybe I’ll be back up to everyone else’s level by fall.

I’m not ready to be done with volleyball.

I’m not ready for this to be over.

I’m not ready.

They sent him home with massive painkillers and dire threats about any activity remotely resembling athleticism for a month. Aone wanted to scream, but Kuroo kept shooting him looks as he drove them away from the hospital. He kept his mouth shut.

“Need anything?” Kuroo finally asked when they reached Aone’s room.

Aone didn’t turn around. “I’m fine.” He struggled to unlock the door with his left hand. Dropped his key on the floor. He stared at it, his throat getting tight.

Kuroo had the key in hand in a moment, pushing the door open, setting Aone’s phone and water bottle next to his bed, turning on a lamp. It was when he began fluffing a pillow that Aone reached out his left hand. “Kuroo.”

“Yes! Right, yeah.” He backed away from the bed, hands raised, grin sheepish. He was nearly out the door when he turned, chewing on his lip. “Um. Just so you know.”

Aone looked at him and tried to focus. It was probably time for another pain pill.

Kuroo ran a hand over his perpetual bedhead. “I called him. Your, uh, boyfriend? I looked up his number on your phone while you were…while we were at the hospital.”

Aone stared at him.

“Yeah, so, anyway, he’s coming? I guess?”

“You guess? What…what does that mean, you guess?”

“Ahahaha, okay, you’re right.” Kuroo edged farther out the door. “He’s totally coming. Said he’d get a train tonight. So. Yay?”

Aone’s mind latched onto something concrete to keep from spinning out of control. “Tatsu-san isn’t my boyfriend.”

Kuroo’s face lost its tension, his expression going flat.

Aone held his gaze and refused to give in.

“…sugar daddy?” Kuroo enunciated neatly.

Aone glared at him.

“Whatever he is, he’s staying in your room.” Kuroo walked out the door. Popped his head back in. “And I know that’s not gonna be a problem. I’m just saying I’ve gone through a pack of ear plugs.”

Aone walked calmly to the door and shut it in his face. If someone was going to lecture someone else about intimate noise, that someone had no business being Kuroo.

He’d had every intention of staying awake until Tatsu arrived. Unfortunately, the pain meds had other plans. When he opened his eyes, the room was dark except for the small lamp on his desk. His shoulder throbbed. His mouth was dry. He tried to sit up, groaning. How was everything in his entire body connected to his shoulder?

“Wait, hang on, what do you need?” A soft voice, a rustling sound.

Aone blinked sleep from his eyes, and there was Tatsu, getting to his feet from the floor. His jacket was folded neatly as a seat cushion against the wall, two or three overstuffed bags nearby.

“Tatsu…san?” Aone croaked.

Tatsu grabbed the water bottle on the desk. “Is this what you want? Do you need something for the pain?” He glanced over the desk, reached for a small pill bottle. “These?”

Aone watched him, silent and glowing inside. The lamp turned Tatsu’s ponytail gold. They’d seen each other a couple times since that night in Tanaka’s pub, always both of them impeccably dressed until they weren’t, both striving to impress the other until they forgot to. Never like this…Tatsu in jeans and a thin T-shirt that was probably never expensive. Aone incapable of dazzling anyone with his body at the moment.

Tatsu offered a pill and water. “You don’t have to move, I’ve got it.” Aone lifted his good hand, but Tatsu frowned. “Just open your mouth.” His voice was quiet. It lacked the tone that Aone knew was meant to arouse, but nonetheless his heart picked up the pace.

“You don’t have to worry.” Tatsu dropped the pill on Aone’s tongue with no sensuality, just care. “I’m here.”

Aone would speak. Eventually. He would get the words out that were crowding his throat. He’d ask the questions that refused to leave his brain—will you? do you want to? could we? am i? are you? do you? please? But for this moment, he scooted over on the bed. Patted the sheets next to him, never taking his eyes off Tatsu, glowing in lamplight.

The way Tatsu’s face softened was beautiful. He settled on the bed, every movement graceful, and curled into Aone’s side without a single jostle.

Aone leaned his head back and closed his eyes, smiling.

##