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commie-eschatology · 3 years

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Return to Redcliffe

particularly proud of this Solas + Trevelyan scene from “Return to Redcliffe” so gonna do some shameless self-promotion. Ao3:https://archiveofourown.org/works/33444538

When all her companions are asleep, Trevelyan leaves the Inquisition camp. She isn’t sure if she’ll come back. Someone is clearly following her, but she ignores that for now. The road back to Redcliffe stretches in front of her, but she hesitates. This is an extraordinary bad idea, she tells herself, but when has that ever stopped her? Lydia used to complain about her tendency to just act on desire alone. But Lydia is dead, she tells herself, you broke her head open with your staff until her brains spilled all over the floor. You killed the woman who raised you, only for the rebellion to sell themselves into slavery. ` In the woods, she stumbles upon a templar caravan. Very fortunate for her, very unfortunate for them. Their screams echo through the Ferelden forest; she imagines getting incinerated from inferno magic would hurt quite a bit, but it’s certainly not her problem. Trevelyan leaps onto the, now empty, wagon, and finds a crate of apples. She takes a few bites of one and monologues, “I rebel, therefore I am,” to the half eaten piece of fruit.

There’s groaning from underneath the wheels, and a jumble of words that vaguely sound like “what the fuck?” so she asks, “Sorry, are you still alive down there?” There’s no response, so in the interest of being thorough, she throws a fireball at the voice. The smell of burnt flesh follows, so she assumes it got the job done, but then again, Ferelden usually smells like that. Really not a terrible scent, she considers. Or perhaps she’s just gone mad.

Trevelyan looks at the Mark on her hand- staying with the Inquisition is the clever choice, she tells herself. Only she can close the rifts, after all. The rebels have been utterly defeated, the movement badly needs allies if it’s to survive. Still, her logic feels cold and hollow. The Venatori ships are already in Redcliffe harbor. She asks herself, how many will be shipped up to the Imperium in chains, in just the time it takes to travel between the Hinterlands and Haven?

Fire burns underneath the wagon. It’s always been fire for Trevelyan- burning the family manor during a childhood nightmare, cremating Lydia’s mangled corpse with her own spells, and, most recently, incinerating more templars than she can count. It’s the same fire that she could use to burn those Tevinter slave ships tonight- despite Fiona and Linnea’s betrayal, she has no doubt that at least a few of her people would join her.

“Do you want to keep staring at me from the woods then?” she asks the person shadowing her. Solas steps out from the shadows, clearly surprised at being discovered, but he tries not to let it show. He’s usually far more subtle, she doesn't doubt she could be more stealthy if he wanted, but he clearly believes everyone around him is an utter idiot. Fair enough, she supposes. He gives a slight smile, the kind that might say “well done.”

As with everyone, Solas projects emotions into the Fade- but his are more tightly moderated than any other mage she’s ever seen. Now though, Trevelyan sees a wave of complex feelings she can barely sort through, radiating from him: rage at the Tevinters, intense all-consuming fear of something she can’t sense, great sadness for something lost, but all controlled, and directed by conscious purpose.

“These woods are dangerous,” he says, characteristically naming the obvious, “and you have the only means of closing the rifts.” He regards her for a moment. “I apologize if I intruded. You have proven yourself a capable fighter, but I have found it is far too easy to make rash mistakes when one is alone.” His actual meaning is not lost on her: don’t be an idiot and run, is what he wants to say.

He adds, “And in my defense, you did just eviscerate an entire troop of men.” She expects him to ask her why, but he doesn’t; apparently needing no explanation for her small act of rebellion.

“They were templars,” she explains anyways, “most are awful. The others just look away when the Circle rapes happen. Honestly, I’ve always preferred the former.”

“I can’t disagree with you,” Solas says, “my few interactions with templars have been... unpleasant. Either they are accustomed to following the worst orders, as you have said, or they just enjoy inflicting pain, especially upon those without recourse.” There is clear contempt and disgust in his voice, it’s as if he’s speaking from experience.

“That’s why we rebelled,” she says, taking another bite of the apple, “also, I was hungry. Inquisition rations weren’t doing it.” Solas actually laughs. Trevelyan idly wonders when murder became so casual for her. Kill the woman who raised you, and everyone else becomes easy, she supposes.

There’s a short, but not awkward, silence between them. She knows exactly why he is here, to prevent her from defecting back to the rebels, but his presence is, surprisingly, not unwelcome. They haven’t had much time to talk like this; the conversations they’ve had have so far been in either the shadow of Haven’s Chantry, or on the road with Cassandra.

She motions to the adjacent seat on the wagon. To her surprise, he nods, and walks, or more accurately, struts over, butt wiggle and all. Like most mages, he usually makes himself seem as small as possible, scuttling rather than walking, but unlike the rest, it’s almost as if he has to consciously remind himself to do so.

Solas likes questions, she reminds herself, so ask one. He jumps up on the wagon, and she says, “do you like apples?”

Solas doesn’t even blink. “Apples were first domesticated in this part of the world.” How the fuck does he even know that, she wonders. “I saw a memory once, of a horde of human barbarians, desperately defending a part of these woods they held sacred, from the legions of the Imperium. When the barbarians were slain, the Tevinters marched forward, only to find a simple apple orchard, one which hundreds gave their lives to protect.” He takes one out of the crate, and takes a bite. “However, if you were asking about the taste- no, I detest apples.” He takes another bite. “This one in particular tastes sort of like burnt human flesh.”

“Dying for a lost cause. You really never miss an opportunity to make a point, do you?” she says, “also, how do you even know what burnt human flesh tastes like?”

Solas smiles mischievously. “I don’t like to waste words,” he says. The other point he is suspiciously quiet on. I don’t judge, Trevelyan thinks, you go eat as much flesh as you like, Solas.

His words are somewhat slurred, and she smells something in the air, besides the burning templars of course. She recognizes it as the unmistakable stench of peach whiskey, suspiciously similar to the bottle she had nicked from Dennet yesterday. Solas seems to notice and says, “Master Dennet had many such bottles wasting away on the shelf. He will not miss one, or two, I suppose.” He shrugs.

On the topic, she notices a small bottle of ale in one of the templar crates; the cork is stuck when she pulls on it, so she simply uses a bit of force magic to smash the top of the bottle off. It smells absolutely wretched, and tastes even worse, but she drinks it anyway. Solas watches her, possibly judging her, but he’s always hard to read. “Been a shit day,” she explains. Linnea said, go back to your templars. Fuck her. Tevinter apologist. Shockingly flat ass. Terrible kisser.

“Was today your first time in Redcliffe?” she asks. Solas chuckles softly to himself, apparently a joke only he understands.

“A long time ago, before your rebellion,” he says, “it’s changed since, of course. But I assume you’re asking my opinion on the rebel mages, rather than the settlement itself.” He’s quiet for a moment. “Despair sticks to most of the mages like gnats.” He’s right, during the retreat from the Free Marches, every morning some mages wouldn’t wake up, taken by Despair demons in their sleep. And the war has only gotten worse. She can’t even imagine. “Still, they endure. Their fight against oppression is admirable, and utterly hopeless.” , “Hopeless?” Trevelyan raises an eyebrow. She should be angry, but more than anything she feels exhausted. “You seem rather certain.”

“Of course I am.” he says, matter of fact. Trevelyan picked up some dalish during the rebellion; she’s not ignorant as to the meaning of his name. “In my journeys through the Fade, I have seen countless rebellions rise up, confident in the just nature of their cause, only to be crushed mercilessly. Righteousness, unfortunately, is no match against steel.” Good poetry. She’ll give him that.

“And, yet, Recliffe is still standing,” she says, “for the first time in a thousand years, in this part of the world, mages govern ourselves. No templars. No Chantry. We built that. Isn’t that freedom worth defending?” Trevelyan spent most of her life in the Circle. No price can be too great, she thinks.

“You forget you aren’t speaking to Cassandra or Varric. We do not disagree on the necessity of rebellion,” he smiles, just a bit, mostly to himself, “but, in order for a rebellion to win its immediate demands, as well has change what it is possible in the long term, something you once told me that you seek to do, they must do one thing.” He pauses for dramatic effect, and honestly it works. “They must win.”

“Even failed revolutions can teach lessons,” she says, the only dogma she’s ever needed to believe in, “no matter what Varric says, the mage rebellion didn’t manifest spontaneously.” She thinks of the thousand year struggle for freedom, and what feels like generations of the dead on her shoulders. In the distance, Trevelyan can just make out the flag of the Venatori, waving from the ramparts of Redcliffe. The ships are not far behind.

“No,” Solas says, suddenly melancholy, “or if they do, it is always the wrong lessons.” He’s silent for a long moment, staring into the ground. “I saw a memory once in the Fade. A man who sought to overthrow a tyrant. Then, a half-hearted assassination attempt, tailored for drama, instead of results. It of course failed. The man himself was burned alive, defiant at first, but when the flames reached his body, when his skin began to melt off, he screamed for mercy that never came.”

Trevelyan takes a long drink. Solas adds, eerily calm, “In the end, martyrdom is just melted flesh upon a wooden stake, and a name utterly forgotten.” She drains the rest of the bottle.

“I killed my mother,” she says, suddenly, without really meaning to, “when the Circle was annulled, I tried to give her the courtesy of a quick spell, but the tower wards blocked magic so…” she makes a motion with her staff “I, well, had improvise.”

“Your first murder?” he asks. She shakes her head. Definitely not. “If you want absolution, I’m not the person to give it.”

“Oh fuck no, I’m not Andrastian,” Trevelyan scoffs, and Solas chuckles softly. The Andrastians think they can solve all the world’s evils, all their many personal failings, through a song. It’s childish. Besides, Trevelyan would rather hold onto her sins for now- keep them close like a badge of honor. She looks down at the dead templars, corpses bathed in green light from her Mark.

“I don’t regret it,” she says, and she thinks she means it, “not if it served a purpose.” Trevelyan looks again towards Redcliffe, and thinks, everything I am, I owe to them. “In just the time it takes to travel back to Haven, how many will already be on the ships?”

“Likely a few dozen,” Solas answers, “there will be far more, thousands, if these Venatori are not defeated, which is a battle only the Inquisition has the resources to win. It is fortunate, then, that you have a position where you can speak on behalf of the rebel mages.”

The sun begins to rise, bathing the forest in dim orange light. “We should get back then ,” she forces herself to say, though every word is like a block of lead. Solas exhales in relief.

“One final thing,” she says as Solas moves to get up. She looks at her counterpart, studying him best she can, sensing his projections into the Fade. He’s unlike any other apostate she’s ever met, and there’s something about him she can’t quite put her finger on, much less vocalize. “You know quite a bit about rebellions,” she says.

“I have seen much in my travels,” he says, pausing as he considers his next words, “and you could say I had a dramatic youth.”

“One I’d be interested in hearing about,” she says, genuinely. “Especially if it involves more surprisingly melancholy stories about apple domestication.” Solas seems taken aback for a moment, but recovers quickly, chucking politely at her joke. He then smiles quietly to himself.

The two apostates return to the Inquisition camp, though Trevelyan keeps Redcliffe in her sight for as long as she can.

Ao3:https://archiveofourown.org/works/33444538

#dragon age #solas #f!trevelyan #tara trevelyan #mage trevelyan #mage rights #mage rebellion #enchanter lydia #redcliffe #hinterland #dragon age inquisition #in your heart shall burn

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script-nef · 4 years

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Of animal cafés and favourite authors | Yagi Toshinori

Inspiration: ["This was fun—let's do it again sometime!"]

Category: fluff

1.8k words; how a scheming duo created a nice date

Yagi Toshinori was experiencing one of the worst moments in his life.

He sipped at his tea, groaning internally at his current predicament. It was supposed to be a relaxing day. He was invited to a visit to an animal café that had opened near his house by his friends/co-workers. (Aizawa scathingly remarked with an "I’m not your friend." before. Yagi could tell that they were becoming closer though. They even shared a drink!) The place was secluded, making it an ideal place for famous people (read: him, whose true, and now only, form had been outed to the world after beating All For One on live TV) to enjoy while not having to worry about people recognising them. Establishments like these weren’t common, so he was looking forward to it even more.

That was his plan. It was going to be nice. It really was. He was going to relax with kittens and puppies and other small adorable animals. He was looking forward to calming down with his colleagues and sharing little anecdotes of teaching that they amassed over the years.

But, instead of that amazingly comfortable and pleasant plan, he was sitting next to a friend of his co-workers who he is a long-time fan of, who was currently making baby sounds at a particularly affectionate kitten. He could hardly even look at your general direction without screaming internally and freaking out, and he knew he was going to blow this for all parties involved.

God, how did I get into this mess?

"Hey, are you free this Saturday?" Yagi looked up from his laptop to be met with Midnight, her eyes glittering in a happy/mischievous manner. Huh, must be creating another test for the students.

"Yes, I don’t have any prior engagements. Is something the matter?"

"Oh, no, no, no. It’s just that I found an animal café opened up nearby here and was inviting Aizawa when Yamada butted in. That’s why he’s quiet right now." She pointed behind her and Yagi leaned back to see that Aizawa had his quirk activated with a glare that could flay someone alive. Yamada was kneeling while mumbling something along the lines of "I promise I won’t start yelling just as you’re about to fall asleep ever again." Yikes. "And then I thought you should come along too, y’know, enjoy the fluffballs. And," she lowered her voice to a whisper. "if you catch Aizawa on a good day, he smiles." Yagi grinned at that.

"I’ll be happy to join all of you! Is this why you were laughing with Present Mic before?" She stiffened.

"Uh… yep. That was it. We were really excited about this. Animal therapy for the tired mind and all that, y’know? God knows we need it with all the villain attacks. I wanted to blow steam off at a bar or a nightclub, but Mr. Stick-in-the-mud," She pointed at Aizawa. "kept grumbling about how ‘that’s a terrible idea’ when I wasn’t even finished!"

The sleeping-bag bound hero shifted at her words, somehow scowling even more.

"You just want to set this up because you think [Na-"

"AH!" Yamada screamed with his quirk. "SPEAKING OF STICK-IN-THE-MUD, WE NEED TO TALK TO PRINCIPAL NEZU ABOUT THE FIGHTING GROUND AND THE MUD PIT. LET’S GO, LET’S GO!" If glares could kill, the loud hero would already be rotting six feet under. This didn’t faze him this time, and the he dragged Aizawa off along with Kayama, lifting the tired teacher over their shoulders like a log.

Yagi tilted his head in confusion at the sudden exclamation but shrugged it off. They were always quite the odd, but pleasant, bunch. He later received the details of the meeting, along with a p.s which read, "We’re also bringing a friend. I think you guys will hit it off!"

"Huh. Well, the more the merrier. Ah, a text from young Midoriya!"

In hindsight, that was pretty suspicious. I should have realised something was wrong.

"Yagi-san, I heard from my friends you read some of my works. Is that right?" You asked, detaching your face from the kitten’s tummy and smiling up at him. (It was kind of impossible not to look up at him, what with his impossibly tall stature even when sitting down.) Oh God, you’re so damn adorable.

"Ah, yes, I uh, I particularly liked Courage to Love and be Loved. The way you portrayed the, the aspects of self-love and identity was beautiful. A-and in Fallen, the romance between the characters was so sweet, so beautifully written. I cried so much at the end. Ah, but the mystery and suspense in Written by Camellia was captivating!" He stuttered and rambled on about all his favourites from your short story collection and series with such passion that you felt like you should be writing this down for reference. You were glad someone loved your books so much. He apologised about his enthusiasm and lack of eloquence, emphasising his behaviour is due to the fact that you're his long-time favourite author. (And also because he's infatuated with you but he's never going to say that.) You replied with, I'm your fan too!" (Which made his heart rate spike exponentially and he was sure that you could hear it.)

A café staff interrupted the fanboying with a slice of cake and topped off your drinks. You immediately brightened up at the sweet since you were absolutely craving sugar. You grumbled to your companion about how your editor never lets you eat anything sweet while working because you have a tendency to slink away to enjoy the treat with some Netflix for hours on end. It elicited a small chuckle from him which you joined in on.

Yagi watched you as your face morphed into bliss, letting out a moan and melting into the sofa. He wondered what it would taste like. He couldn’t remember the taste of something sweet, or zesty. Or anything at all.

You noticed him staring at your cake and slightly pushed it towards him with the fork. He noticed and pointed to himself, as if to say, "You want me to try?" and you nodded.

"Ah, thank you for the offer. But, um, I can’t eat anything particularly sweet. Or just about any food." Your eyes widened at that, and Yagi braced himself for the further explanation required. Instead, you nodded and peered back to where the trio were fooling around. They were trying to see how many cats could be put on Aizawa at once. You could count around 10.

"I see. I know I’m not supposed to use my quirks in public areas since I’m not a pro hero, but can you make one exception Yagi-san?" You asked while extending your hand to him, the other one holding a forkful of cake. Confused, he tentatively took your hand and watched as the cake disappeared into your mouth.

He could taste smooth chocolate, the soft vanilla cream in between the soft and fluffy layers along with fresh strawberries. But his mouth was empty. He whipped his head to you in surprise, a hand covering his mouth.

"How is it?" Expectation was written all over your face. He let out a soft laugh.

"It’s… the most delicious thing I’ve tasted. It’s so sweet but light as well. I… can’t describe it. You give me some of the best writings I’ve ever read and then add this. I can’t thank you enough right now or forever."

You simply smiled, taking another mouthful. Yagi flopped his head onto the sofa, ignoring everything, even the adorable Golden Retriever licking at his hand, and enjoying this sensation.

The rest of the visit was in that position, you stuffing yourself with different desserts so he could understand your predicament of picking a favourite one. (He found out he likes tiramisu.) Conversations flowed, from quirky fans to nice gifts to personal preferences in fashion and artwork. You were so immersed in your talk that the squealing created by Kayama and Yamada, which was quite loud in the staff’s opinion, went unnoticed. They high-fived Slam Dunk style at their success in pairing you two together. Aizawa just sighed, but also smiled underneath his scarf.

You stayed in the café until closing time, incredibly reluctant to part ways with your new-found, adorably-cute and sweet idol-newly-turned-friend. As the trio walked on ahead—Yamada yelling loudly into the night and immediately being scolded by the other two—Yagi matched his steps to yours. He offered to take you home, and you graciously accepted.

The chatter kept on, ranging from "Did you know that bananas are actually berries?" to "I seriously want to kidnap one of those kitties back in the shop." He laughed boisterously at that, reminding you that while he isn’t a hero anymore, he could still report you. That was met with, "You would help me. I saw how you looked at those puppies." And yeah, you were right. They were just too cute.

"This was fun—let's do it again sometime!" You exclaimed, passing him a piece of paper. "There’s a wonderful ramen place nearby. They have rooms for privacy if you don’t feel comfortable exposing yourself to the public. It's too late today, and I’m really full from the desserts." Yagi stared at the paper, then back at you. It contained your number. "If you… have more free time, I would love to show you what different types of ramen taste like. What do you say?"

He nodded jerkily, brain still trying to understand what was happening. Is she asking me out on a date? No, that’s preposterous. She’s so amazing and talented and I’m just… me now. It must be a friend thing. Midnight, Present Mic and Aizawa will all come. Yep, only explanation. That made an ache bloom in his chest for some reason, but he pushed it way back to somewhere he didn’t even know.

"Great! Oh, this is my house." You went up the steps and unlocked your door, but stopped. You turned back. "I really liked today. It was… just really nice. I hope our next one is like today as well." Standing on your tiptoes, even after three steps, you barely managed to get your arms above his shoulder for a hug. Pulling back, you planted a kiss on his forehead. "M’kay bye!!" And immediately bolted to the safety of your house so he couldn’t see your cheeks burning off.

Yagi brought a hand to his forehead, caressing the spot where you made contact. His brain short-circuited but his legs were moving towards his own house, aware that standing here would raise some attention and suspicion. When he arrived home, he went through his night routine—brushing teeth, washing face, taking medication—and plopped into bed. Then it hit him.

Holy shiiiiiiiiit.

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maleyanderecafe · 5 years

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Parent Yandere

Most yandere stories are about the love between the yandere and s/o, but what about after that? When the yandere and their s/o have grown up to become adults and have had to raise their children? We’re going to explore the concept of a yandere parent. This was inspired by one of @fuckyeahmaleyandere’s posts about a parent yandere or an older yandere who is in love with an s/o with a child. I had it reblogged, so you might want to look for that if you want to read more about it!

For this post, I will be talking more specifically about the yandere parent and the the child’s relationship with each other. I’ll also talk about the s/o’s relationship with the child as well, but it will mostly be focused on the yandere parent and the child that they have. We’re going to go over a couple of different senarios for family life, from a loving family, to a more broken family and a single parent style family.

So first, let’s talk about a loving family. This means that the s/o and the yandere are happily in love and have a goodish family life. The s/o and yandere dad would may be really lovey dovey, to the dismay of their children, but it’s obvious that the dad loves the kids as well. For the relationship between the yandere father and the child, I think the yandere would most likely be very loving towards them, possibly even spoiling them. A fun scenario (that I’m stealing from @everykissbeginwithkai‘s bio from Echo, which if you’re reading this, I’m going to write one on Generational Yanderes, just like what Echo is) would be that the father would teach their children how to be a yandere. This would be things like how to throw knives, how to poison people you don’t like and how to stalk people. It would be pretty entertaining for a yandere father to teach their son on how to stalk a girl they like by hiding in a tree and having the s/o call them down to eat food.

I’d imagine a fun senario where the dad has three children: one who absolutely adores their dad, one who is annoyed by their dad’s yandere tendency, but still loves him(and just wants a normal life really) and one that hates/has a rivalry with their dad ( and is the teen of the house probably). It would be fun to see them learning how to knife people they don’t like, with the one that adores his dad being the best at it, the one that’s indifferent succeeding, but not really caring about it and the one who hates them to try knifing his dad but failing really badly. Personally, I’d think that would be a really fun family dynamic. If the family ever got robbed, I can imagine the family, as a team, taking down the robber and terrifying the robber so that they never come into their house again.

Detouring off a bit, but if the yandere dad had to choose between their kids and their s/o, they would most likely choose their s/o. Obviously, if it were possible, they would try to save both parties, but in the scenario where they absolutely cannot save both of them, I would think that the yandere would choose their s/o. I think the only scenario where the yandere would save their children over their s/o is if the s/o cannot be saved ( like they were poisoned and would have died anyways) or if the s/o forced the yandere to save their children over them.

However, not all couples are as lucky as this one. If the s/o was more forced into the relationship, then the family could be a lot more... destructive. If, for instance, the s/o was kidnapped and was with the yandere out of fear, then the child could serve as a bleak reminder that they would be bound forever. They might throw their anger onto the child, since they would see them not as a child that they both would lovingly have but something that was forced. In this kind of scenario, the yandere would probably either ignore the child almost completely, or see their child as the reason why their s/o is angry all of the time. If the yandere was fairly loving as a parent, they might try to blind their kid from the idea of the yandere and s/o being a destructive family by possibly threatening or manipulating the s/o into faking being a good family. On the flip side, if the s/o is very loving towards their child, the yandere might be jealous and end up hurting them, since they would be taking their s/o away from them.

There’s also the possibility that the s/o might just “give up” and be unresponsive to basically everything. In this scenario, the yandere might ignore the needs of the child to try to take care of the s/o. The yandere might feel extremely guilty and try everything to get their s/o to talk or do something at the expense of the child. They might also be delusional and still think that their s/o is lively and continue on life as if nothing had happened, which would be very traumatizing for the child. Again, they might also be very angry at the child, or they might start seeing the child as a “replacement” for their s/o.

Finally, the last scenario is if the yandere ends up as a single parent. It might be that the s/o had some sort of accident or ran away or just straight up disappeared. In any case, this scenario means that the yandere parent and the child are together. Assuming the yandere doesn’t just straight up kill the child for one reason or another (like out of resentment or some way of trying to sacrifice their child to bring back their s/o) , there are a couple of things that might happen. For one, the child may end up being a replacement for the s/o. For instance, changing the behavior or appearance of the child so that they act more like the yandere parent’s s/o. If they step out of line, or try to rebel, then the yandere parent may use force/manipulation to get them back in line. Or something similar, where they believe that the child is the s/o and may ask why they left or died, perhaps being very aggressive or very distraught over the manner. It could also be that they would treasure their child since they’re the only person left that has a connection to their s/o and thus may spoil them and try to raise them in a good household. They may grow paranoid that the child would try to run away or might die, and might keep them in the house as much as possible. They might neglect the child and focus on worshipping their loved one. Or perhaps if they might believe that their child is the reason for the s/o’s absence and might take it out on them. Again there are a lot of scenarios.

Time for me to make up a scenario again! A single yandere father loses their s/o in an accident, and he ends up raising his son. The son is raised in a homeschooling environment, and while loves his dad, is very suspicious of him. For one, it seems like the dad doesn’t like talking about the s/o at all and always attempts to avoid any conversation about it. The dad never seems to let the son leave the house and heavily watches over him. Occasionally when the son does have to go out for one reason or another, he has a gps tracker attached to him. The son always tries to avoid the dad late at night, as he always ends up worshipping at the shrine for the deceased s/o. In many cases, the father becomes delusional, believing that the son is the deceased parent and often screams at him, asking why they left and if they love the dad or not, or they become extremely aggressive, yelling at the son, asking why he was born. Even in these scenarios, the father always apologizes in the morning and carries on as normally as possible. One strange day, the son hears a knock at the door. The son is first startled, as usually his dad doesn’t have or like any visitors in his house. The son opens the door and finds that his uncle (who the son has never seen before) has come to visit. They get along very well and have a good time until the dad comes back home. The dad immediately starts arguing with the uncle and lets it slip that the parent’s accident may not have been an accident at all. Eventually, the dad forces the uncle to leave, and the child, curious about what happened to their parent, runs away to find their uncle. Now it’s a chase to see if the son can find the secret to their other parent’s death or if the yandere dad finds him first.

Long scenario! Anyways, those are my thoughts.

#male yandere #yandere boy #yandere #analysis #writing #opinion

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violetsmoak · 5 years

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Appetence [2/?]

AO3 Link:https://archiveofourown.org/works/20251420/chapters/47997634

Blanket Disclaimer

Summary: Red Robin is investigating the disappearance of a friend and stumbles into a spot of supernatural trouble. He doesn’t expect to be saved by Jason Todd, miraculously alive five years after his death and now with the inexplicable ability to commune with the dead. Meanwhile, when Jason returned to Gotham he meant to maintain a low profile and not get involved with Bat business. That was before he found out how hot his Replacement is.

Rating: PG-13 (rating may change later)

JayTimBingo Prompts This Chapter: N/A

First Chapter

Canon-Compliance: Alternate Universe; Jason still died but was not found by Talia when he was resurrected. All other events mostly follow the same chronology as New Earth continuity, with mentions made to events in New 52

Author’s Note(s): Enter Tim. And Tim's investigation. And Tim's tendency to make bad decisions.

Beta Reader: I’ll get back to you on that.

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Red Robin crouches on a rooftop in the Bowery, watching the thief he was just interrogating scramble from the alley. He was a bit harsher than usual tonight—the full ‘hang ‘em by the feet’ routine that’s more Batman’s thing than his, but he’s getting frustrated now.

Dante’s been missing for a week now, and in this town, that’s never a good sign. And if no one’s seen him…

His gut and five years of stalking the night as a vigilante are telling him he shouldn’t get his hopes up about finding his friend, but he can’t work up the courage to stop. To just, pack up and head back to California.

Things between him and the Family are…tense.

Bruce hasn’t quite been able to look at him without suspicion since the whole incident with Captain Boomerang and Freeze. Dick’s as focussed on Damian as ever, and whatever attention he has left over has been going to mentoring Duke. Steph and Tim are in another extended “off” period of their on-and-off-again relationship, Damian’s…Damian. And Cass isn’t around often enough to mitigate any of that.

As much as Alfred assures him it’s not the case, Tim’s been feeling more and more like Gotham doesn’t have anything for him any longer.

He never thought he’d ever feel like that.

Gotham is dank and dark and terrifying, but it’s home. It’s flying through the air and running across rooftops and diving into trouble at the last second to save the day. It’s everything he wanted when he was a kid, secretly following Batman and Robin around with a camera almost as big as he was.

But every year now, it feels like the city is a little danker, a little darker, a little more terrifying. A lot more hopeless.

Part of him thinks that hopelessness started growing following Jason Todd’s murder. Tim did his best to be there for him, but it’s been an uphill battle. And every year, the fight for Gotham’s soul becomes an even bloodier war of attrition, consuming more and more innocents.

Reminded of his goal tonight, Tim decides to involve himself more directly.

He rappels down to the alley floor and resigns himself to several hours of canvassing a hostile neighborhood. Though fear is an excellent motivator for some, for others a different approach is needed.

People are unlikely to tell a stranger—even a rich stranger—anything worthwhile. Especially here in the Alley, where throwing money at problems get people’s backs up. There’s a sense of pride down here, and an us-versus-them mentality that even the most destitute ascribe to.

And vigilantes are pretty firmly in the ‘them’ column.

Tim has better luck than most here; Red Robin has been frequenting this place a lot over the years, almost from the moment he put on the cape and tights. The other capes never bothered much with it—except for Jason, who when he was Robin made a point of ending his patrols with a quick check of his former home. Tim sometimes thinks that maybe his tendency to come here is an homage to that, a way of keeping his predecessor’s legacy alive.

Of course, he’s never said anything like that to anyone in the family. Even years later, the grief is still too raw. If he’s asked, Tim maintains that he’s cultivated a careful network of informants and contacts in the Alley, and nothing more.

I mean, it’s not like I can go wandering around Crime Alley in the middle of the day.

Tim Drake-Wayne’s face is too recognizable, causes too much trouble. People are desperate here, might try to grab him and use him to extort money from Bruce—and he’d have to let him because he’s not supposed to be able to handle himself. Bruce would come, of course, or whoever’s nearest that Oracle can get on the comms, but it would mean interrupting actual crimes in progress, with actual people who are in danger.

A worse alternative would be if whoever has Dante—and Tim’s sure someone has him because the kid wouldn’t just vanish on his own—they might harm him. Because Tim is the adopted son of the man funding Batman, and if they think he might cause them trouble, most people willing to kidnap are also willing to murder.

All of which assumes that they haven’t murdered him yet.

Tim’s plan of approached hinges on the locals actually being in a helpful mood tonight, but he soon discovers that’s not the case. No one’s feeling talkative tonight, even when he ramps up the intimidation a little.

Either there’s someone out there they’re more afraid of, or they really don’t know.

It’s only in the early hours of the morning when he’s considering returning to his Park Row apartment in defeat, that one of the working girls finally takes pity on him.

“Watchin’ you go back and forth is makin’ me dizzy,” Rhonda says. She’s been working the corner of Park Row and Fifth since before Tim’s time, and though she rarely goes out of her way to get involved with the capes, she does tend to be bluntly honest if the situation is right. “Who you lookin’ for?”

“This kid. Or anyone who’s seen him,” he says, pitching his voice into his approximation of Bruce’s Batman growl. He holds out the glossy picture he’s been flashing around all night; he took it off a security camera and increased the size of. “He was working at the bodega on the corner of Parker and Main just outside the Alley.”

“A bit weird for a cape to give a shit about some kid from ‘round here. Don’t you freaks normally deal with the bigger freaks?”

“Have you seen him or not?” Tim insists, ignoring the jab.

“Who’s he to you, sugar?” she asks, glancing at the picture Tim brandishes. “And don’t give me no bullshit.”

Tim sighs, knowing better than to test her; she’s got Alfred levels of talent when it comes to lies.

“He’s a friend of sorts,” he explains. “Sort of…a protégé. I’ve been looking out for him the past few months.”

Which is sort of true, though not in the way he’s implying.

During WE’s years board meeting to examine the various applications for the Scholarship Program, Tim took note of an applicant whose overall qualifications were outstanding and whose even on paper looked like a major boon to the company.

But the Board of Directors took one look at Dante Garcia’s prior assault conviction at age twelve and decided to toss his application. Without even reading the excellent essay the kid wrote to explain the reasons he had been fighting (to defend a friend from a police officer with a grudge). Or how the experience made him want to become an advocate for those who couldn’t afford it.

It was a brave move, being upfront about the criminal record, but likely Dante knew it wasn’t exactly something he could hide. His record wouldn’t be sealed until he was eighteen.

Tim tried to argue that one mistake made for good reasons shouldn’t deny a bright kid the opportunity and that Dante was clearly of the same caliber as Tim, just without the last name to help him.

(He hadn’t mentioned that Dante reminded him of another boy from long ago, given a second chance and a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.)

He was still outvoted.

From the way the old bastards were looking at him, Tim felt sure it was more because of who he was than who Dante was.

The petty bastards never did get over the fact they have a teenager for a boss.

In spite of the Board not agreeing with his vote, Tim already decided he intended to help Dante. He tracked him down to speak to him in person and get a better measure of him.

He was immediately impressed upon their first meeting, especially when he discovered how easy it was to converse with him. He has an intelligence that reminds him of Duke, but his attitude put him in mind of everything he knew about the second Robin.

“I’m going to figure out a way to get you a scholarship,” he told him two weeks into their acquaintanceship. “Even if it’s not from the Foundation, we’ll figure it out. I’d be willing to hire you on at the Neon Knights if you’re interested. Criminal records aren’t exactly a deal-breaker there.”

(Especially since most of the people working there were once part of or are in the process of escaping gangs.)

“That sort of thing will look good on a resume and open doors for you, including getting you into events and putting your name out there,” Tim continued. “The Knights also sponsors educational initiatives, so you can get your general credits out of the way and eventually transfer into a college program of your choice.”

Dante stared at him, suspicious. “Why you doing this, man? You don’t know me from Adam.”

“Because I was taken in by a man who didn’t think someone’s last name or financial background should be an obstacle to greatness,” Tim replied honestly. “My brothers and sister came from harsh backgrounds, but he didn’t let that stop him from taking them in and trying to help them achieve their potential. They’re all good kids that could have gone a very different way if he didn’t get involved. Because he had the ability to do so. Having influence means nothing if you don’t use it to do good.”

“So what’s the price of this?”

“That you’ll be expected to pay it forward. And you’re already going to be doing that when you get your degree and start helping people. You’llhave the influence. Just keep your nose clean and away from the gangs, and you have a real shot, kid.”

“Excuse you, white boy, you’re my age. None of that ‘kid’ shit with me.”

Tim laughed.

It had still taken time after that to convince Dante that Tim’s offer was legit, but once he decided he was trustworthy, they’d started hanging out more. What started with Tim sponsoring a kid with huge potential turned into an actual friendship—and he didn’t have many of those with people who weren’t in the caped community. There was something about that he wanted to protect.

When Dante’s mother called him one day in tears, explaining that Dante had never come home from work and the police wouldn’t let her file a missing person’s report until 48 hours had passed, Tim didn’t hesitate to get involved.

At first, he’d worried that Dante’s disappearance was related to Tim—had someone discovered his identity and then decided to use his friend as leverage? The likelihood of that was low, however; anyone who did know his identity would come at him more directly, or at least have contacted him with some kind of threat.

Which meant what happened to Dante wasn’t vigilante related, but simply bad luck.

That doesn’t make Tim any less intent on figuring out what happened.

His thoughts must be projecting through his body language somehow because Rhonda’s usually sharp eyes soften a bit and she sighs. Looking around, she ensures there’s no one nearby, and then says, “You need to talk to Salvatore.”

“Who?”

“He’s a pimp, hangs out down the corner. He hooks, too, which is fucking weird. Does it because he likes it,” she says, making a disgusted face. “He tends to be the guy that’s always the last person to see someone before they go missin’, if you know what I mean?”

“You think he’s involved?”

“Nah, he’s too paranoid to do that. Likes to keep his hands clean, or pretend to. But he’s right near where your friend disappeared. And…” She hesitates here, sizing Tim up, and then nods to herself, “He’s got a rep. Lures new boys on the street into the business. He’s got a scary success rate at it, too.” She shivers. “Makes sense, he’s a scary motherfucker. Lots of his kids go missin’, but he always had some excuse. Letters and texts and shit provin’ they left the city or somethin’. No one knows how he does it, so you get him to talk, you’ll find out what you want to know. But I don’t see it happenin’.”

“Still. Thanks for the information,” Tim says and digs into his belt for a wad of cash. To his surprise, Rhonda shakes her head.

“Anyone sees me takin’ that from you right before you go after Salvatore, they’ll know I talked. No one’ll think I’d be stupid enough to give anything up for free. You come back a few days after you deal with that bastard, I’ll take it then.”

“That’s oddly trusting for someone like you.”

“Honey, you’ve been watchin’ these streets long enough I know you’re good for it. And catch me or anyone else ever telling you jack shit ever again if you stiff me.”

Tim snorts. “Fair enough. What’s this guy look like so I can find him?”

“Trust me, you’ll know him when you see him. Just don’t tell that creep anything ‘bout me sendin’ you in his direction.”

She doesn’t wait for his answer before sashaying away, returning to her activities for the night.

Tim keeps to the shadows as he heads to the corner Rhonda indicated, thinking he might have to wait around for a few hours—or even return the next night—if he’s going to find his next suspect.

It turns out he doesn’t need to.

A man who can only be Salvatore is leaning against the wall at the mouth of an alley, fiddling with his very expensive looking phone.

He is a tall, muscular, almost impossibly good-looking man with high cheekbones, intense blue eyes, and a full, cruel mouth. There’s something in a way that mouth lifts at the corners that makes Tim’s stomach thud, memories of a similar grin and devil-may-care laugh he only ever got to see through the lens of a camera or across a crowded ballroom.

But this isn’t him. This guy looks more like a crocodile than a robin.

“Well, hello there, handsome,” the man purrs when Tim materializes beside him, eyes flicking up and down Tim’s form with a look that does nothing to dispel the predatory image. “Looking for a pick-me-up after a hard night’s work?”

Tim ignores the innuendo dripping in the man’s voice.

“I’ve been given the impression you’ve seen this boy,” Tim says coolly, holding up his photo. “That you were the last one to see him. I need to know what you know.”

“I’m sure you do, baby, but I don’t come cheap, and neither does anything that comes out of my mouth,” Salvatore drawls.

Tim shrugs; if it’s money he wants, that’s not a problem. “I’m sure we could come to an arrangement.”

“Oh, I know we can,” Salvatore chuckles. “But not here.” His eyes flick around like he’s scoping out someone watching; his irises flicker strangely in the dim streetlight. “Not where someone might see us talking. I could lose customers for talking to a mask—and I’m all about discretion.”

“They’re already seeing us talking.”

“And as far as they know, you’re just asking about the price of the goods,” Salvatore purrs, moving so slowly as to telegraph his moves and stroking his fingers across Tim’s chest plate, and down. “Can’t imagine seeking justice satisfies all your urges, does it, little bird?”

Tim’s hand snaps upward, clamping around Salvatore’s wrist and exerting just enough pressure to earn and choked gasp of pain. “I am here for information. Nothing more, nothing less. Either you tell me what I want to know, and I compensate you, or you tell me what I want to know and leave here with a bunch of bruises that will definitely affect your bottom line. Assuming I don’t drag you to the nearest precinct in handcuffs.”

“Baby, I’m almost tempted to take you up on that,” Salvatore says, licking his lips. “But I also know there’s worse on the streets than me. Who knowswhat your friend might have stumbled into?”

Tim’s jaw clenches. “Meaning?”

“Meaning we’re doing this little info exchange my way, and that involves not being out in the open. This is private business, after all.”

This time Tim’s nose curls, sensing an implication there. Either this guy’s not too bright, practically broadcasting his intentions to a vigilante, or he knows something important enough he thinks Tim will do anything for it.

Tim considers him, trying to evaluate how he wants to play this. Obviously, he doesn’t trust Salvatore, but he needs information even if it’s the vaguest of statements.

Salvatore’s clearly unarmed—no weapon’s hiding anywhere with that little clothing. And Tim was trained by Batman and Lady Shiva.

Buddy, aren’t you in for a surprise.

“Fine,” Tim says. “Lead the way.”

Salvatore’s pupils dilate, once again catching the dim light in a manner that makes them seem like they reflect.

Then he jerks his head toward the dark, shadowy alley behind him.

Against every instinct of self-preservation that managed to survive the brilliant idea of a twelve-year-old becoming a vigilante, Tim follows.

⁂

Next Chapter

#jaytimweek2019 #jaytimweek #jaytim #fanfic #jaytim fic #tim drake #original characters #prompt: supernatural #drama #mystery #angst

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harrieatthemet · 6 years

Note

Okay so I got this idea the first time I listened to this song so bear with me. If you’ve ever heard “Over Now” by Post Malone then you’ll know what I’m talking about, but imagine Harry and y/n breaking up and they’re both really hurt about it but Harry puts up a front and that front becomes like really noticeable when they see each other at an awards show or something and Harry acts like he’s with another girl and y/n confronts him afterwards and they fight like scream but end up back together

LOVED THIS!! Took me THREE DAYS to get this done!! Worked so hard on this and I really hope it’s exactly how you wanted it babe. My fav blurb yet.

He’d see you. No, actually he’d heard you first. He’d never mistaken that laugh, and when he first heard it he’d subconsciously smile to himself. It didn’t matter how many weeks had gone by (21, he’d been counting), he could never not be able to hear your laugh over the clanking of glasses or obnoxiously loud chattering. He’d be mid conversation with someone, a drink in his hand as he’d partake in aimless banter, when he’d hear it again. So he’d subtly peer across the room, overlooking all the people that were jammed into the restaurant, just to see if he could catch a glimpse of you. That’s all he needed, he’d tell himself, just a quick peek at you. And when he did, when he’d finally catch a glance at your face as you’d turn your head around, he’d feel a few butterflies start up in the pit of his stomach. You’d look beautiful, even more so since the last time he’d seen you.

“Harry,” Jeff would chirp from behind him, laying a hand on his shoulder, “you okay?”

“Great, yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?” He’d reply curiously, even though he knew why Jeff was asking.

“Oh,” Jeff would wipe the concerned look from his face, “was just asking, ‘cus, just ran into (Y/N) here and-alright, good.”

Harry’d have to withhold himself from asking Jeff about you. He’d wanna ask to see if Jeff knew how you were doing, how you’d been since the last time he’d seen you. He’d be itching to ask if you’d told Jeff if you were seeing anyone, but even if he had the balls to ask he didn’t think he’d want an answer.

Jeff would nod, kinda sorry he brought you up and a little surprised that Harry’d be so unbothered by it, before slinking back into the sea of people. Everyone was a little shocked when news broke that the two of you had went your different ways, and it really wasn’t plausible until Harry’d confirm with close family or friends that you had taken all your stuff and moved out. In the beginning, people would call or text and sometimes even swing by his house, just to see if he was coping alright. What seemed to be more shocking than the break up, was how suspiciously well he’d been taking things. He’d play it cool, and assure to all that asked that it ‘wasn’t a big deal’ or ‘I don’t really care about it’. But he did, he did care, and it absolutely was a big deal to him. It’s just that he’d put up a front, a good one at that, and had tricked everyone around him into thinking that the whole ordeal hadn’t affected him at all.

A few people would quiet down the lull of chatter, to give a speech for the engaged couple that everyone was here celebrating. At first, Harry was a little surprised to see you here. It then dawned on him that the two of you still shared mutual friends, and that it was you who had introduced him to the bride-to-be. It made him feel sort of guilty, that he’d come, because he didn’t know if you’d even want to see him here. She was your friend first, after all. He’d wonder if you’d even noticed him here, if you were stealing secret glances of him like he wad been doing with you. And when he’d see you, talking to a different person each time, he’d realize that you probably didn’t even know he was here.

You’d have to push through and sandwich yourself between a few people before you’d finally get to the bar. The alcohol seemed to be the only thing getting you through this engagement party, and as you realized your glass had been empty you’d b line it to the bar. And Harry would do the same, leaning against the wood of the bar stool as he waited for the bartender to refill his drink. Unintentionally, you’d walk up right beside him, swirling around your empty glass at the bartender to let him know you needed another of whatever you’d been drinking for most of the night. It wasn’t until Harry’d hear a familiar voice utter the words Margarita that he’d turn his head to the left. His palms would get a little sweaty when he’d lay eyes on your side profile, your hair tucked sweetly behind your ear and your earring catching the light. You’d be fidgeting with your straw, poking the bottom of the glass as you waited for a new one. His teeth would find their place on his bottom lip, nibbling on it nervously. Sure, he’d been good at keeping up the careless act, but he didn’t know if he could keep it up as well when he was standing right in front of you. And he’d be ready to kick himself for staring so long, when you’d turn your head towards his direction and his eyes would meet yours.

“Harry, hi!” Your voice was like honey, thick and sweet, “Thought I saw you earlier.” and the soft smile you’d have tugging at the corners of your mouth made his chest ache.

“S’nice t’ see yeh.” He’d force an exaggerated smile, leaning in as you roped him into a hug.

He’d let out a content breath amidst the hug, happy that all the little things he adored about you still remained the same. Your hair still smelled like citrus, and he figured it was because you always had to use the same shampoo. And he could still smell the faint smell of vanilla, your signature smell that came from your favorite perfume. He’d pull back, and you’d chuckle, because his rings would have the tendency to get stuck in the ends of your hair after a hug.

“Been good?” You’d sigh contently, before taking your drink from the bartender.

“Yeah,” he’d lie, “been great.”

He’d lied through his teeth, sugarcoating it with a smile and a nod of the head. He couldn’t have brought himself to tell you how awful he really felt. He wouldn’t tell you that’d he kept one of your sweaters you’d left behind, that he’d hung it up in between a few of his suit jackets in the closet so he’d have a little reminder of you when he was getting dressed. He wouldn’t tell you that he’d still watch your favorite show, every Thursday night at 9, regardless of where he was or what he was doing. He’d choose to keep to himself about how, up until recently, it’d take him hours to fall asleep because he’d grown accustomed to the little dip on the opposite side of the bed. 5 months had gone by and he still hadn’t washed your pillow case, because sometimes when he’d roll over in the morning and he could smell what was left of your perfume, he’d open his eyes thinking you were there. And as strange as it sounded, it was comforting for him.

“How’ve yeh been?” He’d ask genuinely, studying you as you sipped your drink.

“Good,” you’d answer happily, “yeah, work has been crazy but- I’m good.”

Good, he’d think to himself. Not great, just good. He wondered if you had taken the breakup as bad as he had. You wouldn’t tell him that he’d cross your mind constantly, or that you’d stay up late at night and replay the breakup in your head. You’d keep to yourself about how you’d sleep in one of his old shirts sometimes, when you missed him a little extra. If he knew that you were just as miserable as he was, maybe he wouldn’t be acting so cocky and unbothered.

And maybe if you knew how upset he was, you wouldn’t be so put off by the leggy brunette that would come up behind him. Her hand would slide onto his shoulder, smiling politely at you before going on her tippy toes to murmur discreetly in his ear. He’d bow his head, nodding as she finished up whatever she was telling him. She’d disappear into the crowd, heading over to the table where a few people had sat down with their drinks.

“Oh, I didn’t- you’re here with someone.” Your tone would be brittle, as it was disheartening and a little maddening to see that he’d moved on so quickly.

“Christine, yeah,” he’d lie, again, “been seein’ her for a little.”

He didn’t mean to say it. He had only thought of it just before he blurted it out, in attempt to deflect the fact that he’d been moping about his house for weeks since you left. Watching your smile disappear, your face falling as you tilted your body away from him a little, he’d immediately wish he hadn’t said what he did. Nodding your head slowly, trying to get an understanding on how he had moved on so quickly, you’d suddenly feel the urge to b line for the door and get the hell out.

“S’good,” you’d exhale shakily, “you know what, I think they need me to do a toast.”

“Sure, yeah.” He’d nod, disappointment washing over him as you headed away from him.

You’d slink off, towards the opposite end of the room, settling into a chair. And he’d watch as you sat there, knowing you were uncomfortable as you would shift awkwardly in your chair a few minutes. Your shoulders would hang, sad and just a bit annoyed, your face stoic and reserved as you stared blankly at the newly engaged couple. He’d retreat to bis table too, sitting beside the brunette and contributing very little to the conversation being had by the people who sat around the table. And as the night would go on, and he wouldn’t see you go up to do a toast at all, he’d realize that you used it as a way to get away from. So he’d feel a little guilty, especially when you’d peer at him from your seat and see how his arm was placed, resting his arm on the back of the girl’s chair. And her body would be leaned into his a little, unintentionally because the table was so crowded. You’d be quick to snap your head back forward, a long sigh leaving your lips as your stomach would start to twirl just at the sight of them seeming to be cozied up.

His eyes would be on you, focus completely zeroed in, as you’d stand yourself up from the chair. His brow would furrow in confusion as you’d give the couple of the hour a kiss on the cheek, and he assumed it was you saying your goodbyes. His assumptions would be confirmed, watching you politely maneuver your way through the packed restaurant, as he’d realize you were heading to the coat rack to grab your things and head out.

He’d politely excuse himself from the table, abandoning his drink that sat on the little napkin, as his arm would retreat back to him and fall along his side. It’d take him a minute just to get through a few groups of people, getting frustrated as he’d have to give a little shove between a pack of men just to get to the other side of the bar. He’d frown when he’d see you fumbling with your coat, jamming your sweater sleeve into the long black coat. Maybe he should’ve let you leave, because it was obvious you were a little overwhelmed and flustered. Not to mention a little annoyed, he could tell by the way your eyebrows were binding and your lips were faintly pursed.

“Where yeh goin’ in such a hurry?” He’d ask casually, waiting for you to turn and look at him.

“Home.” You’d answer flatly, keeping your back to him as you wrapped your scarf around your neck.

He’d let out a nervous breath, trying to convince himself to walk back to his table and let you be. But he couldn’t, he didn’t think he could get his body to move. Seeing you, for the first time in 5 months, had brought him some comfort. And on top of that, it even made him a little happy. Putting up this front was getting tiring, and even a little hard at times. He was sick of acting like he didn’t care that you left.

“Didn’t even give y’toast yet and-”

“I don’t get it,” you’d interject, finally turning to look at him, “I really- it’s barely been 5 months. You’re already seeing people?”

“I,” he’d get flustered a little, stumbling over his thoughts and trying to figure out what to say, “m’not supposed to?”

“You can do whatever you want.” You’d laugh coldly, buttoning up your coat.

“Can I?” He’d hiss, “M’not allowed t’move on?”

“2 years,” you’d rebuke, “we broke up after two years and you’re already seeing people! After 5 months!”

“(Y/N),” he’d start, biting back on his lip as he tried to restrain himself.

“Two years, I mean, did it even mean anything to-”

“Yeh left!” He’d bellow, earning a few head turns from people.

Your eyes would flicker upon a few of the faces that were now staring at the two of you, cheeks getting hot as people sent you bewildered looks. Harry’d run a hand through his hair, taking a deep breath to collect himself. The coat boy would stand still, clearly uncomfortable and feeling a little awkward. You’d mumble an apology to him, shifting all your weight onto one leg as you stared at Harry in disbelief.

“Harry..” You’d sigh, his eyes staring up at the ceiling.

“M’not-” he’d exhale, voice quieter now, “Christine, she’s just a friend. Kinda a loose term, friend. Don’t know ‘er tha’ well.”

“Oh,” you’d nod, extremely relieved, “okay.”

“Been pretty shitty.” He’d laugh, relieved to finally have admitted it.

“Yeah,” you’d sigh, “me too.”

“Really?” He’d perk up a little, taking comfort in the fact that maybe you really were as bad off as he was.

“Yes,” you’d chuckle at his demeanor, “miss you all the time. Sleep in your tee some nights, well, most nights I guess.”

“M’so glad.” He’d breath, a puzzled look on your face, “no no I mean- no, that yeh been missin’ me. Been missin’ yeh too.”

“Like to hear that.” And you’d smile again, making him smile too.

“Let me take y’home.” He’d offer generously, before asking the coat checker for his coat as well.

“Home?” You’d smirk, watching him swiftly stuff his arms into the sleeves of his jacket, hoping home was his house.

“Our home.”

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shireness-says · 6 years

Text

A Sunlit Night

Summary: He expects to be in Storybrooke, Maine, just long enough to fix his motorcycle - a few days, maybe a week, at most. But that's before he's enchanted by the local waitress. ~2.3 K. Rated T for mild swearing and some making out. Also on AO3.

A/N: There are so many things I need to be working on right now, but I wrote this instead. It’s a short little 50s-ish AU featuring Killian on a motorcycle, and it would not leave me alone. Special thanks to @snidgetsafan, who encouraged me every step of the way and was an amazing beta. You rock, babe.

Tagging a few folks who have shown interest or I think might like this: @distant-rose, @kmomof4, @branlovesouat, @searchingwardrobes.

He’s a bad influence, they say. He certainly has the look for it, if nothing else - all dark hair and piercing eyes and leather when he comes riding in on his motorcycle. If his goal was to fit in, this isn’t the place to do it - a little nowhere-ville called Storybrooke, Maine, where everyone knows everyone and Killian Jones, with his accent and his rough looks, stands out like a sore thumb. He never intended to stop here, a fact he thinks should be obvious, but his gas tank is empty and there’s a concerning rattle in his bike’s engine and he still doesn’t know where the hell he’s going. It’s supposed to just be a few days’ or a week’s layover in town - just enough time to try and trade his labor at the local garage or gas station in return for parts and a full tank of gas before he goes off, chasing that horizon again.

But then he sees her.

She’s got all the cliché trappings of a good girl - all golden curls and charming smiles as she works her shifts at the town’s 24 hour diner in a uniform that looks far too good on her for something so hopelessly out of date. She’s an angel in disguise, he thinks, sent down to Earth in this absurdly tiny town just to remind him that there are still things in life worth living for.

The angel’s name is Emma, he learns when she brings him a cup of tea he can barely afford. Emma Swan. It’s a beautiful name for a beautiful woman, and he’s immediately enchanted in a way that leaves him mutely staring when she asks what he’ll have to eat. Not his finest moment, for certain, especially when he has a reputation to maintain.

(She still brings him a plate of pancakes later, his angel, with syrup and sausages on the side. “Granny’s got a bit of a soft spot for the lonely ones,” she says, and Killian wonders if Emma might have a soft spot for orphans as well.)

He’s only supposed to be in this dead-end town for a few days at most, just long enough to earn the parts and gas he needs and get the hell out of there. But he lingers. He’d say it’s against his conscious will, but Killian knows exactly why he’s lingering, and that reason works everyday at Granny’s Diner. He hasn’t been a romantic man in years - the war eliminating any fanciful tendencies he might have had - but sitting there, watching her breeze between tables and smile at everyone like a treasured friend, he just wants to write pretty words and pretty verses about a pretty girl, forgoing the words of human suffering that have haunted his mind and his pen ever since he was pulled out of the sea and Liam wasn’t.

It’s easy enough to pick up shifts at the local garage. Kilian doesn’t have any formal training in automotive repair, per se, but there’s things you pick up in the war, and engine maintenance is one of them (even if he’s more accustomed to keeping an airplane running than an automobile). David Nolan looks at him with suspicion, but ultimately, he’s a fair man with a big-hearted wife, and that proves enough for him to give Killian a shot. The pay isn’t great, but it’s suitable enough, and money will take you further out here in the country anyways. It should be easy and quick enough to earn enough to fix up his bike and cruise out of town with enough left over for several more tanks of gas.

What’s harder is keeping his earnings when there’s a pretty blonde serving comfort food just down the street who deserves a generous tip. A bad influence like him ought to stay away from a golden goddess like that, but he’s drawn to her in ways he doesn’t have proper words to express. Maybe a younger Killian Jones would have called it fate, but the man he’s become doesn’t believe any more that Fortuna is prone to such generosity. Still, he’s there every evening after the garage closes for a bite to eat, before going back to sleep on the couch in the garage’s office (the most charity he’s willing to accept from the kind Mrs. Nolan). Maybe it’s meant to be - maybe they really are supposed to keep running into one another. But on the other hand, maybe he’s seeking Emma Swan out, and maybe he just likes the way she blushes when he leaves a 50% tip for a ham sandwich and a cup of tea.

It’s probably just a stroke of luck that they both end up in Granny’s one night, alone except for the short-order cook, both plagued by insomnia (and, in Killian’s case, memories he’d rather leave sunken in the cold water of the Atlantic). He likes to watch the stars on nights like this, soothed by the vastness of the universe, but it’s far too cold outside at this time of year in Maine, so he contents himself with sitting as close to the window as the vinyl booth seat will allow, staring at the sky as he waits for his chamomile tea. Normally, he’d prefer rum, but bloody dry counties have left him without stronger recourse.

“You’re the wanderer,” Miss Swan says when she brings his steaming cup, and it’s the nicest description Killian thinks he’s heard for his life at present. It’s a joy to see the way her face unexpectedly lights up at his shy nod. “You have to tell me everything,” she all but demands, sliding into the seat across from him. And in that moment, his heart is lost forever, stolen by a petite angel and tucked into her apron pocket alongside her pens and order pad.

Emma Swan may live in a tiny, nowhere town, Killian learns, but her thoughts are filled with the world at large, and the hope that she’ll one day get to explore every corner of it. She tells him, that first night, of all the places she dreams of seeing, and in return he tells her a bit of how he came to be riding aimlessly through America, of how after soaring through the open skies in the cockpit of his plane, nothing ever compared again. So he had bought the bike upon his arrival in the States, in a vain attempt to replicate that feeling the only way he can.

(He doesn’t tell her that he bought his bike and the ticket to America with the pension granted to him by the government for his brother’s death, doesn’t tell her how he couldn’t bear to be in that country for one day longer, to be thanked for his service and his sacrifice one more time. He doesn’t tell her that he rides in a desperate attempt to forget everything he’s done and everything he’s lost - not yet. That’s a conversation for a later date and some illicit rum.)

Theirs becomes a relationship built on tales of adventure - those he’s experienced and those she dreams of. It’s unconventional, maybe, but it makes her eyes light up in excitement and wonder, and he’ll do anything to see that happen, over and over again. That’s not all there is to it; those beginnings evolve into deeper conversations about how this town is the only family she has and how the sounds of explosions and grinding metal haunt his dreams at night. But that’s how it starts: two people in a diner, talking about how they’d rather be anywhere but here.

(He was only supposed to be here for a few days, a week at most, but the more he talks with Emma Swan, the more Killian Jones wants to never leave her side.)

He’s falling in love with her, he comes to realize over cups of tea and slices of pie and that absurdly sweet hot chocolate concoction she so adores. It’s not nearly as terrifying a realization as he thought it’d be, opening his heart up to someone after resigning himself to life as a loner. There’s still outside forces to contend with - Mrs. Nolan and Granny Lucas may like him, but the rest of the town views him with suspicious eyes, especially if they catch him watching their favorite blonde waitress. David Nolan offers him particularly stern looks on days when Emma brings him lunch down at the garage of her own accord, like Killian’s corrupting her somehow, but Killian learns to deal with it. It’s a preposterous thought anyways, that anything could dim that light, even good-for-nothing drifters with looks too sharp to be safe.

(He still wonders ever day at the fact that she willingly seeks him out. After all, she’s joy and sunlight and everything good; doesn’t she know that he’s a creature better suited for the night and dark thoughts and everything that logic says ought to snuff out her light?)

(But she’s there all the same, his very own saving grace, determined to create starlight in the overwhelming darkness that’s consumed his soul in these past few years.)

Still, he’d never in a million years dare to imagine Emma might reciprocate his tender feelings. She’s a good girl, beloved by an entire town, and Killian’s been around long enough to know that angels like that don’t end up the best girl of guys like him - unknown quantities with a sketchy look about them. In retrospect, there’s probably a lot of signs that he’s missed - lingering hand touches and the way she smiles just that little bit brighter when she sees Killian in their regular booth - but it’s not until she’s kissing the holy hell out of him at her favorite overlook of Storybrooke (and again, looking back, she obviously was asking him on a date, how did he miss all the signs?) that the reality that she might like him too sinks in. It’s not at all what he expected from this evening, but if he’s being honest, it’s everything he’s wanted since the moment he first set eyes on his golden goddess. There’s a sense of inner peace, a rightness, in the way their lips slide together that he’s never felt before, even if they are engaged in an increasingly passionate kiss. In his wistful imaginings, Killian always thought that if he and Emma ever kissed, it’d be a gentle affair, tentative and slow, but Emma continues to take him by surprise, enthusiastically initiating their kiss and diving right in with gusto, fingers grasping his hair, tongue demanding entrance to his mouth instead of requesting it. She jumps in head first, his lass (his lass!), and he loves her for it, really and truly. He only hopes she can tell that he’s all in as well in the way he tries to pull her body just that little bit closer on the blanket. As he carefully slides a hand into those golden curls he’s so enamored of - only the best for his angel, even when she’s making it awfully hard to reign himself in - he can’t help the passing thought that he’d be perfectly content to stay like this forever.

The next weeks are a happy blur of treasured kisses and stolen moments, but their time together runs out before he’d like it to, as he knew it always would. He’s put in enough hours at the garage to fund the replacement parts for his engine and earned a tidy little gas fund to boot. This was always meant to be just a few days - a week at most, but now five weeks have passed, and there’s no putting off the inevitable any longer. Even if Killian is ready to leave Storybrooke, he doesn’t relish the thought of leaving Emma behind. He certainly didn’t come to this one-stoplight town looking for love, but he found it anyway, and it hurts his newly rediscovered heart to even contemplate letting such a precious thing slip through his fingers.

So he doesn’t. There’s not much he can offer Emma - Lord knows she deserves an awful lot more than he can ever hope to give - but her dearest wish is to see the world, and that’s the one thing he can give her. It’ll be rough sometimes, and a motorcycle certainly won’t offer any sort of luxury travel, but Killian knows he was right to ask her when Emma throws her arms around his neck in enthusiastic acceptance. No second guessing; no hesitation; considerably less rational thought than such a decision should require; just an unequivocal yes.

They’ll be back someday, he thinks, when Emma’s gotten her fill of the great wide world she yearns to see. Storybrooke is her home, no matter what wanderlust she feels now; it’s filled with people who love her and have adopted her in their hearts, even if there’s no paperwork to prove it. Killian may not truly fit in Storybrooke, but as Emma’s arms tighten around his waist and her exhilarated laughter rings over the roar of the wind and of the engine, he knows he fits with her. Emma is like the missing half of his soul - the piece that makes him feel like he finally is doing something right for the first time in literal years, the person who gives him direction and makes him feel like he actually belongs somewhere again. He belongs with Emma, and Emma belongs in Storybrooke, so he’ll carve a space for himself in town.

(He’d do anything she asks for the privilege to simply remain by her side.)

That’s a concern for another day, though. Today, there’s just the open road in front of them and tendrils of spun gold whipping in the wind as Storybrooke recedes into the background, smaller and smaller in his side mirrors. There’s no telling where the winds and roads might take them, but he knows they’re both in this for the long haul, and that’s enough for today.

Today, they’ve got the whole world in front of them.

#cs ff #my writing #a sunlit night #50s AU #captain swan

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norafike · 3 years

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Despite all this, I still love you 4

I will be creating a masterlist soon-ish. Just to keep all of this organised.

"So he returns!" Nora cheered as she spotted the all too familiar face enter the Saloon. He turned towards her, excitement already plain to see.

Sean MacGuire pulled the chair out opposite, inviting himself to sit at the table with her. "Nice seein' you again, Miss Morgan." He greeted.

"Guess it's nice seein' you too, also nice seein' that you found your "funny lookin' friends" again."

He let out a guffaw at the passing comment, giving her a toothy grin thereafter. "What are you doin' this far from Blackwater anyway? Thought you lived over that way."

"No... no. I used too, but after Sisika I tried avoiding that place."

"That's right, I remember now."

Nora gave a slight nod, taking a moment to gaze beyond the window at the street. While not much, it was the closest she could call home and it done its job well.

"So; what are you doing here anyway?" She asked, trying to sound polite and start a conversation even though her wording came across rather bluntly.

"A friend of mine, Arthur, he had business here and dragged me along for it." He explained.

"I know Arthur. Met him an' a few other fellas the other day, they was with an O'Driscoll."

"What business could they possibly have with an O'Driscoll?" He laughed as if she had told him a joke. Nora only shrugged, leaning forward and placing her arms flat against the table.

"I thought you would know about him by now, nervous little fella it seems; black hair an' unshaven. Smells of horse shit?"

"You on about that Kieran?"

"I don't know his name."

The explanation seemed too good to be a flat out lie and he saw no reason as to why Nora would claim for a member of his gang to be an O'Driscoll without legitimate cause too. He furrowed his brow in thought and noticed how everyone had taken to be impolite towards him and how he was usually alone on most occasions, but he figured him to be shy.

When Arthur entered the building he was quickly hollered over by the Irishman, his voice now a little serious instead of that cheerful tone.

"I been looking for you all over, Sean, shoulda known I'd find you in a Saloon of all places." Arthur spoke in a hushed town as he walked over, ignoring the female as she sat not so far away from them.

Awkwardly, she remained by and listened to their conversation it wasn't as though she was being rude by eavesdropping it was more so the case that they hadn't asked for her to leave or had taken the opportunity to move themselves. She wasn't even sure if they knew she was still sat there.

She cleared her throat which earned their attention after the petty squabble about Sean's wandering off and immediately guilt flashed across Arthur's face before replaced by that same cold glare he usually wore. "Sorry, Nora. Hadn't seen you there."

"It's fine."

Then Sean was reminded of their earlier conversation. "So apparently that Kieran's an O'Driscoll."

Arthur's face sank at the mention and everyone in the saloon all silenced at the loud accusation Sean sent out. Nora felt uncomfortable at the glares given her way and she felt more guilty now with the look Arthur sent her at the mention, after all, how else could Sean have known?

Knowing that they were being watched, Arthur snapped back by gently tapping the Irishman over the back of his head, following this by speaking, "He ain't."

This pleased the patrons in Smithfield's Saloon enough for the trio to leave the building without too many suspicious glances.

Once they were outside they were all taken to near Chadwick farm, not too close to the building in the case that somebody would be able to hear them from the inside. "Couldn't of been any louder, could you Sean." Arthur scolded, his face clearly showing his annoyance at the small scene caused.

"So when were you going to tell me we took on an O'Driscoll then?" He snapped back, his arm raised and hand pointing roughly in the direction of Horseshoe Overlook.

Nora stood by, visibly uncomfortable with the situation she found herself in.

"I didn't mean to tell him, I thought he knew." She was quiet and Arthur almost didn't catch what she had said. Luckily, he picked up on her words and turned towards the smaller girl with a sympathetic look.

"Mistakes happen, ain't your fault."

She let in a quiet sniffle, nodding her head slowly before finally allowing out a deep breath from relief. Sean chuckled, amused by this.

"So little Kieran Duffy's an O'Driscoll then aye? Now that I think about it, I see it."

"How so?" Nora asked.

"You've seen him, nervy. Ain't nobody going to be so nervy with a group unless they knew jus' how much they were hated. Ya know, the others don't seem to take too fondly to him neither."

Arthur cut in quickly. "They don't take too fondly to Micah neither."

The Irishman let out a hearty laugh, patting the brawny male on the shoulder. But Arthur kept his face as dull as stone, not letting even the most subtle of smiles crack, he raised a figure and sharply poked Sean in the chest with it. "But don't you go an' give the O'Driscoll any trouble, at least not too much." He warned.

He raised his hands defensively and talk a large step back from Arthur. "Oh 'course I ain't going to do that. I ain't gonna do nothin', got my word on that Arthur Morgan."

Satisfied, Arthur turned towards Nora with previous intentions of leaving her to get back to her own, having enjoyed his outing enough but had instead taken to change his mind. He looked down at her gun belt, the revolver in its holster.

He gave her a grin and finally broke that awkward silence amongst them to finally ask her a question.

"Say, how well can you use a gun?"

...

"So you needed me to help you break a friend out of jail? You don't exactly strike me as the sort to need help, Mister Morgan."

"He ain't no friend."

"And so you're breakin' him out?" Maybe Arthur does things differently than what she has done in the past, knowing how she willingly left people in jail simply because she had a distasteful relationship with them.

Her questions regarding this seemed to annoy Arthur more and he audibly grew frustrated with answering so many questions sent his way. He compared it the curiosity similar to that of young Jack Marston's who could not be blamed given it was usual for children to have a tendency to ask a lot of questions.

It was Nora, a fully grown adult at twenty-four having many questions that irked him.

"Micah's a crazy individual, it'd be no harm in having an extra gun just in case."

No longer did she want to play into his irritation and instead she became slightly fearful of what may happen if she were to help with this jailbreak. She pulled back on the reins to stop Casper from following any further and soon Arthur had copied to see what she was playing at now.

"What is it?"

She shook her head quickly, silently refusing to go along with the task.

"I-." She tried but her words began to fail her and soon tears began to lightly fall down her cheeks, causing runs in the makeup she wore.

"I don't think I can." She managed. "You saw what happened to me back at Six-point Cabin, I don't want that to happen here with somethin' important. I don't have-." Before she could say she caught herself, refusing to speak any further over the topic.

At this Arthur raised an eyebrow but knew all too well the refusal to talk further. "You'll be fine."

"I was told that last year. Seems to be gettin' worse."

"An' that friend of yours, what was his name? Lenny, Len, L-."

"Lem."

"Lem, he knows how to calm you when you get all hysterical?"

She wouldn't have worded it like that but it was the truth, harsh at that but honest spoken.

Slowly she nodded to answer, hanging her head in shame at the realisation that perhaps she depended on Lem more so than she knew previously and more tears began to fall.

"We all have our people we rely on, he's your friend an' I bet the only one who really knows about all this."

"Suppose so. Ain't really thought much on it."

"You need a bit to calm yourself? I'm sure you'll be okay in Strawberry if thing's do get out of hand and if not- I'll buy you a drink afterwards."

"Guess you have a deal, Mister Morgan." For a brief moment she managed to crack him a smile which he reciprocated before spurring for her horse to follow along on the road.

"I'll tell you a little about Micah just so you know what we're dealin' with."

She nodded. "Please do. Ain't as though he's well-liked."

They shared a chuckle, with Arthur nodding with his agreement. "No, he isn't."

...

She looked over the hook once more, making sure it was in fact secured properly to the bars of the window.

She backed away a few paces before raising her thumb towards Arthur, watching as he pulled the lever on the steam donkey to rip the wall clean off.

Eventually, Micah emerged from within and the group had to work quickly so this rescue wouldn't result in any of them dying. Nora provided cover fire while Arthur quickly handed over a spare revolver to Micah so he wasn't running unarmed.

"We gotta go this way, I have some unfinished business." Micah commented, leading the group across the bridge.

Arthur let out a cry of disapproval but it had been drowned out by the sound of shooting.

Nora was unsure of what was happening but the associate Arthur had to break out of jail decided he was to enter a house over a couple of guns that he needed to pick up.

She asked no questions at the obvious murder that happened before her eyes, having been briefly told that this man was 'crazy' in many's opinions.

The lawmen tripled in numbers and they were quickly overwhelmed and yet they kept on, succeeding in the fight with very little wounds.

They left the town soon after, while the fight did become harder it did not mean they gave in so easily and in no time they were free of the law and in the clear.

After this Arthur had turned towards Micah to discipline him over the act he pulled in Strawberry, the killing of innocents over a pair of guns that went unneeded.

Micah quickly turned towards the female as she idly stood by, watching the scene of their bickering unfold before her. "And who is this then?" His question sounded bitter as if displeased with her presence there.

"A friend." Arthur grumbled, taking out a cigarette from his satchel which he passed over to the female. She took it with thanks, turning back towards his friend. She placed the cigarette between her lips, before extending her hand towards Micah Bell, "Nora Morgan." He scrunched up his face in disgust, ignoring the handshake on offer and instead turning towards Arthur.

"You tell the boss I'll be returning to camp later, for now I gotta find a way to make up for this."

Nora rolled her eyes at the sly tone in his voice, she turned away just as she lit the cigarette and leaving them to talk amongst themselves while she focused on the

She was all too familiar with the sexism that radiated off of Micah Bell, having often dealt with such treatment during her time in Sisika with the guards that littered the place and just as she used to do during her time behind bars she chose to ignore such treatment, it wouldn't be any better for her if she acted out against it.

At least she wasn't treated the same why by Arthur or any of the men she travelled with, her own brothers always thought of her as more an equal rather than anything less and Cripps approached her with respect. That was one thing she never got used too and would often scold Cripps over, telling him she was just as he was and to not treat her as anything more.

While she had been lost in her thoughts, Micah had since departed unbeknownst to her. It was then did Arthur feel awkward in grabbing her attention as he wasn't so sure how to go about it. He settled for clearing his throat which she hadn't picked up at first, only was it the third time in his doing did she finally face him.

She quickly apologised.

"You did good, told you everythin' would be okay."

"You said I would be okay, not everything."

"Well.." Mister Morgan gave a light chuckle, throwing away the remnants of his cigarette with Nora soon following thereafter.

"You were right about Micah, his company is insufferable and what was the deal with that couple in Strawberry?"

"Even I don't know, jus' Micah being Micah I suppose."

"That sounds like a common thing."

Arthur shrugged, kicking his leg up to rest against one of the boulders nearby. "It might be."

She followed him with her eyes, noticing how where they stood had given them a clear view of flat-iron lake, a location Nora used to fish at often with her brothers.

"How is Mrs. Adler?"

"She's as good as losing your husband goes, but that ain't stopped her so much, does more work around camp than some of the men."

"She was always a tough one, Sadie."

"Still is, I s'pose."

"Did you give the brooch to her?"

He didn't answer verbally at first, instead passing over a small stack of money. "She asked that I give this to you."

Nora looked at the cash in hand before shaking her head in refusal, even if she wanted to she felt guilty taking it.

"Please keep it, or give it back to her."

"Alright."

She looked back over at Flat-iron lake with a fond smile, keeping her gaze away from Mr. Morgan as she studied the waters from the great distance. "You keep Sadie safe, I'll see you around, Arthur."

...

"Look who's back." Maggie cheered just as Nora entered the building. She looked on fondly, raising her cane in the air and foolishly waving it about.

Lem had eventually reached forward to lower the weapon down, making sure to keep it pointed at the ground save for anywhere else as it's waving would creep dangerously close to Nora.

"What have you been up to?" He asked, being polite and making conversation with Nora.

"Got roped into a jailbreak." He looked shocked by her answer but figured it to not be out of the usual for her. "How'd you get on?" This question wasn't about the success or failure of the mission, it was more directed at how Nora was able to handle the situation. He just needed to know if she had cried or if she became frantic during their heist.

He was surprised at the bright smile on her face as she answered him, "I was okay. It went well."

He reciprocated her look of joy, reaching forward to place his hand on top of her very own. "That's good to hear."

She was ready to reply before Maggie cleared her throat to grasp their attention, this unpleasant scowl on her face after witnessing such an interaction. Awkwardly, Lem retracted his hand to hide below the table while Nora placed hers on top of her own.

"Unfortunately for you however, we do need someone to retrieve some ingredients for our business and I trust that you both can do it." She instructed, her voice holding that same level of authority they had grown used to.

Upon the news of ingredients Lem's face as paled however as he recalled the event of their last attempt at bringing in a shipment of good for Maggie and slowly he turned to face Nora who too, looked worried.

She picked up on their worried expressions and let out an exaggerated sigh at this. "It ain't like the boat, you'll be pickin' up a wagon from near Rhodes."

Nora nodded as she replied to her business partner. "That's not too bad then."

"No, 'course not."

...

As the bullets flew by she let out a string of curses under her breath, looking up to see Lem more exposed than she was.

She hissed at the burning sensation in her shoulder, looking down to notice the unfortunate crimson colour beginning to stain the material of her shirt.

She pushed on, not letting the wound distract her from the priority she had; protecting Lem.

"Keep him safe" kept repeating in her mind, the warning given sternly by Maggie. It was what the women told her the day she was tasked with preventing Lem's transfer to Sisika. Then she was able to do so and Lem was returned home that night, not a scratch on him but here, right now, she worried she would fail by Maggie and fail to keep her nephew safe.

But the bullets became worse and now their boat became grounded, the worrying set in again and as the revenue men ran for them, while slowed by the swampy waters it was still terrifying for her and Lem's desperate cry for the boat to become unstuck didn't help matters.

She looked up at Lem, who fell backwards at the sudden push of the boat moving forwards.

"Let's get the hell outta here!" He cried out in celebration upon their vessel begging to move. The pain in her shoulder became noticeable now and it grew hard to ignore.

#rdr2 #rdo #red dead online #rdronline #rdr #rdo fanfic #lemuel fike fanfic #lem fike fanfic #lemuel fike #lem fike #maggie fike #arthur morgan #Micah Bell #sean macguire #sadie adler

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ladyninasayers-ish · 7 years

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“Aren’t tenses in sexting weird?” I asked my long-distance boyfriend one morning (he studies linguistics). He had noticed the weirdness of the verbs of some of our more raunchy conversations — it turns out he had been thinking the same thing every time he had sent me so much as an aubergine emoji. Communicating about sex, like a lot of actual sex, is a kind of negotiation, a dance between blunt statements of longing and the careful clarity to ensure that you’re not totally embarrassing yourself. Both of us would use lots of tenses to communicate our desire, but one thing we could agree on was that the present tense was to be avoided at all costs. Just like IRL sex, we don’t really know how other people are doing it until we do it with them — that’s part of the mystique of a crush. Were other people sexting in the present tense, we wondered? As my boyfriend hypothesized about “illocutionary force” and “universal necessity modals” (hot), I took a more straightforward path and started a Twitter poll. “DIGITAL SEXERS: what tense/mood do you sext in?” I set the poll to 24 hours and waited, ready for the responses of all varieties of the past, conditional, future, and they rolled in (people REALLY like talking about sex on the internet, it turns out). “2–3 different tenses per conversation would be optimal, imo,” said my friend Kiona, who suggested that linguistic variety would be indicative of an exciting sex life. “Conditional/future mix,” said someone called “Tsunami tha Wave.” I am sad to report, however, that my followers contained a contingent of those absolute perverts: sexting with a repulsive and oppressive immediacy that is conveyed solely in the present tense. Let me explain. We don’t use the present tense to describe what we’re doing in the current moment that often in English. We barely ever use the simple present in particular (e.g. “I fondle, you choke, we moan”), apart from when we describe mental states (e.g. “I imagine, you want, we yearn for”). In that specific kind of sexting that involves using the present tense to create a sext-story, the narrative is built up in an unusual way. This makes present tense sexting sound like a genre, a format for using language that comes with expectations about context. That genre, my friends, is roleplaying. That’s right — you are doing the same thing as a fifteen-year-old boy playing Dungeons and Dragons. As Glasgow law student Alice Caldwell-Kelly pointed out to me, this is the joke in the now-antiquarian meme “I put on my robe and wizard hat” (chat-room cybersex goes wrong when one user starts role-playing as a wizard). The meme is a fiction, created by an internet humor site called Fugly, but its narrative shows the linguistic echoes in the ultra-present language nicely: bloodninja: Oh yeah, aight. Aight, I put on my robe and wizard hat. BritneySpears14: Oh, I like to play dress up. bloodninja: Me too baby. BritneySpears14: I kiss you softly on your chest. bloodninja: I cast Lvl. 3 Eroticism. You turn into a real beautiful woman. BritneySpears14: Hey… bloodninja: I meditate to regain my mana, before casting Lvl. 8 Cock of the Infinite…. “I think there’s an idea of sexting as a format,” Caldwell-Kelly told me. As the creator of the @sextsbot account, she would know. The Sextsbot sends out filthy little moments of nonsensical debauchery — random, code-generated shots of lust. Although there’s the occasional future (e.g. “I’m going to put my suspicious tracksuit in your dick”), and quite a few imperatives (“Please climb my viral zine”), mostly, they’re in the simple present. “I fondly email you in the metaphorical titties,” it might sputter out, one Tuesday morning. “You bite down on those testicles like a lesbian band.” “I put my human rights in your tonsils, baby.” It’s genius, and it works because we know what the idea of a sext looks like. They are bald and immediate in their desire. There’s no masking or flirtation in these sexts, they’re all pumped-up, demanding sex drive. Kind of like how the men on the Tumblr “Straight White Boys Texting” seem to imagine it works — as if chucking out a jarring demand of smut will begin a consensual sparring match of equally horny sexts. “It’s funnier the blunter it is,” Caldwell-Kelly says. “Looking at the bot’s followers, I think a lot are the same generation as me, who probably did the exact same shut-in nerd sexual exploration before anything else and were confronted with this form of sex or flirting that’s really quite awkward and strained.” My friend Sara tells me she’s kind of into the out-of-context sext. She likes to remind her beloved that sex with them is on her brain. She uses it less as the beginning of a mutual storytelling exercise and more of an everyday update of their sexual relationship. “So that I can keep them still thinking about me.” While she admits to using the present tense, she uses it more to state her current thoughts and desires, which we do more naturally in everyday English: something like “I want to push you up against a wall”, or “I can’t stop thinking about pinning you down on the bed and pulling your hair.” According to philosophers of language like Jaakko Hintikka, sentences with desire verbs shift our perspective to a world in which our desires come true. Or, as my boyfriend paraphrased it: “He basically says that ‘I want to take off your clothes’ means ‘In those worlds where my desires are realized, your clothes are off.’” You can see which one looks hotter. The present tense does have one thing on its side — brevity. When I spoke to internet linguist Gretchen McCulloch about this, she hypothesized that the number of keystrokes in itself might make people more likely to use the present tense in sexting especially as the exchange of messages becomes more excited — sexting, like its real-life counterpart, tends to have directional force. “Now I don’t have data on this but I don’t think that most people start a sexting conversation with ‘shall we do the sexting now?’ I think that it tends to grow organically out of the conversation. So if you’re saying: ‘I miss you, I wish you were here,’ this could turn into, ‘what would you do if you were here’.” If you’re anything like my 2–3 tense-per-conversation friend Kiona, you don’t want to stay in the conditional, so as thing heat up, the tenses might flatten into simplicity. “I wonder if there’s a tendency to end up in the simplest tense, because that’s the one that takes the least effort to type,” she says. McCulloch also pointed out that we’ve developed a handy and not-weird way of theoretically enacting things in cyberspace, by using a third person present with asterisks either side. We’re used to reading Tweets that say *coughs*, *sighs* or *strokes beard*, and somehow they don’t feel at all Dungeons and Dragons-y. It’s just conventional in internet narrative. And yet, both Gretchen and I agree that this isn’t something we’d expect people to do in sext conversations, even though there seems to be a similar imaginative force behind them. *slowly pulls underwear down thighs* just doesn’t have the right ring to it. What I, personally, would like to do is avoid any semblance of comedy, which present-tense, counterfactual absurdity can quite easily induce. Sex can appear to be a horrific morass of messy desire to anyone not involved in it, or even to the people who are involved in it, right after it occurs. This applies to communication also. By remaining outside of the simple present of role-playing, I’m trying to retain just that shred of dignity that makes the act slightly less depraved when I look back on it afterwards. 24 hours, 249 responses, and a whole lot of IRL conversations later, and my Twitter poll has proved that a lot of people on the internet have sexting habits that I find fucking weird. So there we are: I am, apparently, a present-tense sexting kinkshamer, as multiple people explained to me when I made extreme facial expressions at their response to my invasive sexting questioning. I suppose, in conclusion, it doesn’t really matter what tense consenting adults decide to sext each other in — or if they want to play Dungeons and Dragons as foreplay — as long as they’re not sexting me, of course.

#I really dislike present tense #not as much as I hate second person #which seem to go hand in hand #so maybe I do #lol

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