bakerstreet | Anime Romantic Tropes Meme

Anime Romantic Tropes Meme

Anime Romantic Tropes Meme

Anime has some unique tropes when it comes to romance, perhaps because of the setting or the culture in which the medium comes out of. However, these days, some of these conventions have become familiar and prominent - both in anime focusing on romance AND in the more general fare. This meme is for playing out those in all their wonderful, strange, romantic, touching, or sometimes over-the-top and cheesy elements.

By no means is this meme only for anime characters or for characters in Japanese setting. Everything here is generalized enough to apply to just about anything. I would love to see any sort of character here, because come on. No matter what you play, you have to love some romance.

HOW TO PLAY

Comment with your character and preferences.
Comment to others.
THAT'S IT YOU'RE PLAYING.

PROMPTS

School Romance: Oh, I hope senpai notices me...or the cute class president, or the head of cooking club, or -
Childhood Crush: You've known each other for a long time, but one of you had to leave when you were kids. Now you'
re back together, and the dynamic is totally different. This also often involves a "childhood marriage proposal," where the naive party promises marriage and the other takes it seriously.
Love Note: The note you left the object of your affection might be a bit passive, but you can't confess face to face!
You're Like Family to Me: The two of you have been close forever, so you've never seen each other like that...until now.
Tsundere: G-geez, idiot, it's not like I like you or anything! I was just worried...worried, okay? Don't make me slap you!
Kuudere/Ice Queen (King): I have no interest in things like "love" or "romance." They are the least important things in this world.
Yandere: You don't like me anymore? How...? Oh, that's alright. I'll make you LiKe Me.
Unlucky Friend: You lost the person of your dreams to someone else, perhaps because of their allure or perhaps because you never spoke up. What can you do now?
Red String of Fate: That person? You know you're totally meant for them! So what if you've never talked? You have the red string of fate!
I'll Cheer You On: Always supportive, always by your side, they're the person you can count on. Why do they care so much, though?
Harem: One guy. Lots of girls. Craziness ensues.
Reverse Harem: One girl. Lots of guys. Craziness ensues.
Head Patting: Apparently a great way to show you care, both for dogs and for humans.
Indirect Kiss: Your lips touched that. Their lips touched that. OH MY GOD IT'S LIKE YOU KISSED.
Slap-Slap-Kiss: I could kill you for what you just did! I could - I could KISS YOU.
Confession in the Heat of the Moment: You're about to go defeat the ultimate baddie. How about confessing your feelings to the person you love? Seems legit.
Food for Thought: I made you lunch. Want to share?
Repaying a Debt: You broke a vase, ruined somebody's priceless something-or-another, and now you have to be their servant until you pay it off!
I'll Be Your Dog: Or you don't owe that person anything, you just wait on them hand and foot and hope they'll appreciate you one day.
The Kind of ____ You Like: You want to change yourself to the type that the object of your desire wants.
One-Sided Love: Sadly, still a trope here. As always, a heart will be broken. But maybe, just maybe, the love isn't unrequited. Maybe the other person isn't aware!
Jerk/Sweetheart: The pairing of a stoic jackass and a manic pixie dream.
Misunderstood Delinquent: You're not what you seem. You just want to give flowers to that cute girl, not run her over with your motorcycle!
Fight for You: I won't lose the hand of my girl/guy to the likes of you!
Sudden Kiss: Kiss from nowhere! There are lots of reasons for this: to stop someone from crying, to make them be quiet, or just to explain yourself when words can't.
Kiss on the Forehead: It's a sweet way to say "I love you."
Physical Difference: Usually size difference - and then, it's usually big guy/tiny girl, though big girl/tiny guy is explored as well - though this is present in a lot of different ways.
Class Difference: Again, sometimes common in western fiction, but anime is made in a culture that is still greatly stratified by class, whether it be wealth or power structures.
Oh, My Goddess!: Uh-oh, you accidentally summoned an angel/demon/alien/god/goddess. And now they're bound to you forever! But at least you can stay just friends...or something like that.
Teach Me To Become Human: A robot, an alien, a god, a demon, or anything beyond our human knowledge wants to know more about our emotions - from you and your love.
Single-Gender School: For all the yaoi and yuri fans out there, don your uniforms and remember that Maria is watching.
The Silent Protector: In love with his/her charge, but never able to act on it.
The Perfect Waifu/Husbando: They are so graceful, so lovely, so kind, you've really lucked out!
To Make My Beloved Happy: You will do anything for the person you love, even if that means not being with them.
WILDCARD

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"See this is what I don't understand." The Doctor throws his hand up at the screen, sprawled across the couch all gangly limbs, one arm dropping over Rose's side as the other pillows his head, tapping a rhythm on her stomach. "I would assume a man chasing down a girl who's told him no half a dozen times would be reason for concern not a reason to run into his arms all willy nilly."

http://bakerstreet.dreamwidth.org/1246981.html

not even a week

Exactly a week actually

Alastair's style is firmly built on a foundation of flair and pomp, to reflect energy and vitality like light off a gold coin, acting like a living caricature of a perfect bardic hero.

So if you know Alastair well, you'd think it an impostor that stumbles his way through the door of the humble, dim, and dusty Black Books. He's just trekked blocks with no aid more than a handful of rumpled pound notes to do Bernard's shopping, lugging armfuls of large, heavy paper bags -- filled to the rim mostly with bottles of wine. (Both a blessing and a curse, but the scales are currently tipped in favor of the latter.)

Thankfully, the only person present at the moment to judge his completely out of character entrance is a kindly looking hand knitted cardigan with an elderly lady poked out it, roaming curiously through a copy of the new hit novel, "Blackmail": a tense and thrilling tale of a small suburban neighborhood of characters plagued by a mysterious entity who knows everyone's dirty secrets. The Renaissance man shuffles to shut the door with the flat of his lean back before crossing the room parallel to the potential customer.

"S'rubbish, that one. Turns out it's the mailman. Gives away the twist right in the title!"

The knit-woman looks surprised, but barely offended to have had the gimmick of the hyped-up tome spoiled for her. Alastair shifts his attention to the back of the shop space, and he lumbers over to the cluttered desk where the throne of the musty empire lays empty.

"Oy Bernie! Get'cher lazy arse out 'ere; I'd hate to accidentally drop fifty pounds of this petrol station piss y'call wine all o'er the floor." Alastair's voice bellows high and clear through the small shop and through the narrow apartment as the bags greet the desk with a solid thump.

The emperor that is currently being served is also currently sleeping. A beauty rest that will never quite erase what alcohol has done, he doesn't stir at all at the shouting. He's gotten quite used to ignoring that, you'll find, like a person who lives next to train tracks developing an immunity to the bellowing whistle.

But the wine dropping is a clear call that sings to his soul, or whatever black specks are leftover from when it was burnt out some time ago.

With a flail and a kick he's woken - from under the desk. He flops and scuttles out on his back, apparently having fallen right off his chair to collapse. With a pack of cigarettes stuck on his face still - his pillow - he drags himself up, looking even more bedraggled than before his nap. "What? Wine? You dropped it?" No, it's right there - and his affront quickly turns to suspicious consideration. "Uuuuh-uh. This is forty-eight pounds fifty, I'm no common idiot, I know my swill!" Of course he's quickly gathering it and touching it and just generally sort of reassuring himself it's there even as he selects a merlot to help him wake up.

He's clearly satisfied that it's there regardless.

The aggressive whump of a foot against the underside of the desk causes Alastair to twitch in alarm, but he's been lingering around this shop for enough weeks to grow a bit desensitized to the aberrant behavior he witnesses on a daily (more accurately, an hourly) basis.

Dark brows spring up at Bernard's uncanny, supernatural sensitivity to the wealth of wine on his desk, but Alastair is only impressed long enough for them to relax before he rolls his eyes. "Close 'nough, eh?"

He shuffles around in his inner breast pocket to fish out the fistful of cash from the till, dropping it as carelessly onto the desk as it had been shoved at him before his long journey through Bloomsbury. "Well there's eighty quid back; didn't end up needing it." Alastair's face suddenly warms a few degrees with a smirk, eyes drifting as he recalls it. "The girl in the little market was quite...friendly about it when I claimed to 've lost my wallet. Real nice, let me walk out with the whole lot." With her number, as well.

Alastair hopes the wink puts the message across to Bernard, what with granny but two yards away looking at used mystery novels from the 60s on special this week. At least it looks as though her interest in the whole shop is waning and may be ready to leave.

Edited 2013-11-02 01:28 (UTC)

Close enough? Do these beady angry eyes look like they satisfied with your highway robbery ways, Alastair? He's missing a pound fifty. --But wait, what's this? An olive branch held out, a peace offering, a chorus of angels singing in his ears? Bernard picks up the pounds, holds them up to the light, smells them, licks it. And his eyes narrow. He scuttles about from behind the desk and catches up quickly to where Alastair stands.

"You - I sent you out to buy me booze. And you enchanted us into getting booze, then brought back the money and didn't steal it from me? Except for the part where you actually stole an extra thirty pounds?" His voice raises with every sentence until it breaks. Was Alastair trying to be subtle because there's an elderly sweater looking for books? Oops.

"You." The money is lowered, put in his pocket. And then abruptly Bernard's face shifts and he makes...an odd noise. It's not the cigarettes finally giving him an asthmatic fit, he's giggling. And running a hand along the back of his neck. "You did all that for me? You're so clever." Bernard reaches for the wine glass he'd poured for himself and aggressively thrusts it into Alastair's face, barely giving him time to grab it before he darts away again to pour a new one for himself. "Look at you. Clever clever clever." Wine glass to his mouth, Bernard gives Alastair his closest approximation of bedroom eyes from over the rim.

They're perhaps closer to bathroom eyes, but he's clearly not really set on where household activities are supposed to happen given that he was just roused from sleeping underneath his desk.

Bernard acts with all of the suspicion that Alastair not only expected, but intended. He opens his mouth to explain the circumstances for the added thirty pounds, rising a single gold-clad digit to silently signify the spotlight to speak - but is tragically interrupted by a high-pitched huffing sound that precedes the zealous sound of a door being slammed shut behind someone. The woman, overhearing Bernard's detailed rundown of Alastair's afternoon shenanigans, has left in quite a fuss.

When Alastair's attention returns to Bernard, it is much too late. His business partner is suddenly... The bard's face drops in astonishment, unwilling to let himself believe such a notion. Is Bernard...giggling?

Alastair stands and blinks at him, blank, nonplussed. He is even more confused by the wordless offering of wine. Good gods, if he didn't know any better, he'd say Bernard looks, well...smitten. Because he used his skills that he is specifically kept around for? And made him a profit? That all may be well and good, but Alastair isn't quite sure how he feels about the look he's being treated to. He knows that look -- er, sort of. It's a bit awkwardly lopsided on the Irishman's face, but you can't fault him for that. (So now's probably not a good time to admit that the thirty pounds is for borrowing a suit blazer to wear to see a girl and leaving it in the back of a minicab after his date vomited on it.)

Slowly, a grin stretches across Alastair's handsome face, and gives Bernard a quick nod. "Er, yeah, I tend to be. I knew you'd appreciate it." Does he really? He must, to be acting so silly. It's kind of...endearing? But it will hardly last long, knowing Bernard.

Alastair doesn't even take a sip of his gracious merlot - instead he looks at the desk housing the mess of groceries and general rubbish. Right, he'll be griped at to clean now that he's returned from his task. "So I'll just--" He motions with the wine glass at the desk. "I'll take care'f the mess, and I'm sure you've not made lunch either..."

"Oh nononono! It's fine, I can...what mess, is that messy? The maggots will sometimes eat those plastic bags and choke to death and that's a help... Fine, it's fine, I'll do it." He's picking at the plastic surrounding the wine bottles, clearly unsure how one disposes of trash or even discerns that it is indeed trash. But then he grapples for Alastair's skinny little shoulders and, a papercut risk later, he's shoving him towards the chair. "Sit down, have you ever sat down? You realize there's different weather when you're not towering above us all? Your hair might fall back down though." Which is followed by a slow, gathering giggle. It's like if a normal laugh fell down a hill - uneven, slightly broken, and certainly trailing a limb behind itself.

There's been a definite switch hit, because Bernard feels like he's in the middle of a cloud. And he's not even drunk again yet! Alastair helped him more than he had to and he was competent while doing it, and somewhere between the two of them it's giving him a warm fuzzy sensation in his stomach. "I'll put the kettle on." And off he positively swirls, out through the curtain with his hands full of plastic bags and sunshine.

Well all right, Alastair expected a defensive reaction to the notion of cleaning Bernard's desk, but it is almost forty-nine pounds worth of the cheapest wine in town. It may only be two days' worth of booze to drink (for Bernard alone) some of it should be stored away properly...

But Alastair did not expect his counterpart to suddenly drag him over to sit down - in his chair no less. He very nearly resists as he's being brought over to the seat behind the desk, but once he is shoved upon it, the bard sits still. He is much too puzzled to try to argue what's happening right now.

Eyes wide with alarm, wine glass clutched to his upper chest, Alastair watches openly at Bernard when he makes that weird sound. Is he taking drugs? Eyebrows knit together in concern as Bernard floats away like a pixie, and Alastair slowly bends over in the chair to let his gaze follow the other man into the curtained living quarters behind the shop. What is going on with him? Bernard was perfectly normally misanthropic all morning, and a mid-day black out isn't cause for worry either...

"Ey, uh...you-- you feeling all right, Bernie?" It's called out in earnest concern, even if Alastair looks slightly frightened. "Are you sick or something? You haven' taken Ajax again, have you? I gave you potions for that, remember." He takes a tentative sip of wine, then looks at it suspiciously. Are you the culprit behind this, merlot?

"Oh, 'm fine, don't worry about me!" Because he actually really does feel fine. The warm glow of someone doing more than their share for him hasn't left yet, probably because it's not often a fire Bernard needs to put out. The lack of practice in stomping down on that sort of joy has just left him slightly, well... "You'll have a bickie with that tea, yes?" 'Yes' is apparently the only appropriate answer because he's now upturning a box of biscuits on the counter and shuffling through them with bare hands. Once he finds the only two intact ones from that sleeve, he plops them on a relatively-clean photoframe and sets it out on the table.

The electric kettle is, magically, actually on properly. It seems tea is important enough that even Bernard can make it on his own, even if he's about to serve that tea in an old mostly-cleaned-out can of peas and a jam jar.

Too late, Bernard: Alastair is officially quite worried about you... But at the same time, Alastair has been since he met him, and he's going to take his word for it now. This can't be as bad as the time he walked in on Bernard standing on the ceiling crying in French after chugging a bottle of absinthe and eating snails from the inside of the broken water heater that one week he had the flu. Nothing will ever be worse than that night.

"Er, sure," Alastair replies flatly, shifting his attention back to the empty shop, before slumping back into the chair. Okay, just take it all in stride. Tea and biscuits. Can't be so bad.

The orchestra of aggressive and slapdash shuffling creates a familiar baseline to the atmosphere of vacancy around the room. Alastair discards the wine glass at the desk when a comforting notion occurs to him, and he leans back in his seat, settling his feet upon the furniture before him.

"Aphado nin, Vedis." The mossy-coloured violin passes through space and dimension to appear in Alastair's hands, and without much delay. A small smile plays on his lips in a bizarrely warm way that he is not often caught presenting, but that natural air of glittering charm lights upon him once again as the violin meets his shoulder like a kind hand. He drags the bow across the strings and it's like a vocal sigh before they begin in a song. She is the vocal chords, and Alastair guides her to speak.

Yes, yes, it's very romantic, this violin music. Surely just the thing for a rousing song.

"I live alone in a tree,
I live alone in a tree,
I live alone in a tree,
and nobody loves me."

It doesn't match the pitch, timbre, rhythm, or time signature of what Alastair is playing. It's much more as though, inspired by the music, Bernard's ears immediately shut off while he played back a song he already knew. And decided to loudly share.

He pours out some water for the tea cups (and the counter - it's hard to aim when you've just woke up, are both hungover and buzzed, and your hormones are suddenly playing your heartstrings like a particularly whorish lute) and then, still gurgling along a tuneless, distressing song, he flourishes out into the shop once more. The photo frame with the cookies nearly flies off the can of peas when the curtain scrapes at it, and only Bernard's impressive forward momentum saves it. All three items hit the desk with a substantial bang and then Bernard taps excitedly at Alastair's knee. "Wake up! Stop playing your guitar and pay attention! ...I made you tea." His scowl slowly melts back into something that's unsure if it's ready to be bashful, but which is probably content. It's hard to be sure, which is likely tied to Bernard's own uncertainty about his emotions. He settles for running an experimental, light hand along Alastair's knee again - and seems to like it, as he giggles, shakes both his hands out, and then dives for the chair in front of the desk.

Perching in it, he collects his 'mug' of tea and makes a few high-pitched keening noises that are probably leftovers from when humans swam in the oceans and were more closely related to whales.

To be quite honest, Alastair hardly truly hears the evergreen vocals haphazardly tumbling out from the kitchen over the volume of the violin -- not until Bernard himself haphazardly tumbles out from the kitchen. It's a cause for alarm, or at least to stop playing his music when the man very nearly collapses onto the desk. It's a wonder that the two containers of tea haven't done a full flip and spilled peas and jam all over their pseudo-table.

The bard affords himself a delayed, but surprised chuckle at Bernard's childish (one might almost say...adorable) imploring for attention. He even opens his mouth to say something classically witty to reply with, but...what is this? Alastair's parted lips curl up into a smile that is definitely amused, and possibly slightly astonished. Tendrils of the gentlest sensation have graced Alastair's knee through the fabric of his pants followed by Bernard gleefully flitting around like a pixie as he experiences a very obvious rush from the contact.

Don't worry though, Alastair is looking even more entertained now as he moves to sit straight, and a dark brow arches up inquisitively. Bernard, are you sure you're feeling all right?

Oh gosh...Alastair is enjoying this far too much to simply behave. He needs to see how far this enticingly dark path goes! As to light his way through, he flashes Bernard a warmly lit grin, laughing along with him.

"How kind of you, Bernie," he assures as he takes the tin can of pea-tea, smile turning a little more catlike now as he leans in over the desk in the other man's direction. He takes a sip of the warm drink and hums happily. "S'quite good! You should make tea more often, you're wonderful at it." Could use less peas, but he won't fault Bernard for that. Alastair supplements the flattery with a quick wink. This is going to be just comical to reveal, and Alastair only hopes that his friend's odd mood keeps its pace going.

He's laughing with him! He's laughing with him? Surely that's a good sign, right? Not a sarcastic one? Bernard's not really sure, it's been quite some time since someone who wasn't Fran or Manny laughed at the same time he did while being in on the joke. Usually it's more of a turn-based affair, with turns occuring when the other party is miserable.

The loud, tripping-over-its-own-feet laughter of Bernard's continues through his half-dazed revelation of "We're laughing at the same time!" and then keeps right on going. Until he tries to also giggle while sipping his tea and violently coughs, spluttering tea on himself and the tabletop. "Sorry, you'll clean it up later," he waves it away. "Or! Or I will. I'll clean it up lat-- someone will clean it up later. Not now." He gestures broadly at the speckles of tea across the desk and is reminded of the next, truly important part--

--the bickies. "D'you, ahh," he waves a hand quite regally at it, ducking his head and shoulders. "D'you care for a biscuit, Alastair?" Going off the sheer force of his grin, it wouldn't be unreasonable to assume at this point that there's a prank attached to the offer. Don't be too hard on him - Bernard's just unpracticed at kind smiles. Basically all happiness for him looks a little frightfully manic.

Smooth as can be still, once he's done outlining exactly where the biscuit he's offering is, he runs a hand through his greasy hair and makes it stick sideways just a little harder.

It's hard to miss the smoldering gaze he gives after - mostly because it looks in danger of setting the curtains on fire.

Let's be honest, Bernard: no one is going to clean this place up until Manny comes back from his self-declared exile from the shop and feels bothered to do some scrubbing. That's how it always works out.

But Alastair isn't the least bit concerned and it shows, as he sips at his canned tea with a pleasant smile falling on Bernard like a spotlight to the other man's overwhelmed giddiness. By Oghma's beard, Alastair can hardly believe his friend's mood! He's never seen another woman act this desperately enamored toward him before...probably due to the fact that no human being functions with this level of emotional malnourishment.

Dark eyes follow Bernard's limp hand drawing spirals in the air around the quaint treats, and they widen as if impressed by their display on the photo frame. Their next target is Bernard's face, but there is suddenly a flickering heat rolling off of the other man once their eyes meet. Good...god. Those are bedroom eyes if Alastair ever saw them. There's a small adrenaline spike for our bardic hero, when his brain does translates the physical cues he is getting. The output is alarm, and intrigue. Oh, this is really fantastic; is Bernard really...dare we say it, attracted?

"Oh Bernard," Alastair coos eagerly -- it's almost difficult to keep his composure. "I would, in fact, love one."

Tentatively, as if the choice is difficult, he pauses for just a moment before he reaches in between them to take one of the little baked sweets. This is far too much fun, peeling back the pieces to find all these little gems in such a murky little person. This could become dangerous, however...when Alastair finds treasures, he can't always overcome his greediness.

The squealing excitement that occurs when Alastair purrs an affirmative in his direction is something that dogs would cringe from. Bernard smacks his tea on the table in excitement and some more sloshes over. He doesn't even glance at the little red welt he's now rubbing on his wrist. "We'll - we'll have our biscuits together then, shall we?"

And out goes his hand, much less tentively than Alastair's - which is probably why they accidentally end up trying for the same cookie. It's hardly as if Alastair announced which one he was going for, after all. Bernard makes a short, sharp choking noise and freezes.

And then very, very slowly

he moves his forefinger

up Alastair's forefinger andthenthegigglesstartohgod.

That exact squealing has Alastair shuddering softly at how shrill it is, but it's effectively masked by the baffled laughter that tumbles forth out of the lean man. No, it's very clear now what's going on: Bernard's taking uppers. It all makes perfect sense now, it must be true.

Oh no, wait...drugs are way too expensive for Bernard's taste, aren't they?

Alastair hasn't the time to consider it when the sensation of warm flesh graces his finger then suddenly stops, like a startled rabbit just before bouncing away to safety.

Which is exactly what Alastair initially expects...but no. How could he have been so naive as to not expect the obvious: more giggling, all this after the finger intercepted by Alastair's hand decides to shift around like a drunk, inspecting antennae. Is Bernard no longer capable of words anymore?

Apparently not, so Alastair will try for some instead:

"Bernard," he exclaims, as if just discovering something scandalous amongst their interaction, but does so with a very cat-like smile. "Oh goodness, if I didn' know any better I'd-- I'd say you were flirting with me."

But Alastair is still smiling, no matter what your intentions are, Bernard. Here, your musician heart-throb is raising is eyebrows as a sign of encouragement. "'Ere, you can 'ave this bickie." He takes the biscuit he attempted to claim and, with a few fingers feathering against Bernards', places it in the man's palm. Because actually feeding it to the man may result in him choking on it.

"Are you, though? Are you fond of me?" Alastair asks coyly over the rim of his pea-tea, and one could feel it fit to call the look in his eyes as he stares over at Bernard a bit smoldering as well.

Edited 2013-11-07 02:10 (UTC)

"What? What?!" Some of his snarling discontent is coming back as Bernard goes to move away, eyebrows cocked and hair askew and generally looking very unapproachable. "Flirting? Don't be ridiculous, I-I-I-I-I'm just. Trying to share my biscuits with my employee, that's absolutely normal." It's about as convincing as saying 'and I'm not drunk right now, either'.

But then the bickie is offered, and it is so much more than just a cookie. Bernard's eyebrow has disappeared under his hair and he looks, from biscuit to Alastair to biscuit, before slowly letting his palm come up to his face. He aggressively sniffs the biscuit - smells like ale, dirt and leather even from the few seconds it was in contact with Alastair's hand how lovely - and then shovels it into his mouth in one bite.

By the time Alastair's question has hit him, he's got it all mushy in his mouth. Perfect consistency to make his garbled response sound even moreso. "Well I 'unno 'bout dat bu' I tink yer pretty okay maybe" swallow "and fantastically fluffy hair that you could use as a shower poof or mattress stuffing and really it's a viable option for selling on the black market, or maybe even the grey one, y'should look into it. Ahhhm. 'N you did tat thing earlier where you helped me cuz y'can when I didn' even ask ya t'steal for me and -- IT'S JUST ALL IN MY CHEST, OKAY?" And now that he's shouted it all out, he's just gonna stare down at his thrice-slammed tea mug, cheeks ablaze.

Edited 2013-11-07 02:44 (UTC)

In the time Bernard has had all to himself on his rickety, overly-abused soap box to increasingly rant at length, Alastair has slowly leaned away and back into the desk's chair, hands still wrapped around the now cooling can of tea still on the furniture's surface. Really, all he was expecting was a yes or no, or some variant of one or the other. His overly-confident smile has washed away in the high waves of fired emotions, exposing a bedrock of awe and newfound consciousness to the situation. It's been fun and all, but considering the man whose company he has been keeping, Alastair wasn't exactly expecting anything...candid. And that was just the latter half of his monologue.

A sympathetic shade color's Alastair's expression, eyebrows twitching up slightly over his alert features, and he huffs a weak chuckle. "Your chest, eh," he breathes in a genuine tone, much softer now, and leans just a bit closer toward the desk. He's not quite...sure how to address it further than that, for a myriad of nerve-wracking reasons. "But it's exactly why you wanted t' keep me 'round, innit? So doesn't it make sense? I've a special skill set that I pride myself in using, an' I only use it for myself or for those who benefit me. And you do."

He's leaned back in over the desk, toward Bernard, and smiling again, but there is no ulterior motive or greedy glint in his eye. It's the kind smile an adult uses to soothe a tantrumatic child. "It's...fine if it means that much t' you. I'm glad, then. Make's my efforts worthwhile, that you enjoy it so much." Because we all know that Alastair prefers admirers to anything else.

Alastair has just never...had it matter to someone else so much, and he's teetering on the line that divides him from "at a loss for words."

Oh, is it nerve-wracking for Alastair, sitting over there having a laugh? Well Bernard hasn't noticed on account of actually having a reason to begin panicking. Except of course he isn't panicking, because that would imply there's something at stake, and that would imply Bernard has something that's frightening to think about losing.

It's been a time since he admitted he had something that important.

"Right, I keep you around 'cause you're doin' yer job of not making mine more difficult. We'll just ignore that the p'lice are prolly goin' t'be stopping in on account of all tat money you stole." His eyes shift from the wall to Alastair's kind smile, flickering back and forth. He's visibly unsure and shifts backwards in his chair, then sideways, then drapes his arms over the edges of it dramatically. He drums his fingers on the arm of it and deflates a little. "Well good, it should. Don't want you needin' something else to make it worthwhile, like money. Just need you - here. Doin' stuff."

He looks at his tea but this time, doesn't grab at it. It's his wine bottle that he goes for, and he doesn't bother making a home for pouring it. He just chugs it for a good ten seconds right from its source.

The police? Oh please, Bernard! Minor disguises are child's play, anyway. Alastair sputters softly, shaking his head and drawing his eyes elsewhere. When did their companionship lack this much trust?

But he doesn't interrupt the other man while he continues, but he does take a biscuit to nibble at while he listens... Listens to Bernard tell him that he just wants him to be around for the sake of company, in fact.

A small choke, a strained swallow. "Waitwaitwaitwait-- you just want...people to be around? To keep you company? You're the one who hired me; y'do realize that you could just..." Alastair waves his hands in mimicry of Bernard's style, one of them still holding the half-eaten bickie between a precise pair of a forefinger and thumb. "Go out an' be social and get to know people? Whatso bad about that? Rememb'r how we met in the pub? Wasn't that all right?" Well, Alastair barely remembers, but he went home with the man's number. They obviously made the correct connection if the most antisocial one gave Alastair is damned contact information. (He hasn't addressed it since, as the implications could be, well... Actually, uncomfortably appropriate now, even after Bernard's hormonal surge has waned.)

Alastair's body relaxes as a sincere thought arises, adding emphasis when he shrugs his shoulders. "An' I mean...I stick around 'cause I like it 'ere. Figured that much was apparent." Come for the booze, stay for the shows of Bernard harassing his customers and rave through manic tantrums on a regular basis. And sometimes excavating a few rats, kill free.

At his suggestion, Bernard glances back at the door, head twitching on his neck like a chipmunk's. When he launches himself back in Alastair's direction, he lands half-way on the desk, eyes wild. "Out? Go out?! Are you insane? I don't go outside! Except for when I do, 'n it's always really...dreadful. Awful. Horrible. Sometimes people talk t'me and it's expensive and I can breath easier cuz the air's thinner and no, it's nonsense, you're crazy."

He's gone back to lounging fitfully in his chair, scratching at the skin behind his ear and pulling at the strands of hair there, distress written across his face. "No, I met you in the pub, 'n look at us arguing! There's nothing outside but blood, tears, and places I'm not allowed to smoke." His hair is certainly getting the brunt of his frustrations. "'Cept you don' count anymore, because you're, you know. Not an outside person. Now you're an inside person and that's all I'm interested in." Obviously. Clearly. It's so very, very easy to see where Bernard's coming from, isn't it?

Alastair's become familiar and safe to him, so he's free to rant at him as he pleases and keep him close where he's around for company. People who aren't familiar will cycle through his wrath but never be appreciated. "'Course you like it here, I pay you. ...In wine." He says it sullenly right before another dousing of his stomach in alcohol, but he does seem to have calmed down his tone. Maybe, somewhere in that black little heart, Bernard has received the message of friendliness that Alastair was sharing tangentially.

ooc: She's not going to go yandere or anything like that, but she could be on the receiving end.

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Anime Romantic Tropes Meme

Rose Tyler | Doctor Who

31

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CLOSED TO ~laughbitterly → 36: the quintessential same sex starlight-eyes admiring crush すごい

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omg these feelings I cannot

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Fuuka Yamagishi | Persona 3