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evangelical04 · 1 month

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A Single Daffodil || 1

Summary: Getting arranged to be married to your long-time crush wasn't exactly the fairy tale romance you were hoping for. Nor is the dynamic of the marriage, with your husband treating you like you don't exist. But you're going to make this work, whether he cares about you or not. And he definitely doesn't...right?

Pairing: Min Yoongi x Reader

Rating: 18+ minors DNI

Word Count: 2.7K

Genre: angst, romance, unrequited love, smut, enemies to lovers, arranged marriage au, businessman yoongi

Warnings: parental trauma, sibling trauma, toxic parents, unrequited love, explicit language, alcohol usage, yoongi's kind of mean, future smut

Author's Note: hello! i'm Eva and this is my first fic on tumblr ever! I've been a reader for so long and I've always wanted to write my own stories, so I figured I finally would. I know it’s kind of short but I promise the other parts will be longer. Please give me any feedback you have and let me know if you'd like there to be a tag list or anything! I hope you guys like it!! p.s. I'm totally posting this instead of doing my morphology homework that's due in 15 minutes

masterlist / next

The door to your childhood home looked artificially welcoming. There were too many flowers lining the walls encasing the looming wooden door. The grass on the lawn just was a bit too green without a blade out of place and the paved walkway was freshly powerwashed and missing even a speck of dirt. You let out the deep breath you were holding and gently took hold of the overly ornate bronze knocker adorning the painted wood of the door. Two loud thuds rang out as you knocked and the door quickly opened afterwards.

“Hello, Miss Y/N, your parents have been expecting you.”

“Yes, I know. Thank you, Mrs. Oh,” you responded quietly, nodding at the grey-haired woman. She shot you a sympathetic smile before ushering you in, taking your coat and carefully laying it over her arm. After removing your shoes, you followed her past the foyer to the living room where your parents awaited.

You knew what was coming, you knew that this had been decided long before you were born. Yet, you still felt unprepared. You had grown comfortable, living in your simple apartment in Gangnam and your quiet work routine. Biting your lip, you reprimanded yourself internally, You should’ve brought this shit up in therapy before it happened.

“Here we are, Miss Y/N,” Mrs. Oh said, snapping you out of your self-pity session. You nodded gratefully at her, sending a small smile her way. Her eyebrows wove together in her own pity-ridden expression and she quickly whispered, “Good luck,” while exiting swiftly. You steeled your nerves and forced your chin up high, knowing that you’d most likely cower inwards as soon as you faced your parents anyway.

Stepping into the room, you noted the almost intervention-like setup your parents had arranged themselves in, with your father sitting proudly in his reclining, leather armchair, clad in a dark blue quarter zip and khaki pants. Your mother stood facing the fireplace, arms crossed, in a simple and elegant turquoise dress and hair tied up in a tight and neat bun, with her baby hairs smoothed back to prevent any imperfection. You could almost imagine her pinched mouth, forever encased in a stern and unamused expression.

“Hello father, mother,” you started, trying to smooth the slight trembling in your voice. Your mother turned around, eyes narrowing at your form, “Sit down.”

You promptly obeyed.

“Your father and I have decided on your marriage. It’ll be to the Min family, to Min Yoongi.”

“What? To him? But,” you began protesting but your mother quickly cut you off with a steely glare.

“It has already been decided. Your wedding will be in eight months. I’ll forward you the invitation list and you can add three people of your choosing. You’ll be having dinner with us and the Min family on Friday at six. I’ll have Yujin send you an email with further details. Don’t be late.”

You looked to your father in a desperate plea but were only met with stony silence and a passive face. You turned back to your mother and registered the composed expression painting her face. Your fate had been decided, and it had not worked in your favor at all. Rising slowly, you set your hands by your side and bowed towards your parents, “I understand. I’ll be there.”

Your mother swiftly exited the room, evidently deciding the conversation was over. You could hear her dangling earrings tinkling against each other in what felt like a mocking melody. Your father calmly produced a cigar from the table next to him and lit up, no longer acknowledging you either. You let out another slow breath and walked out.

Collecting your coat from Mrs. Oh, who tried to give you a comforting shoulder squeeze but it felt more like condolences than anything, and made your way to your car parked in front of the gate closing off your parents’ home.

That’s it then.

You felt eerily calm yet stressed as you started up your car and carefully reversed out, making sure to avoid hitting the carved statues your parents had in front of the iron gate. As you drove home, your mind started racing with the information you had been relayed.

Min Yoongi as your soon-to-be-husband? What irony.

Does he even know you exist?

Will you be able to survive this?

Hand gripping the steering wheel hard, you quickly dialed the most recent number in your contact list. She answered after only two rings.

“Y/N! Are you still alive? How’d it go?”

“Hi Joohee, not great. I’m completely and totally fucked.”

Joohee chuckled on the other end of the line, “Want to come over?”

“Yes,” you breathed, “I was hoping you’d offer.”

“I’ll get the booze.”

“Min Yoongi? Now that’s ironic,” Joohee chuckled, seemingly at your expense. You shot a glare her way which she shrugged in response to.

“How long have you been crushing on him? This is, like, practically fate. Maybe this’ll be a good thing.”

You scoffed in response, “A good thing? Joohee, be serious. The last thing I want to do is get with my long-time infatuation, not crush, by forcing him to be my husband.” You took another swig of wine. It was a cheap pink Moscato, perfect for nights like these with Joohee.

Joohee shoved a pillow in your direction in an effort to gain more room on the couch you had stuffed yourselves onto. The trash reality dating show you had on in the background was showing a rather dramatic fight but you paid it no attention, “It’s just…I haven’t talked to him in the last, what, five years? He probably doesn’t even remember me. And you’ve heard the rumors, I don’t think he’ll be exactly thrilled at giving up his playboy lifestyle just because he has to marry me.”

“What if he doesn’t give that up?”

You stared at Joohee in slight surprise, “What do you mean?”

“Like, what if he says that he doesn’t want to stop hooking up with other people? What will you do?”

Your brows furrowed as you considered the question, “I don’t know, I guess. I mean, I can’t really stop him. I guess I’d just have to live with it.”

Joohee hummed in response before continuing on, “Well, this is happening whether you like it or not. Just try to make it amicable at the least. Maybe it’ll work out, you never know. Just look at Jin oppa.”

Kim Seokjin, Joohee’s older brother and a friend of Min Yoongi’s, was arranged by Joohee’s parents to marry Song Yeonhee, and the two had seemingly fallen in love after a rocky start to their nuptials. You had seen them recently at Yeonhee’s baby shower and she had been glowing, looking unbelievably happy. You recalled the loving gaze that Seokjin had sent her during the party and the pang of envy you felt, knowing that you would likely never get to experience that.

“Yeah, well,” you responded, “He’s an outlier. Most of these types of marriages don’t work out. I have a feeling I’m going to be a part of that group.”

“You’re too negative, you haven’t even met him for dinner yet. Maybe he’ll surprise you. You just have to give him the chance.”

You mulled over Joohee’s words and nodded, “Yeah, maybe you’re right. I guess I’ll see how Friday goes.”

You weren’t technically late.

While you still had about 5 minutes before the dinner officially started, you weren’t early, and that was unacceptable by your mother’s standards. A mini emergency at your job had left you scrambling to leave on time, only noticing the late hour when one of your coworkers asked if they should order take-out for the team. After profusely apologizing to your team, they encouraged you to go, practically shooing you out the door, claiming they could handle the situation for now.

Which left you barely on time to park in the lot outside the ridiculously fancy Japanese restaurant your mother’s assistant, Yujin, had sent to your email earlier that week. You quickly stepped out, smoothing out your dress that you had kept in the backseat of your car and had hastily changed into in the parking lot of your office. Tugging down the hem, you took a moment to look at your reflection in your car window and attempt to look more presentable. Your hair was slightly frizzy but nicely combed back, and you had extremely minimal makeup on from only remembering last minute this morning, and your eyes looked tired.

You felt tired.

Shaking off your nerves, you headed inside the restaurant giving your family name to the hostess who took you back to a private room where your mother and father were waiting. Your father spared you only a cursory glance before returning his gaze to his phone and your mother looked you up and down before uttering a curt, “Hm.” You held in an eye roll and quickly sat next to them, trying to calm your heart rate for the sure-to-be exhilarating dinner ahead. At six on the dot, you spotted the same hostess leading the Min family towards your table. Your mother stood, welcoming them and urging them to sit down. You stood as well, a little less welcoming, a lot more obligated.

Mrs. Min looked like the epitome of a rich older woman with dark black hair combed back and glittering jewels lining her ears and neck, complementing the midnight blue gown she had on. Mr. Min was dressed quite similarly to your father, in a simple suit, the only difference being his starkly greying hair providing quite the contrast to his dark blazer. Close behind them was the person you were the most anxious about meeting, Min Yoongi. His pitch-black hair complemented his slightly tanned skin nicely and his feline eyes remained straightforward and untelling. He was dressed in a simple black suit as well with an expensive-looking watch adoring his wrist. His mouth was closed tightly and he did not smile at your mother when she greeted him, not at your father when they sat down across from your family, and certainly not at you.

Your hands nervously played with each other in your lap as you took your seat again. You listened quietly as the mothers exchanged pleasantries and the fathers gruffly greeted each other. You were trying to avoid looking at Yoongi as much as possible.

“So, Y/N,” Mrs. Min started, making you startle to attention, “How old are you now?”

“Twenty-nine, ma’am.”

“Ah, so only a bit younger than Yoongi. That’s good then. How is your work?”

You felt your father stiffen next to you and prayed your discomfort didn’t show on your face, “Good. I’m in the middle of producing a new project with my team.”

“How lovely. Although I’m sure you’ll be leaving that soon after the wedding. You won’t need to work then after all,” Mrs. Min smiled at you. It was hard to read her so you couldn’t tell if she was being genuine or not, though if you had to guess, it was likely the latter. Your job was a point of contention with your family. Choosing to work in a video game production company did not go over well, and if your older brother, Kyungsoo, hadn’t been in line to inherit Seo Industries, you would’ve never been able to keep it.

You smiled awkwardly in response to Mrs. Min and returned your gaze to the empty plate in front of you.

As the conversation dragged on, you couldn’t help but steal a glance or two at Yoongi, who was periodically checking his phone and looking permanently bored of the conversation. Not that you could blame him. The dull talk of social circle gossip and work was beginning to get grating, and even the introduction of fancy entrees wasn’t enough to stop your stomach from feeling queasy.

Yoongi had yet to say one word to you. To be fair, you hadn’t said anything to him either, but he had barely looked in your direction since he entered the private dining room. How exactly were you supposed to start a conversation with that?

Soon after the desserts came out and were finished, with you politely refusing, feeling like you were going to throw up any second, Mrs. Min suddenly pushed her chair back and stood. She looked down at you and Yoongi and announced, “Well. I think we can leave them to talk on their own for a bit. Why don’t you join us for a drink at our home, Eujin-ssi?”

At the sound of her name, your mother stood, nodding, “Yes, that sounds lovely. Let’s let them get to know each other a bit more.” With that, the parents swiftly gathered their belongings and left, before you could even protest, leaving you staring open-mouthed at the exit.

Slowly, you turned to face Yoongi and were startled, seeing his eyes already boring into yours.

“Let’s get one thing straight,” Yoongi stated, his deep and stable voice wrapping around you for the first time that night, “This marriage means nothing to me. It shouldn’t to you either. I’ll do my thing and you do yours. Most importantly, stay out of my life except when necessary. Just because my parents are forcing my hand doesn’t mean I have to adhere to every little thing. Nothing will be changing except for our living situation and a ring on our fingers.”

A little stunned, you could only stutter a passive agreement and watch as he rose and left without sparing you another glance.

Letting out a deep breath, you closed your eyes, trying to understand what had just transpired. Your heart raced as you quickly stacked up the dishes to be a bit easier for the busboy and quickly made your way to your car. Sitting down in the driver’s seat, you vaguely registered Min Yoongi’s cold demeanor towards you.

It seems he didn’t remember you after all.

The dress you had on was itchy, but you knew if you complained, you would only end up with a sharp stinging on your cheek and tear-filled eyes. You had escaped the boring party with grown-ups and were sitting outside on a stone bench in the garden, trying to remedy your hurt feelings at the hands of the mean, older boy, Hyunsoo.

He had confidently poked fun at your appearance, saying the dress was a bit too small on you and that your parents should’ve sprung for a size that could fit an elephant instead. He continued on, saying your parents must’ve forgotten to vaccinate you for measles considering all the red spots on your face that were actually acne. Being a tender twelve years of age and going through the worst bits of puberty, his words hit you hard and you quickly ran from the scene into the garden.

Unable to contain your tears, they slipped down your face in large droplets and soaked into the front of your dress.

“Hey, you.”

Startled, you looked up to see a boy a couple of years older than you standing in front of you, black hair shining in the light from the garden lamps. His sharp eyes trailed down your tear-stained face. You quickly turned away in shame, not wanting to undergo any more embarrassment tonight.

“Hey, snot-face.”

You shot him a glare but softened when you saw his hand extended, holding a handkerchief, his face turned slightly away, “Use this. You look ugly while you’re crying.”

You gingerly took the cloth from his hands and blew your nose, noticing him wince out of the corner of your eye.

“Thank you,” you managed and he only rolled his eyes in response.

“Yeah, whatever. I think Joohee’s looking for you,” he grumbled before turning on his heel and stalking off back towards the party.

Confused, your eyes followed after him, not knowing how he knew that Joohee would be looking for you. You unfolded the handkerchief and noticed an elegant embroidering of three letters in black near the bottom, MYG.

Oh, you realized, Min Yoongi. Joohee’s older brother was friends with him but you had never seen him before. Joohee had described him as kind of rude and quite closed off, but you disagreed. He certainly didn’t seem that bad.

masterlist / next

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gabigabigabby · 5 months

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cristiano's daughter | j. félix

joão félix x ronaldo!footballer!reader

synopsis: joão steals your celebration as his way of telling you that goal was yours

a/n: plot is set during the euro qualifier game against luxembourg in march where he did that celebration with his arms crossed (ifykyk). joão is barça player bc it's perfect for this plot and y/n is barça femeni player. again, perfect for the plot. ALSO THANK YOU FOR 700++ FOLLOWERS, ik it's bee a while since i was on here but i really do appreciate all the love you give on my works 🥹🥹 so enjoy this one!

content/warnings: fluffy as hell, y/n taking a promise extremely seriously, dialogue in portuguese and spanish, eva and mateo being the cutest twin siblings ever, not proofread, lmk if i missed anything! 💫

🎵 streaming: infrunami - steve lacy

—

"papá nos estamos mirando. devuélvenos el saludo." gio begins talking, but you were in your football la-la-land.

i could've done a bicycle kick yesterday, you thought. it could've been my match.

don't you just love it? being in your own thoughts for the 500th time today. sense the sarcasm? "y/n," gio catches your attention, snapping you out of your head. "joão te busca, cariño." [dad is looking for us, wave back. joão is looking for you, sweetheart.]

your eyes run all over the pitch before landing on the squad, joão the second to last guy in the line-up. he sends you a wave, grinning to himself when he sees you facing him. he'd never know if you were making eye contact or not; he was just happy you were there. you wave back at him, not even bothering to hide your smile from your stepmother.

"estoy feliz de que estés feliz. y tienes suerte porque es un chico lindo," gio winks before you both share a laugh; something you missed sharing with georgina. because of your tight schedule and the fact that you play football in spain and don't live in riyadh with your parents and siblings, you'd missed out every single important thing that's happened in the ronaldo house. eva and mateo's sixth birthday, alana's first day of school, bella's first steps, junior joining the al-nassr academy. everything. "¿sabes lo que significa? bebés lindos." [i'm happy you're happy. and you're lucky because he's a cute boy. and you know what that means? cute babies.]

"mamá!" you try to stop gio from going any further. because babies? aren't you too young to be thinking about children right now? your career at barcelona had only begun to skyrocket, and joão had only recently began his season stint at the club. children and settling down should be the last thing on both your minds. although every now and then, you can't help but think about it. would you and joão last long enough for children of your own in the future? "i'm only 22." you mutter under your breath, soft enough for gio to completely miss it.

the referee's whistle snaps you out of your own thoughts — a place you'd often find yourself in when you're out of the pitch. you were worried about the fact that joão barely got to feel the ball. especially after he promised you he'd give you a strike tonight.

"no, i promise," his voice lingers around you from hours ago. "i'll make sure i get the ball, and it's yours, querida. eu prometo." [i promise]

well, he promised — and promises stick with you like gorilla glue. even at the ripe old age of 22, you still believe in pinky promises the way georgina still believes in romance movies. that's besides the point.

it was up till the point after your dad was awarded a penalty. he took it, it went in, your dad is a worldwide legend, blah blah blah. you knew it was bound to happen everytime portugal play. the game was inching up to 14 minutes as your legs begin to bounce nervously. what made it worse was that mateo was on your lap when it happened.

"querida, why are your legs shaking?" mateo's neck cranes to look at you. all you could give him was a weak smile.

"nothing, 'zinho. just nervous for papai like all of us, né?" you answer, hoping mateo will take it and leave it alone.

"you're nervous for joão." if there's one thing you could curse about mateo, it's how close he is to you, even though you no longer live with your family. on his day, mateo would feel lonely — even though he's a twin — and ask gio to facetime you. most of the time, he'd catch you at the right time; driving back home from training, going out for lunch with joão on an off day. and sometimes you wouldn't pick up, occupied with training for the upcoming game that week.

mateo would never fail to call you at least twice a month, understanding how tight your schedule is and that he has to leave you alone sometimes, afraid you'd be exhausted after a long day of training. sometimes you'd give him a call too, missing your queridinho on your day.

"não somos todos?" you nervously chuckle, your hands were resting on mateo's lap, its fingers slowly picking at your cuticles. [aren't we all?]

"si, but you're stressed," mateo pouts. "joão told me you made him promise to score tonight. and you know what, y/n? i hope he scores too." he gives you his typical mateo smile; the absolute sweetest thing you could ever see.

not even a mere few seconds later, a cross from bernardo comes in. you try to anticipate which portugal boy it'd reach. you released a breath you didn't realise you were holding when you see the ball making immediate contact with joão's head, as he nicks the ball in past the luxembourg goalkeeper.

the crowd was anticlimactic, though, you'd have to say. there is a totally valid reason for it. is joão offside or not? the referee blows his whistle, giving the goal to portugal as they now lead the game 2-0. you carefully picked mateo up as you stand, the boy's arms in the air as he celebrates the allowed goal from his hermano. you watch as joão turns to the grandstand your family is situated at.

you can only assume he's looking at you at that point, but gio turns to face you and mateo to state the obvious. "el te esta mirando!" gio screams in a whispery manner. you'd only assumed that, but you were wearing the white portugal away kit, allowing joão to identify you clear as day from the pitch compared to the rest of your family who were clad in black winter coats. you agree, the weather is a bit nippy in luxembourg.

joão looks you dead in the eye — or you assume — and crosses his arms. you immediately realise what it meant, smiling to yourself as your dad, bruno and bernardo begin to crowd him and give him words of congratulations on the smooth yet second nature goal of his.

you wait till after the game, where they defeat luxembourg 6-0 to regroup with joão and cristiano. cris, before anything, would engulf gio and bella first, giving joão full leeway to reach for you first. "did you see?!" the taste of excitement is still sweet and prominent on joão's tongue when he speaks.

"i saw! my celebration at barça. thief." you joke, pushing a fist into his bicep playfully.

"amo-te, linda. obrigado por estar aqui." joão smiles, not hesitating to squish your face into his chest. [i love you beautiful, thank you for being here]

"eu vim buscar o papai, mas tudo bem." you shrug jokingly before finding yourself in your papai's arms and listening to him thank you for coming to a portugal game — an away game, no less. [i came for dad, but okay]

#joão félix #joao felix #joão félix x reader #joao felix x reader #joao felix x you #joao felix x y/n #joao felix fluff #football #football x y/n #football x you #football x oc #football x reader

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virtualtaleface · 1 year

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Yandere total drama boys with an easily flustered S/o.

Remember I take requests for all total drama boys ++ courtney, heather, jo and Eva.

and I do some anime’s like mha, danganronpa and much more!! first post so pls be nice!! Also I won’t do EVERY boy, but I will do a lot.

Basically the readers already been kidnapped, so you technically live with them, and your easily flustered like even just a hug is enough to get you blushing like mad.

Tw: mal, gaslightning, patronising, manipulation, very minor sexual remarks, Duncan. Noah

.Despite being reserved Noah LIVES for how flustered you can get.

.Like if he can take that chance he will

.Its surprising because he’s not exactly much of a charmer and at first he’s slightly scared about being flirty but soon he just stops caring.

.his favourite thing to do is definitively hug you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder and all.

.this is usually how it plays out:

.you’ll just be doing whatever then suddenly arms will wrap around your waist and you’ll be brought into someone back, it’s Noah!! .he’d probably start rocking you back and forth while whispering stuff to you.

.oh and don’t be fooled by the bookworm appearance, this guy lives to tease.

”awe, you blushing? Isn’t that just adorable.” .He’ll basically speak to you like a child, he’ll grab your face and start squeezing it.

“you want to read THIS? Well I’m sorry, but I just don’t think a little mind like yours could handle that.”

.Hes very patronising but never will he resort to baby talk, he’s got an appearance to uphold after all.

Duncan

.Now THIS is the worst yandere to get stuck with if your easily flustered, he will take advantage of it.

.Basically every form of PDA there is.

.If your not on his lap then your not In the right spot.

.I don’t know how you breath with how much he kisses you.

.Unlike Noah, he WILL a resort to baby’s talk, even if he wouldn’t do it outside, when it’s just you two he lives in it.

“Aw, you want a hug? You want a kiss? No? Are you sureeee? Awe look at your beautiful face, oh your just to cute, cm’ere” *insert him showering you with kisses*

.Space? Not an option, privacy? Also not an option.

“you know I need to watch you in the shower, just making sure your alright, now get it that shower angel.” .He’s also one of the more sexual ones, as in the inky clothes he buys you are short skirts, shorts, crop tops, you understand.

.If you don’t wanna do anything with him he’ll respect that, but a minute later he’ll manipulate you to do it anyway.

.how does he feel when you get flustered? He loves it, it’s like a game with him.

.But if someone else tries it they’re dead in a heart beat.

.He loves to surprise you with the sexual jokes, the way you stutter when he says it just makes his heart melt.

Justin

.Doesn't even realise the problem.

.It comes naturally.

.”never thought someone could be more perfect than me, but here you are sitting right in front of me.” .he generally doesn’t mean to do it

.Most of the time he’s kind of oblivious to it, but when he actually notices how red you are, instead of being smug he genuinely thinks it’s the most adorable thing he’s ever seen.

.Definitely gives you a massive bear hug when he sees it.

.”Aw, you’re so precious, I’m sorry I made you so nervous, awe you’re so cute tho, I love you.” .Like this boy genuinely didn’t mean any harm, he just worships the ground you walk on.

.After that bear hug you’ll definitely get a cuddle, which slowly becomes a pattern, he sees you’re flustered, he thinks it’s cute, bear cuddle time.

.Actually apologies if he sees he’s upset you, like If your getting a bit TOO nervous he’ll back of, instead of massive cuddles he’ll just loosely wrap his arm around you and start talking to you, trying to change the subject, occasionally he’ll give you a little head rub or pat, but he’ll back of until your ok.

.Honestly Justin actually seems really sweet when he’s not being an egotistical asshole.

.Like if his modelling career didn’t exist he’d be a great boyfriend, you saw princess pride that boy was LOYAL. He got chucked of a castle and still loved queen Courtney.

Alejandro

.You already know this one’s gonna be bad, maybe worse than Duncan.

.Atleast Duncan genuinely loves you when he does it, this boy just does it for the reaction.

“Mi amoreeeeee, you’re so beautiful, my hermosa chica/ chico.” .Watching you try to deny that you love him is his favourite thing in the world.

.He tends to do it when your cuddling, so then you end up hiding in his shoulder, when you do he’ll softly rub your back, trying to fluster you more.

“Hermosa, why have we gone all shy? Can you show me those beautiful eyes?” .There’s no escaping it, so don’t even try.

Scott

.The second he finds out you get easily flustered, it’s game over.

.Will take advantage of it day after day.

.”Hey pumpkin, you know, I can’t believe I never told you just how adorable you are.” .Definitely has those cringey nick names.

.You feel uncomfortable? Who cares, you want space? Who cares, as long as Scott’s happy you should be to.

.”you want some space? Well how can I do that when you’re so cute?” *insert more invading person space and boundaries*

.Definitely touches your hair a lot, and your face. You’ll just be sitting there doing nothing, and suddenly Scott’s playing with your hair. .Asking permission doesn’t exist in his world, like Noah you can count on him squeezing you, like he’ll pinch your cheeks, squish them, boop you, basically anything that he thinks makes you look cute.

Mike

.Generally never spots it.

.You could be bring red and he’d just keep rambling about how much he loves you.

.If on the very rare occasion he does notice, he’s instantly apologising.

.He’ll instinctively give you a hug not realising it’s adding to the problem. .”yeah your just so cute, so pretty, so- OH MY GOD ARE YOU OK?! IM SORRY! MY BABY!”

.he barley flirts, he gives you kisses in bed but they’re not even in a sexual way, he just wants to give you some affection.

Mal

.One of the worst offenders.

.Your uncomfortable, so he loves it.

.He loves watching you squirm as he holds you up against him, while he showers you in compliments and kisses.

.He loves the way you squirm, he knows your uncomfortable, but he really doesn’t care.

“You want me to stop? Let me think for a second, no!” .Definitely patronising.

.Makes you feel weak, useless almost.

.if you couldn’t grab something he’d just shake his head and look down on you.

“you stupid thing, it’s lucky your the cutest little thing ever or else I’d have killed you by now, you have nothing to offer, I mean look sh yourself.” .You know the mother knows best song? Yeah well Imagine mother MAL!

.Literally will just try to embarrass you by listing all the reasons your um capable but will instantly switch up into smothering you with affection.

.very manipulative

#yandere total drama #total drama #Total drama yandere mal x reader #total drama mal x reader #total drama Justin x reader #total drama duncan

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leclsrc · 1 year

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congrats on 2k!! <3 can i have a [five brushes] with mick in some sort of friends to lovers scenario? tysm :*

hold my hand – ms47

genre: fluff, 2k celebration

auds here... sry this was a 4+1 and not a 5! love u

send for the for the five times our muses almost hold hands and the one time they do.

Maybe it was the chill of November, or the shots of vodka you’d thrown back to celebrate the start of month.

It’s vague when you try to pinpoint when all this started, this wholly new light on your best friend of your entire life, Mick. It’s hazy at the edges, like it’s still a dubious thing—is it really him? Mick? The one you’d watched fall into the lake when you were twelve?

Or maybe it was the popcorn Gina had brought in for the both of you to enjoy as a late Halloween snack. Yes, maybe that.

“It’s butter,” she says, following the wafty scent of popcorn into the living room. “No salt. Sorry. Mick’s trainer’s been on him about dieting.”

“Mmm, I heard,” you say, stuffing a fistful of the snack into your mouth. “You’d think he’s dancing ballet or something.”

“You two just looove talking about me like I’m not here,” pipes up Mick, clicking his tongue. Gina laughs, apologizes in German, and then makes up some excuse to leave you two alone.

Freddy Krueger is just about to kill an unsuspecting dreamer when you and Mick seek popcorn at the same time, and your fingers brush against each other in the sea of butter. You jolt immediately, a reaction as instinctive as it is foreign.

“Thought you were on a diet,” you tease lowly, snatching the bowl away.

So maybe that was it. And that was that. Except it really, really, wasn’t.

—

“Code red,” pants Mick breathlessly into the phone, “Red. I’m on my way to your hotel room.”

You and Mick share an emergency code system, modeled after any other, and used in cases where one needs the other’s help badly. There’s code blue (no fare for the bus/train, no gas money), code green (need to ditch this date, no ride home), code orange (creep is following me, fan has been stalking me), and code red, which covers about anything urgent.

Granted, you both created the system at thirteen, but is anyone really complaining when it’s being used at 23?

It also means code red is never used by either of you, reserved for dire situations. Like now. Your door is pushed open and Mick emerges, sweaty and fussed. “I need,” he says, breathless, “um, a—” But he whispers the last word quietly.

“Sorry. What?!”

“A, you know—” he does it again, scandalized.

“Mick, what do you need?”

“I can’t find a private enough space for me to buy a pack,” he says conspiratorially, “of condoms.”

Your chest caves in. “Oh. Why?”

“Eva asked me out.”

“Huh. Eva, Eva?” You dig through your bag. “Paddock engineer’s sister Eva?”

“Yes. Cool?”

“Yeah, yeah. Yeah,” you say, tossing him a rubber and walking closer. “But you look a mess, Mick.”

“Right. Fix me up, would you?” He smiles, raising his arms up.. “Code green.”

“You’re using up all your codes,” you mutter, pinching the hem of his tee and tugging at it to fix the wrinkles on the bottom. Then you move upward, to the collar of his polo, smile and tease him a bit to get his wound-up nerves loosened up a little more. “Good luck.”

You accidentally fiddle with a button the same time he does, and your fingers stick to each other. Your breath catches a little, but it’s nothing, you tell yourself, avoiding the grip. It’s quiet, your eyes both evading the other’s, your hand scratching absently at your jaw.

“I should—I should go.”

“No, right, yeah.” You clear your throat, nodding and shooing him away. GOOD LUCK VIRGIN BOY you text him when he’s gone, to alleviate the tension.

Went pretty well! :) He texts back two hours later.

“You sure you’re not up for a date?” Eva asks disappointedly across him.

“Sorry. My mind’s elsewhere,” he says. And that’s that. Except it’s really, really, not.

—

“You two used to dance a lot. Michael and I had a tape of your and Mick’s favorite songs.”

“Gina told me,” you giggle, reviewing a photo album with Corinna. “God, it’s crazy. I can’t even imagine Mick dancing now.”

Of course the declaration leads to Gina finding an old tape player in the stockroom and playing it for everyone to hear, so Mick can put on a show of lanky limbs and awkward dance moves for you, his sister, and his mom. It’s awfully endearing, sickening the way he manages to look cute even while botching the dance.

You and Gina join eventually, to appease Corinna’s pleas. In between one scratchy song and another, you both lose yourself in the music and your fingers almost tangle.

You flex your pinky when it almost locks on his. Sorry, he whispers, low in your ear. Your stomach erupts with thrill and excitement. Your mind’s focused on the rough pad of his finger, the whispered rough apology you haven’t quite accepted.

You hug Gina instead, dancing with her, and that should be that. Except it really, really, isn’t.

—

“If you keep moving it’ll look ugly.” You readjust your grip on Mick’s pinky, painting an angry red on the nail there as a totem of good luck for the race weekend. You take the chance to do it when you can, the tradition started in Formula 3—paint the pinky nail red.

“You’re taking forever.”

“Fine, good luck DNF-ing again on Sunday.”

You poke your tongue out in a fit of concentration and finally finish dotting over the tiny mistakes. Your eyes glide up, and then stop where Mick’s already meet yours behind a blond curtain of damp post-shower hair.

What? You ask, mind clouded it feels like your voice is disembodied. His gaze is so intense, all blues and soft edges and a smile that reaches his eyes.

You do know the nail lacquer is just placebo, right? I have another good luck charm, and that one actually works.

No it isn’t, and no you don’t, and whatever the charm is—no, it doesn’t.

Except it really, really, does.

—

The fine line between friends and whatever lies behind it—when is it crossed?

How many times will your fingers brush in a chaste dance? Your eyes flit down to lips, chapped or smooth, like it’s water in the desert? How many times will Mick dance, even if he hates to dance, because he likes the nearness of it? He wakes from dreams of you. He wakes waiting to text you.

It may have been doubtful before, but now it’s anything but: he’s in love with you. And love is dizzying, it’s blurry and miraculous and could cloud even Einstein’s brain, but Mick at least knows the answer to one of his many questions.

Four. Four brushes of your knuckles.

“Hey. Code red,” he says into the phone, walking to the lobby elevator.

Seriously, again? What is it this time?

“Just open the door when I get there,” he says, smilingly. “You won’t believe what I’m going to tell you.”

#f1 #mick schumacher #leclsrc2000 #mick schumacher x reader #mick schumacher fluff #mick schumacher imagines #mick schumacher smut #f1 x reader

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watsittoyah · 5 months

Text

Before The Snow, Came The Flame…

Young!Coriolanus snow x blk fem!reader

Theme: Morally gray themes, talks of suicide, heavy sexual content. Possessive/Obsessive behavior. This is pure fiction and should only be consumed as such…

Chapter 00 Just Say Yes…

(Sexual Act 1- Oral sex, and breathe play )

Evangeline-

I’ve always hated the snow, because when snow comes, that means death to nature. The pretty flowers wither away, the warm air turns cold and crisp, and the animals become scarce. But the one thing I hate the most about snow is when it falls it brings death to the living.

“Do you think they’ll find out about us still existing? The Capital, I mean.” Johnathan my half-brother asks me as we trek across the frosted ground. “It’s been what ten years? I highly doubt anyone other than Nana-Bee remembers. Besides don’t you think they would’ve came for us by now?” I tell him as I lift a thick branch, letting him pass. I soon after follow and I see some pine cones. I gather them and hear Johnathan give a sigh.

“I guess you’re right. And it is for the best that no one knows. It’s already sad that we can’t walk around without people staring. But you’re lucky Evangeline. Your eyes are only yellow sometimes. I wish I could do that.” I ruffle his curly hair and give a laugh. “Nana-Bee taught me. I’m sure she’ll teach you when you’re older.” He rolls his golden eyes at me and as I’m sure he’s about to give me some snarky remark on why our great-great grandmama won’t be teaching him color changing, we hear a loud-

Snap!

We immediately freeze in place. I sign to him to hide but he shakes his head and signs back that he’s not leaving me.

As much as I love this kid, I’m sure he’s going to get me killed one day. I go to sign something else but I see something in the distance and I yank Jonathan down just in time to feel something whiz past my ear. The tree explodes into small splinters.

“Suis-moi.” I order him. He follows me without hesitation as we stay low.

I feel my heart pounding in my throat all because our father had warned us to keep watch for outsiders. Whether they were Peace Keepers or just people from surround districts. If they see us, they will take us and sell us to the capital.

Even though our existence is close to a secret now, there are still older people who remember us. Children of fire, is what they’d call us now, which is a better name than being called Morningstar children.

Another bullet whizzes past my head but unluckily for Johnathan it hits him in the shoulder.

I go to help him but he pushes me back and hisses for me to hide. “N-“ A gun sounds off and I just throw myself up into a near by tree. I use the leaves to keep me hidden and watch over Jonathan as he writhes in pain.

“It’s not a deer! It’s a…kid?” A large lunk of a man looks at my brother and he knees down. “Geez sorry kid, but wait wasn’t there two of you?” The man looks up into the trees and Johnathan bites the man on the ankle.

He lets out a yelp and he takes the butt of his gun and hits my brother in his face which makes the flames in my fingertips ignite.

I leap out of the tree and when I land, I push him hard into the ground and I grab at his face. He yells as I start to dig my nails into his eyes. “Evangeline, let him go.” I hear Jonathan hiss as he yanks at my blouse. “I’ll go when he’s dead!” I snap at him.

“You crazy bitch!” The man yells and with a swift punch I hit in his nose. He goes limp for a second and I get up feeling my hands getting hot.

“Evangeline calm down, please. We need to go.” He yanks at me again and as we start to run, a strong grip yanks me down. “Eva-” I push Jonathan forward and yell for him to run. I see the hesitation for a split second but he doesn’t what he’s told. He has an injury he needs to take care of.

The man yanks me down and I hit the ground hard. He looks down at me with such hate in his eyes and I smirk at him. “Fuck y-” I feel his boot hit the side of my head hard and I soon feel the darkness take over.

Coriolanus-

“Hey! I got something!” Bugs and I turn back around and head towards Duke, who had a body slung over his shoulder. Which was odd because he said that he was chasing after a deer.

He has turned and we saw that it was a woman. Her black locs were long and covering her face. However there was a long white stripe in the tangled mass of black.

“Why do you have an unconscious girl with you?” Bugs asks as Duke puts the passed out girl down and cuffs her wrists as well as put a blind fold over her eyes.

“At first I thought her and that fucking kid she was with were animals just by how they were moving. But that’s my fault from the stories my great grandparents told me, I should have known they were Morningstar children.” I give Bugs a look and he shrugs. “I don’t know Coryo.”

Duke throws his hands in the air in frustration. “Don’t tell me you never heard of Morningstar children.”

“No, what the hell are you talking about?” I ask feeling annoyed as I eyed the unconscious girl. “My great grandparents told me about these people. They’re demons in human form. They can set a flame to anything even ash. However if you were to capture one them, they can grant you the key to heaven. So that even if you were the greatest sinner, when you die you will still make it to the pearly gates. But you have to make them give their loyalty to you or else they will turn on you like a rabid dog.”

“Wait, how is she…a demon in human form she looks like a regular girl to me.” Bugs asks as he kneels close to her. Duke yanks him away from her.

“There are a few signs, if it’s a woman, they have a bewitching scent that makes men turn lustful.”

“That sounds like shit.” I interrupt. Duke just waves me off. “But all of them, they have this hair as black as night and a singular while strand of hair. It’s like their birthmark. But the number one thing that gives them away are the various color of yellow in their eyes. They say when you look at them you can see the pits of hell in them.” I look over at the girl and notice her breathing is steady.

To the untrained you’d think she was sleeping but I know better. She’s pretending. I use to do that as a child when I didn’t want to go to bed but my parents had checked to make sure I was asleep. I keep my eyes trained on her as I hear Duke and Bugs bickering.

“It all sounds like a bunch of bullshit. Besides this girl has a family that’s going to come looking for her. Just let her go and we can pretend that we never seen her.” Bugs says as he walks over towards the girl.

Duke side steps him, blocking his path. “Do you not understand what we have here? We have the key to damnation. I know someone in the capital would pay big bucks for her. I’m not giving her back.”

“Duke you sound so idiotic. Coryo, please talk some sense into him. This girl needs to go hom-” I raise a hand and see the girl stir.

“What’s wrong?” Bugs asks as he walks over. Instead of answering I reach over her but Duke yanks my arm back. I send a glare his way and his grip loosens on my arm. I then remove the blindfold from her face and I lock onto a pair a dark brown eyes. They looked wild, angry and beautiful all at the same time.

When she locked her eyes onto me I kneeled there in front of her frozen. Because I was captivated by her. If she had a proper bath and clothes, she’d be more beautiful than any rose I’ve ever laid my eyes on.

When she speaks, I can hear an accent that I can’t quite place. “Please let me go, I didn’t do anything.” The girl pleads to us.

“I’m letting her go, her eyes aren’t yellow, she’s just scared.” Bugs went to take the cuff off of her but Duke moved in and grabbed the girl by her face and pinned her to the tree behind her.

“Hey!” Bugs and I both yell in unison. “I know what I saw, and I know what you did. Stop lying! And how did you change the color of your eyes? I saw hell in them! Tell me how, before I snap your neck! Don’t make me look like a liar!” He yelled as his hand squeezes around her throat.

I quickly pick up my gun and I aim it at Duke. Feeling that if I don’t threaten him he might just break her. “Let the girl go or I will make a mess out of you.” I say calmly as I cock the gun. He gives me a glance and smirks.

“I don’t know what witch craft she’s pulling but I’m not letting this golden goose out of my sight. I’ll let her go but she comes with us.”

“Hey if you can prove she’s a Morningstar child or whatever then we will figure something out later but if she’s not one then we need to find her people and give her back. Deal?” Bugs comments trying to de-escalate the whole situation.

Duke lets her throat go and she sucks in a mouth full of air as she collapses onto the ground. “Fine, but I know what I saw.” Duke snaps as he moves back.

I don’t lower the gun until he’s several feet from her. When I see it’s somewhat safe for her, I kneel down in front of her and she jerks back from me. I move the gun and raise my hands to let her know I’m not going to hurt her. “You’re safe, I promise.” She glares past me and I know she’s glaring at Duke.

“What’s your name?” I ask her so she can focus on me. “Evangeline.” She answers as she keeps her eyes on Duke. “Evangeline, hey I will do my best to take care of you while you’re in my care. Duke won’t touch you again. You have my word.” She slowly puts her brown eyes on me and I see a flicker of something.

Gold? Maybe an amber color? The flicker leaves her eyes and all I see is brown.

“I want to go home.” She tells me as her brown eyes stare deep into mine. “You’ll go home soon.” I tell her as I find my hand moving closer to her small brown face.

I move the long white loc out of her eyes and right there in that moment, I knew she was going to be my little rose. She had thorns, that was clear to see but past the danger, there was something more. Something I wanted to…possess.

Evangeline-

Several days later…

The smell of snow was in the air and it was foul. People will tell you it doesn’t have a smell, but they’re lying. It smells overly sweet and it smells like death.

I wonder if Nana-Bee and Papa know that I’m here. Maybe Jonathan told them…

I hope his wounds are healing.

When I get the chance, I’m going to beat Duke’s skull until the bone marrow is not longer recognizable.

I smirk at the thought as I swirl my finger around the ice in my cup. “I wonder if his body will twitch when I do it?” I mutter as I place the cup down and stare at the iron bars of my cell.

I duck my head down as I hear footsteps approaching. “Are you hungry?” I hear a voice call out to me. I lift my head up and my eyes meet a pair of baby blue diamonds. “All depends, can I take that meal to go?” I answer him as I stand on my feet and walk close to the bars. He gives me a gentle smile.

“You know I would let you go in a heartbeat but-”

“But the people here are convinced that I am a peculiar woman. I’ve proven that I’m not. I’ve touched these iron bars, and my skin hasn’t burned. I’ve let my feet touch salt and my soul hasn’t been damned. I’m innocent and you know that Coriolanus.” I tell him. He gives me a stern sigh.

“Duke still isn’t convinced. He still thinks you’re lying.” I throw my hands in the air. “Because of my eyes? My not yellow but boring brown eyes?”

“I don’t think your eyes are boring.” Coriolanus comments making me narrow my eyes at him. “Are you flirting with me, Coriolanus?” He shakes his head and gives me a smirk. “Why would I flirt with a devilish woman such as yourself?”

There it is, the electricity in the air between us. I don’t know when this flirtatious banter had started, maybe on the second day? But I’ve notice the special attention Coriolanus gives me.

He always gives me extra food. He makes sure I get to some time to stretch my legs when no one is looking. To anyone else he would seem endearing.

But his blue eyes hold something cold in them. So I play this game, I let him flirt with me because I do get benefits and it helps that he was cuter than Bugs and way more attractive than Duke.

Funny enough I always like to test my limits with him. Just to see how far he’ll let me go with this little dance.

“How about you let me out of here and I can simply show you what this devilish woman can do.” I say as I trail a finger across my swollen bosom.

His eyes drop down for a second too long and when his eyes travel back to my face he leans in. “How do I know you won’t escape?” He asks in a husky whisper as he reaches up and twirls one of my locs between his fingers.

“You’ll never know until you let me out of this cage.” The corner of his lip quips up and he cocks his head to the side. “I quite like you in the cage. You remind me of this golden flower that my Grandma’am would keep in a vase. It was a beauty but if she lift the glass vase from it, the golden rose would wither away in minutes.”

“So you see me as a weak flower?” He shakes his head. “On the contrary I see you as something precious that needs to be preserved.” I nod and pluck my loc from his touch.

“Funny I just think you like to look at me in this cell so that you know where I am at all times.”

“That is not true. Besides watching someone in a cell is quite boring and reminds me of the games.” He retorts. “I think it wouldn’t be boring to watch me if you had something worth watching.” I say as I take a few steps back and sit down on the stone bench. He studies me as I let a smile dance across my lips.

“Maybe if you got to watch me…satisfy myself.” I tease as I lift my skirt. His gaze was trained on my every move as I raise the skirt past my brown thighs. I run my fingers against my inner thighs and let out a soft moan.

“Am I worth watching now, Coriolanus, darling?” I moan out to him. I watch him lick his bottom lip and see a tent starting to form in his pants.

He leans in closer towards thebars and looks behind himself to make sure no one was there. “You’re going to get me in trouble Evangeline.” He says as he cups himself as he looks back at me. “Then stop watching me. Or try to stay quiet, because I’m going to give you a show.” I slide a two fingers under my panties and I hear him groan as I move my fingers away and show him how slick my fingers are.

“I guess I was wetter than I thought.” I tease as I flick my tongue against my fingers. I can see he wants nothing more than to taste me.

Hell I’m sure if I told him to unlock the cell he would do it without hesitation.

I spread my legs wider and I slide the two digits inside of me, watching him rub himself. “You know you’ll only get in trouble if you get caught in here with me, but I’m sure you wouldn’t care about the punishment as long as you’d get to taste me. Am I right Coriolanus?”

“I would want nothing more than to taste every inch of your body, Evangeline. From head to toe.” I watch him rub himself harder and I close my eyes to enjoy my self pleasure but Coriolanus clears his throat.

“Don’t close those pretty brown eyes. I want them on me when you pleasure yourself. I want to be the only thing you look at when you reach ecstasy.” I let out a groan as I work my fingers on my clit.

He reaches into his pants pocket, surely to get out the keys when we both hear footsteps approaching. I quickly stop and smooth my skirt back down.

Someone clears their throat behind Coriolanus but he doesn’t turn to them. “What?” He says in a tone a little too calm for my liking. “You’re needed in the bunks, Coryo.” They tell him. “I’ll be there. You can go.” The foot steps leave and I give him a sly smile.

“Sorry for interrupting your duties. I’ll behave next time.” He doesn’t return the smile. He just stares at me for a pregnant pause.

“Don’t be sorry, I chose to be here. And I don’t regret it one bit. But I must apologize for the interruption. I have to go. Maybe we can continue this later.” He goes to walk away but I clear my throat, stopping him in his tracks.

“If I’m going to be here for a while, I do hope we get to have some private time together, Coriolanus. There are some…talents I do want to show you, without interruptions.” My eyes flicker to the bugle in his pants and when I look back up I see his blue eyes darken with want.

“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure we have more time when I come to visit you again.” He leaves and I watch him go feeling a bit light headed. I close my eyes for a few minutes and when I open them I let out a breathe. “Evangeline what are you doing?” I ask myself in pure wonder as I look down at my cup of water.

It was after supper time and I was looking at the potato soup as if it were a bomb that would go off at any second. “Nana-Bee’s sunflower stew sounds good about now.” I mutter as I push the bowl away. I nibble on the hard roll and see Sinder, a sweet older lady who was assigned to bring me to the mess room, come right on time.

“Ready?” She asks as she motions me to come to her. I give a slight nod and I go to her, making sure I don’t spook her as she unlocks my cell. “To take a bath like regular folks? Always, Sin.” I give her a kind smile and she returns one back as she escorts me out. As we head down the hall I take a chilled breathe.

“How’s the baby coming along?” I ask Sinder as she leads me further down. She touches her swollen belly then. “He’s coming along nicely. Due in December, so he’ll be a winter baby.”

“That’s nice, make sure when he’s born you bathe him in warm milk so he’ll have warm skin. My Nana-Bee, says it’s nothing worse than having a baby in winter. If they catch the frost they’ll cry and get colic.” I tell her.

“I’ll do just that. Thank you, Evangeline. You know, I don’t believe what they say about you, you’re just different is all.”

I like Sinder, she’s sweet and she makes me feel as if she could be my sister if circumstances were different.

She brings me to the baths and she turns around to give me some privacy as I strip off my clothes and ease my body into the luke warm water. “Evangeline, can I ask something of you?” Sinder asks as she picks up my clothes and folds them for me. “Anything, you know it’s rude to deny a woman with child.” I tell her.

She gives a soft smile. “I have to check in with my sisters, can I trust that you’ll be fine without me for a few minutes?” I nod like an obedient child. “I’ll be here, I won’t run. Besides there’s chill in the air, I’d catch my death if I leave like this.” She nods and she quietly leaves me alone.

I rub the cheap soap against my brown skin and let out a soft sigh. I let myself duck underneath the water and let the silence surround me.

Maybe it would be easy if I just drowned in this bathtub. Then these people can find my body and feel guilty for taking me away from my family. However I wouldn’t want Sinder to be the one to find me.

As the morbid thoughts seep through my brain I feel a burn in my lungs. My body twitches under the water and I break the surface and take in a mouth full of air.

Something in the air was off, almost as if someone’s presence was near. I swirl my fingers in the water and stare at the door. “Seems awfully rude of you to watch a lady while she’s having an intimidate moment.” I call out as I feel someone watching me.

I stare harder at the door and feel annoyed that whomever is behind it thinks I’m an idiot. “Might as well come out.” I call out once more. The door slowly opens and behind it was Coriolanus. The scowl on my face disappears and I sit up as he steps into the room and closes the door behind him. “I went to your cell and I didn’t see you there.” Coriolanus confesses with a tinge of red in his cheeks.

I give a dramatic pout and lean on the side of the bath, not caring that my breasts were on full display to him. “Awe, and you thought I ran away? Careful people might think you care about me, Coriolanus.” I say as I watch his eyes roam over parts of my naked flesh.

“And what if I do care? What’s the harm in that?”His eyes lock onto mine and I feel as if I’m in the room with the beast.

That’s a ridiculous thought, this is just Coriolanus, the same Coriolanus that treats me well and has a liking for me.

“All depends, do you care about my wellbeing or just my body?” I ask as I lean back looking at him carefully. His eyes look down and when they look back up they seem to darken a shade darker. He takes a step further into the room which makes me want to back away from him but I make my body stand still.

What is going on here?

“Why do you do that?” He asks, the question catching me off guard. “Do what?” I ask innocently. “Tease and tempt me? I could take advantage of you right now and no one would know.” I swallow before answering.

“I would know, and maybe I want you to take advantage of me a little. Don’t think I haven’t noticed how you stare at me, Coriolanus. Like how your eyes linger on my tongue when I lick my silverware clean after my meals. Or how when you cuff me, your hands brush against my skin longer than it should. I fascinate you, and I probably haunt your dreams.” I say as I cup water in my hands and slash it over my face.

“You do haunt my dreams, and my nightmares I’m afraid. But if I could sleep and see your beauty then may I never awaken again.” I blush hearing that compliment and it let a bit of my guard down. “You really know how to lay on the charm.” I comment as I reach for the sponge to wash myself. I wasn’t fast enough because he had plucked the sponge out of my reach. “Please allow me.” He says as he walks behind me.

I go to tell him that it wasn’t necessary but he was already rubbing small circles against my shoulder blades. Which were stiff from sleeping on the hard cot in my cell. I relax and let him work my muscles.

“You’re quite tense, especially here.” He reaches lower and I keep my moans to myself. “That feels nice, really nice. You are talented with your hands, Coriolanus.” I tell him as he lathers up the sponge and goes to rub my lower back.

“It’s a talent among many that I possess.” He comments. I turn to him then and look up at his face. “You know, you are quite beautiful for a man, Coriolanus.” He blushes and looks away. “Thank you, though I don’t think men want to be called beautiful.” I give a shrug. “There are beautiful men and there are handsome women. That’s just how the world is.”

“I like the way you look at the world, you seem to have a fresh perspective on it.” He comments as I study his face. “Mmm, can I ask you something? And you have to answer me honestly.”

“Of course.”

“Does your lover ever get jealous that you spend time with me?” He stops and looks at me puzzled. “I don’t have a lover.” It shouldn’t come as a shock by the way he flirts, but it was a big puzzling to know that he didn’t have a lover. He is quite a looker and his eyes were just gorgeous.

“You don’t? Well that’s quite sad.” He shakes his head. “I don’t think so. Besides if it’s so sad, why don’t you be my lover?” I expected him to ask me that question.

“I don’t think you’ll want me after a while, I am quite the wild card.” He leans in close and move my hair behind my shoulder. “I think I’d want to keep your forever. Would you let me? Keep you that is.”

“I don’t know, give me a good reason I should be kept by you.” I tease. He nods slightly and he places the sponge down. “Not only do you haunt me, but I crave you. I crave to know your taste on my tongue. I crave to feel your body pressed against mine. If there is one thing I want it’s to keep you for all of eternity.” He lets his hands touch my chin and I feel him tug at my lower lip, releasing it from my teeth.

“Why are you doing this to me?” I ask as I feel him pull me closer. “So you’ll say yes. Say yes and be mine, Evangeline. Be my little rose.” He leans in and fight hard to not fall for his charm. “I don’t think I will.”

He narrows his eyes at me. “I suppose I have to use stronger measures then.” With a swift skill, he takes me out of the bathtub and sits me on the edge. “What are you-“ He interrupts me by trailing his fingers down my slit. “You know I’ve been thinking about this little pretty pussy all day. When I had some alone time, I touched myself and thought about you on your knees, taking this down your throat.” He places my hand on his bulge and I let a moan escape my lips.

“Do you know how badly I want this inside of you? In every hole that you’ll allow me to have access too, Evangeline? But first I need to be a gentleman and show you that I will adore the very ground you walk on.” I watch as he lowers himself on his knees and parts my legs.

I wants as he leans in and he inhales my scent deeply. I bite my lip as I see his blue eyes look up at me. “Those moans you were making earlier, I want you to only make those sounds for me. You see, Evangeline. I am a jealous lover and I don’t like sharing what’s mine. So you can’t moan for any other man but for me. Do you understand?” He asks as he massages my inner thighs.

“I think so.” I whimper as I feel my cunt move towards his mouth. “No thinking, say yes, to me my little rose.”

“What if someone catches us?” I ask my mind slowly caring less about Sinder and more about Coriolanus’ mouth. “Don’t worry about that, just focus on me.”

He kisses my pussy lips which cause a slight shiver down my core. The kiss deepens and I feel him use his tongue to part my lips.

I feel my head loll back but his hand finds my throat and I know without words, he wants me to watch. He wants me to watch him devour me.

His fingers tighten a bit but the action was more for pleasure than for pain. I bite my lip, as I continue to watch as he assaults my pussy with his long tongue. His name seems to sing off of my lips as I find a blissful rhythm with my hips.

I reach down and place both of my hands on the sides of his head as I push his face deeper. God his tongue was working wonders on my little throbbing clit.

His eyes flutter closed and I move my hips faster. I feel the balls of my feet press into his thighs as I try to keep balance but I almost lose it when I feel his tongue flick against the hood of my clit faster.

I let out a sharp whimper as he uses his free hand and pressed my left thigh further apart. He then takes his middle and ring finger and does a come here motion inside of me. Massaging my g-spot as well as giving long and salacious licks to my now tightening clit.

“Oh god..” I cry out as I buck my hips harder against his now swollen lips and tongue. His eyes glare up at me as if to dare me to lose control and give him what he desires.

He wants me to say yes.

Shit I can almost taste the word on the tip of my tongue.

I feel his grip on my neck tighten as well as the muscles in my lower stomach. I hook him closer to me as if I want him buried into my skin as I fuck his mouth.

Not caring that we could get caught. No longer caring that he is slowly cutting off my air supply. I want him to make me come, I want to give him the very thing he wants. “Yes…Coriolanus..” Is all I can manage to say before I have tunnel vision. I feel light headed as I come against his tongue. I hear him moan and suck as he releases my throat from his dangerous hand.

I suck in air as he grips my hips and he drinks in all of me. My body shivers but not from the chill in the air. But from the heat that he was giving off of his body. When he looks up at me, he has a very pleased look on his face. He flicks his tongue one more time and I shiver from the action.

When Coriolanus stands up I feel my body wanting to lean in to him, as if he’s a magnet and I’m just a scrap of metal being pulled in his direction. I still my body to keep from falling into him.

His pupils blow out, causing the blue in his eyes to almost disappear. He then licks his bottom lip and reaches out to me. I lean into his touch and he smiles. “My loving little rose.” He whispers to me as he lifts my white loc and twirls it between his fingers.

I say nothing and just look up at him. Something isn’t right, I feel as if I just gave him a piece of my soul and now I’m going to be damned for eternity.

When I finally go to speak we hear a gasp. I turn slightly to see Sinder with a shocked expression on her face. “You’re not allowed in here.” She tells Coriolanus.

“I came in here to check on our guest. And to my surprise I see she was left all alone. What would’ve happened had she had drowned? Then you’d be the one having to be punished. I’ll let it slide this one time. But if it happens again you’ll be the one who will be chosen for the next Reaping and I’ll be sure of it.” Coriolanus says in a frosted tone.

He looks back at me and I see a ghost of a smile on his lips. “We’ll talk later, Evangeline.” He sends a soft kiss against my temple and leaves the both of us in the mess room.

When the coast is clear, Sinder walks over to me with a towel and she starts apologizing profusely. “I am so sorry Evangeline, I was only gone for a moment. He didn’t hurt you did he?”

“No, I don’t think he would’ve anyways.” I say as I dry off my body and get dressed. But also not feeling sure that I believe what I just told her. “I would be mindful of that particular Peace Keeper. He’s charming but I’ve heard rumors, that when he takes interests in one of the girls, he likes to play with them until they break.”

She brings me back to my cell and I tell her good night as she gives me one more apology.

It falls to silence and I take my cup and I swirl what liquid I had left in it. “I hope he knows fire can be a bit difficult to break.” With those whispered words, I stare into the cup and dip my fingers into the liquid. As I raise my fingers into the moon light I see flames slowly licking my finger tips. I flick my tongue against them and I smile in the dark corner of my cell.

“Well when you play with fire, you tend to get burned…”

#watsittoyah #coriolanus smut #coriolanus x reader #coriolanus snow #Coriolanus x black fem reader #young!coriolanus snow #Coriolanus x reader smut #thg series #corio snow #coryo snow #the hunger games #the hunger games smut #Before the snow came the flame #the ballad of songbirds and snakes

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tuiccim · 1 year

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Though I Have Never Read It (Part 7)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Word Count: 2985

Warnings: Angst, Family dynamics/drama, Discussion of controlling/abusive relationship.

A/N: Special thanks to my hype princess & beta reader @whisperlullaby.

Though I Have Never Read It Masterlist

Sitting in your car at the compound, you lean your head back against the seat and close your eyes. You take a few deep breaths and give yourself a mental pep talk before finally getting out. The butterflies in your stomach seem to increase with each step you take closer to Bucky's door. You were scared of what this conversation may bring. Would Bucky be angry? He hadn’t seemed so earlier. Would he think it meant something more than it did?

You lift your hand to knock and stop short. Closing your eyes, you bite your lip and consider running. You could pack your things and be gone in a blink. You’d done it before. But before, there wasn’t Eva and no matter what happened, you couldn’t leave her. Besides, dealing with Bucky was nothing like what had driven you to Estonia. Your real fear here was your own feelings. So, before you could let that cowardice take hold, you allowed your hand to fall and rapped on his door. It opened more quickly than you expected and you took a step back.

“Hi,” Bucky says, his face full of expectation and… fear? He looked like that lost, scared shell of a person that he had been when you first met him and it made you want to comfort him more than anything.

“Hi. Is now good?” You ask softly.

“Yes. Where, uh-” Bucky makes a vague gesture.

“Here is fine. Unless you’d rather go somewhere else,” you try to give him some room.

“Are you sure you’d be comfortable in my room with me?” He can’t seem to quite meet your eye.

“Are you comfortable with me being in your room?” you ask instead.

“Uh, sure, sure. Come in,” he steps back to allow you entry.

“Thanks,” you look around as you walk in and see mostly stark furniture with only a few personal touches. The one thing that is nearly full is his bookshelf. You let your eyes browse over the titles momentarily. A corner of your mouth quirks as you realize there was a little bit of geek in the quiet supersoldier but you smooth your expression when you turn back to him. He gestures towards the two chairs that flank the bookshelf and you take one.

“How is Eva? …and Mark?” Bucky asks.

“They’re great. She was happy to see her dad,” you chose your words with care to reinforce your earlier assertions of Eva’s paternity.

“Good, that’s good. How, uh, how are you?” Bucky fidgets with his hands.

“I’m okay. I can see you’re as nervous about this conversation as I am,” you try to lighten the mood.

Bucky cracks a small smile but still hasn’t looked you in the eye yet, “Yeah?”

“Bucky…” you wait for him to look up and when he finally does, you ask shakily, “Are you angry with me?”

“What?!” Bucky’s eyes widen in surprise.

“You won’t even look at me.”

“No! No, I’m not angry with you. How could I be? You’re the one who should be angry with me. After what I did. I terrified you,” Bucky’s voice nearly breaks.

“No, I mean, I was scared at first but you didn’t terrify me,” you assert. “Do you remember all of it? What do you remember?”

“I… God! I’m not even sure what I remember. I… did… did I-” Bucky groans in frustration and puts his head in his hands.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” you reassure him. When he looks at you a few moments later there is a tinge of red around his eyes that tears at your heart. “Why don’t I tell you what I remember? And then we can work out the details.”

“Please,” Bucky whispers.

“I was living in a cabin in the middle of nowhere. No electricity, rainwater plumbing that was frozen half the time, a tiny kitchen, a bed, and an armchair to read in. It was 4 miles to the nearest neighbor and several more to the nearest town. One evening I was bringing in firewood. There was a snow storm coming in and I wanted to be sure there was enough in the house for the next day. I had just taken off my jacket and was about to relock the door when it flew open and you came through it. I was scared for a minute. I thought you were there to kill me but when I asked you, you simply said shelter. You were even less talkative then,“ you give him a smile to reassure him as his face still betrayed some torment. “What you did manage to tell me was that you were running away from something, too. So, I decided that being scared wasn’t going to change anything. I fed you some soup and whiskey to warm you up, convinced you to get out of the wet clothes you were in since you were shivering, and managed to get you to lay in the bed to rest. You looked so lost at times. While we ate, you were able to remember the name James so that’s what I called you. I settled into my chair to read and you asked me to read to you. I had been reading The-”

“Princess Bride,” Bucky interrupts.

“Yeah,” you smile at him, “you remember that?”

“I, I overheard you reading it to Eva last night. It’s what triggered the memories. I think,” Bucky says.

“I thought someone was there last night.”

“I’m sorry. I just heard you and stopped to listen for a minute.”

“It’s fine, Bucky. Anyway, I read to you for a while until I thought you had fallen asleep. When I tried to settle down in the armchair to sleep, you were trying to get out of the bed, grunting no at me. You had so many bruises and scars. I insisted you needed the bed more than I did. I touched your shoulder to stop you from getting out and you gasped. I thought I had hurt you but then you just looked at me and said please. So, I ran my hands through your hair and you calmed down. I sat on the side of the bed and kept doing it until I thought you fell asleep again but the moment I pulled my hand away, you were awake again. You asked me to stay, so I just got in the bed with you and kept running my hand through your hair until we were both asleep. The next morning, um…” you falter, unsure how to explain the next part. Embarrassment and fear wrapping together to still your tongue.

“I hurt you,” Bucky says grimly.

“No,” you stare at him, unsure if he meant because of the blood or something else. “No, you didn’t hurt me, James, Bucky,” you shake your head at your own confusion.

“Don’t. Don’t spare me. Tell me the truth. I remember. I remember forcing myself on you,” Bucky stands up to pace, clearly torturing himself.

“Bucky,” you start but he cuts you off.

“Tell me the truth. Please,” he says while pacing, staring at the floor.

You get up and stand in his path. Grabbing handfuls of his shirt, you force him to look at you, “You didn’t force me,” you say vehemently. Leaving any of your own feelings in the dust, you barrel forward with only the thought of giving him the reassurance and comfort he desperately needed. “You didn’t force anything. I woke up and you were rubbing against me. Pure instinct, you were still asleep. As soon as you woke, you stopped and stared at me with the most terrified expression. I pulled you closer. I pressed myself against you. And then you kissed me and it was intense and I wanted it. You whispered please and I knew what you wanted. I knew what you were asking for,” you pull him closer to you as you speak, ensuring he is hanging on your every word, “I pushed my pants down and you helped me get them lower. You didn’t. You didn’t force me. You didn’t force anything. You were soft and slow and gentle with me. I wanted that. I wanted you.”

“But… the blood?” Bucky asks incredulously. “Were you a virgin?”

“Ye-yeah. It was my first time but that doesn’t change how I feel about it. I wanted you,” you say sincerely. You stared up at him as you emphasized the words of reassurance. Your heart was beating wildly and with your hands curled in his shirt, you could feel his was too. Your faces were so close and you felt a yearning that frightened you.

“But I took that from you,” Bucky looks at you sadly.

You scoff, you can’t help yourself. Letting go of him, you walk back to the chair and sit, relieved he had given you the perfect out to separate yourself from him physically. Sighing deeply, you shake your head, “No, Buck. The 1940s called, they want their misogyny back. If anything, I gave it. It wasn’t anything special and, truthfully, I was glad to be rid of it. It doesn’t matter. You didn’t hurt me. Understand?”

“Yeah,” Bucky sits looking calmer, “What happened after that?”

“I was going to start breakfast when you heard something. You told me to get in the bathroom and stay there. You said, um, you said thank you. It was quiet for a few minutes and then it sounded like a tornado came through. Smashing and glass shattering and then smoke. The cabin was set on fire and you were gone.”

“They found me. I…” Bucky looks away as if things are falling into place in his mind, “I was commanded to destroy the cabin. I told them no one was there, that I’d gotten lost in the storm. It was the only way I could keep you safe. I had to make them think no one was there. I tried to make sure you could get out, that the fire stayed far enough away to let you get out of the kitchen window.”

“That’s exactly how I got out,” you say.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says.

“For making sure I could escape?” You raise an eyebrow playfully.

“For ruining your life there.”

“You didn’t ruin anything. It wasn’t much of a life. It forced me to come back here. To face up to my problems. It wasn’t easy but I’m glad. If you hadn’t, I wouldn’t have been here to see Eva born or have that time with her mom. I’m grateful for that night. I don’t have any regrets about it,” you smile while trying to gauge his feelings.

“Why were you in Estonia?” Bucky asks the question you weren’t sure you wanted to answer.

“It’s a long story.”

“I’ve got all night, doll.”

“I’m not kidding. It’s complicated,” You demure, unsure you wanted to share that much. Then again, maybe you should. Maybe there should be one person here who knows the whole story and it seemed right that it would be Bucky. After all, he was a part of it.

“It’s up to you. I’d like to know but only if you want to tell it,” Bucky tilts his head as he looks at you.

“Settle in,” you laugh lightly as you reposition yourself in the chair. “My dad was a businessman. He owned a mid-size company that was contracted by Stark Industries. My,” you sigh deeply before continuing flatly, “mother had some connections and helped him get in with Obadiah Stane. He was the CFO of Stark.”

“I've heard of him,” Bucky nods.

“She kept close tabs on business dealings and even closer tabs on me. She insisted I become a woman of high society. She wanted me to be a social climber, like her. It wasn’t me but I went along with it to make her happy. My father died suddenly when I was in college, the company was thrown into chaos and my mother begged Stane for his help. He agreed but insisted on controlling interest in the company. It was around this time that they started an affair, I think. Suddenly, Stane and his son, Zeke, were coming around often. Zeke was a few years older than me and he paid a lot of attention to me. At first, I was flattered. My mother started throwing us together as much as she could but then he started getting possessive. He acted like I was a belonging rather than a person. He started policing my clothes, my phone, my friends, everything. He was not happy that I was getting a degree in mechanical engineering. He said it was a man’s field but he knew it was one of my dad’s last wishes that I finish college. He was downright pissed, as was my mother, when I told them I’d been accepted into the Master’s program. That’s when Zeke finally threw in my mother’s face that he was done waiting for his part of the bargain. Apparently, she had struck a deal with Obadiah for me to marry Zeke in exchange for some other business dealings. I never really understood all of it but he lost his shit and started insisting that he was done waiting, the deal was for me to finish my degree and then he’d own me. That’s the word he used, 'own'.”

“Your mother sold you?” Bucky asks in shock, realizing now why you had given her such a cold reception on the phone call he had overheard.

Your eyebrows lift in realization of the accuracy of the wording, “Yeah. She sold me. Zeke, he, uh, knew I was a virgin and he wanted me. He wanted to have that. He wanted complete ownership over me. I was terrified of him. I hated who I was with him. I was weak and scared. I cowered under him. He had nearly complete control of me. They started planning the wedding. It had to be a grand event. A status symbol. God, I hated it. I hated everything. I hated myself. I hated who I had become. It was my best friend that came up with the plan to get me out. She had watched my light go out and she couldn’t stand it. She convinced me to escape and with the help of a few other friends, I did. I left to go to a dentist appointment with a small purse and the clothes on my back. Thirty-six hours later, I was in a tiny cabin in the middle of nowhere. I was free. And I was so happy… for a while.” You look away reliving the joy and sadness of that time for a moment.

“A while?” Bucky prompts.

“The loneliness started to get to me. I wanted a life. A real one. I was trapped the same in that cabin as I had been under my mother’s thumb. Living in constant fear of being found. Then you showed up. You were my catalyst. You forced me to go back and face it all. I met Tony and Pepper and Happy. We found out the Stane’s were doing a lot more shady dealing than anyone ever imagined. When I confronted Zeke, he went insane. He, uh, he tried to kill me. Zeke had built himself a suit similar to Tony’s. Luckily, Happy was there and managed to keep Zeke at bay until Tony showed up.”

“Tell me he’s dead,” Bucky growls.

“He’s… incapacitated. That’s what drove me to Estonia,” you pause for a moment, realizing you had to ask Bucky, “Did you tell anyone that we were in Estonia?”

“I told Steve and Sam about meeting you,” Bucky looks at you with furrowed brows.

“But did you tell them it was in Estonia?” You question.

“No. Why?”

“I need you to keep that part just between us. If anyone, like my mother, ever found out I was there, they’d know exactly who helped me. It could jeopardize their livelihood, their business, their life. Please-”

“I give you my word, doll. It stays between us,” Bucky promises.

“Thank you. Anyway, I came back here. Tony got me back in the Master’s program, gave me a job, and… you’re all caught up now,” you let out a little laugh.

Bucky studies you for a moment before asking, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“At first, I was waiting to see if you remembered me. I knew you’d been through the brain blender a few times so I was gonna let you take the lead. Then, I don’t know, I didn’t want to bring you any pain. I thought maybe you wouldn’t want to go back there. When I thought about telling you, it was for it to be easier on me and I didn’t want to be selfish in that way. I thought maybe it was better to protect you,” you explain.

“You don’t need to protect me, doll. That was the best night I had had in those years. Thank you for that,” Bucky smiles and you can see the emotions in his eyes.

“You’re welcome. Well, um, it’s getting late,” you say lamely. A tension had formed in the air and it was unnerving you. You found yourself wanting to fling yourself into Bucky’s arms, wanting to find that release he had once provided. You stand swiftly, reminding yourself that one night didn’t mean anything. At least, not romantically. It was just two people seeking comfort in each other. Survivors finding solace together and you couldn’t get wrapped up in it. Because, the truth was, you wanted to fall for the man in front of you and you didn’t trust yourself to. “Good night, Bucky,” you say as you cross to the door.

“Uh, night, doll. Sleep well,” Bucky says quickly.

“You, too,” you say as you exit. You flee to your room, knowing that sleep wouldn’t come any time soon.

Part 8

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hylaversicolor · 6 months

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the big eva and ocelot meta, or: how to use religious iconography and symbolism in a godforsaken, cunt serving, and incredibly transgender way

this meta started out as a way for me to learn more about ocelot by looking at eva. and then it turned into the opposite, i guess. because ocelot never, ever speaks directly about his motivation, except for one time at the beginning of mgs2 when he says he’s glad sergei noticed that he’s abandoned mother russia, and even then he hides through ambiguous wording and camera angles. (x) everything else we learn about ocelot is from other characters or is obfuscated by conflicting personas or both. we know why he does what he does (he was obsessed with big boss, eva says) yet he doesn’t state this in his own words. but you can use eva to analyze ocelot, and vice versa. during mgs3 they are both mysterious philosopher agents with ties to the book of genesis sent to help snake on his mission, often with nearly identical dialogue. (x, x) so in mgs3 when eva says “snake, huh. well, i’m eva… are you here to tempt me?” we can assume ocelot feels something similar. when eva says “don’t die on me” at rassvet, we’re meant to remember that moment when ocelot says the same thing to snake in the sewers, many scenes later. and when eva says “when i’m riding, the wind hits me so hard that it hurts. that pain keeps my mind off the pain of having to be someone else. it's not easy always fooling myself like this. it's only when i’m on the bike that i’m free to be the real me.” it’s in the back of our minds when ocelot also rides a bike later on. of course they are not exactly alike; the bike means something different to eva than it does to ocelot, and besides, ocelot is younger, less experienced, more hotheaded. eva, for all her cleavage, is reserved.

taking a detour for a moment to address the ocelot drag king thing that went around twitter recently. shinkawa and kojima noted that mgsv ocelot’s design was meant to inspire such questions from the player “like ‘is that a man or a woman, a woman dressing as a man’ kind of thing,” or “something like takarazuka” (x), japanese western-style theater “with all-female performers” (x). here’s a passage from jennifer robertson’s “the politics of androgyny in Japan: sexuality and subversion in the theater and beyond,” describing tarakazuka:

The femininity embodied and enacted by the musumeyaku serves as a foil for the masculinity of the otokoyaku. Much of the training of the Revue actors involves learning a vocabulary of gendered gestures, movements, intonations, speech patterns, and the like. An otokoyaku, for example, must stride forthrightly across the stage, her arms held stiffly away from her body, her fingers curled around her thumbs. In contrast, a musumeyaku pivots her forearms from the elbows, which are kept pinned against her side, constraining her freedom of movement and consequently making her appear more "feminine." In keeping with the patriarchal values informing the Takarazuka Revue, musumeyaku have represented the fictional Woman with little if any connection to the actual experiences of females. The otokoyaku, however, have been actively encouraged to study the behavior and actions of men offstage (as well as in films) in order to more effectively idealize men on stage, be they samurai or cowboys. Personal or contrary motivations and desires aside, both musumeyaku and otokoyaku are the products of a masculinist imagination in their official stage roles. (American Ethnologist, August 1992, vol. 19, issue 3, pg 423)

if, like all things with ocelot, we take this concept and run with it to eva, then ocelot is the takarazuka otokoyaku and eva is the musumeyaku. it’s all a performance. it’s all camp.

ocelot performs masculinity. he is (arguably) a gay character who lives and breathes his own interpretation, informed by the spaghetti westerns he watched and absorbed as a teenager, of the most idealized embodiment of western masculinity in existence: the american cowboy. his movements, his bravado, his persona are all exaggerated in mgs3. but his performance is also a mask behind which he hides his true self. ocelot physically conceals his whole body; his red gloves are his trademark. eva, by contrast, shows off her body. but while ocelot hides himself by hiding his skin, eva hides herself - crucially - by showing skin. and while ocelot's whole Cowboy Thing is him performing a fantasy version of masculinity, the opposite is true for eva. she is performing femininity just as much as ocelot is performing masculinity, only instead of playing a western cowboy dandy, she’s doing an over-exaggerated femme fatale. they are both acting. they are both camp. ocelot’s masculinity is rooted in westerns; eva’s femininity is, presumably, rooted in whatever charm school training the philosophers must have given her.

this juxtaposition informs the way their roles play out throughout the course of snake eater. ocelot can go off and do whatever; he has more freedom by taking on the persona of a man. eva is more limited in her performance, confined to a pseudo-caregiver role. she must support snake, care for him, give him food items. during the interrogation scene she is the one who is forced to step in and intervene, because out of all the players in the room, the personality she’s crafted for her role is most suited to sensitivity to snake’s torture. (x) she uses her vulnerability to exploit her enemies, turns people’s preconceived notions about her against them. ocelot and volgin both underestimate her; when she successfully evades volgin on the bike, and bests ocelot in hand to hand combat, these are not traditionally feminine activities, yet they are the things she truly excels at. also ocelot has had everything put together for him, even if he doesn’t see this. (x) he has been given incredible privilege at a terrible price. eva doesn’t even have that privilege. she is working to support snake completely on her own.

yet even though eva is unfailingly on snake’s side throughout the game, helping him, giving him items, often physically close to him, seducing him, etc., she betrays him in the end. ocelot is the opposite. he is farther away; he often watches rather than intervenes when snake is in trouble. it’s not obvious that he’s been on snake’s side the whole time. and yet by the end of the game, where eva (who had gotten the closest to him) betrays snake, ocelot (who had been farther away) does not. this speaks to mgs3’s theme of “there is no such thing as a timeless enemy” - also because after the events of the game, snake and eva (though parting ways as enemies) end up as allies again, and eva and ocelot, who had been enemies in the game, become allies as well, and remain allied for life.

ultimately, due to eva’s role being confined to a traditionally feminine one in mgs3, ocelot emerges as a more compelling character. behind that femme fatale persona, though, there is a lot going on. a lot of it, i think, relates to the way eva was raised as a charm agent. as a result of her philosopher training, she can only think of human relationships in absolutes. she equates sex and love in her mind and cannot conceptualize ambiguity:

eva: do you love her? snake: no, nothing like that. eva: do you hate her? snake: does it have to be one or the other - love or hate? eva: between a man and a woman? you bet. […] eva: you were interested in the boss. snake: she was different. eva: really? how do you feel about me? snake: i should be asking you the same question. eva: me? i can fall in love - if it's part of the mission. even with you.

this is meant to be a callback to mgs1, but it’s also eva in her element, in action, working. she unzips her top as she says these lines, revealing her breasts. there’s some meta commentary here about eva fooling or charming the player, using her own sexuality as a weapon, but still being objectified nonetheless because kojima wrote her to do this. in the context of the game, yes this is eva acting of her own accord, molding her appearance and mannerisms to appeal to her target, but she is doing so as a result of philosopher training. this isn’t eva’s true self, not really. the only place she feels free to be her true self is when she’s on her bike, with the wind hitting her so hard “that it hurts.” we see eva performing increasingly risky bike stunts as mgs3 goes on. i think the stress of playing her role only continue to increase as time went on throughout operation snake eater. but not because of being forced to fool john: i think she took some pleasure in that. rather:

eva: the boss was the only one i couldn't fool. she was the only one who knew i was a fake. she told me everything. why did she open her heart to me like that? at the time, i couldn't understand it. but now I think I do. snake, she wanted you to know the truth. she chose me to tell you. that's why she saved my life. i’ve lied to you so many times, but not this time. my orders from the government were to obtain the legacy and to eliminate everyone who knew the truth about what happened. in other words, I'm supposed to kill you. but i can't do it. not because we loved each other. and not because you saved my life. but because i made a promise to the boss… and i intend to keep it. i just wanted you to know. and… you have to live.

because the boss was the one person to understand her, to look at her and see that at her core, she, like ocelot, is the embodiment of a 404 error. but this lack of self, or lack of recognition of the self, ironically, is what makes her human. the boss looks at her and instantly sees that the only way she can feel anything at all is to ride her bike so hard that the wind hurts her. she sees the pain of having been transformed into a blank slate by the philosophers, ready and willing for anyone’s preconceived notions of femininity to be projected onto her, because the boss went through the same ordeal - but unlike eva, whose earliest memories are presumably of philosopher charm schools, the boss did not start as a blank slate. she had a life, a personality, a family first, and had all that taken away in order for higher powers to reduce her to something malleable and ready to be manipulated for the sake of nations and empires. the boss is eva’s connection, her lifeline from the sterile, casually cruel world inhabited by the children of the philosophers, to the emotions and the messiness and the nuance embodied by the rest of humanity. and this connection goes doubly deep because the boss probably encountered eva in one of the philosopher charm schools while searching for her own son, who she knew had to be at a philosopher facility too.

and by choosing eva as the one to pass on her message to snake, the boss gives eva’s life new meaning, a renewed sense of humanity. in eva’s mind now the boss and snake are connected. she is part of that love the boss had felt for snake, and she inherits it by proxy. i don’t think she loved john as a human being, at least not during mgs3. even after mgs3, i don’t think she comes to understand this connection that the boss and snake had, but she still clings to it. and i think that, just like ocelot who was far away and fixated on snake, once eva is the farthest away that she’s ever been from snake at the end of mgs3, now she becomes fixated on him too. just like ocelot, snake represents humanity to her. their connection is less about love and more about trying to make sense of her own emotions, her personhood. the boss endures and haunts eva into perpetuity because i think she is a reminder of what eva could have had.

big mama: your father never wanted you. i’m sorry. human life isn’t meant to be manipulated like that. i knew that. but—i wanted you.

eva allows her own pursuit of humanity to convince her to do inhumane acts. we know ocelot joined the patriots to stay close to john (the same reason he eventually joined foxhound). eva joined the patriots, i think, because staying close to john brought her closer to the boss. that, i believe, is the reason she wanted the kids so badly. eva in mgs4 is motivated by guilt. we can see that she takes in war orphans as the leader of the paradise lost army (ironically facilitating the creation of more child soldiers, and perpetuating the vision of the philosophers even as she’s trying to dismantle their legacy). in mgs3, eva and ocelot are a pair of young philosopher spies aiding naked snake. in mgs4, eva and ocelot are a pair of aging ex-patriot spies from another time forcibly dragging the past along with them into the present. they both mistake solid snake for naked snake in semi-lucid moments; they share similar last words; they both are ultimately killed by foxdie. they kill and steal and lie and torture and maim, but in their minds it’s all out of necessity. take this analysis of paradise lost by john leonard:

The hostility of Chaos raises troubling questions about God. If God is good, all-powerful, and the ultimate source of matter […] how can we account for the existence of an evil Chaos? An evil Chaos would suggest either that God is not good or that he is not all-powerful. Many critics try to get around this problem by arguing that Milton’s Chaos (despite appearances) is not evil but good. (Introduction, Paradise Lost, Penguin, 2003)

zero, by mgs4, is the alpha and the omega. he has surpassed the limitations of his moral body and become an all-seeing, all-knowing system of AIs: in the metaphor of adam, eve, and the snake, zero is god. we can see that eva feels somewhat complicit in this transformation: “zero created the patriots to manage and control the american state […] but i am partly to blame. i bear some of the guilt for creating the organization.” ocelot’s feelings are less apparent.

back to the beginning of this essay: ocelot only explains himself once throughout the entire game series, and while he does, the camera conceals his face. importantly, his red gloves are gone in mgs4. his black gloves show us that this isn’t ocelot anymore. but since his fingers are uncovered, we can infer that ocelot is in there somewhere and he is speaking his truth. so when liquid says “cigars… father's favorite.” that’s really ocelot (with the cigar blocking his face…there’s so much in that) saying “cigars…john’s favorite.” when liquid says, “snake, we were created by the patriots. we're not men: we're shadows in the shape of men. […] the patriots saw fit to create us, and in doing so became our only raison d'etre […] so long as we both live, the world will not know an age of light […] the only choice left to us is death." that is ocelot saying “when i saw what the patriots had done, my only reason to exist became to take them down.” when liquid screams “do you see this, zero?” that is 100% ocelot saying, “watch us, zero, we’re going to undo everything you did to john.” and when liquid gives this odd, regretful glance after the confrontation at the river, (x) i think that is ocelot reacting (albeit late) to eva saying, “adam…” a scene prior.

john: ocelot and eva wanted two things…to bring me back to life, and to end the patriots. […] for me, and for them […] nothing was more important.

in the words of steak bentley, mgs4 shouldn’t have been about big boss. (x) i agree. forcing everything to connect back to big boss and to zero shrinks the universe, imbues the story with this weird predestination, makes everybody’s contributions to the plot feel less significant, weakens both mgs4 and mgs3 in hindsight by showing the writers’ lack of faith in their new material.

but you can also look at it in a meta sense of ocelot and eva saying “this story’s not done yet, i’m still going to get revenge on big boss’s behalf. this is going to be about big boss whether you all like it or not.” metal gear solid 4 is really the story of two people who loved big boss so much and carried so much guilt over the part they played in zero’s betrayal that they created this entire overly convoluted plot to make john relevant again. the irony of it is that if they had just let him fade into obscurity (the first time, after snake eater) the LET project might not have even happened at all. by mgs4 i think they both recognized this. and yet they continued to drag it out - understanding, i think, on some level, that they were doing it all essentially for nothing. and through eva and ocelot’s actions, john ends up getting….not exactly a redemption, but at least closure. i don’t know if it’s warranted or even deserved, but he gets it nonetheless. and still eva and ocelot spend most of their time away from big boss and die without seeing him again. the thought that john would be able to survive, that he would endure and live and reconcile with solid, get one final moment of “i understand.” at the boss’s grave - this kept eva and ocelot going for decades.

by the start of mgs4, for eva and ocelot, everyone else is gone. john is out of their reach, the boss has been dead for fifty years, they killed the rest of the patriots themselves after zero betrayed john. the kids that eva had wanted, too, are no good, since liquid is already gone and solid needs to die in order to bring the cycle to a close. the only way they can access their own humanity (that ocelot had found in snake and eva had found in the boss) is through clinging to each other.

big mama: naturally, ocelot and i planned to free [john] from zero's prison. we enlisted naomi hunter, an authority in the field of nanomachine research, into our organization. and we used frank jaeger to kill dr. clark. ocelot tortured the DARPA chief, donald anderson - also known as sigint - to death…and made it look like an accident. […] with para-medic and sigint dead, zero was the only one left. but we, too, paid a price. i lost ocelot. ocelot wasn't fighting for the pentagon, or the russians. and certainly not for zero. he was fighting for big boss. he idolized him.

#adam and eve in the garden of hrt. if you will.#txt #mgs #revolver ocelot #eva #meta #calling all besties #anyway. i didn't proofread this. but (guys its fine voice) guys its fine

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youre-where-i-wanna-go · 6 months

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So I just found the original script of Gunpowder Milkshake and the fact that Scarlet and Anna May were so explicitly gay in it but it was all cut makes me so sad/angry.

I do understand why in the final version Anna May didn't forgive Scarlet so quickly. I think in that short amount of time it makes more sense for her to stay bitter a bit longer as she did in the movie but lord WE COULD'VE HAD A NECK KISS

I really hope we will still get that sequel and this last scene will be part of it. We deserve explicit ScarletMay 🥺 we deserve to see them kiss

Link to full script here

Image IDs under the cut

[Image ID 1: SCARLET: There’s a pretty good chance they’ll shoot me on sight.

EVA: I’m willing to take that chance.

SCARLET: I’m serious.

EVA: Ma, they’re your oldest friends. More than that, in some cases.

SCARLET: (heartbroken) I don’t think we’re friends anymore.]

[Image ID 2: Anna May, rifle in hand, is about to climb in the passenger seat. Scarlet walks over to her. Anna May looks away.

SCARLET: I have to go help her.

ANNA MAY: And you need my permission?

SCARLET: I can’t bail on her again.

ANNA MAY: Why? You’ve gotten pretty good at it.

SCARLET: I thought I was doing the right thing. For her.

Anna May lets out a breath, letting go of fifteen years of anger. She turns to Scarlet.

ANNA MAY: You were doing the right thing.

SCARLET: (surprised) What?

ANNA MAY: I mean look at this place. That’s no way to raise a kid.

Scarlet is overwhelmed. There are so many things she wants to tell Anna May.

SCARLET: I missed you.

ANNA MAY: (in a good way) Oh, fudge you.

SCARLET: Fudge you.

Anna May takes Scarlet’s hand.

ANNA MAY: Just meet us at the diner. Come back in one piece, OK? Both of you.

Scarlet nods and lets go of Anna May’s hand. She takes one last look at Emily and turns away.

ANNA MAY (CONT’D): Wait.

Anna May pulls an ornate wooden box from the van. She hands it to Scarlet.

ANNA MAY (CONT’D): I kept the girls ready for you.

Scarlet opens the box. Inside it sit TWO BEAUTIFUL IDENTICAL HANDGUNS. White, etched with floral engravings. A gorgeous song starts playing. DAUGHTER’s YOUTH. It’s the only thing we hear as -

A SLOW MOTION SEQUENCE BEGINS]

[Image ID 3: INT. THE CABIN’S LIVING ROOM - MORNING WE FOLLOW Eva as she walks downstairs. She peeks into the living room and sees:

Anna May sits at a table, reading a book. Scarlet walks out of the kitchen. One hand in a splint, the other holding a cup of coffee. She walks over to Anna May and hugs her from behind. They move together to music coming from a nearby radio. Scarlet kisses Anna May’s neck.

EVA: Will you two get a room?

The two women laugh.

SCARLET: Oh, please. You’ve seen worse.

FLORENCE (O.S.): God knows I have.]

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wellthebardsdead · 6 days

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Wyrm: here! Can you translate my book for me??? I’ve been trying my whole life and I only just got one page to become readable but I needed to use these gloves- *holds up wraith guard a little too close to her*

Evalien: *eyes flashing from blue to red as a loud ringing suddenly fills her ears turning into an echo of pained screaming as she picks up the hive minds frequency again* S̵̥̈T̵͓̕R̶̖̆U̵͙̒H̷̙͒ ̶͎̋ṭ̶͝i̸̺͌ ̶̺̓ṣ̶̚ẗ̶͇́ṟ̶̃ṷ̵̍ḧ̷̩́ ̶̢̉t̶͚̐i̵̲͒ ̷̱́s̴̡̛t̸̙̅ṟ̸͘ǘ̷͕h̴̻͋ ̴̦̓t̸̍ͅi̷͇͂ ̴̱̀g̴̖̅n̶̲͝ï̴͈m̶̠̋a̵̢̐é̶͓r̴̥͂c̸̼̒S̷̛͍ ̴̜͌e̸̤̾r̶̡͠’̷̙̚ý̸̝e̴̺͐h̶̽͜t̴̪͝

*staggers back gripping her head and clawing at the headset behind her mask, flicking the noise cancelling function sending white noise over the signal* ughh-

Wyrm: wh-what happened? I- I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to- *steps forward*

Kaidan: *steps between them* not another step you little creep-

Marigold: *slaps his arm* Kaidan, that was uncalled for it was an accident- whatever- it was…

Evalien: *voice switching between frequency and volumes as if someone’s playing with a soundboard in her throat before returning to normal as the connection severs and she focuses back on the song of the land around her* It’s, alright, Kaidan. It… *shakes her head as her eyes flick to green, then blue again* it wasn’t his fault… Wyrm, put those down, immediately. They’re dangerous.

Wyrm: *tears already pricking at his eye from potentially hurting her, then Kaidans jab at him* th- they are? *looks at the gauntlets remembering the visions they gave him, quietly sets them on his desk and backs away from them*

Evalien: *grips onto Taliesin and pulls herself up with his help* Do you know what they are? What they were made for?

Wyrm: I… had a vision when I put them on, I saw them, and a hammer and knife… and three other figures. *pales remembering blood and a peeled face, but strangely no sound, only his pulse thrumming in his ears*

Evalien: the foul murder. The tribunal used those gloves and two other tools that day. But it wasn’t nerevar they struck with them. It was the heart of lorkhan. For your sake… I suggest you keep them locked away.

Wyrm: n-nerevar? Foul murder? The heart of lorkhan? What- how do you know this from just my vision??

Evalien: there’s a great deal I know. A great deal I know about you too… let me see your book.

Kaidan: I don’t think that’s a good idea you started speaking backwards just from those gauntlets-

Evalien: I’ll live. *takes the book from Wyrm and opens it. Seeing mostly what everyone else does when they look at it, encryptions from a living god guarding his secrets* for being the most straight forward and honest of the tribunes he was the most secretive, Vehk fancied himself the replacement of Mephala, but he was an open book compared to seht- *traces her hands over the pages and blinks as text reacts to her touch, swirling over her fingers in patterns and shapes, like they’re responding to her presence with familiarity* but every secret can be found out, and every code can be cracked- *feeds her magic into it and drops the book in shock at what she sees* …

Taliesin: Eva?

Kaidan: love?…

Wyrm: A-Alma?…

Evalien: *breath shakey as she looks from the book, then to Wyrm as tears cloud her vision* And I thought… his decision to kill nerevar was the extent of his cruelty… you can never go to the clockwork city.

Wyrm: I?… why?…

Evalien: *shakes her head* a heart transplant is something I really don’t want to explain…

#oop new wyrmie lore again #Evalien dragonborn #Wyrm dragonborn #skyrim taliesin #marigold dragonborn

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ctitan98official · 3 months

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Anonymous: Hello :> May I request something along the lines of Reader is a major figure in Miranda's cult to the point a lot of people see the reader as a second hand to Miranda. The only thing is, reader has never met Miranda. Unbeknownst to Miranda's like number one devotee, Miranda has been watching them to the point Miranda wants to meet them. So one night before the reader goes to sleep, Miranda appears and talks to the reader. After so many visits Miranda tells the reader basically about the experiments, fully excepting the fear of God to be placed into the readers heart (aka Miranda's got it bad and is afraid of her own feelings so she attempts to separate herself from people that actually care). The reader though is adamant in their devotion. Miranda then sorta breakdown and talks about Eva. After that visit Miranda's feelings deepen and so one day during church - Miranda just kinda strolls in and grabs the reader and leaves the church. Reader, looks at Miranda confused and Miranda confesses to reader. Sorry if this seems like overly specific? I played through Silent Hill again to get the ol good+ ending and kinda got obsessed with the whole cult aspect and there's not a whole lot of the cult aspect in the RE8 fandom (I mean there is but not at the same time - of that makes sense)

Cool prompt idea! I love both Silent Hill and Miranda T^T Let’s get into it!

As you stand among the faithful in the village, you feel a sense of purpose that flows through your veins. The community sees you as an extension of Mother Miranda herself, a second hand to their revered leader. Though you have never met her, they view you as a living embodiment of her teachings.

It’s an intriguing position to be in, to hold such significance in the eyes of others while maintaining a distance from the very person they idolize. You have delved deep into Mother Miranda’s teachings, immersing yourself in her wisdom, and dedicating yourself entirely to her cause. Yet, the opportunity to meet her remains a distant fantasy.

As you lie in bed one night, your mind buzzing with thoughts of devotion to Mother Miranda as usual, a sense of anticipation fills the air. Tonight feels different, as if something extraordinary is about to happen. But, it has been a long day and you’re exhausted. You can’t keep your eyes open any longer. You finally close your eyes, preparing to surrender to the embrace of sleep.

But just as you begin to drift off, you have a wonderful dream. A shimmering figure materializes before you. Your eyes widen in disbelief, and your heart races in your chest. It’s her. Mother Miranda stands before you, radiating an otherworldly presence that fills the room.

Your breath catches as she starts to speak, her voice a delicate mixture of authority and vulnerability. She reveals that she has been watching you, observing your dedication from afar. A surge of both surprise and validation washes over you, for you have always felt a deep connection to her, despite never having met her in person.

Miranda’s words are heavy with revelation as she shares the secrets of her experiments, expecting them to strike fear into your heart. She bares her soul, in some way hoping to distance herself from you and the emotions that threaten to consume her. She could never be truly accepted by you if you knew the truth.

However, you remain resolute. You are unshaken by the darkness she has embraced. You listen intently, absorbing every word she shares with unyielding loyalty. You understand that her intentions, though veiled in authority and detachment, come from a place of profound longing and self-preservation. And your belief in her, in her cause, grows even stronger.

As Miranda continues, her voice falters and you sense her vulnerability breaking through the façade. She speaks of her daughter, Eva, a person that brings her both sorrow and a deep yearning. In her words, you hear the echoes of a mother’s love, twisted and distorted by the weight of her choices.

Your heart aches as you witness this crack in her armor, this moment of emotional breakdown. Without hesitation, you reach out, gently taking her hand in yours. The touch is electrifying, a connection that surpasses the physical realm.

“Mother Miranda,” You say softly, your voice filled with conviction, “I will always believe in you. The darkness you carry does not frighten me, because… I see the pain and longing in your eyes. I am here to offer you anything you need.”

Miranda looks at you, surprised. In that instant, the walls she had built around herself begin to crumble. She realizes that her attempts to distance herself from those who care have only led her further into isolation.

As the weight of her emotions settles between you, a profound understanding washes over you both. You were meant to be more than just a follower. You were meant to offer her the love and acceptance she so desperately craves.

You eventually fall back asleep. The dream felt so real, but… There’s no way it could have been.

When you wake up the next morning, you find that you are disappointed to be alone. That’s odd. Why? You don’t have any family and you are such a solitary person. You’ve never really… Missed someone before. This loneliness is crushing, though. If only Miranda was here with you. Can you miss someone you’ve never actually met?

You sigh and begin to go about your morning routine. It’s almost time for the daily gathering and prayer. You like to get to the church early to set up.

After you have made the finishing preparations, you go and grab a seat among the villagers. The air is heavy with incense, and the flickering candlelight casts eerie shadows on the stone walls. As the words of the prayer begin to fill the room, you feel a sense of belonging, a connection to something greater than yourself.

But on this particular day, as you bow your head in reverence, something unexpected happens. The heavy wooden doors creak open and a figure draped in regal attire enters, commanding the attention of everyone present. A hush falls over the congregation as your eyes widen in disbelief. She’s here. Mother Miranda herself.

Your confusion deepens as she strides purposefully toward you, her piercing gaze locked onto yours. In this moment, time seems to stand still. Your heart pounds, unsure of what to make of this surreal encounter. All you can hear is the rushing of blood in your ears

Miranda makes her way over to you, her presence overwhelming, and without a word, she extends a hand toward you. Much like you how you reached out to her in your dream last night. You look around, searching for answers in the faces of the bewildered onlookers, but their expressions mirror your own. Confusion. Surprise. Fear.

Taking a leap of faith, you place your hand in hers and a surge of electricity courses through your veins. This… Feels familiar. Her hand is just as warm and soft as it was in your dream. It’s now that you realize that there wasn’t a dream. Miranda visited you. In person. Why would she go out of her way to talk to you? Before you can question her actions, she leads you out of the church and to a tiny little cottage. Is this where she lives? She deserves only the finest and yet she lives so humbly. She will never cease to amaze you.

Once you two are alone, the weight of her feelings finally overwhelms her and she confesses her love for you. It is a love born from a desire to be understood and accepted despite her flaws. You adore her just as she is, flaws and all. Her voice trembles with raw nerves and her eyes search yours for any sign of reciprocation.

You stare at her, disbelief mingling with a strange sense of awe. At Miranda’s admission, all doubts and uncertainties melt away, replaced by a deep understanding. You step closer to her, gently placing your hand on her cheek, and speak the words she so desperately longed to hear.

“Mother Miranda, my devotion to you knows no bounds. I have felt your presence in my heart all of my life and I… Love you. Unconditionally.”

As your words reach her ears, a flicker of hope dances in Miranda’s eyes. It is a fragile hope, but one that could grow into something beautiful and transformative. Miranda has silent tears running down her face, but she smiles and wraps her arms around your neck, kissing you tenderly.

Your hands find their way to her waist and you pull her closer. You now realize that your love has the power to heal even the deepest wounds, to bridge the divide between the revered and the devoted.

Masterlist

#re8 #re8 village #mother miranda #mother miranda x y/n #mother miranda x reader #resident evil village #resident evil imagines #resident evil 8 #resident evil #re village

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pisupsala · 7 months

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Of All The Stars in The Sky | 15 | Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw

Summary | War looks different from high above in the sky. But when Bradley finds himself on the ground, far behind enemy lines, it becomes a race against the clock to get out. And try not to look back at what he’s leaving behind.

Pairing | Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x fem!reader / Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x fem!oc (no use of y/n)

Warnings |Mature content | 18+ only[WWII AU] swearing, war, violence, death, explicit smut

Words | 8.1k

Library

Chapter 15 - September in the Rain

“This is not an interrogation,”

You don’t reply, concentrating all your energy on not raising your eyebrow into your hairline.

“This more of a… fact check.”

Nodding politely, you observe the thin man in the dark suit across the cold metal table as he leaves through the thick Manila folder in front of him. You’d say he looks mousy, but mouse-like is more apt. He has thin hair, combed back and set in place with an offensive amount of brilliantine. The sickly, sweet floral scent mixes violently with the sparsely furnished room's otherwise damp, cold smell. His voice is somewhat nasal, squeaky—somehow, you expected the Gestapo agent to look more intimidating.

You shift in your chair uncomfortably, accidentally scraping the leg over the concrete floor as you move. The man’s head shoots up abruptly. Clearly, nothing escapes his notice, sniffing out every move.

“Let’s start from the beginning, Fräulein Anna,” The smile that contorts his face looks uncomfortable, like his muscles don’t naturally move that way, but he is straining to mimic some sort of human emotion. His beady dark eyes are trained on you in an entirely too steady manner, which contrasts strangely with the almost nervous movements of his body. “How long have you-” He interrupts himself with an awkward cough, the corners of his mouth still pulled up in an awkward grimace that’s presumable a friendly smile. “— did you know Fräulein Eva?”

“We were in the same class since primary school, Herr Weber,” You reply steadily. “So we’ve known each other since we were seven.”

“Knew.” He squeaks.

“Knew.” You confirm, blinking slowly. He nods, scratching something in the file with a simple black fountain pen.

It’s been less than a week since Eva’s funeral. Every morning, you wake up, your brain filling in the sounds now painfully absent in your house: the hurried footsteps down the hall, clattering dishes in the kitchen, the radio playing in the living room. You tiptoe through the hallway to the door, back against the wall, the cold creeping up your spine like you’re walking over a grave. No trace is left on the polished hardwood, but you can’t unsee the stain in your mind’s eye.

The skin on your hands is still raw and red from the scalding washes you’ve subjected yourself to. The stain of Eva’s death is now seared into your flesh and bones. Mindlessly, you rub your hands over your thighs like you’re trying to wipe your hands on the fabric of your dress. Weber’s eyes dart to your hands immediately.

Disgusting little man, you seethe. He knows very well Eva is barely cold in the ground. He was probably there if he wasn’t the one pulling the trigger. Forcing a neutral expression onto your face as you look at him, taking a deep breath. You pray his wretched, mousy little face was not the last thing Eva saw on this world.

“And you were close,” He states, eyes back on the folder before him, scribbling. “And you’ve lived together since… February 1940.”

“Yes.”

Weber simply nods in his strange, nervous manner.

“Quite an unconventional arrangement, no?” The way he asks the question is non-accusatory, but his underlying meaning is clear.

“Rent in the city is expensive,” You shrug. “Neither of us graduated university, so we had to pool our resources.”

“Of course, very pragmatic.”

Weber sighs, putting down his pen and folding his hands. “So, fraulein, you knew each other for many years, you lived together, and you worked together,”

You nod.

“And now you are going to tell me you had no idea your lifelong friend, your roommate, was involved in committing treason.”

You swallow dryly. Weber might not look intimidating, but he terrifies you.

“Which she was summarily executed for.” He adds, that contorted grimace returning on his face.

“I guess she was better at keeping secrets than I gave her credit for.” If anything, Eva was excellent at keeping secrets. She never sold you out, paying for it with her life. If Weber had anything on you, you wouldn’t have this conversation. You wouldn’t be having a conversation, period. Your jaw clenches, but you force yourself to calm down again when the beady eyes roam over your face. It’s getting increasingly difficult—Weber is expertly getting under your skin with innocuous-sounding questions.

Those little corrections.

The small jabs.

“Stealing, black market dealing, forgery—those are a lot of secrets to keep, don’t you think?

Your stomach twists painfully as you shrug in response. “I wouldn’t know.”

The lies just add to the crushing guilt.

Eva’s funeral was held in a church in her hometown outside the capital. The small chapel was ornately decorated with statues of saints, and the walls of the ship depicted the twelve stages of the cross. You hung back, entering behind the congregation before sliding into a bench in the back of the church. The empty eyes of the John the Baptist statue at the entrance are burning a hole in your back, judging you. You shouldn’t be here. It’s your fault Eva is dead.

You almost dashed out of the church when Eva’s family walked down—the sobs tearing from her mother are too much for you to bear. But you stayed, rooted in place on the wooden bench. It’s the least you could do for Eva. Honor her.

If your guilt doesn’t eat you alive first.

Against everything telling you to leave, you joined the line for condolences. Mumbling through your sympathies, you could not look anyone in the eye, terrified they would see: it’s all your fault. They should not hug you or offer you comfort when all you have to offer in return are lies. When Eva’s mother pulled you against her, thanking you for coming and asking to please visit, you nearly buckled under the weight of your shame.

“Clearly,” Weber clears his throat. “There’s another matter I’d like you to clear up.”

You blink in a manner that you hope looks innocent, rather than nervous. Another matter? The first thing on your mind is Bradley. Immediately, you push the thought away, scared that the beady eyes look right through you, knowing every thought, picking apart things you want to keep hidden.

“Yes?” Your mouth is dry.

“Just fact-checking, of course,” Weber grimaces again as if this is nothing more than a pleasant conversation. “So we can close the case—judgment has already been passed, as you know.”

You nod as an automatic reaction rather than any real agreement. Weber’s attempt at a pleasant front is callous—you wonder for a moment if it’s a strategy he employs to get you to trip up or if he genuinely is only capable of human mimicry at best.

“So,” He leaves through the file. “According to the schedule, you usually worked the night shift, while Eva more generally worked days.” Weber’s beady eyes are moving at high speed over the pages. He doesn’t follow up with a question, letting the implication hang in the air. Stealing, black market dealing, forgery—how did Eva do it? Did you help her? Did you know?

“We switched shifts a lot,” The words tumble out of your mouth as horror washes over you.

How can you lie so easily?

“I usually forgot to change it on the schedule in the morning,” You add sheepishly as if admitting your part in this somehow absolves you of the horrifying lie you just told.

You just pinned all your crimes on your friend.

It doesn’t matter that the Gestapo already thought that she was guilty. But you, you know she is innocent; that her murder was unjust. It feels like you’ve condemned Eva again: first with the bullet to the head, and now with every lie you tell to save yourself. Disgracing her memory—besmirching the person she was in life and abusing her braveness in death.

“Did you switch shifts on April 19th?” Weber doesn’t look up from the paper he is holding up now, his dry fingers rubbing against the paper. Nails on a chalkboard would be a more pleasant sound.

Your shoulders sag. That’s the night you broke into the ministry.

“I- I don’t remember,” You hesitate. It was less than three weeks ago. Is it strange you wouldn’t remember? Weber regards you, nose scrunching up, like he can smell the lie on you. You don’t say anything else, resorting to shrugging, eyes roaming around the room as you pretend to search your memory.

Weber is trying to lead you down a trap.

The violent scrape of the chair against the uneven concrete floor startles you, your hand grabbing your chest, trying to catch your heart leaping out of it. Weber ignores your reaction, circling the desk as quietly as a mouse—if you couldn’t see his feet, you’d assume he was tiptoeing.

You hear him open the door, the metal handle clanking against the handle. He squeaks something down the hall—you don’t quite catch it. Starting to turn around, you freeze mid-motion, one hand clutching the back of your chair so hard your knuckles are turning white.

Shuffling footsteps are coming down the hall, distinct in its terror-inducing sound.

Abruptly, you turn around, clutching your hand over your mouth, trying to silence your heavy breathing. Maybe it’s just your imagination. Perhaps it’s just a coincidence.

You need to calm down.

A gust of cold air passes you as the door behind you opens. You stiffen in your seat, eyes wide.

The dragging gait is getting closer and closer. Blinking rapidly, you try to get a grip before Weber notices—getting your facial muscles to relax is incredibly hard. Your jaw is clenched so tightly you think it might be stuck like that.

It’s coming closer.

You must take control of the situation because your whole reaction is screaming guilt. Face Weber and shuffling man head-on—don’t show them you’re scared. You have no reason to, do you? This is not an interrogation, after all, only fact-checking.

And you are innocent.

At least, that’s what you are going to make them believe. If you make it out alive, you’ll have eternity to burn in hell for your lies.

Sucking in a deep breath, you get up out of your chair. With a smile on your face, hoping it looks natural enough, you nod at the shuffling man.

“Sir.” You acknowledge him politely.

“Miss.” The shuffling man stops and looks at you pensively. Like he’s trying to remember where he’s seen you. You don’t give him more time to stare at you. Sitting back down, you busy yourself smoothing out your dress before folding your hands in your lap. Your nails are digging into your palm.

Weber has been scurrying through the background of the short exchange, only attracting attention back at himself when he sits down, scraping his chair over the floor again. You are sure he’s doing it on purpose. The shuffler, for his noisy gait, pulls out his chair quietly.

“Detective Novak was a witness on April 19th and aided in solving the case,” Weber announces as he once again leaves through the papers in front of him. “I brought him in to help tie up the loose ends.”

Bile rises in your throat.

“Again, Fräulein, did you switch shifts on April 19th?” Weber looks straight at you. If there was any pretense of pleasantness in his tone before, it’s ice-cold now. You blink mutely, like a deer caught in headlights.

“I - no.” You try to swallow the bile, but your mouth is so dry there’s nothing to wash away the burning sensation creeping through your throat.

“So, you remember now?” Weber’s tone is not mocking but increases your sense of unease because it’s just a reminder: he’s trying to catch you in a lie.

You bite your tongue from making some sort of glib reply. Well, it’s been stressful with you shooting my best friend in my apartment, leaving her body for me to find, and forcing me to clean up the blood from the floor. So you just shrug lightly.

“You mentioned you often forgot to amend it in the schedule,” Weber is staring at you without blinking. “How are you sure now that wasn’t the case that day?”

Fuck. You’ve given him too much information on your lie, and now he’s clawing at you. Weber was waiting for this. The palms of your hands are stinging, the salt from the sweat seeping into your rubbed-raw skin. You can’t help but wipe your hands over the fabric of your dress again, trying to alleviate the pain in vain. Now, two pairs of eyes follow your every movement.

“I’m sure,” You begin, looking at Weber levelly, hoping your voice won’t waver from the loud beating of your heart. Your fingers are clinging onto your skirt, the fabric wrinkling under your sweaty grip. What stood out about the 19th of April? Why would you remember that particular day?

It’s the first time you kissed Bradley. It’s the first time you slept with him. Just the thought of Bradley’s soft voice in your ear calms your heart before you realize: shit. You have no alibi. You scoff, shifting uncomfortably in your seat, ready to commit another lie—after making your best friend take the fall for your crimes, can you pretend to have morals?

“Because I was with-” The lie burns as hot on your tongue as on your face.

“It wasn’t her.” Detective Novak cuts in suddenly. You inhale deeply like you’re trying to breathe words back in.

Weber scrunches up his face, confused, stilling all movement. It takes you a second to realize your mouth is hanging open.

“I remember you,” Novak turns to you, voice clipped, as you quickly close your mouth. “You dropped the bucket in front of my office that day.”

The moment he mentions it, you remember how mortified you had been. But you forgot about all that in the elation of the information you found, the absolute dream of six days that followed it—but could it be that the man that condemned your friend to death will be your alibi?

“Oh—yes, I did.” You mumble, staring at your hands, trying to focus on the embarrassment you felt then, trying to recall it in every movement. From the corner of your eye, you see Weber nodding.

“So, detective, are you corroborating the night guard’s testimony?”

You hold your breath.

“Corroborate?” Novak scoffs. “We saw a flash of hair and a skirt—all I can corroborate is that the person we saw leaving forensics that night was a woman.”

You shake your head in fear as if to communicate it wasn’t you. At that moment, you hate yourself. By far, by far, you are not as brave as you thought you’d be. You don’t sit with your head held high, proud—you shake in your seat, and you lie to save your own life.

Novak shoots you a look before turning his attention back to Weber. “Although that old coot probably testified exactly what you needed him to.” He adds almost lazily like it’s all a joke.

“Then what makes you so sure it wasn’t Fräulein Anna, detective?” Weber is now entirely focused on Novak, squeaky voice serious. It doesn’t escape your notice he doesn’t acknowledge the detective’s quip—like it doesn’t even register as odd to him. And why would it? It’s probably true. An icy chill travels down your spine.

You’ve been scared before. But the sheer terror settling in your bones right now, from the eerily calm conversation to the dank room, is nothing like you’ve ever experienced.

“She’s the dim one.”

Novak says it matter-of-factly like you’re not even in the room with them. You never realized you could feel relief while your heart dropped simultaneously. The strange, strangled sound that escapes Weber is supposedly how he laughs before coughing to regain his composure. You can’t help but exhale audibly, finally realizing the breath you didn’t even know you had been holding.

“Breaking into the ministry, not to mention operating the radio, would require a measure of stealth and smarts.” He continues arrogantly, clearly seeing this as an opportunity to showcase his detective skills and reasoning.

You realize the radio must have still been warm from running by the time they got to it. Averting your eyes, trying to make it look like you are still embarrassed, you bite your lip. So they know it was used, but Weber hasn’t brought it up so far. Is he waiting to ambush you with it, or does he think he knows?

You feel an uncomfortable prickle on your neck. Bradley would be long gone now—surely. He left two weeks ago. He would not be in the territory of the Reich anymore. Except you have no way of knowing for sure. All you can do is hope. Dream.

He has to be okay.

You don’t think you could handle being responsible for Eva’s and Bradley’s deaths.

“It’s the kind of stealth and smarts it takes to steal and forge documents systematically,” Novak’s voice is getting louder as he appears to find his footing in the situation and with a seemingly captive audience. You’re looking at him blankly as he gestures wildly to make his point—meanwhile, Weber is taking notes, the corners of his tiny mouth downturned. “It takes planning, preparation, steady hands—she,” A short jerk of his head in your direction is the only indication he’s actually aware you’re still present. “She can’t stand on a ladder holding a bucket.”

Weber nods as he holds up a paper—beady eyes darting over the lines. “The night guard described as her slow in his testimony.”

“That’s one way of putting it.”

Tears sting in your eyes. You are not even a person anymore—the story you spun so meticulously for so long worked so well it completely erased you.

You should be happy.

It all paid off, after all.

But you just feel hollow.

***

Bradley’s pen is ticking against the table obnoxiously—speeding up and slowing down with seemingly no rhyme or rhythm. The only person he is annoying with it is himself. The office he has been assigned for the duration of his debriefing—an assigned office, ridiculous—is empty. Because to his immense displeasure, Bradley has been grounded until all procedures have been completed. Unfortunately, even in wartime, the red tape runs long.

It’s August, a humid and sticky English summer. It’s over two months since he’s been back, and it’s like he’s been stuck in place ever since.

Every time the alarm sounds, and everyone starts scrambling to sortie, Bradley is inevitably on his feet, every muscle in his body rearing to go, his fingers itching—but then his brain catches up. He’s grounded. It takes so long for his heart rate to settle down again and the adrenaline to ebb away—but Bradley never feels entirely at ease. At some point, he realized the tension and powerlessness were there all along—his ever-present companions.

If only he could fly—he could finally feel calm again. Physically getting away from everything, finally be surrounded by open air. The wall of the office, the walls of his barracks room, every closed space is closing in on him, looming over him, keeping him confined.

The crushing boredom of desk duty makes it impossible not to feel it constantly. Even if Bradley tried, it’s like he can’t escape that small room—he remains locked up, waiting even now. And you’re not here to make him forget the long lonely hours, to alleviate the constant tension in his body—he feels it in his soul.

Around you, he could forget.

Bradley supposes he is happy he is around people again. He can move around freely—as much as possible while grounded on an airbase in wartime. At least he gets weekend liberty—normally, he would go drown himself in booze and soft skin, but these days, he just wanders the countryside enjoying the free space around him. Bradley never thought he would miss going outside so much again, not walking on eggshells every time he left the safety of the small room, the weight of the fear something could happen—something could happen to you—dragging him down.

He receives telegrams from home: Mav, Natasha, and even Bob, asking him if he is alright, to tell them what happened in the months he disappeared off the face of the earth. Once the news that he is no longer MIA spreads back home, more letters and telegrams start trickling in from friends and old lovers. Bradley tosses the letters from old lovers without opening them, uninterested in politely replying. For everyone else, there’s not much to say: he is okay, and no, he’s not coming home yet.

It’s only when Mav pulls enough strings to get a phone call in, frantic—Bradley suddenly feels the guilt deep in the pit of his stomach. He disappeared for months: no leads, nothing. The War Department wouldn’t even confirm the sortie he had been flying. Mav, despite their rocky relationship, is the closest thing to the real family Bradley has left. But even now, they cannot help but fall back into old patterns.

“How can you be so calm about this all?” Mav’s voice is growing from frantic to frustrated over the crackling line. “Bradley—do you realize we all thought you were dead for the past months?”

“What do you want me to say?” Bradley sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose—he sounds almost petulant, but Mav tends to be overbearing. “That I’m sorry?”

“It would be a start?!” Mav exclaims.

“I’m not apologizing for being alive,” Bradley bites out.

“You had everyone going crazy from worry. I promised-”

“Exactly.” Bradley cuts Mav off harshly, knowing precisely what he’s about to bring up. “You promised. No one ever bothered to ask me what I wanted. You just started meddling every chance you got to assuage your own guilt.”

“Well, it certainly sounds like you’re all back to your old self,” Mav retorts flatly. No matter how well he hides it, Bradley can hear in his tone that he’s hurt. “I’m glad you’re safe and well, Rooster.”

“Yeah,” Bradley swallows, trying to push back the rising anger - Mav deserves a lot of Bradley’s wrath, but the matter is that he’s also trying to make amends in his own way. “Thanks for calling, Mav. Hope Penny and Amelia are okay?” He attempts conversationally.

“They’re fine.” The reply is ice-cold.

They both stay quiet for a moment—the static on the line crackles.

“If you want to talk…” Mav starts hesitantly before sighing heavily. “I - I’m sure you’ve been through hell—I can’t even imagine. You don’t have to go through it alone, okay, Bradley? Write, hell, call if you have to. I’m here.” He implores, his voice wavers from worry on the last syllable.

They haven’t seen eye-to-eye for a long time, even without speaking for several years. But it’s hard to forget: Pete was there for Bradley during his childhood when he didn’t have anyone else. Bradley always looked up to Mav, his de-facto father figure. They’ve been in an uneasy truce for a while now: neither can really let the hurt go, but they have too much history together to forget.

“I can’t, Mav,” Bradley replies softly. He hears a soft ‘oh’ on the other end of the line. “It’s not… It’s not that I don’t want to,” He adds hurriedly. “I just can’t. The debriefing is classified, and all my communications are being screened with prejudice.”

“No, no, I understand,” The relief in his voice is audible, however.

“Thanks for calling,” Bradley re-iterates sincerely. “I really appreciate it.”

The rest of his days, weeks spent in debriefing are filled with a desperate monotony. Going over every detail of his time in the Protectorate ad nauseam. If he’s not talking about it, he is reading his own words back in reports. What did he see? Who did he talk to? Pinpoint places of interest on a map.

He wishes it felt cathartic to talk about everything. Most infer he’s been held in a POW camp, and he just bounced back quicker than others. Ironically the only place where he can talk, in any way, about what happened to him is during the debriefing. And it’s killing him.

Every time he goes over the whole story again, the less he feels like it actually, really happened to him. In every version of the report that he reads, everything becomes a little bit more abstract, like his memories are nothing more than the words on the page, stripped of all nuances, feelings—love. The Department of War and Bradley’s chain of command are hardly interested in anything beyond the facts. But they want all the facts.

“Lieutenant,” The RAF officer across from Bradley is suddenly looking at him sharply—an old hand at internal affairs, pushing paper with a bushy mustache and a posh accent but no flight hours under his belt. It’s high summer and stifling hot in the dusty room. The leather chairs, part of the otherwise cozy old-world decor, feel sticky. The ice in his scotch has long melted, and the ashtray is overflowing with precariously piled-up cigarettes. Despite the open window, the curtains gently swaying on a summer breeze, the air in the room is heavy. “What exactly was the nature of your relationship with your handler?”

Bradley has purposefully avoided that subject. Even now, he doesn’t answer immediately, mulling over the answer. It’s not be a problem if he admits honestly he was romantically involved with you—it’s wartime, and emotions run high. But Bradley doesn’t want to. It’s private. Fragile. The only thing he has left. It doesn't deserve—you don’t deserve having your intimate moments with him dissected and put on file for prying eyes.

“We trusted each other,” Bradley finally admits, sitting back, the leather softly creaking as he moves.

“Just that?” The RAF officer pries, a little too curious. Your handkerchief is burning in Bradley’s chest pocket.

“Just trust?” Bradley scoffs incredulously. As if that isn’t central, pivotal, the most important thing between two people moving through the shadows behind enemy lines. It was the first time you really opened up to him when you dropped your mask so suddenly:

“How much do you trust me?”

Bradley sighs. He would trust you with his life over and over again. And while he never told you as such, he hopes you know he’s also entrusted his heart to you.

“Trust is rare,” Bradley shrugs lightly before leaning back in his chair again. The leather creaks softly under his shifting weight. “I was lucky my handler was excellent.”

“Lucky indeed,” The officer adds under his breath. “You mentioned she was quite young…” He trails off as he looks for the paper with your information. “Not even 24 years old yet.”

Bradley rubs his face in frustration. “Lieutenant,” He starts sharply, reminding the officer across from him they are equal in rank. “Is there a point to this line of questioning?”

The officer guffaws, unintimidated by Bradley’s tone. “I’m looking to understand your bias.”

“My bias towards what exactly?”

“The Czechoslovak resistance and their cause, your interpretation of events,” He shrugs as if it’s a run-of-the-mill question, not an invasive inquiry. “And everyone knows how you earned that call sign, lieutenant.” He grins conspiratorially.

At the casual, throwaway line, an ice-cold realization trickles down Bradley’s spine. He supposes he should find it funny. Sitting up straighter in his chair, Bradley reaches from the glass of scotch—the outside is covered in condensation—and takes a larger-than-necessary sip. You made fun of him for his call sign back at that mountain cabin, and it was the first time he was actually bothered, but its provenance. Now, it feels like a black mark.

“So,” Bradley clears his throat, trying to find the right words. “You think I thanked Any- Anna for risking her life for me by showing her a good time?” Despite his carefully crafted flat affect, he cannot help the venom that seeps into his words.

“Why not?” The officer shrugs. “Wasn’t she your type? Not pretty enough for your discerning tastes?”

Bradley put the glass he was holding back on the table with a little too much force, the dull thud reverberating through the wood. The officer across from him looks amused as he scribbles something down.

“Like I said,” Bradley keeps his voice level. “There was a lot of mutual trust—I trusted Anna with my life, just as I trust my squadron in the air.”

He knows he needs to let the jab about your looks slide—it would only open him up to more questions. Although Bradley supposes if anyone had asked him about his type this time last year, he wouldn’t have necessarily thought about someone like you. And it’s not because you are not beautiful or because you are naively unaware of that fact; you just appear to care more for impressing with your wit and quick thinking—challenging him, giving him the constant runaround. There was a time when he wouldn’t have cared too much for that challenge—it wasn’t fit for purpose.

You are so infuriatingly stubborn and difficult it drives him mad. But then you turn so beguiling and sweet, which is, possibly, even more maddening.

Have you influenced his perception of events? Of course. But it’s not because he’s entertaining some sort of schoolboy crush on you or because your relationship naturally, perhaps inevitably, grew deeper and more intimate. The basis was always trust. Bradley trusted you with his life before your lips ever touched his, even when you were arguing, even when you got so mad at him you disappeared for two weeks—you could have tipped someone off, gotten rid of him, and ensured your own safety.

But you never did.

Everything truly matters is your stubborn sense of justice and your unwavering loyalty.

Mercifully, the line of questioning is dropped. When Bradley is handed the final version of the report on a rainy day in early September—he’s been grounded for months now—it states somewhat euphemistically: Lieutenant Bradshaw [code name: ROOSTER] shared a close personal relationship with his handler [REDACTED] [code name: DAYBREAK].

It’s funny, in a painful, ironic way, that Bradley himself doesn’t have the clearance to read the unredacted version of his own debrief—your name, of all things, has been lacquered out, as if you are a mere footnote to the story. He doesn’t miss the little jab in your code name you’ve been given either—the rooster crows at daybreak, after all.

Sitting in his office, he reads through the endless pages for days on end, reliving, at a distance, everything that happened in those few months behind enemy lines. It feels foreign to him like he’s having an out-of-body experience reading the abstract summary of what he lived through.

As he reads, Bradley mindlessly runs his thumb over the delicate stitching of your initials. Because it all happened, right? You are real, his feelings are real. But why does it feel like it didn’t really happen to him?

It’s like he sees his memories of you through a kaleidoscope: increasingly fragmented, mirrored, and endlessly replicated. He tries to hold onto every sliver of you: the smell of your soap, the sound of your laughter, your mischievous grin. The way you frown, the cute little crease between your eyebrows, and tap the pencil against your lips as you think. The way your eyes blaze with fury as you square up to him, completely unafraid: you will always fight for what you believe to be right and just.

But progressively, it feels like he can’t see those things anymore, and they are replaced by mere descriptions and summaries, abstracted from time and space.

As Bradley signs the final page of the report—the whole truth and nothing but the truth—it feels strange to close the book, literally and physically. This is the last step to get approved for flying again. “Congratulations, lieutenant Bradshaw,” The RAF officer nods approvingly as Bradley lays down the pen. “You can report back to your squadron; I’m sure you have been missed.”

“Thank you, sir,” Bradley nods. He should feel happy—this was the final leg of his arduous journey. It’s what he wanted. But then, why does it feel so hollow? Saluting the officer, he turns to the door. Hand on the handle, he suddenly hesitates.

“Actually, I have a question.” Bradley turns back around, facing the officer, clearing away the report.

“Go ahead, lieutenant.” He nods.

“The report—will it be shared?”

The officer stills, looking at Bradley sharply again. His bushy mustache bristles as he mulls over the questions. “It will be shared with your chain of command on a need-to-know basis,” He finally replies.

“And what of the Czechoslovak government in exile?” Bradley knows he’s pushing the envelope on this.

The officer’s eyes narrow. “That’s beyond our purview.”

“So you won’t share with them vital information from the home resistance, which has been cut off from communication for over a year?” Bradley can’t stop himself from raising his voice. Because it was never just about him—you, everyone depended on him getting out to show the home resistance took a hit, but you are still functioning and strong enough to pull this escape plan off. They need to know. “Will you not tell them about everything the resistance has done, everything they risked?”

“That’s beyond your purview, lieutenant,” However jovial the offer had been before, his voice thunders now. “You are dismissed.”

***

The pillow is too fluffy. The sun streaming through the curtains that your mother forcefully pulled open, sniping at you to get up finally, is too harsh. The goose feather duvet is comfortably heavy, but uncomfortably hot.

You’ve been home for weeks now. After stumbling out of the interrogation—or fact check—Detective Novak insisted on gentlemanly walking you to the exit; he left you with one final message.

“We know who you are now.”

Not directly a threat, but rather a reminder. The police and the Gestapo have you in their sights now—you are on file. Guilty by association.

You nod and utter a polite goodbye. Walking onto the street, you force yourself to walk at a normal pace—don’t look back, don’t look back, don’t look back.

It takes forever to turn the corner. The moment you know you are out of sight, you stumble against a young oak tree, splattering the full contents of your stomach on its roots and your carefully shined shoes. Shaking, you return home, where you blindly pack a bag, and scribble a borderline rude resignation letter on a dogeared page from a note pad. Tearing it off, you stuff it in an envelope, posting it on your way to the station. Another, much more polite note, although not particularly elaborate either, is slipped under your downstairs neighbor's door—please forward my mail to my parent’s address.

Your hands are still quacking when you present your ticket for inspection.

It’s hours later, when darkness is already setting it, and you’re walking down the unlit single road towards the small village where you spent your early childhood years in the far east of the country, you feel like you can finally breathe again. The sweet smell of orchards in bloom fills the air; everything feels so familiar, from the crickets in the grass to the wind rustling through the wheat fields. In the weak twilight, small bats shoot through the sky, hunting for insects. Your heart finally feels like it can return to a normal pace. You are home.

Your feet hurt—you didn’t bother getting changed before leaving. The once shiny, polished, heeled shoes you wore this morning are scuffed and dusty—your nice dress is crumpled and sweaty. But in the distance, you see lights: houses lining the empty, dark road. Heaving your bag over your shoulder gracelessly, you pick up the pace. The earlier you get there, the earlier you can get out of these shoes.

By the time you stumble into the front garden of your childhood house, it’s pitch dark. Your footing is unsure on the uneven slabs of stone of the old garden path—built by your great-grandfather, you’ve been told—as your shoes pinch and chafe your swelling feet. The front door is open, the light from the inside streaming onto the porch as the only light source. It looks empty—which is strange. As you move closer, a small orange ball of fur shoots past you into the darkness; you yelp, dropping your bag loudly.

“Andulka? My little songbird, is that you?” Your father, previously crouched in the shadows, is walking into the light now. God, he has aged so much since you last saw him—his hair is so much grayer, his face so much more worn. He is dressed smartly as always: dress pants, a matching waistcoat, and a crisp shirt. Your father might have retired as a lawyer at the outbreak of the war, resigning his government position and moving back to his ancestral house, but a lifetime of habits are hard to break. Uncharacteristically, he’s not wearing a jacket, and his sleeves are rolled up.

Even stranger, possibly, is the small desert plate in his hand and what looks like several barn cats tottering and yowling around his feet.

You don’t know why you feel so overcome with emotion—maybe because you haven’t seen your father in way too long. You forgot how much you missed him, maybe because he hasn’t called you Andulka since you were a child, or maybe because your dad has clearly, covertly been feeding the barn cats when never allowed you to have a pet.

Standing there on the garden path in your crumpled dress and dirty shoes, you simply burst out crying. Every tear and sob you swallowed for Eva, for Bradley, and for yourself, force their way out of you—but it’s okay now. You are home.

It’s been three weeks since you’ve returned—and you’ve spent most of that time in bed, asleep or staring at the ceiling. The moment you crossed the threshold of your home, it’s like every defense, every system you had to sustain, you just crumbled. You cannot summon the energy for anything: reading, talking or even smiling. Sometimes, you venture into the kitchen, you sit through dinner with your parents mostly in silence.

Your father doesn’t push the issue much. Once you assured him that you weren’t in any sort of trouble—which, formally, isn’t a lie—he left it at that. Emotional things were never much his forte, but in his own way, he tries to cheer you up in his own way. Your father cuts out the Saturday cartoon from the newspaper for you, bringing it to you with a cup of tea, and leaving it with a kiss on your forehead.

Every day, he brings you interesting finds from his daily walks: a double-headed dandelion or a ghost leaf. Loitering in the doorway, he waits for you to smile. On your birthday, which you forgot about in the blur of days, he gifts you a simply wrapped tablet of milk chocolate, which is impossible to get.

“Don’t tell your mother,” He whispers conspiratorially, grinning, knowing she will probably be upset at the cost of such luxuries. Unwrapping your secret gift, you sigh lightly.

“You shouldn’t have, daddy,” But despite your soft chiding, you take a bite out of the corner, savoring the chocolate melting on your tongue. The corners of your mouth quirk up automatically as the sugar hits your system.

“Anything to have you smile again, Andulka.”

You can’t stop your eyes from filling with tears at the words. Are you only capable of hurting everyone around you? How can you ever be worthy of kindness again?

But your mother—oh lord, as if you weren’t at odds with her already—she just won’t let it go. At first she is sympathetic, worried you are in trouble. Not the kind of trouble your father would think. But rather… trouble of the martial kind—a child out of wedlock, unwanted advances, or a broken heart.

You don’t want to talk about it.

Any of it.

Not about Eva, and absolutely not about Bradley. It’s your burden to bear—the crushing guilt, the uncertainty—it feels that if you can keep it all in you, you can keep a grip on it.

After all, it’s safer if your parents don’t know. They will never accept a roundabout explanation of why Eva is dead, shot dead by the Gestapo in their apartment. Your father especially will go digging for answers, looking for justice, and you don’t want that on your conscience.

So you keep quiet.

Your mother cares for you and comforts you by bringing you food, brushing your hair, talking to you, reading to you. Cuddled up to her, you cry to yourself. But you can’t talk about it.

And as expected, your mother’s patience runs out with what she calls your histrionics. There is nothing wrong with you, you are just lazy and stubborn. As usual, you—or your shortcomings—are the reason for your failing. Age and retirement clearly softened your once serious and studious father, but your mother, who is a lot younger than him, seems to have picked up the slack more than anything.

You burrow deeper under your heavy duvet. Pulling out Bradley’s bracelet from under your pillow, you run the chain through your fingers as almost a force of habit, tracing your fingers over the embossed insignia. For a moment, it gives you comfort before your thoughts spiral - did Bradley ever make it out alive? Maybe he was intercepted, just like Eva.

What if it all had been for nothing?

Your heart feels heavy, like every beat takes gargantuan effort. Grief is as much physical as it is mental; heart and soul suffer. You cannot even bring yourself to dream anymore - it’s just a mantra you repeat, because the alternative is dragging you into the bottomless pit of despair: Bradley made it out alive. He is safe. He is well.

Your fingers tighten around the bracelet, and your heartbeat evens out again, feeling just a fraction lighter. Your relative moment of peace is rather short-lived, however, as your mother has decided that she will whip you into shape.

“Get up, Anna,” She orders you, pulling the duvet off you. Quickly, you hide Bradley’s bracelet in your hand. “You are going to the Moravec estate today; the cherries need harvesting.”

“You’re sending me to do farm labor?” You ask incredulously, getting up slowly. The way she forcefully throws open the window of your bedroom and throws your duvet over the ledge to air out tells you you shouldn’t really challenge her right now.

“Yes,” Your mother replies in a clipped tone, turning fully to you, anger etched on her face. You stare back, unamused. “The world didn’t stop turning just because of you—the Moravec’ sons and farmhands have all been drafted, so they can use all the help they can get.”

Getting up from the bed, you swallow, unable to reply. Only your mother could make you feel guilty for grieving.

“And since there’s nothing wrong with your hands or feet,” She continues, walking over to your closet and pulling clothes out. “I volunteered you.”

“Thanks.” You mumble, trying not to sound sarcastic while slipping Bradley’s bracelet into the drawer of your nightstand. It’s June and already blisteringly hot. The Moravec estate is on the southern hillside just outside the village, a prime location for their orchards and vineyards because there is nowhere to hide from the sun. You are going to burn to a crisp, you think sourly.

Your mother waltzes out of your room as abruptly as she stormed in—you take that it’s a hint for you to get changed. She comes back when you try to comb a particularly stubborn knot from your hair, sitting in front of your small vanity.

“Let me do that for you,” She offers kindly, gently taking the brush from you. With a sigh, you acquiesce. Systematically, your mother starts brushing through the strand of hair.

“I know you’re mad at me.” She says suddenly, shortly meeting your eyes in the mirror's reflection.

“I’m not, mama.” You admit, not without difficulty. “I just thought you’d volunteer me for something…” You want to say more ladylike, but you decide against it—what you really mean is easier. “...something like the church or the library.”

“They don’t need help like the farms around here do.” She replies levelly. “Besides…,”

Your mother stops brushing for a moment, hesitating. You look at her through the reflection—she seems sad. Her normally stoic demeanor has suddenly cracked. “It will do you good, Andulka; the fresh air, the sunlight. You will bloom right back up.”

You swallow heavily, feeling like you’re about to cry again. You feel undeserving of affection.

“I thought it was because I’m lazy and stubborn,” You quip instead, averting your eyes.

“You are,” Your mother replies easily—you can’t even be offended anymore. “But you are also resourceful and clever: laying in bed all day is a waste of you.”

Putting the brush down, she rests her hands on your shoulders, squeezing reassuringly.

“Your father worked too hard to give you every opportunity—the best schools in the republic, tutors, not to mention all those English newspapers and vinyls,” She shakes her head, smiling fondly. “He spoiled you.”

“And I was top of my class,” You defend yourself somewhat weakly. “It’s not like I squandered any of my opportunities.” And I’m not lazy.

“That’s not the point Andulka,” She chastises you gently. “But you can’t give up just because things aren’t turning out the way you hoped they would.”

“I didn’t -” The words die in your throat. You did give up. You know you did, but you couldn’t bring yourself to admit it. Shoulders sagging, you hang your head in shame. Your mother’s warm hand brushes the hair from your face, kissing you on the temple.

“Your resourcefulness and smarts always served you so much better than your stubborn laziness—complacency doesn’t suit you,” Her voice is tender as her arms come to embrace you. “Don’t forget that.”

You lean into the embrace. Lazy, stubborn, spoiled—it feels like your mother never cut you any slack. To a certain level, you understand that she wanted you to achieve all the things that she never could, trying to instill resilience in you: you can only ever truly rely on yourself. But sometimes, you just needed her love and compassion without having to tick every box in her list of expectations for you.

“You need to get going,” Your mother’s voice cracks under the weight of her own emotions, as she pulls back. She grabs you by the shoulders again, not so gently, this time and pulls you up. “Take a scarf to protect your hair.”

You turn to call after her, but she is already out of the room.

Over that long, hot summer of 1943, you harvest cherries, peaches, and plums, ending the scorching season in the wheat fields. And your mother was right—being outside does you a lot of good. Mostly because you are so exhausted at the end of every day, you don’t have any energy left. It gives you a strange kind of peace—nothing has changed, nothing has been resolved: Eva is still dead, you have been compromised as a suspected member of the resistance, and you will never find out what happened to Bradley.

You simply don’t have the energy to fight it anymore.

Acceptance is both bitter and liberating.

At night, somewhere between sleep and waking, you allow yourself to dream about the life that could have been. The silver of Bradley’s bracelet glints in the moonlight peeping through your window—the chain is soothingly cool against your warm and now-calloused hands.

What if you had gotten onto the train with him?

You would be in England with Bradley now. He would take you dancing every weekend, your dashing lieutenant, looking sharp in his uniform. Maybe you could study again, on your desk, a small vase of wildflowers that Bradley would bring you. At night, you would stay safely wrapped in his arms, peppering his skin with kisses, Bradley whispering those sweet promises in your ear.

When the war is over, you could start a family—you imagine a house on the cliffs by the beach, the patter of tiny feet in the morning. Your handsome and brave Bradley, sunkissed and windswept, matching rings on your fingers. He would take you to see all the places you’ve only read about in books, all the places he teased tangled in the sheets of that small room with you.

It’s the sweetest dream, unencumbered by reality. Escapism without consequence. You would have been happy with Bradley. You like to think you would make him happy too.

Sometimes, you think you should have just gotten on that train: everything be damned. But in reality, you know you couldn’t live with yourself if you did that. Leaving behind your family, your friends, your cause to die. Some things are bigger than you, bigger than you and Bradley. He would understand.

The dream is all you have. And for now, it has to be enough.

note | sorry it gets worse

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sydsrichie · 9 months

Text

spearmint and nicotine

sydney/richie [Ao3]

continued in salt fat acid heat

word count: 1,828

rating: gen

summary: Richie thinks about all the things that are difficult in his life and the one thing that's easy.

warnings: mentions of canonical suicide, post Season 2, angst

Kissing Sydney is easy.

It’s like letting waves crash over his head. Just giving in to the current. For once, not fighting.

It might be the only thing in his life that’s easy.

His job is difficult, but Richie tries to perform it with some ease - no, shit, he does perform it with ease. He memorises names like he’d swallowed a phone book, works out who’s an asshole and who’s not by the slope of their shoulders and the set of their mouth. 14 likes spice - don’t hold back, quick but readable on a slip of paper no bigger than a credit card, pressed into Gary’s hand to relay back to expo. Look people in the eyes, but don’t be too intense about it. Drop their names gently, like you want them to know you remembered but you’re not trying to show them you remembered. Manage the front. Manage the back. Just as important to keep the chefs happy as it is the diners.

Being a dad is difficult. He could live to be a thousand and he’d still wake up in a cold sweat, convinced he was doing a terrible job, and Eva would be a homeless crack addict or the next Mussolini, and it’d be all his fault.

Being Tiff’s something is difficult. He rolls his wedding band on his finger like Marcus rolls out pastry - meticulous and anxious and afraid. He can’t say she’s his ex-wife, it just lodges in his throat like a peach pit. He can’t resent her for saying she loves him. She wouldn’t be Tiff if her heart wasn’t two sizes too big.

Working with Carmen is difficult. Depending on the day, Carmen’s head is like ground beef, or a ship taking on water through a canon blast in the hull, or a fucking lit Molotov cocktail. And Richie loves him. Wants to forgive every wretched word he ever said in anger. Wants to reach into his chest and scrape out all the hurt. Wants to protect him the way a big brother ought to.

Missing Mikey is difficult.

Being the one left behind is difficult.

Every time he thinks about Michael on that bridge, he wants to scream at him, who the fuck do you think you are? You think you get to kill yourself? You’re just so special and your problems are bigger than everyone else’s? You think you get to make me bury you? He wants to hold him, kiss his hair, just stand there with the blistering wind stripping away his skin until Mikey stops shaking in his arms.

All of that is so difficult.

Kissing Sydney is easy.

They get a star - Sydney gets them a star. All night, her braids are whipping that way that they do when she’s moving like lightning. Carmen’s fucking yelling because he’s anxious - anxious about the star and anxious about checking his phone to see if Claire’s returned any of his calls. The kid never did know how to let people be good to him. Richie rides it out - busing, greeting, seating, breathing, four in, four out. Cousin, I need you to stop yelling or I might do something dumb like break your nose straight-

They get the star.

Sydney vomits behind the dumpsters. It’s something that still needs work.

He grabs her one of those fancy kombuchas from the walk-in. He doesn’t know if she drinks alcohol, but her dad is sober - could be a preference, could be a sensitive subject - and alcohol probably isn’t the best additive to the potent mix of adrenaline and cortisol running in Sydney's veins right now.

Pink grapefruit kombucha. She’s trying to pull herself together by the dumpsters when he presses the sweating bottle into her hands.

“Thanks,” she manages, peaky and sweaty. She twists the screw cap, swills kombucha around her mouth, then spits it out into her vomit puddle. Richie tries not to look at it - just because he’d cleaned up Eva’s vomit plenty of times before doesn’t mean he’s got an iron stomach. He watches Sydney in silence until he’s sure she’s not going to collapse or start throwing up again, taking small sips from the bottle.

“That was incredible,” he says, jerking his head at the entrance to the kitchen. “I knew you were special, but…” he let out a low whistle.

Sydney smiles weakly. “It’s not so impressive when the comedown is me dumping stomach acid out my mouth and nose.”

“Don’t feel bad about it. We can work on that,” he says, bravely resisting the urge to wrinkle his nose.

Sydney laughs, a little hollow. “Are we gonna do meditation? Deep breathing?”

“Uh, yeah,” Richie says. He lights up a cigarette and tugs at the tie around his neck. Tastes ash and feels a slow sense of medicinal calm drip into his blood. “I’ll become a Buddhist if it keeps you doing that wizardry you were doing in there. I’ll light incense, bang gongs-“

“Will you wear the robe? The orange robe?”

“The off-the-shoulder robe? Maybe flash a little tit? Fuck yeah, I’d do that.”

Sydney is snickering into her kombucha bottle now and it’s a sound that sets him on fire from head to heel. “You’d do that for me?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Convert to a religion I know nothing about and dedicate my life to your wellbeing? Shit, Syd, you’ve got to ask?”

She gives him a smile that’s bordering on soft, and she’s so beautiful when she smiles. Warm eyes, full cheeks. “I meant the tit flashing.”

It’s his turn to snort, and the smoke he pulls into his lungs on the inhale burns a little, but nothing like the way he’s burning up under her gaze, so aware of every nerve ending in his body. “Hey, they’re good tits.”

She’s laughing. Her hand falls on his arm, now-empty bottle swinging at her side. “Don’t wear the robe,” she says. “I meant it when I said I liked the suit.”

And Richie’s forty-five. He might be a moron and a jagoff, he might know jackshit about living a happy and fulfilled life, but he knows a come-on when he hears one. Knows what a beautiful girl with big brown eyes and a kind smile means when she lays a hand on your arm, tells you she thinks you look good.

Kissing her would be so easy.

But he doesn’t.

She doesn’t need it. Not right now. Not when she’s peaky and smells like kitchen, and he’s running on nicotine and fumes. The taste would be noxious. Tobacco and vomit and kombucha. Anyone could walk out here at any time and see them.

And maybe - if he’s very honest with himself - a part of him doesn’t want it. Because kissing her would be easy, and things would start to make sense. Because he would have to make some fucking decisions, and make some changes, because life would make sense and he would be happy. No more excuses. He would kiss her and this house of cards of excuses and fucking misery he’d built for himself would topple in the wake of the fucking lightning storm of Sydney.

He takes her hand off his arm, holds it in his own, and presses his lips to her knuckles. Her hand is a little cold in his. She gives him a funny look. Somewhere between smiling and frowning.

“Can I give you a ride home?” He asks. She shouldn’t be on the L if she was sick.

She raised a brow. “Depends.”

“On what?”

Her hand leaves his but only because she has to set aside her bottle and fix her bandana, pulling her braids over one shoulder.

Richie fights the urge to tell her he could have fixed her hair for her. Instead, he drops the stub of his cigarette into the dregs of her kombucha and listens to the hiss.

“Depends on whether you’ll kiss me at the door.”

Richie gets hit with a crest of stars not unlike what Sydney must have been feeling minutes ago when she was throwing up behind the dumpster. Meet me halfway. Kindle a flame. Do something easy.

Do something scary. Let go of the past - it had already given Richie everything it had to give. Tiffany, The Beef, Mikey - they were still there, still in his soul, in his bones.

The future was The Bear. It was steadying Carmen by the shoulder and patiently giving him love until he realised he was allowed to take it. It was holding Sugar’s baby and being Uncle Richie. It was Michelin stars and long nights and fear and rage and every emotion a human body could conjure, because you can’t ask for the astronomical highs without taking the deep, dark lows.

The future was Eva’s elementary school graduation. Algebra tests and soccer games and rapidly outgrown clothes. First boyfriend - or girlfriend. Falling out of love with Taylor Swift when she was an angsty teen, then rediscovering her later and having fond memories of her dad yelling along to Love Story at the Eras Tour in 2023. Anywhere she went, he wanted to be there.

My kid would like you, he wanted to tell Sydney. Because you’re smart, and you always say what you mean, but you’re also kind. You have such a big heart. You’re brilliant. You’re brilliant, and I don’t know if I’ll ever measure up. But I’d like to try. Fuck… yeah, I’d like to try.

He’d tell her one day.

“I could kiss you right now if you want me to,” he says plainly. Simply.

She glances down at his lips. “What’s stopping you?”

He tucks a braid behind her ear. “Toothpaste,” he says, and she grins, “or the lack of toothpaste, really.”

She’s laughing again. He could spend all day every day just making her laugh. “I have some in my locker. If I use it, will you drive me home?”

He takes a breath - deepest breath he’d taken all day - and nods. She nods back and slips past him to go finish closing, brush her teeth, grab her stuff.

Richie’s heart is thumping in his chest as he closes up front of house. He feels a little nauseous as he grabs his jacket and keys and spots Sydney waiting for him, surreptitiously taking congratulations and goodnights from Tina and Marcus and Ebra.

He turns around, pops his locker once more and takes a stick of Wrigley’s from a discarded pack, because he’d rather Sydney tasted spearmint than tobacco on his lips.

Months later, Richie would realise she didn’t throw up after hellish services anymore. He’d ask her how she managed it, if it was the deep breathing? Or was there a secret gong he didn’t know about in the walk-in? She’d just laugh, say no, no incense, no gongs, no Buddhist monks, and produce a pack of gum from her pocket.

From that night on, the taste of Wrigley’s gum was enough to bring Sydney down.

all likes, reblogs, comments massively appreciated ❤️

#sydrichie #sydney x richie #the bear #the bear season 2 #sydney adamu #richie jerimovich

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