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holllandtrash · 11 months

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haunted | daniel ricciardo

pairing: daniel ricciardo x driver!reader (part 2 to fragile line)

Can't breathe whenever you're gone Can't turn back now, I'm haunted

you're racing. daniel isn't, but he's not gone either, is he? word count: 7.6k (im so sorry) warnings/tags: angst really, more incorrect f2 stats but whatever, time jumps again, platonic love all around, not as big of a rollercoaster as part 1 but just wait till part 3 lol

“Do you know?”

“Do I know what?” You asked, wondering why that was the first thing your teammate said when you opened the door to your flat.

Lando didn’t even bother with a ‘hey, how was your day, what’s up’, he was just straight to the point, only you had no idea what the point was.

He was still on a high after coming in second place the other day, so you let the impoliteness slide. Usually Lando didn’t look like a mix between a sweaty mess and a confused child, but you assumed he was like this because whatever was on his mind was important.

“You haven’t- did you-” Lando stammered over his words. “When’s the last time you checked your phone?”

You felt around in your pockets and glanced over your shoulder with a bit of a shrug. If you were being honest, you hadn’t looked at your phone in a few hours. Your morning was spent training and running errands now that you had some time and were home for a little while before the next race. You were still carrying a lot of energy after your successful finish in Silverstone that sitting still and scrolling through your phone was the last thing you wanted to be doing right now.

“Can you just find your phone, please?” Lando asked, because he didn’t want to be the person to break the news. He came over to talk to you, to walk you through it, to be someone to vent to if you needed it, but the last thing he wanted was to be the one to say it.

It took a minute, but you found it in your bedroom, the screen lighting up and vibrating with each notification. As you walked back towards Lando, you scrolled through them all, trying to see which was the most important.

Eventually, you landed on one from the official F1 app.

Daniel Ricciardo Replaces Nyck de Vries

Daniel Ricciardo was returning to the grid.

Daniel was coming back.

But did he ever really leave in the first place?

You hadn’t spoken to him since that day in Monaco, almost a year ago now. The day your relationship fell apart, crumbling to pieces around you.

You thought maybe, maybe, he’d call you before the next race or at least try to find you somewhere in the paddock to have a civil conversation but that didn’t happen.

Of course, neither of you had time for a conversation anyway.

Daniel released his video 24 hours before media day in Belgium, announcing he would be leaving the team. It broke your heart watching it in your hotel room, knowing he was only a few floors up and probably struggled to record it. You could picture him retaking it a few times, just to get the words right, his tone right. He didn’t want to paint McLaren as being at fault for this decision, even if that was the case.

If you weren’t the driver who was set to replace him, you would have been there in that room giving him encouraging nods and telling him to just speak to the fans. You would have been there when his head fell back against the wall in defeat, eyes closed as the weight of his unknown future crashed down on him. You would have crawled onto his lap and held him, telling him that another team was going to be desperate for him.

Instead you were in your own room, watching the video like the millions of other followers he had. The only difference was, none of those followers asked themselves if they were to blame.

It was just you, wiping the corner of your eyes and asking yourself if this was your fault.

Surely when your news dropped, people would start pointing fingers, people would talk.

Daniel Ricciardo trained her, they would say. He helped her get to this point and now she’s taking his seat.

They’d throw assumptions into the wind about how this was probably your plan all along.

It wasn’t, of course. Your plan was to get a seat in Formula 1 and see Daniel as friendly competition when you stepped onto the grid. You wanted to keep the support system alive when you moved up, knowing you had someone watching your back when you climbed out of the car. You wanted to be able to go home with him at the end of the night on Sunday and watch the race back with him, playfully critiquing each other's moves and ideally celebrating your victories, together.

You never wanted to leave him without a seat.

But part of you must have known he wasn’t driving next year, right? You never brought up the contract, he never talked about leaving, nor did he talk about potentially moving to another team, which seemed like something you’d talk to your partner about.

Daniel said nothing. You said nothing. And in the back of your head you knew he wasn’t signed to another team, you just didn’t want to accept it.

You didn’t want to admit that part of that was your fault.

Zak Brown put you in the worst position possible. He was giving you the chance to make your dream a reality, but in doing so, you were losing the one person who shared that dream with you.

It shouldn’t have been hard to put on a smile during that post-race interview in Spa. You finished second, your hot streak had continued despite the turmoil your heart was going through. So not only was the adrenaline pumping through your veins from the podium, but McLaren had decided that morning was the perfect time to announce you were replacing Daniel.

They didn’t word it like that, though. They just stated that you were to race for McLaren for 2023. No mention of Daniel, even if that was all anyone had questions about.

“Second place in Spa, how are you feeling?” The reporter asked as you struggled to get comfortable in the white leather chair, your trophy at your feet.

You weren’t surprised he, Richard from the official FIA reporting team, jumped directly to you, bypassing any questions for Liam Lawson who finished third. No one had yet to get a comment on your official move to F1, not having any time this morning since the news was announced.

“It's exciting, it’s good to be back as well,” you nodded, turning to Felipe on your right who nodded as well. “A break is always needed, but there’s really no better feeling than getting back behind the wheel.”

“You’ve never podiumed here before,” Richard pointed out, “There’s quite a difference in performance from last year to this year, we’ve all noticed.”

“Is there a question in there somewhere?” You laughed, not caring at all if it sounded forced, and you knew it did because Liam raised his hand to mouth to hide his chuckle and tried to play it off like he was just scratching his jaw.

“Well it’s just no wonder that McLaren has snatched you up for the 2023 season, with how much you’ve shown this year what you’re capable of. Care to comment on that?”

There it was. The first official request to talk about McLaren.

“I mean, we’ve all seen the news at this point,” another laugh but this time it was more out of discomfort.

You looked at Felipe, he nodded again but it was short and encouraging, silently telling you it was okay to take the spotlight even though it was him who had won this race.

You cleared your throat, thinking about what the PR team from McLaren told you. You’re focused on Prema. McLaren knows this. McLaren is supporting you while you finish your F2 season and by all means, shut down any topic regarding Daniel Ricciardo.

“Really, I’m just focused on finishing the season off strong with Prema,” you told Richard, feeling your smile start to slip because how could you be excited over that or a trophy when you knew what he was thinking and what the whole world was thinking.

You prayed he wouldn’t bring it up, but the media world was hell.

“And Daniel’s departure-

Liam promptly lifted the mic to lips, cutting off Richard before he could finish that thought. “We’ll all miss her, I think that’s safe to say. But maybe it’ll be a bit easier for the rest of us to podium when she’s gone.”

Quiet laughter spread through the audience and you just turned to Liam and mouthed a quick ‘thank you’. He didn’t say anything back, just dropped his head to your shoulder for a second and smiled, playing up the whole we’ll miss her statement. It wasn’t an act, though. Most of the guys you raced with had stopped you at some point this morning sharing their congrats and giving you a hug, telling you that you deserved that spot in F1.

Even Felipe said it and meant it, and he was on the fast track to win this year, also eyeing a spot in F1. You had a good support system in this series.

He dropped his head to your other shoulder and your lips fell into a playful pout, raising your hands to the sides of both driver’s faces. It made a cute photo. The F1 social media team really played into the love you had from your competitors.

You had a lot of support in the paddock, surprisingly, from other drivers.

Mick found you before his own race started. He was your first teammate during your rookie season in F2, it only made sense he was the first current driver to congratulate you.

“You deserve it,” Mick told you, arms tightly wrapped around your body as he gave you a comforting embrace that almost compared to the one you were craving from Daniel, but still something was missing.

Mick’s contract was up at the end of 2022, and no one knew where he was going but he assured you that no matter what, he’d be on your side.

You sort of interacted with Lando on Sunday after your feature race. When you passed him in the paddock, he held his hand out for a fist bump and gave you a wide smile. The cameras caught it, they caught everything apparently, and it was the first photo you saw on social media when you got to the airport late Sunday evening.

First of many celebratory fist bumps, McLaren’s caption said. It was a nice photo, truly.

Too bad the comments were anything but.

Not McLaren hyping up the fact that Danny’s girlfriend is replacing himIsn’t she only fourth in the driver standings in F2 lol We don’t want her we want the honey badgerEven worse when you think about the fact that they are literally in a relationship and she’s taking his seatNo class from any of them

No one seemed to know that you and Daniel were done, but how would they know? Your relationship was private, your break up would be too.

Your break up.

And then it hit you. Right there in the airport. After the adrenaline of a podium had worn off. After the excitement of signing with a new team had passed. After you were finally left alone after being surrounded by your team and drivers and press all day, you broke down.

It was embarrassing. The only saving grace was the fact that you were sat in the corner of the premium lounge, facing the windows, so at least no one could see you cry. You weren’t quiet though, you knew your faint sobs could be heard from anyone within a 3 metre radius.

And you knew how immature this was, crying in an airport. But when you felt things you felt them with every fibre in your being. You were overjoyed beyond words, shaking when you got first podium in F2, and then feeling that multiplied by fifty when you won in Monaco.

You were madly in love with Daniel, despite only dating for a year. It wasn’t young love, puppy love, a whirlwind romance, or any of those sappy headlines. You were head over heels, ready to spend your life with the man who lifted you up above the rest of the world. Who not only put you on a pedestal, but made sure other people did too. He was always in your corner, even before you started dating. He loved you long before you even realised you could also love him.

As an athlete, as a future world championship contender, as a friend, Daniel loved you.

The day you knew you loved him, you knew you were screwed, you both talked about the risks.

Fragile line, you called it, walking a tightrope, he joked. There was such a huge margin of error, so many things that could go wrong by falling in love with, not only a driver but the driver who mentored you.

The media would turn against you. Sponsors would shake their heads. Your future could have been jeopardised. You’d be labelled as a poor role model for girls in motorsport.

You walked a dangerous and delicate line with Daniel, but you didn’t think it would snap beneath your feet. You never thought you’d be the one to break it.

So yes, you were full on sobbing in the airport as you waited to board your flight to Amsterdam.

“Pretty sure podium winners aren’t usually this distraught.”

You heard the British accent and immediately sat up, wiping your eyes and sniffling to at least try and make it seem like you weren’t crying. You turned your head and watched as Lando sat down next to you on the dark blue chair, resting a leg over his knee.

You didn’t say anything, you just stared at him, worrying that if you did try to talk, all that would come out would be more cries.

Lando reached into the front pocket of his backpack and pulled out a travel size pack of tissues, tossing them to you without so much as a word. He waited a few minutes as you composed yourself, using some of the tissues and pocketing the rest for later.

“You okay?” Lando asked, sounding concerned for your well being because he had a point, podium winners aren’t usually this distraught.

“Am I okay?” You repeated back followed with a playful scoff. “Do I look okay?”

“You look awful.”

“I feel awful.”

Lando nodded, clearly unsure what to do in this situation. His current teammate, his friend, was leaving at the end of this year and his new teammate, a girl he had barely had 5 conversations with, was having a breakdown in the airport.

Lando, whether he liked it or not, knew he would be caught in the middle of whatever this mess was for the next few months or so.

He knew you and Daniel were an item. Daniel told himself shortly after Silverstone, and only because Lando had asked, simply curious.

“You and Y/N,” he started off, hesitantly, seeing the two of you interact much more flirtatiously then you had before. “You two are..” he didn’t know how to word it.

Daniel just winked, “I’ll tell you when you’re older.”

That pretty much confirmed it. And then when you started showing up in the back of the McLaren garage during race weekends, Lando sort of accepted it, quickly getting used to seeing you around.

You were always friendly with each other, but your attention was always on Daniel, too. Lando saw the way you were quick to rush to his side after a difficult race. How you were the first one Daniel looked for when he stepped out of the car, eyes searching the sea of orange for you. Lando heard the way Daniel talked about you, the way he praised you, telling everyone who would listen that you deserved a spot in Formula 1. That man had a note saved on his phone of your stats, race wins, qualifying times, records broken, all of it.

Daniel loved you. Everyone who knew him saw it, and Lando was no exception.

So one could imagine the uncertainty he felt as he approached you in the airport. Surely you and Daniel weren’t together anymore, right? Or were you somehow going to work through this? Could you work through it? Taking his seat?

Lando, like everyone else, was dying to know.

“Has he said anything?” You asked him before Lando had a chance to get a word out. That question alone confirmed that you and Daniel weren’t on speaking terms at least.

“About you?” Lando asked and when you nodded, he saw the devastation hit your eyes as he shook his head. “Honestly he wasn’t very talkative today, left right after the post race stuff.”

“How is he?” You then asked. “Has he- is there any word on him finding a seat next year?” You pulled your knees up to your chest, staring hopefully at the British driver.

It pained Lando to shake his head again, “Not yet, but it’s still pretty early. I’m sure he’ll find a seat.”

You nodded, praying that Lando was right. When you dropped your chin to your knees, averting your eyes when you felt the tears well up again, Lando’s chest grew tight. He felt bad for you. This was a hard position for you to be in.

“It’s not your fault, you know,” Lando assured you. “Danny’s one of the best there is, but the results just aren’t there. Zak didn’t see any point in continuing if it’ll just end up being more of the same.”

Lando tried to be encouraging, really, and you were thankful for that, but he got the hint after a while that you just didn’t want to talk about it. Before leaving you alone, he gave you his number and told you that if you needed anything, to just reach out.

You were always friendly with Lando, but that was the start to your friendship.

It was Lando who shared your picture when you claimed first place in Zandvoort, celebrating your success with a cheeky caption stating how he better see you bring the hot streak to McLaren next year. He was the one who interrupted your post-race interview in Monza, spotting you in the paddock being interviewed by Will Buxton. Lando, despite needing to follow his own pre-race schedule, came and draped an arm over your shoulder and playfully interrupted whatever Will was trying to say.

“Look at that,” Will laughed when you struggled to shake Lando’s arm off of you, “Future teammates. Lando, how excited are you to be working with this incredible talent next year?”

“Oh extremely excited,” Lando answered, leaning into the mic gripped between your fingers. “She won’t be able to keep up with me though.”

And that it was it. He ruffled his hand through your hair and took off again.

He checked in on you between races, whenever a new headline was trending, whenever someone from social media had the audacity to compare yours and Daniels stats and pin you against each other as if there wasn’t already enough you were struggling with.

Lando didn’t want you to come into the new season already feeling defeated. He was still friends with Daniel, he always would be, but he had a kind heart. He wanted you to know that he wasn’t on anyones ‘side’, but more importantly, he saw you as a driver, as his next teammate. He didn’t see you as Daniel’s ex who was now stealing his seat like half of the world did.

It was also his car that you drove during the practice sessions in Austin and Abu Dhabi. Lando happily stepped aside for you, giving you a supportive pat on the back and strategically blocking your line of sight towards Daniel as he got ready for his sessions as well.

You still hadn’t spoken. You hadn’t even looked at each other. You tried, honestly, to catch his eye but he refused to even glance your way. He was in and out of that car so quick, finding any excuse to leave the garage while you were there.

It hurt. You knew his mind was made up. He was upset, he was hurt, he wanted nothing to do with you and seeing you in his garage sent him spiralling.

All you saw was Daniel turning his back on you, but what you didn’t know was this situation was giving Daniel constant headaches. He couldn’t look at you, the girl he loved, and watch you climb into the McLaren knowing that you’d be doing that throughout the entire next season and he wouldn’t.

All he ever wanted was to see you in a Formula 1 car, but not like this.

You stood in Lando’s side of the garage during the last race. You wore your McLaren jacket, you had the orange headphones on as stared up at the screen. Your back was towards Daniel’s car, so you missed the way he did actually look at you. It pained him to see how well you blended in with the team, his team. He almost told himself it looked like you belonged there, but he quickly put his helmet on and climbed into his car, gearing up for the race.

He finished 9th. Lando finished 6th. And with that, the season ended.

Daniel was done.

You watched him celebrate with those closest to him. You stood off to the side and thought about how if things were different, you’d be clinging to him, sweaty race suit and all, waiting to congratulate him in your own way back at the hotel. You would tell him you loved him, that he didn’t need McLaren. You’d joke and say that you two could form your own team, because that’s what you should have been till the end, a team.

But that wasn’t the case anymore. McLaren was your team now.

It was only a matter of days until Daniel spoke to the media about his departure.

“I can’t speak ill of her,” Daniel said, shifting uncomfortably on the couch. He knew that coming on this podcast that he’d be asked about you and your contract. He was advised against it but the second his working relationship ended with McLaren, he agreed to talk, to share his side.

“But she’s the one who took your seat,” Jaycee so politely pointed out. “As happy as I am to see a female in Formula 1, it’s bittersweet knowing a driver such as yourself is left without a spot.”

Daniel sighed into the mic in front of him, “McLaren handed her her dream on a papaya platter and she grabbed it. I think a lot of drivers would do the same in that scenario.”

“But it stings a little more, doesn’t it?” Greyson, her co-host asked. “Because you two were-

“Friends, yeah,” Daniel interrupted. “Yeah we were close.”

“You mentored her,” Greyson pushed for more of an admittance as to what their relationship was. “You were seen with her and the Prema team during a handful of weekends. She even said you were her mentor.”

Daniel naturally hesitated, “I saw her potential early on and I wanted to help her grow. I really did want to see her in Formula 1, despite what anyone says about the situation she’s an incredible driver.”

“Everyone who follows Formula 1 knows you have a strong connection,” Jaycee said, subtly trying to pry for more as well. “After her Silverstone crash in 2021 you were in her garage. And then you were seen in Monaco together a few weeks later. You two weren’t just friends in the paddock, you worked closely together outside of race weekends too-

“Did your girlfriend take your seat or not?” Greyson blurted out, earning a glare from Jaycee on his left, but he couldn’t hold it in anymore. He wanted to know, the whole world wanted to know what was going on between you and Daniel now that you were signed for McLaren.

And you had to give props to Daniel, he played it off about as smoothly as he could.

“McLaren sees more potential in her than me,” he said, still smiling because that’s who he was. A people pleaser, always grinning, always a breath of fresh air. “If they can give her what they promised me, then that’s good for all of them. Do I like how the situation went down? No, but that’s the reality of Formula 1. You’re not safe unless you’re winning and I wasn’t winning.”

“And your relationship-

“She doesn’t need a mentor anymore, does she?” Daniel asked, disregarding any ideas of the two of you dating. “She made it to Formula 1. That was what she wanted. I wish her well.”

That was the closest thing to confirmation of your break up that anyone would get.

And the interview ended shortly after that, doing wonders on Spotify and Apple Podcasts. You listened to it also, just waiting for Daniel to say something horrible but of course he didn’t. That wasn’t him. He was the good guy. He was the hero. He got you to Formula 1 and was holding his head up high, wishing you well and thanking McLaren for the last 2 years.

You wished it ended there, the conversations surrounding you. It should have ended there.

But fast forward to the awards dinner at the end of the year, just shortly after the last race of the season.

You sat with your mum at a round table with Felipe and his partner and few other people involved in Formula 2.

You had finished second in the standings, not first like you had dreamt of, but Felipe told you that first place in the championship would come in F1, don’t worry.

And you weren’t sure who had made the seating chart, but from where you sat, you could easily see Daniel at his table, only a few metres away from your own. He sat with some of his friends and some people from his personal team. He was also purposely avoiding looking in your direction, knowing that if he did, he’d be making eye contact for the first time in months.

He’d see your stunning features and bright eyes standing out among the rest. He’d see the low cut, thinly strapped black dress, showing off the collarbones he used to mark with his lips, the trail between your breast and down to your navel that he used to make with his tongue. If he looked at you, he’d think of all the ways the night would have ended if things were different.

If he looked at you, he’d be reminded that the girl he loved was the one who broke him. He’d be reminded that as hurt as he was by your actions, by taking his seat, he couldn’t forget the memories you made, the moments he shared, the way he used to admire you.

He didn’t love you anymore, though. He couldn’t. He forced those feelings out, replacing them with regret for ever deciding to help you because if he hadn't helped you, it wouldn’t have been you that took his seat.

So Daniel looked at the stage, his friends, his food. He didn’t look at you.

He didn’t even look at you when you walked up to collect your trophy, choosing that moment to be the perfect time to walk up to the open bar. He ordered a few more drinks and a shot on a whim, downing it back before walking to the table, 2 freshly poured glasses of rum and cokes in hand.

Daniel got drunk that night. He didn’t mean to, but it helped him deal with all he had going on. It was a good way to end the 2022 season, to put it behind him. You, McLaren, all of it.

Someone should have stopped him when he noticed you about to leave at the end of the night, a white coat draped over your shoulders. That should be my blazer, Daniel thought, thinking of the countless nights he had given you his jacket for warmth.

You were in the middle of a conversation with someone from Prema when you felt a tug in your arm. When you looked up and saw it was Daniel who was pulling you off to the side, your heart sank. There were no butterflies anymore, just a lot of anxiety and guilt eating you from the inside.

You could tell he hadn’t thought through what he was going to say. For a split second, his gaze was soft, almost like he thought about congratulating you for a successful season. For a moment, proud Daniel was back and for a moment, you got your hopes up. Maybe this line you broke could be fixed.

It was a bad sign when his eyes grew cold, features hardening along with them. This man, who was all you wanted, stared at you like you were a stranger, and maybe you were now.

He opened his mouth and the room around you fell dark and quiet. It was your mind playing horrible tricks on you, putting a spotlight in this moment in time so it would haunt your memories after tonight. You knew the earth was still spinning, that people around you were still moving, but you couldn’t trust anything, frozen in this space with Daniel.

“I hope you’re happy,” Daniel spoke softly, but his words cut through you like a knife. If someone told you that your heart was bleeding, you’d believe it. That’s certainly what it felt like.

He didn’t want you to be happy. He didn’t want you taking his seat. He didn’t want to see you live out his dream. He put on a beautiful charade for the press, but deep down you knew, he saw you as nothing more but a mistake. He no longer wanted you to succeed, despite telling the world he wished you would.

"Daniel-"

You automatically reached for him and he flinched backwards. It hurt, seeing him react how he was. He didn’t want you touching him, he just wanted to get one more word in, wanted you to know that he was still bitter and would be for a while.

You stood there and watched him walk away, haunted by the pain and broken trust in his eyes, a look that would become burned into your mind during your restless sleeps.

And then there was the week where you just didn’t sleep. The week after Daniel’s contract with Red Bull was announced.

He wasn’t driving with them, but he wasn’t leaving Formula 1 either.

He’d still be around the paddock during selective race weekends. He’d be there, putting on a show for the fans because everyone loved him. Everyone wanted him on the grid, and if he couldn’t race, at least he was still there in the garage as a reserve driver.

The same excitement couldn’t be said for you.

Despite forming a close bond with Lando really early into the pre-season, it helped that he was only two years younger than you, you were not met with open arms and loud cheers.

You had some supporters, a lot actually, but nothing compared to Daniel’s fans. You were pulled alert and critiqued for every move you made. You could understand the questions that circulated when you didn’t even finish the first race in Bahrain, retiring early because of an engine problem. Did Zak really make the right move by replacing Daniel with you? What could you bring to the team if this was how you started the season?

But it was the talk about what you did off the track that really got to you. You didn’t care if people weren’t a fan of your driving, you knew F1 fans had their favourites and you knew you weren’t everyone’s.

However social media had a way of spinning everything. You lost count of the ridiculous rumours. Apparently, you were now replacing Daniel with Lando because that playful interview you did talking about red flags in relationships really gave away the fact you were sleeping together.

Oh you were also sleeping with Mick Schumacher, because you had a thing for reserve drivers, it seemed. And the way he found you after your second race without points again in Saudi Arabia made it so obvious that you were with him.

And you couldn’t forget about how big of a bitch you were, choosing to not acknowledge Daniel in Australia when you walked past him in the paddock. It was his home race, he was the reason you were even racing, and you couldn’t even stop and give him a smile?

These rumours were truly getting annoying.

Of course, you couldn’t come out and tell people that Lando was seeing someone because it was so new and private and not your story to tell. No one cared that Mick was your teammate at Prema in 2020 and you guys had always been friends. No one would believe you if you said that you didn’t even see Daniel in the paddock, being too engrossed in your conversation to notice that the Australian was walking past.

You grew to hate seeing him during race weekends.

It was a constant reminder of what could have been.

What if you had waited a year and signed with McLaren then? Would Daniel still hold this hatred towards you if his contract played out like it was supposed to?

What if you signed with a different team like Williams instead, and someone else replaced Daniel? If Oscar Piastri had taken his spot, would Daniel be this resentful still to see you driving? Or would he happily walk by your side in the paddock, him in Red Bull polo, you in your Williams racing suit? Would he have accompanied you during the race weekends when he didn’t have Red Bull duties?

Was there ever a scenario where he stood in your garage and watched you race? Cheering you on, despite what place you finished? Despite where he was in his own career?

Or was that just a far fetched dream?

Because let’s face it, if Daniel was still racing this year, it would be hard to support you and focus on his own season. How could he be happy if he DNF’d and you finished in the points? How could you be happy if the media would say that you were only using Daniel to get ahead?

If you had signed for Williams and Daniel was still replaced, it would be difficult for him to watch you race, to watch you do what he loved. How could he be in your corner when he no longer had a corner of his own to stand in?

Maybe you were doomed from the start. Fragile line, you said. How true that was. It was always going to snap.

You heard through the grapevine that Daniel had said you taking his seat before his contract was even up was the worst thing you could have possibly done.

Was that in regards to McLaren? To your relationship? From a sportsmanship standpoint? You had no idea. You just knew Daniel wasn’t impressed that you were racing and he wasn’t.

You hated seeing him during the few races he attended. You were petrified to run into him in the paddock, in the pit lane, in the hotel for christ sakes, you didn’t want to see him. At one point, you were desperate for even just a smidge of attention from him and now you felt sick whenever you heard he would be in attendance.

You went five races in a row without scoring any points. You could practically hear Daniel’s smug expression when you crossed the finish line each time. He was probably eating this up, knowing you were the one struggling now.

The only difference was, you didn’t have him to turn to after a shitty run in the McLaren.

Lando tried to be helpful, but he was struggling too. People called the car a tractor and honestly, so did you and Lando in private. You had a group chat with your personal trainers and the four of you called yourselves the farmers. The jokes made and lighthearted conversations shared were the only silver linings during this depressing start of a season.

Monaco was better, sort of.

You finished 10th, so at least that was a point under your belt.

But Daniel was everywhere.

He loved Monaco, he lived in Monaco, of course it was no surprise he was there that weekend.

You found yourself jogging past his flat the Thursday before the race, and you didn’t do it on purpose but it was the same route you had taken all of those times you had spent days on end at Daniel’s. Sometime he joined you for those morning runs, sometime you’d return and he was making breakfast.

But you came to a stop on the opposite side of the street and stared up at it, recognising his balcony instantly. You saw the plant in the corner that you had given him a few months into your relationship and despite him claiming he wasn’t a plant guy, he managed to keep it alive.

Your heart felt heavy. All you wanted was to knock on his door and be welcomed in with wide arms and that stupid smile of his. You wanted to not feel anxious when you saw him in the paddock. You wanted to not be holding your breath every time you got out of the racecar, wondering what Daniel thought of your run.

You were simultaneously on edge at all moments while also still dying to make him proud. You didn’t think that would ever go away.

Even during the weekends he wasn’t there, you were looking over your shoulder constantly. Even if you knew that he was on the other side of the world, he was still on your mind. He haunted your thoughts from the moment you walked into the garage to when you got out of the car at the end of the race weekend.

Lando called you out on it that Thursday in Silverstone.

“You’re in your head,” he told you, seeing how your main focus wasn’t racing, it was Daniel. You were unsure what he was referring to though and Lando just rolled his eyes, “Well actually, Daniel’s in your head. And he’s keeping you from being the driver I know you can be.”

That was all he said on the topic.

And he was right.

You were so worried about Daniel. About what he would think of your races. About trying to avoid him during the weekends he was there. About still trying to make him proud but not too proud where he resented you more for taking his seat. About the hundreds of scenarios that could have happened if you had made a different choice.

Because of all of these thoughts, that seat at McLaren was still very much Daniel’s. You allowed it to be.

You needed to stop telling yourself you took his seat because that’s what it would always be then, his seat. Lando stood up, patting your knee after dropping those few words and you decided right then and there that it was your seat.

You wouldn’t let Daniel haunt you anymore.

And qualifying was where this new mentality really showed.

You were buzzing with energy when your engineer told you that you had gotten P3 and were starting on the second row for tomorrows race. You climbed out of the car in parc ferme and ran directly to Lando. He hugged you, he was proud of you.

“That’s the driver we all know,” Lando said when he pulled his helmet off. His hand was on your shoulder, both of you were wearing identical smiles of pure joy. “Where the hell has she been all this time?”

You didn’t even have an answer, too excited about what this meant for you, for the team. You post-quali interviews went by in a blur, your hands were shaking the entire time. You blacked out during it, still trying to process the fact that you had finished third in qualifying, but you did remember Lando reaching over at one point and dropping his hand to your knee. It was polite, it didn’t mean anything more than a playful stop shaking you’re making us all look bad, but god did the media run with it.

You didn’t let anything on social media get to you, telling yourself that you had to stay focused for the race. In fact you even gave your phone to your trainer, Oliver, asking him to take it for the night and to just wake you up in the morning.

And Oliver was a good trainer, he had also become a good friend since you joined McLaren so you trusted him with your phone.

Which meant he knew your password.

So when he saw your phone light up that night with a text from Daniel, Oliver panicked. He knew the right thing to do would be to just leave it alone, you’d see it in the morning. You’d see the message. The short but seemingly sweet;

P3, nice job

But a text like that would send you spiralling and you didn't need that before one of the most important races of the season for you, Oliver knew this. He knew you were supposed to be getting over Daniel, he knew how much the Australian just being in the paddock messed with your mind. He knew you had to focus on racing.

There was so much uncertainty with the text. Was this him extending an olive branch? Was he genuine, or was this supposed to be taken with a bit of salt? Oliver could read it both ways. Either Daniel was truly happy for you, or this could be dripping with sarcasm. P3, sure, but remember who’s seat you’re in.

Oliver decided to delete the text. There was no trace of it when he handed the phone back to you the next day.

Maybe that was for the best, no one knew.

All you knew was you were starting third today.

All Daniel knew was you had ignored him, and now you were walking right past him down the paddock, side by side with Lando as you talked about today’s race. Daniel turned his head and saw the two of you, drawing his own conclusions.

Whatever was going through his mind, one thing seemed certain. You didn’t need him anymore. You had the seat, the team, someone new supporting you, why would you still need Daniel?

You went about your day, the same pre-race rituals. Lando checked in more than normal, it was an exciting day for both of you, but he knew he was also a good distraction to keep your mind off of Daniel, he knew you would be struggling to keep from thinking about him.

“It’s you and me,” Lando told you right before the race. “It’s our day, yeah? We’ve got this.”

Lando was in your corner. You were in his.

Which meant you were there to celebrate after the race when he took home second place. You had claimed fourth, which was also something to be proud of, and you were, but you were also craving that podium. You could almost taste it, it was so close.

“Next time,” Lando assured you, having full confidence that you’d be holding the trophy at the following race. He handed you a bottle of champagne, telling you to drink up and enjoy and for once, you did.

You were happy. You finally felt like you could accomplish something amazing at McLaren, despite the horrible start. Lando had gotten a podium, yours was coming, you could feel it.

You didn’t think about Daniel at all that night. It was the first night in a long time where you didn’t see his face when you closed your eyes.

And you would have loved to keep celebrating after that night, to keep the high of Lando's podium and your 4th place finish last until the next race, but all good things must come to an end.

You stood in front of Lando now, unsure how to take the news about Daniels’ return. Were you allowed to be happy for him? Of course you wanted to see him in a seat, this was the ideal situation, both of you driving this season. What would this mean for the two of you moving forward?

But he had done the exact same thing you had done by replacing a driver before their contract was up.

Daniel made you feel awful about that decision and now here he was, making the exact same one. He was no better than you. He was no hero, he wasn’t the good guy. He was a driver, desperate for a seat, as were you. As was every single person wanting to race in this series.

You were on the same playing field now.

He was going to be at every single race for the rest of the season, as a competitor on the grid. Something you once dreamt of, both of you dreamt of, was finally coming true.

But that’s all he would be. A competitor. Another driver. Another car to overtake. You always thought that when this moment came, you’d still be a team when you left the track at the end of the day and that just wasn’t the reality you found yourself in.

“He’s back,” Lando said, hands shoved in his pockets trying to gauge your reaction.

Daniel was returning to Formula 1, but you knew he was never actually gone in the first place.

He was in your thoughts, your dreams, your memories, he was everywhere all of the time. Even when you crossed the finish line in Silverstone, there was still a part of you that was wondering if Daniel was watching. As much as you tried to avoid him, your eyes still scanned every single crowd for him.

And now you didn’t need to look anymore.

part 3 gone

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taglist: @yunnie-f1 @torossosebs @whatthefuckerr @jspitwall @oconso @tsarinablogs @landowecanbewc @somanyfandomsbruh @christianpulisic10 @storminacloud @sunnytkm23 @formula1mount @azxulaa @icarus-nex @spideyspeaches if i forgot someone im so sorry

#daniel ricciardo x you #daniel ricciardo x reader #daniel ricciardo #danny ric #dr3 #f1 fics #formula 1 x you #daniel ricciardo imagine #daniel ricciardo au

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cherryredstars · 6 days

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First off, I love you.

Second off, I love you A LOT.

Okay so I’m losing my mind over a brain vomit where younger reader’s been harboring and hiding feelings for Miguel for the sake of being appropriate and it’s starting to make her frustrated like “fuck I’m gonna get actually fucking sick and vomit” because how much she’s crushing on him is CRAZY, so reader basically goes up to Miguel like “I can’t take this anymore.” Like reject me so I can move on type of thing. “ Do me a favor, and break my nose or something. Tell me to fucking go away” or something like that. My brain is burning.

Pairing(s): Miguel O'Hara x fem!reader, John Price x civil!reader

Warnings: Fluff

A/N: For my baby, I LOVE YOUUUUUUU!!!

Edited (just for you boo)

| Miguel O'Hara

If you look at him, you will actually throw up.

Like projectile 'make yourself a laughing stock' throw up. It's just the way your body- your stomach- reacts when you see him. It gets twisted, fluttery with a fix of butterflies and disgust. It's down right disgusting, inappropriate at the least. He's almost a decade older than you, yet here you are pining after him as if you're some teenage girl. You feel physically sick when you think about it for too long: throat contracting and your stomach hurting. You aren't sure which of your delusions are the cause of such a horrendous crush, but you promise you'll strangle it when you find out. There is simply no way this could have ever worked out in your favor. It's simply impossible.

Miguel O'Hara would never go for someone like you. Young and naive, haven't even reached the appropriate age to have a mid-life crisis (but you're sure this is the closest fucking thing to it). You know this, hammer it into your thick skull every day before you have to face him. Yet, it all comes crumbling down when you lay eyes on him. It takes less than a second for you to skip after him, a stupid, lovesick look flickering across your face as you help him with whatever he needs. You simply can't stay away, even if you tried. You always fall back into his orbit, gravity pushing you towards him until you're practically glued to him.

You're sure he must find it annoying. Probably relates it to something like babysitting. It's well known Miguel doesn't like to be bothered when he's working. But there you are without fail, sitting around on his platform entertaining yourself by playing with LYLA when you aren't out saving universes. You don't miss the way his eyes flick to you every now and then with some emotion you can't quite place. But if you had to guess, it's probably something close to exasperation.

In all honesty, you're tired of it.

Tired of the false hope you delude yourself into believing after every minor interaction. Tired of trying to justify your affection for the older man. Tired of feeling a bit of resentment towards yourself. You're just... tired. He must sense it when you walk onto the platform, judging by the look he shoots you.

LYLA is muted mid-sentence as he angles his body slightly away from his monitors and towards you, watching as you plop yourself in your usual spot. He waits expectantly for your usual greeting, brows furrowing with confusion when you do nothing but play with the elastic quality of your suit. You haven't even looked at him since you got in.

"Everything alright?" His all so familiar voice asks, making your stomach ache and the urge to punch yourself stronger.

"Yeah," you respond simply, silence lapping over the two of you.

Miguel waits patiently, expecting something more. But, you don't continue. Miguel hesitates for a moment before turning back around. His eyes study the screens once more, his finger hovering over the button to unmute LYLA before you speak up again.

"Can you like... degrade me or something?"

Miguel almost chokes on his spit when he turns around, not expecting you to say...that. You're still playing with your suit and staring at the floor, face painted with frustration. You look up when he doesn't answer, brows furrowed when your eyes meet his shocked face. You quickly divert your attention to his muscular shoulder, not really having the courage to face him head-on.

"Not like the... sexy kind. More like the heart wrenching kind." You clarify, not that it's any better for Miguel.

He turns to full face you this time, arms crossed over his chest as he studies you. The request doesn't really make sense to him. Why would you want him to do that? Is it some universe-exclusive culture he isn't aware of?

"Why?" Miguel asks, trying to recall your past interactions to see if they have something to do with your strange request.

"I dunno, just thought it might make it easier?" You shrug, your eyes flicking to his again and then looking towards the ceiling.

"Make what easier, exactly?"

Miguel isn't a fan of cryptic answers, but he tries to be patient with you. He watches as your face twists, unsure how to word what you're feeling. You let out a heavy sigh eventually, actually meeting his eyes and holding his gaze for once.

"To get over you."

The words cause Miguel to freeze, his body going rigid. You groan, hiding your embarrassed face in your hands and scrubbing ferociously. This is absolutely embarrassing. You wished a random portal would just appear under you, throwing you into another universe and far away from this particular moment in time.

You're so caught up in your embarrassment that you don't realize Miguel is walking over to you until he's crouched down in front of you. He pries your hands gently from your face, giving you the softest smile you have ever seen on him. His thumbs caress your wrists absentmindedly, doing nothing to calm your raging heart. It practically explodes when he leans closer, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head. Your eyes are wide and dazed as you look up at him, trying to commit the curve of his mouth to memory.

"Now, why would I want you to do that?"

_____________

| John Price

You aren't exactly sure when it started.

But the moment you realized you liked John, you've started hating yourself. It feels wrong. Almost disrespectful in a way. You aren't particularly sure why, it just does. John Price is a nice man, a good man. A man that could be easily mistaken as your father if someone didn't look close enough. The man you had happened to meet and befriended one day after he had been so kind and gentle with you.

Not the man you should be liking and forcing your feelings on.

You're someone John goes to for comfort, someone he seeks out after coming home from a battlefield. Someone that's supposed to help him distress. The idea of taking advantage of that gently placed trust, of expecting something from John just because he goes to you for help, makes you want to throw up until you're nothing but a useless husk. It's shameful, eating you up on the inside until you feel like your organs are on the verge of failure.

So your solution: Avoid Johnathan Price like the plague.

Does it hurt seeing his texts flash across your phone screen, asking you if you're free throughout the week so he can spend time with you before he deploys again? Hell fucking yes. It makes you feel guilty as hell. But you try to justify it to yourself, reassuring that it's only temporary. That everything will go back to normal once these stupid feelings leave you alone and John Price goes back to being the sweet man you grab lunch with every now and then when he's home so you can catch up.

But of course, your plans never go accordingly.

You startle on your couch when there is a firm knocking on your door, your hands rushing to pause the telly to see if it was just a hallucination. But sure enough, that same steady knocking sounds again. You get up hesitantly, brows furrowed as you try to remember if you ordered take away or something. You peak through the peep-hole, hand planted on the cool wood of the door as you squint.

The alertness in your body dies away when the familiar frame of John greets you, only to tense up again. John Price is at your door. The same John price you've been avoiding for a week. The same exact John fucking Price you're practically in love with. Your hand slides down to the knob, gulping nervously as you unlock it and yank your door open.

John is standing there with his hand raised again to knock, decked out in his military gear. His hands drop to grip the strap of his vest, his mutton chops quivering as his face lifts into his soft smile. You blink up at him, feeling the knob warm under your hand and your heart slamming against your chest. Why did he have to be so handsome, goddamnit?

You step out of the doorway, silently inviting him inside. He accepts it, stepping in and examining the area out of habit. You close the door quietly after him, turning to face him as he turns to face you.

"Missed ya, love? Been busy lately?" He asks in that comfortingly rough voice of his.

You don't trust yourself to not choke on your words, scared he'll see through your lies. Instead you nod, letting out a weak hum that he returns in a more confident note. Your eyes drop down to his military gear, a frown slipping onto your face. Is he being deployed again?

As if sensing the underlying question, John's hands let go of his military vest and he stuffs them into the pockets of his tactical pants.

"Heading out tonight, just wanted to say goodbye before I go since I didn't get to see you this time around."

You feel a stab to your chest at his words, resisting the urge to lift your hand and smooth the pain.

"John..." You start hesitantly, your mouth going dry when he hums again. "Can you tell me you hate me? Or... or that you think I'm stupid or something?"

John tilts his head in confusion, brows furrowing as his lips thin. There is a silent question in your eyes, an aura of demand wafting from him that orders you to explain further. Your hand comes to rub your arm, socked heel digging into your ankle as you debate how much to tell him.

"It's just... I like you and I don't..." You sigh in frustration, turning your head away to glare at the wall. "I don't want you to think I'm trying to take advantage of how nice you've been to me or that I expect you to reciprocate how I feel."

It's quiet for a moment before John's chuckling fills the room. Your head turns away from the wall, meeting the sparkling amusement in John's eyes as he looks at you. There is a fondness there that makes your knees feel weak, your breath getting trapped in your lungs. John takes steady, reassured steps towards you, stopping when he's centimeters away. Your heart is practically lurching in your chest as you look up at him, watching as he slowly takes off his boonie hat.

Your eyes are wide as he places it over your head, chuckling when it slips down over your face before he readjusts it. He admires the sight for a second before he leans down, his facial hair tickling your cheeks as his lips press against the corner of your mouth. Your heart officially stops, your body dangerously close to swaying as he pulls away. You're in a daze as he pinches your cheek lightly, trying to call your attention away from the sparks lingering across your skin.

"We'll take about this when I get back, silly girl." He rumbles, his heavy paw landing on the top of his hat before he slips past you, closing and locking the door behind him as he disappears out of your flat. You're left in a daze as your shaky hands reach up and grasp the rim of his hat, the smell of him instantly invading your senses.

And when John reaches base and the lads pester him about where his usual hat is, he just shakes his head and replies that he left it at home for safe keeping.

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milksnake-tea · 11 months

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Can I request a yandre Nanook and yaoshi and god /aeon reader the reader is like that unknown god in genshin impact that can control time and destiny

What if Nanook had a fascination about this aeon and slowly developing an obsession with them and yaoshi being the same and would bless their devoting followers

to chase destiny.

characters: nanook, yaoshi

contains: YANDERE CHARAS, obsessive behavior, stalking, manipulation, brainwashing(?), unhealthy relationships, power dynamics(?), vaguely religious language (nothing heavy, it comes with the aeons stuff lol)

a/n: mmmmm yandere aeons <333 love that for them. ngl i kinda forgot about the time part so this is primarily focused on the destiny part so yahoo!

...follows you like an incessant plague. Wherever you go, wherever you may run, they and their Antimatter Legion follow, bringing destruction and devastation with them.

Nanook first met you in the early days of their existence as an Aeon. Back then, they were but a young one, still weak in the eyes of the others. Back then, they saw you as another obstacle in their Path, another nuisance.

But then, in a clash between you two, Nanook witnessed your abilities for the first time. In the midst of a Legion invasion, a battle that was sure to end in the destruction of another planet, you managed to turn the tide. Your hands weaved a different path, a path that destroyed Nanook's forces and forced them to retreat.

Just one word from you, and fate was reversed. Just one sweep of your pen, and a losing battle was won.

The image of you that day is forever etched into Nanook's mind, burned into their memory. You, powerful, beautiful, and the cold glare of your eyes as you met their gaze. You, the weaver of fate itself.

You were the key to purifying the world of the cancer of civilization. You were the missing piece they never knew they needed. With your power, Nanook could create a perfect, clean world.

They would like nothing more other than to take you away for themself, to lock you away in a separate realm from the rest. But alas, you are older, stronger than they were.

But Nanook wasn't one to give up. As the Aeon of Destruction, they have many other Aeons as enemies, such as Xipe or Yaoshi. They knew how to get their way, even if they would have to fight tooth and claw for it.

And so they follow you. They stalk you throughout the galaxies, chasing you much like the Hunt would. Any planet that has the misfortune to garner even the slightest glance from you is reduced to rubble, for Nanook despises the mere idea of your attention being on anything other than them.

The person they hate the most is Elio, the seer that you've seemingly blessed with your favor. If it weren't for your protection, Nanook would've killed him - blessing him with a long, torturous, drawn-out death with you as their audience.

But it's fine in the end. In the end, Nanook will have their way. They will take you, no matter what it takes. And when they finally do, only then can an untainted world be made.

You may claim to change destiny, but Nanook knows that the future can be changed by those with enough ambition, enough drive.

They isolate you, crushing both the people and the worlds you love. They whisper in your mind of how the greed and hubris of civilization weren't worth saving, and show you only the ugliest parts of humanity. Their words cloud and befuddle your mind with distrust, fear, and abhorrence towards the sentient species.

Soon, your loom of fate becomes tangled in their hands, and Nanook is the one who pulls the strings. They are the only one you can trust, clean from ugliness and impurity. They are all you need. And in return for your power, they offer a faux love.

You watch from within their embrace as the universe crumbles into nothing, watch as countries and planets collapse.

This is how things should be, they whisper, feeling nothing in their heart as they hold you. This is the right way of the world.

And you believe them.

...is an insufferable thorn in your side. Yaoshi yearns for a paradise free from suffering and despair, a paradise that wouldn't be complete without you.

Ever since the day they saw you, they've known. Their heart that loved each and every being in the universe, bloomed for you, longed for you.

They weren't sure just what had attracted them to you so badly, but Yaoshi didn't think they needed to. There was never a need for a reason to love, was there?

Every day, every hour, without fail, Yaoshi clings to your side. You could try to foresee their movements, forcing them away from you, but even you were not free from the cruelty of fate. Yaoshi would always find you, arms open for an embrace as they fill your space with promises and sweet words.

Let us make a paradise together, they'd propose, taking you into their arms as they coo into your ear, caressing your arms with their fingers. Think of what we could do, what we could bring to the galaxies.

Yaoshi is convinced that you were meant to be theirs, the gateway to a world ridden of death and disease. With your power alongside theirs, no one would have to suffer any longer.

The only problem was that you were a little stubborn. No matter, for Yaoshi was patient. They knew you wanted to bring salvation to the universe alongside them, you were just a bit scared of venturing outside your script.

Yaoshi wears you down bit by bit. First, they guilt trip you. They lament over the pitiful mortals, succumbing to disease and war. Perhaps if you had taken them up on their offer, those mortals would be alive and happy right now. They remind you about the lives you could've saved. Yaoshi never outright says it, but you know that subtly, they call you selfish for ignoring the plight of the weak.

Then, they gain the favor of your followers. They bless your devotees with immortality, curing them of any disease or injury they may come across. They coddle and care for them, so that even when Yaoshi isn't physically by your side, your followers who sing them praises constantly remind you of them.

It's even worse when Yaoshi is present. As your followers gush about your so-called love, a love you don't ever recall partaking in, Yaoshi preens at your side, holding onto your arm as a noble lady would her lover.

And as they do, they whisper into your ears, crooning like a venomous snake.

Play along, they murmur, playing with your hair as they kiss your temple. You don't want to disappoint them, do you?

And so you do. You play the role of lover to Yaoshi, forced to give up your pen and your being to the Abundance.

Even though you know of the despair that would eventually come of immortality, you are powerless to stop it, lest you face the scorn of your people.

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little-cereal-draws · 8 months

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Nimona to Ballister: I am older than you'll ever be able to imagine. I have watched civilizations rise and fall, leaders and monuments who proclaim they'll be remembered forever crumble into dust. I observed the development of language, the first clumsy attempts at communication as your species found its tentative footing. I was there when humans first climbed down from the trees and looked up at the endless swath of stars. I have seen the changing of the landscape; mountains and valleys are not created overnight. I have seen the water slowly carve its way through the rock, creating raging rivers, and then dry up again. I have existed beyond your comprehension. Nimona: So I think I should be allowed to say fuck

#ballister: no #nimona #incorrect nimona quotes #nimona quotes #nimona meme #ballister boldheart

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heavyisthecrown-if · 5 months

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Demo (TBA) | Love Interests | Important Characters | Playlists | Pinterest

In the aftermath of a civil war, power is divided between your family and the only other family that survived The Fall, The Northern Throne. They’d fallen out of power years back, but Leopold Drachmann, the self-proclaimed ‘King of The North’, has continued to rally the kingdom’s citizens against its rulers. In a last minute effort to save face, your parents both abdicate and push your brother, Cyprian, to the throne. You find yourself meddling in more royal affairs than you ever thought you would as you and your brother scramble to keep the kingdom- and your foes- in line. Will you save your reputation and rekindle the citizens’ love for your family, or will the monarchy come crumbling down?

Heavy Is The Crown is an interactive novel placed in the fictional kingdom of Sorawain. You play as a prince/princess/prin tasked with having to work alongside your brother to win back the trust of your people and shoot down the Drachmanns' assumed sovereignty.

Play as male, female, or nonbinary with the option of being trans/choosing your agab.

Customize your appearance and personality.

Romance or befriend 4 distinct characters.

Uncover the secrets of your friends and family alike.

Find out the reason Leopold is so dead set on taking down your family's rule.

Help your brother restore rule or suffer the consequences of some poor decision making.

Derrick Bracht (He/Him) - A well-known noble; not for his work as coroner, but instead for being Atticus Bracht’s bastard. A stoic man with an undeniable air of melancholy; he often comes off as cold and straitlaced. He doesn’t concern himself with others, preferring to be alone. You’ve known him since childhood, but have never been able to break down his thick walls.

Talia Kostien (She/Her) - The recent High Priestess and a friend of your brother. She's confident and her sermons are evidence of that, people hanging on her every word. You’ve never had much of a chance to speak with her, and you’re not sure if you want that to change.

Alexander/Alexandra Godfrey (Gender Cust.) - A new member of your royal guard, coming dangerously close to being something of a personal guard. It seems they've been instructed by your parents to stay especially close. You can't blame them, as their expansive military record is enough to impress even the High General.

Zahara/Zachariah Drachmann (Gender Cust.) - The child of Leopold and a sworn pain-in-the-ass. It's a little disconcerting how similar to their father they are, in both appearance and personality. Despite this, they don't seem determined to get their hand on the kingdom or remotely caring of their father's actions, preferring to just sit back and watch.

#interactive fiction #interactive novel #cog #choice script #choose your own adventure

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foxbirdy · 2 years

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I lived on a tiny remote island for four months with a crew of nine people that was 1000 miles from other civilization and could only be reached by either a week-long sail or a three hour chartered flight that lands on a rubble runway that's leftover from WWII. 6° N of the equator. what you need to know about this is that there is only one flightpath that passes over this island, and it's a weekly flight from Samoa to Hawai'i, and that the plane is visible to the southwest of base station at roughly 11 PM on saturday nights. I need you to know that at this time every week there are people on this island that stay awake to see this alien bird and ask each other if anyone on that plane knows that they're there. that they wonder if anyone can see the lantern at the end of the crumbling boat dock that they turn on after dark to watch the manta rays make circles under the light.

#i am thinking about them tonight.#everything's cool ive just been awake for too long 🙏 godbless #beckett.txt

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belokhvostikova · 1 year

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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐘𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐤: 𝐂𝐥𝐮𝐛 𝐏𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐬

𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 | Tuesday was the development between you and Eddie Munson. Wednesday, peace finally seems plausible for the two hurt kids, and understanding becomes a valued aspect.

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | Swearing, yelling, crying, implications to verbal abuse, self deprecating thought, mentions of anxiety, bulling, parent abandonment, domestic abuse, and childhood abuse and neglect.

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞 | I've gone back to all my posts and tagged everyone for the tag list. Literally. If you commented, I tagged you. If you reblogged and remotely mentioned you wanted more, I tagged you. If you were not looking to be tagged, please let me know so I can remove you. Also, I sincerely apologize to anyone who I've accidently been excluding from the tag list, that was my mistake.

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 | One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐈𝐕. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐘𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐤: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐀𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐥𝐲

There was no investment in moral quandary for him. Logicality. Everything had to be logical under the guise that all faults of the world had been facilitated by the emission of emotions that tainted the globe.

Feelings were wrong. Sentiment was wrong. Empathy was wrong.

He believed it was such vulnerability that led to the downfall of his life- not that he’d ever verbally admit his life had crumbled right in front of him, but a pit within the deepest tunnel of his consciousness recognized it. Drilled it. Cemented it. He had chosen to blame the emotions of amenability for the reason why his wife came home at four in the morning with the familiar scent of the neighbor’s cologne. From there, he knew to get rid of it. Emotions. So when you sobbed, asking why mommy hadn’t been home for a couple of days, he said it was not worth crying over. When you had to stand in court upon a scary looking man in a robe and hear mommy agree to only seeing you every other weekend, he said to not worry and suck it up. And when mommy stopped picking up calls and seemingly “forgot” it was her day to see you, he said to get over it. But maybe it wasn’t too bad, right? He always said to be grateful that, at least, he stuck around. At the minimum, he always provided good take-out often, though you were quick to realize it was because he had no desire to cook for you. But, hey, he had always let you watch TV during dinner. Granted, it was because he never sat with you, and chose the comfort of the living room couch, where you could always see the history channel playing from the archway of the dining room where you sat lonely. It was then, you got a deep understanding of the Civil War. And at least his stoicism permitted a great hatred for the presuppositionalism that had infiltrated Hawkins, Indiana. That was good, right? Though, you were never one to define metaethics through divine revelation, so it kinda didn’t matter. But it could be worse. He always said he could be worse. That his choice to deprive you from any physical harm was somehow enough to garner him some merit as a parent.

And maybe that was one of the underlying reasons as to why Eddie Munson scared you so much. He was like your father. And your father scared you.

Mid week. The morning of spring Wednesday had been a groggily dawn of humidity and fog. Though no weather circumstance could derail the perfected routine of your father’s morning. Wake up, shower, brush teeth, make coffee. Black, no sugar. The bitterer, the better. Because that was by true definition strong.

It was like clockwork. Every morning. Because routine leads to success, he's ingrained. It was the only reason why every summer break since you were a child he had you waking up before sunrise with intentions of appearing downstairs for two hours of study time with a tutor he spent hours meticulously searching for that fit his standards. One with saggy cheeks, thin eyebrows, a thick accent, and a bad habit of reprimanding you with a smack of a ruler whenever you humanly made a mistake. The worst thing that could happen in his eyes was watching his daughter slack because of relaxation over summer. Especially after he programmed you into perfection.

But the unthinkable had occurred, and his routine was interrupted.

Between 6:30 a.m and 6:45 a.m, your father was set—like everyday—to retrieve the morning paper, sit down, set the timer, and complete the crossword puzzle. Ten minutes. Nothing more.

But by 6:33 a.m, Eddie Munson was nearly murdered by your father.

Oh, his girl. Of course, there was his sweetheart, Eddie was damn near devoted to that warlock, but then there was his girl. Definitely not the everloving relationship he had with his sweetheart, I mean, he touched her, and the harmonious sounds from her strings could elevate the pain of his mind, but there was still no doubt that a sentimental part of his heart was dedicated to his girl. Rusted and cranking, the old van had been gifted to the young man after countless hours committed to Harry’s Auto Shop over the summer. And though her imperfections nearly had him pulling the roots of his hair out of his head weekly, she still managed to get him from point A to point B—not to mention, she looked totally sick and provided the best comfort place to spark up a joint or spend time with a pretty boy or girl whenever the opportunity came (it never did).

But besides that, the moral of the story is his van, his girl, was deeply cared for.

Except for the occasions of last night.

Because right now, your father was wrinkling the informative pages of the daily news with a tight grip of pure seethe, because some dirty, gross van had parked over the curb of his property and ruined the pristine, clean-cut, green lawn with muddy tire tracks.

You had heard it all.

The blaring alarm at 5:45 a.m, the running shower from your father’s bathroom, and the heavy steps of his feet descend into the kitchen.

Exhaustion couldn’t fathom the ache of your body, as the fluffy duvet beneath you held no substance to the stiffening floor underneath. Not to mention, the heavy sorrow of the events that had only occurred a couple hours prior were relying heavy in your mind, prompting the loss of true sleep, made only worse when Eddie’s drunken snores were echoing as a constant reminder that he was right there.

Eddie Munson was in your bed- Eddie Munson was in your bed!

The ever so slight glimmer of the awakening sun was bleeding upon his sleeping figure, almost dead with no movement. He hadn’t shifted an arm or a leg, mouth still agape from his roaring slumber with a puddle of drool staining your satin pillow. You’d timidly approached the edge of your bed, knees scraping along the rough floor to reach his peaceful face. The disheveled bangs of his forehead had crumpled against themselves, shielding him from the oozing light through your window.

This was the calmest Eddie Munson had been in weeks.

No lumps in the mattress, an actual comforter, the pungent stank of his cigarettes now replaced with the captivating vanilla scent of your perfume, which eased him into a comfortable sleep and an all too real dream where you were in his arms. It felt scaringly natural.

There was a part of you that didn’t want to wake him. Whether it was because you could take an hour studying his pretty face, which led you to wondering how anyone could even fathom being so nasty to something so beautiful, or whether it was because that childhood anger and nestling vexation against a world that hated him was still deeply residing within Eddie, and you could easily fall victim to such hatred. It happened before, it could happen again.

You rested your head against your bed, a slight alleviation to the malaise of the floor, and let his warm breathing fan across your face. The tips of your fingers benevolently stroked the unruly strands of his bangs away, to reveal the fluttering eyes of his face. You wondered what he could be dreaming of.

You.

You were all he could think of. Awake and asleep.

“Eddie.” You softly whispered. In hindsight, it probably wasn’t the best choice given his hangover coma, but Eddie needed gentleness. “Hey, wake up.” You shook his shoulder. A pained groan prolonged far longer than you expected, as his face scrunched in a wince of a pounding headache. “Are you okay?”

That was too real for any dream. Eddie’s dry eyes snapped at the sound of your saccharine voice, suddenly realizing the devastating events that occurred last night. “Sh-shit!” He attempted to sit up, but your hand held his arm back.

“Shh, it’s okay.” You cooed, as he peered around frantically confused. He cracked his neck with a sharp turn, and his big eyes landed on you; once again, comforting him, as though he hadn’t put you through hell in the mere days he’s communicated with you.

His head fervently began shaking, as if to reject all that he’d done, as if everything he ever did you to was just a nightmare of his own fears, that he didn’t do what he did. But he did. And his eyes started welling up. “I-I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” He choked. “For everything, I didn’t- I’m so fucking sorry-”

“Shh, Eddie-”

“I don’t want to scare you, and I’m s-sorry for doing it in the first place, I’m so so fucking so-”

“Eddie, just lay down, it’s okay.” You attempted to ease into him, as you lowered him down, his begrudgement leaving him hesitating until his back was flat against your bed.

Once relaxed, it seemed his body and mind gave up on the restraints of his emotions, and his stream of tears came pouring with all dejection and regret of how everything had played out between you two. Eddie Munson hated himself. Hated who he was. Someone set up for the failures of life, he rejected anything that could steer him from a path of love and acceptance. And he hated that. He hated the life he had. At any given opportunity to go back in time, he would scream at his father, hit his father, just get him and his mother away from his father so that he could just grow up to be a normal person. A normal person, who could process their emotions and not deduce themselves into a nihilistic asshole. A normal person, who wouldn’t degrade the only person who’s held him without hurting him. A normal person, who would love you and cherish you as you deserved. Yet Eddie Munson hated his life and hated any momentous occasion that could possibly diminish the pain of life… like you. Because good things don’t happen to Eddie Munson, and you held so much power to hurt him.

Seeing his palms stab into his eyes, you gently held his trembling wrist to relieve him from the pain he believed he deserved. “Come on, Eddie, please stop.” You softly spoke trying to ease his hands away from his face. “Everything is okay, I promise.”

“N-no, it’s not!”

“Shh!” You rushed out. “My dad’s awake downstairs.” You whispered.

“S-sorry.” He spoke so meekly, as his hands cleaned the staggering wetness of his eyes and cheeks.

The atmosphere between you both fell stagnantly silent, as he tried to control his breathing through the tiny sniffles of his nose. He felt you staring, eyes boring into the side of his head, as he peered up at the dark ceiling. He couldn’t stand to look at you right now. He had just drunkenly sobbed and was now blubbering like a child, because of all the bullshit he just put you through. He was a-fucking-shamed. Ashamed of all he’s done. Ashamed of who he was. And you were seeing the worst of it.

“Eddie.” He closed his eyes and shook his head no. “Please.”

He slowly turned his head and met your tired yet so fucking beautiful face. God, he could stare at you forever. How could he do this to you? Put you through off of that, just because he was scared. He fucking hated himself, and you could so clearly see the despise against himself in his saddened eyes. I’m sorry I am the way that I am, I’m sorry you have to put up with me, I’m sorry I’m here ruining your life. He didn’t have to say it, it was engraved on his face.

His heart almost lunged out of his chest when you crept closer, noses nearly touching, as your eyes engulfed him with a meaningful stare. “I’m really glad you came.”

“What?” You truly couldn’t have been, but your head nodded with the soothing confirmation he needed.

“Yeah, I am.” You whispered.

“You shouldn’t be.” He whispered. “What I did was awful.”

“I know.” You sighed. “I know, and please don’t ever do that again. But I’m still glad you came. Glad that we talked. Glad that I got to understand.”

“I wish I told you sooner… and better.” He pinched his eyes closed at the haunting memory. “I’m sorry, I didn’t want to scare you, I’m so fucking sorry I did.”

“I know you are.” There was no “it’s fine” or forgiveness to offer, because he truly did cross a line that terrified you. But you could accept his understanding of the wrongdoing he did. Because acknowledgement was a valuable step in moving forward.

“I just- Y/N, I just really want to be with you.” There it was. He was putting himself out there once and for all, risking it, because you deserved to know. The torment of his emotional unavailability was ending, because he was ready to face the adversity of his trauma to make you happy. But that was exactly the issue. You could see he was ready to do it for you. Not himself. And whatever was brewing between you and Eddie Munson would not magically dissolve the underlying issue within both of you under the guise that you both got together and skipped away into the sunset happily ever after. Reality was a harsh slap in the face, and you knew he’d hate it, but it was what was needed.

“I just want you to be okay, Eddie.” You confided with a heavy bite of your lip. “I… want to be okay, Eddie.”

His eyes were glossing with threatening tears again. He knew what was coming. “You don’t wanna be with me.” He murmured. It was no question, but a simple truth he had to face.

“No.” You spoke with deep conviction. “I don’t want to be with the person you are right now. I can’t be. Not now. It wouldn’t be right, and I just want us to be okay.” You brushed his bangs away. His lips began trembling, but he accepted your boundaries with a vehement nod to his head to let you know he understood. “Eddie,” you punctuated so it became cemented, “I don’t want you to do this again-”

“I won’t, I swear, I won’t drink-”

“No, Eddie… I don’t want you coming here. To my house. To see me.” You sighed, as his eyes desperately scanned your face for the off chance you’d say you were kidding and you wanted him over all the time. But your words continued.

“I’m really fucking sorr-”

“I know you are, Eddie. I know.” A heavy breath from your chest escaped. “But I need time, and it may not seem like it now, but you need time, too. So I don’t want you calling. I don’t want you asking anyone where I am or how to talk to me. Not Chrissy, not anyone. Promise me.”

He agreed.

But Eddie Munson would break this promise. Not for some drunken, overbearing, emotional reason, though. But for good reason. All because your bedroom door slammed open.

Synchronized through driven fear, yours and Eddie’s head snapped at the sudden bust of your bedroom door, where your father stood effervesce with indignation of pure enragement at the sight of Eddie in your bed.

“Get out of my house!”

“Dad, wait!”

Your words were not of care to your dad, as he shoved you onto the ground with a shriek of horror escaping your lungs, as he charged himself onto your bed. The shot of adrenaline had coursed out any inebriations from the night before, as Eddie went against the swelling pounding of his head to jump from the comfort of your sheets and tumble onto the floor.

“I’m gonna fucking kill you!” Imprinted with the mud of his shoes, the pool of his drool, and now crumbled under the heavy weight of your father’s fall, the sanctity of your bed—the only thing that had caressed you through the hardships of your life, where you found solace in the safety of its soft cotton and silk, where your mother once cuddled you to sleep as she spoke of the future, I’m gonna lay your pretty prom dress right on the bed and watch you become so beautiful for your special night, where you cried yourself to sleep for countless night because she left you and she didn’t actually want to see you become so beautiful for your special night—had demised under the ruins of men who made you bawl your eyes out and made you feel so little about yourself. And maybe your bed being derelict was a cursory occasion to cry over, maybe it wasn’t; nonetheless, your eyes began to brim with the flooding tears of the overstimulated stress of an exhausted mind, dry eyes, and a splitting heart.

“Please stop.” Too quiet and airy for any big, angry, men to hear.

Because big, angry, men don’t care for the aching pain of the people they hurt.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit…” Eddie stumbled onto wobbly feet, planting the palms of his hands to stand himself away from your reaching father. “M’so fuckin’ sorry!” At that point, the directions of his words were either targeted to you or your father, you couldn’t decipher, and truthfully, you didn’t care to decipher.

Your father managed to unravel himself from the hold of your blankets, stepping off with heavy stomps to follow Eddie around your room. “You better get out of my fucking house, I’m fucking calling the cops! How dare you fucking touch my daughter?!”

“Dad, please.” Weak, broken, unheard.

“I fuckin’ didn’t!” Eddie was fortunate enough to spot his beloved jacket, snatching it from the confines of your desk chair, where he was able to roll it out as an obstruction to your father’s determined path of strangling Eddie Munson.

Because in the mind of a relentless resolute driven by all the wrong ideas because of the pain he so adamantly refused the face, Eddie Munson was the cause of your ultimate failure. Eddie Munson manipulated his daughter. Eddie Munson got his daughter suspended. Eddie Munson would be the reason your failure tainted the family name.

Eddie pummeled through your door, coming face-to-face with the extravagant expanse of your home. Cold. Everything was freezing cold, from the temperature to the decoration. Deprived from any signs of life. As if it was a museum. His bulging eyes found the large staircase, and it truly amazed him how his feet found every step without thought, simply autopilot. There was a yanking urge that was demanding him to go back. Go back for you. Make sure you were okay. Make sure to clean your tears up. Once again, he was making you cry. Maybe not entirely his fault, but his being was partaking in your agony and he fucking hated himself for it. But the weighing steps of her father marching right on his ass prompted him to move forward. Your front door was swung carelessly, welcoming the hot air of the burning morning, where once again, the clean cut grass of the manicured lawn was falling victim to Eddie’s destruction of mucky shoes. Maybe drinking hadn’t been too bad of an idea—it absolutely was—as Eddie’s drunken state, at nine at night, had left his keys impaled into the ignition ready to go.

The haggard van erupted to life, Eddie had never been so grateful to hear the god awful clunk that definitely needed to be checked out. Peer out once more, your wrathful father ran with a tirade of curses that condemned Eddie Munson back to hell, but the screech of his reversing tires interrupted his polemic. “Don’t you ever come back! You’ll be dead before your kind can even step foot into my fucking neighborhood!”

Eddie Munson would return back in eighteen hours.

“There’s an old man sitting next to me…” Wayne softly chuckled, as the lyrics had been repeating out of his mouth for the entirety of his shift, after Rodney Nickelvich decided to play the voice of Billy Joel during break.

It’d been a particularly difficult shift. His back wasn’t getting any younger, and the evident ache that decided to settle in the lower region was making it known. But the stiffness of his folding bed would alleviate enough, at least until his next shift. But that never came for Wayne Munson. Because the second—the literal second—his head managed to even briefly skim his flat pillow, the presence of his caterwauling nephew combusted through their front door with no regards for the tired old man in the living room. Eddie hadn’t even looked his way. A straight B-line to the phone.

“And where the hell have you been?” Wayne groaned with prostration. “Comin’ in here like you own the place, have you lost your mind, boy?”

But there was no answer.

Where Eddie would have normally spoken back with a clear answer of respect, there was nothing. No acknowledgement.

“Ed.”

Already engraved into his mind like the chords to his guitar, Eddie punched the buttons to your number on the yellow phone. But then he stopped. “I need the time… I don’t want you calling.” But this was bigger than that, right? He needed to know you were okay. “Please don’t hate me.” He scrunched his brows in the burning pain of betraying your boundaries. Once again. His finger dialed the rest of the numbers.

But it was dead. Not a ring. Not a buzz. Not a single indication that your phone was even ringing. Just a deadline. And Eddie’s heart sank to the deepest pit in his stomach. “Fuck!”

“Eddie.” Wayne’s face etched with concern. “What the hell is goin’ on?”

Eddie’s chest began hyperventilating with worry for you. “I-I… shit, I-uh… I really gotta get to school.”

Wayne sat up, now. Never in the decade he’s been in the care of Eddie Munson had that boy ever rushed out to get to school. Something was deeply wrong. But he couldn’t even hurtle a question of scrutiny, as Eddie had already slammed the door shut with his being gone, so deeply perturbed.

Eddie was truly pissed off at this point.

The entire proposition of arriving early to school was to find Chrissy Cunningham, but just as it occurred yesterday afternoon, the cheerleader was nowhere to be seen in the breadth of Hawkins High. He knew he was going against your wishes, quite specifically, but his heart and mind couldn’t fathom the possible danger you could be subjected to. He had too. Right? Would you just hate him more for interfering? God, he was shooting himself over the complication he construed the entire situation to become. Asking his friends had quickly been classified as the most imbecilic measure he’d ever succumb to, as those guys had never found the courage to conjure up an idea to jump start an actual conversation with an actual girl. Knowing where the head cheerleader was was beyond their source of knowledge. Yesterday’s clothes, dry mouth, red eyes, the residing ache of his hangover still tormenting his sore limbs, and now having no comprehension of whether or not you were safe at the aggressive hands of your father, Eddie was about to traject the heaviest waterfall of beer and bile onto the grimy floors of Mr. Hall’s carpentry class. But the shrieking bell unexpectedly pacified the turbulence brewing in his belly, and he was shoving passed visibly annoyed bodies to reach the cafeteria. His only chance.

His overloaded mind didn’t even process the trouble he was walking into, but unwavering was Eddie Munson as he marched into the bustling cafeteria of crackling students and cardboard food, legs pushing him to the table. “Chrissy!” Heads snapped like automated robots. Yeah, he probably should have thought this out. Glares couldn’t even amount to the looks he was receiving from the highest of Hawkins High. This was no laughing matter, but the urge to not laugh at Jason Carver’s battered face left all self control out of Eddie, as the perfect comb-over paired with the purple swollen skin personified the magnificence of juxtapositions.

“You want something, freak?” Jason stood with a puffed chest.

“Look a little different, Carver, that new?” Eddie gestured to the contuse skin, smirking oleaginously. As if it was previously discussed, Andy McAvoy and Chance Williams stood to defend the precious honor of their friend. In Eddie’s mind, it pleased him to know a conversation of protection was ordered by Jason to his goons to preserve any remaining prettiness of his face. Prom was coming up. “Relax, I didn’t say your names, did I?”

Eddie and Jason’s gaze looked down upon Chrissy, who’s brows were cinched with confusion and worry as to what was going to occur. Jason could only snicker incredulously. “She’s not speaking to you! You really think I’m gonna leave her with some devil worshiper like you? Why don’t you do this whole town a favor and fuck off with the circus, fucking basketcase.”

But Eddie was indefatigable to the insults of the perfectly pristine. They’d been propelled since childhood, the last thing to strike his ego would be the dense words of Jason fucking Carver. Eddie had bigger issues at hand.

“That’s really cute, Carver, but she can make her own decisions, and right now,” Eddie locked eyes with a frantic Chrissy Cunningham, “we have something important to talk about.” It was imperative for Chrissy to understand, and the moment her eyes softened, a breath of relief escaped Eddie at her understanding. Your name was oozing importance.

“Are you that fucking insane-”

“Jason,” Chrissy held his hand, “h-he’s right.”

“What?!”

A disgustingly pompous smile eased onto Eddie’s face.

“It’s, uh, it’s for, um, Mrs. Durberry.” Chrissy nodded. “I-I have to, uh, tutor Eddie. We, um, we discussed it yesterday during, uh, lunch. Yeah, during lunch!”

“During lunch.” Eddie smirked with a condescending nod.

Jason huffed through flared nostrils, bending down to look Chrissy right in the eye. Though whispered in secrecy, Eddie rolled his eyes with agitation. “Are you sure about this? Is he just making you do this?”

“No, I promise.” Chrissy assured. “You know I aced chemistry, Mrs. Durberry is just trying to give me an opportunity to get community service hours, and tutoring was the perfect chance. You know it’ll look good for college applications.”

The lie was good enough to believe- not good enough to like, but good enough to believe, and that’s all Eddie Munson and Chrissy Cunningham needed. Jason sat down in defeat, the other players following in unison, as Chrissy gathered her items. “You try anything, Munson, and you're dead.” Jason pointed with a stern finger.

Chrissy had quickly walked by, hoping Eddie would just follow, but of course, he couldn’t leave without the last word. “Right, right,” he slyly smiled, “might wanna put some ice on that, s’looking a little nasty. Who did that to you again?”

“Eddie.” Chrissy chastised.

Now, it was most abundantly clear that Chrissy Cunningham was not an indictment of the American education system, her grades almost as perfect as yours—though no one could come close to your precociousness—yet Eddie had to reevaluate his beliefs when Chrissy was marching vastly farther than anticipated.

“Jesus Christ, Chris, y’know we don’t actually have to intrude Durberry’s class? She fucking hates me.” Eddie giggled. “‘Specially after I used the bunsen burner to light a joint. Kept asking “what’s that smell” for a week.”

Chrissy finally came to a halt after turning into another empty hall. “Sorry.” She sighed. “Just can’t have Jason following us.”

“Y’know, you could probably do better than some control freak who follows you around.” Eddie shrugged.

Chrissy blinked at her shoes in contemplation. Eddie hadn’t expected the words to hit so deeply, a mere critique to the numerous problems he found in Jason Carver, but nonetheless, the cheerleader got extremely quiet, before shaking her head to get back to the point.

“A-anyways, um, what is it that you, uh, wanted?” She rushed out.

“Oh! Right, um, I need you to go to Y/N’s house.” His eyes widened, as his lips tightened between his mouth. He knew it was outrageous to ask.

“W-what?”

“Look, I know that’s a big ask-”

“I already gave you her number and address, why don’t you g-”

“I did!” He heaved. “I fucking did, and I messed up!”

Chrissy slumped,“Again?!”

Eddie winced. Again, again, again, again, again.

“Look, I “made” it to her house, and we got to talk. But her fucking dad caught me in her room, and just went haywire on me. Practically chased me out.” Eddie stressed. “And I-I tried to call her to make sure she was okay, I mean, it’d been a long night and she was crying when I left, and, fuck, Chris, I don’t know what her dad is capable of.” Is he like my dad? “Her line was dead when I tried, like off the hook, and I can’t go over to make sure she’s safe, Chrissy. I have to make sure she’s okay. Can you please just, I don’t know, do this for me, I’m fucking helpless here, I’m…” Helpless to my mother.

Chrissy was taken aback by the pure fear in his eyes as he rambled into oblivion. She knew you. She knew your father. She could only imagine how ballistic he’s gone in the past couple of days knowing what’s happened. “Okay, okay, okay, yeah, um, yeah,” Chrissy took a deep breath with a soft nod to her head, “Yeah, I’ll try to come over- but her dad’s really strict, Eddie. Like extremely, he’s the only reason why she’s so, you know, hard about her grades and stuff, I don’t know if he’d actually let me see her-”

“Please, please, just try.” Chrissy took notice of just how tightly his hands were balling into themselves, knuckles turning a blistering white from the lack of ease he was inflicting upon himself. “She’s your friend, and she doesn’t want to see me, so please, I’m begging you, Chris-”

“I will, Eddie, I will.” She reassured, as she adjusted her knit sweater that suddenly became itchy on her sensitive skin. “I just, um, I’ll probably have to come up with an excuse, a-and skip practice.”

“Look, m’sorry I’m dragging you into this, but I just need to make sure she’s okay, and maybe you can finally have a chance to talk to her about…y’know.” Chrissy shook her head quickly, acknowledging but not trying to think about her implicit endorsement to the status quo at Hawkins High, and how much it had hurt you. And she let it hurt you. “Just- you can’t tell her it was me who sent you, okay? Sh-she wants nothing to do with me, and I’m trying to respect that, I just need to know she’s safe, but she can’t know I sent you. I don’t- I don’t want to make her more upset, Chris. I can’t, I just-”

“Eddie,” Realizing the words were once again coming out a mile a minute, he bit his tongue, letting a bubble of air constrict his lungs with a fervent grip. He wasn’t about to cry. He couldn’t. Not here. Not at school. Not in front of Chrissy fucking Cunningham. Not that she’d judge much, she could already see the sheen of his eyes. “I’ll do it, I’ll check on her. A-and I won’t say it was you.”

His body was finally able to ease at her response, finally letting his airway release all tensions from the stirring anxiety that was still nesting in the crevices of his stomach. “Thank you, thank you so much.” His hands reached for her shoulders with a firm shake of acknowledgement, though his strength had her stumbling on her feet a bit. Not that he noticed. He was still worrying about you. “Just, uh, call me or something, the second she, uh- the second you know she’s okay.” Eddie didn’t want to think of the other possibility. The possibility where your father had laid a hand on you. Or worse. He wouldn’t know what to do. In his experience, silently crying and letting daddy take his frustrations out was the safest option. It was what mommy said to do, so dad wouldn’t do worse. At least ice cream was always promised at the end to make it all go away.

“Yeah, okay, I’ll do that.” She nodded in agreement.

With the confirmation stated, Eddie had already begun walking away with a determined plan in mind to sit in front of the yellow telephone until the shrilling call came through. His mind dead set on you.

“Wait!” Chrissy had to snap him back to reality. “Eddie, I don’t have your phone number.” She lightheartedly scoffed.

Chrissy Cunningham began to worry. Yes, about you. She was ready to march her way past your father in order to make sure you were okay, and to pour her heart out on a well needed apology just so you could understand how sorry she was. Even if you didn’t accept it. But she was also worried about herself. Never in a million years did she expect Eddie Munson, of all people, to show her what true feelings were. He hadn’t even talked to you for more than a week, and he was bending over backwards to ensure all his wrongs were corrected for your safety and comfort. Jason Carvered loved her, she knew it, but the subtle things were becoming pronounced. Do you really think you should be wearing that? My parents will be there. Just come to the party, I’ll look bad if my girlfriend’s not there. When she comes back, I don’t want you hanging around Y/N anymore. She’s bad news and betrayed your friendship by fucking around with that trailer trash. Don’t make yourself look bad by being friends with her.

“Shit, yeah, sorry, my, uh, my brains all over the place.” He crazily signaled with a swing of his hand. Unlike yesterday, Chrissy’s pink pen was tainting a small torn sheet of notebook paper rather than skin, as risking the chance of Jason Carver seeing Eddie Munson’s phone number written on her hand would prompt another outburst of fury between the boys. So as Eddie reiterated the numbers to his home, Chrissy copied with intent.

Intent to see you. Intent to apologize. Intent to inform Eddie.

“Okay, I’ll call you as soon as I leave her place.” Chrissy assured, as the queasiness in Eddie had simmered but surely hadn’t left. He knew as soon as he got home, the consternation would eat him unalive.

Eddie nodded his head. “Yeah, thanks again, seriously, I’ll owe you whatever.” He sighed, before his brows perked. “Oh! I can give a twenty percent discount!” He didn’t even have to specify.

Chrissy Cunningham didn’t smoke. But at least he was trying.

“Uh, s-sure, Eddie.” She simply agreed, and it was able to give him a satisfied smile. “Anyways, yeah, I’ll talk to you later. Just try not to worry too much, I’m sure she’s okay.” She inspirited.

“Okay, yeah, as soon as you can.” Eddie sighed. “I’ll leave you to it, I’m gonna go throw up or something.”

Luckily, Eddie Munson didn’t vomit in the filthy stall that is the boys’ bathroom at Hawkins High, though Chrissy Cunningham sure felt like she was about to hurl today’s lunch and breakfast standing at the doorstep of your home. Her toes tensed in the comfort of her sneakers, hearing the incoming steps of your father approaching the door. Hands gripping the straps of her backpack, she was ready- well, as ready as one can be about to face their best friend’s—did she even have a right to call you that—daunting father.

The door swung. “Hi, Mr. Y/L/N!” Smile, a bright smile and wave from Chrissy Cunningham was sure enough to get anyone to be polite. But his face plastered the same dead expression he’s had for the last four years Chrissy had known him. No smile. No squint of the eyes. Unemotional stoicism.

“Hi, Chrissy.” Robots had more pep in their voices. “Sorry, but Y/N is grounded, for quite an extensive period actually, so she’s not allowed visitors. Go home.” He began to close the door, but Chrissy’s manicured hand abruptly stopped the closure.

“Wait!” She immediately reeled back, seeing the disrespecting look take over his face. “Sorry, sir, I-I’m not here to hang out, it’s just, uh, I brought all the school work Y/N’s missed. You know, from her suspension?” She spoke sheepishly. “A-and well, we don’t want her falling behind, sir.” A nervous chuckle accompanied her faux parent voice. “In fact, Mrs. Durberry and I actually discussed tutoring, so, you know, Y/N is back on track by the time of her return.”

It was in regards to your grades, your father’s favorite. Chrissy Cunningham was a genius.

“Really?” He questioned quizzically.

“Yeah!” Chrissy bounced on the balls of her feet with a firm pat to her backpack. “I’ve got all her work right here. She’s free to turn it in when she gets back, and you know, she’s firmly secured that valedictorian spot, so there’s no need to worry.” She smiled, and of course, of course, that’s all he cared about in the wake of your suspension.

So easily had Chrissy been let into your home. She wondered what she would say to you, as she followed behind your father to your room. It was strange. Your home had always been a cold one, but your laughter and the endless sleepless sleepovers had the ability to bring warmth to such a colorless environment. But all that suffocated her was hostility. Long gone were the memories of an innocent friendship between the two girls. Another factor to consider was the mere fact that your father was guiding Chrissy. She’d been over to your house for years, the layout didn’t suddenly change over a couple days, and a nervous thump began upsetting Chrissy’s heart. And she found out why.

“Had to lock her up.” He uttered with no shame, as he pulled out a glowing key from his pocket. Haphazardly bolted on your door was a new lock, evidently cheaply and hastily done, as the lock resembled the numerous ones used for the lockers at Hawkins High, and the chipped paint and exposed wood could only insinuate the fury in which this job was done in. Your door lock, one onced used when you and Chrissy discussed the boys you thought were cutest at school in your pink pajamas, was now accompanied by a prison lock keeping you captive in your bedroom. “Should've seen the trash she was bringing in.” He muttered mostly to himself. Chrissy didn’t speak. She couldn’t speak. Too disturbed for her own wellbeing. “Do me a favor, kid,” he unlocked the door, “knock some sense into that disgrace.”

He walked away without a care.

The door creaked open, and Chrissy had taken a deep breath. Stepping inside, with a soft click of the door behind her, her eyes landed on the still figure on your bed. Turned away and engaging at the neverending nothingness of everything, you cocooned yourself in your blanket, like a hurt child. Because you merely were one. Chrissy looked away, inching tiny steps closer. Disheveled would be an understatement to the usual cleanliness of your room. Knick-knacks and personal items were thrown about, cracked, and broken, and damaged beyond the actions of someone who was depressed. No, this was the destruction of deep rooted anger.

No expecting the company, you simply screwed your eyes closed with the awaiting words of hatred you thought would be coming from your father at any second. But it didn’t. Only the familiar softness of Chrissy Cunningham, your best friend. “Y/N…?”

You immediately jumped at the sound, meeting your reddening, wet eyes with Chrissy’s round, worried blue ones. “Chrissy…”

The occupying distrust you had for her was incomparable to the pain of what had occurred today. Yes, she hurt you. Yes, you lost your one true friend. But you needed her. And your arms opened like the broken child reaching out for help, and she immediately embraced you on your bed. Your bed, where you spent countless times giving each other at-home mani and pedis, even though your allowances provided enough for professional services, but this was more fun. Your bed, where Chrissy once vented about the first fight she ever had with Jason Carver, because he disregarded her at a party to do a keg stand—yes, it was trivial, but they were sixteen at the time. And your bed, where you both shared the vulnerability of losing a mother, either physically or emotionally, through sobbing tears and tight hugs, but none of that mattered because you were best friends and had each other. Forever.

“Are you okay?” Her vision appeared blurry under the disorientating state of water welling in her eyes. “I’m so sorry for everything.” Chrissy stroked your hair. You couldn’t muster a word to respond with, merely silently crying into the junction of her neck, where she smelled of spring flowers. You’d picked out that perfume for her. Her seventeenth birthday. “I should’ve stuck up for you, I-I should’ve told everyone to stop, I’m so sorry I didn’t.”

Her apology suddenly revealed why you lost trust in her in the first place. Urgently pulling back from the hug far quicker than Chrissy would have liked, you brought your knees to your chest, letting your face find solace on the tiny space rather than her embrace.

“What are you doing here, Chris?” You mumbled so quiet, she was barely able to register it from the chirping birds outside.

“I came to apologize to you.” At least she wasn’t drunk. “I- Y/N everything I did to you was awful.” Her plucked brows furrowed with shame and remorse. You carefully picked up your head, as she gently held knee. “When everyone started saying stuff about you, I was so confused, and before I could even question it, Jason had me promise to not be around you, and I’m so sorry. I’m not trying to excuse what I did, I just should have known better, and I needed to apologize to you.”

Your eyes had closed in relief. You were beyond the trenches of exhaustion, everything was so sore from the exertion of crying, that the simple apology brought the grand relief you’d been yearning for. “I-I think I need space away from Jason.” That had your eyes snapping open. Jason and Chrissy, in love since the tenth grade, becoming the embodiment of young love in Hawkins. Their parents had practically set up a future in which both attended the same university as young adults, and married each other with the expectation of kids by the age of twenty-five.

“I don’t like who he is as a person.” She confessed with a wobbly lip. “ I know he loves me, but I love you, and I don’t want to hurt you.”

You took her back into a loving hug, where she fell limp in your arms, as her tears stained your clothes. Though muffled you spoke with a small whine, “You sound like Eddie.” Which had her giggling through tears.

She had slowly pulled away, smiling at the small curve of your lips that was brightening your face. She wiped your tears, and caressed the hairs out of your face. “Yeah, he’s kinda my new friend now.” She shrugged. “Even offered me a discount to his… business.”

You laughed with a roll to your eyes. “Quite the entrepreneur he is.” She snickered in agreement. “But yeah, I could tell when he came to my house yesterday.”

“Oh, god.” Chrissy plopped back on your bed. “How did you even figure out it was me, you’re so smart?”

You giggled, joining her, as you stared up at the ceiling. “Seeing someone like Eddie Munson show up with pretty pink writing on him doesn’t seem like something that occurs innately in nature. Figured you had something to do with it.”

“I’m sorry for that, too.” She turned to look at you. “I shouldn’t have given him that information without asking you. He just really wanted to apologize to you, too, and it seemed like the right thing to do. What even happened?” She sat up to get serious.

You couldn’t fathom retelling the occurrence of what happened, so you merely opted for the safest choice, and nodded your head in silence. “He did apologize, just wish he would have done it differently.” You sighed. “And, uh, my dad-” Your throat had automatically constricted at the simple mention of him, eyes tightening with the hopes of suppressing the whirlwind of tears that were about to flood your face. “Chrissy, he wouldn’t stop yelling.” You began bawling, as she pulled you up to wrap her arms around your shrinking body. “H-he kept screaming a-and shouting, then he just- he just started throwing things-” Chrissy could only rock you body, gently and softly, letting your tears hit her shoulder with all might. “I was so scared.”

The dreaded question. “Did- did he hit you?” Chrissy spoke into your hair, terrified of how you might answer. But luckily, the tiniest bit of luck, you had shook your head no, and she let out a deep breath. But the harsh slap of reality was that your father had still severely crossed a line that put you in an unsafe environment. And you were petrified.

“He’s not letting me leave my room.” You whispered through sniffles.

“Did he take your phone, Edd-” Chrissy contemplated for a second, before she spoke extremely softly. “Eddie said you didn’t pick up when he tried to call you after what happened.”

“He tried to call me?”

“Just to make sure you were okay.” She emphasized. “He said he’s trying to respect your wishes of wanting space, but after what happened, he just needed to know you were safe… that’s why- that’s why I’m here.” Your brows furrowed and you immediately sat up. “I’d been wanting to apologize to you, and Eddie had been dying to make sure you were okay, so he asked me to come check on you, and so I could finally say sorry to you. He- Y/N, he really cares about you. We both do.”

This was the bit of progress you were wanting to see. To know that the Eddie Munson you met Friday afternoon, the one who coward away at the mere idea of feelings and compassion, the one who uttered the vile words that stabbed right through you, the one who shouted in defense because he was hurt, that that wasn’t him. It wasn’t who he wanted to be. It wasn’t who he truly was. But a recovery from trauma was not a linear progression, and last night you were able to understand the fluctuations of Eddie Munson, the reason why he berated and hurt, the reason why he comforted and protected, the reason why he wailed and sobbed.

“Chrissy, when’s the next time you’re gonna see him?” You cleared your face from staining tears.

“I’ll see him at school tomorrow, but he asked me to call him to make sure you were safe first.”

You nodded. “I, uh- can you actually ask him something for me?”

That one clunking noise Eddie had once been so happy to hear? Yeah, he’s returned back to detesting it, as he felt it drew so much attention to the all too quiet streets of Pinecrest Acres. He made the conscience—and sober—decision to park behind the gray De Tomaso Pantera—fighting the urge to just pop the hood and look at the beauty inside—that resided two houses down from yours. It gave him enough coverage away from any view of your father. Eddie was terrified. Much to his dismay, Chrissy had been fairly vague over the phone when she rang him at 5:59 p.m exactly. Luckily by then, a buddy of Wayne’s had taken him out to an early dinner before their shift at the plant, so his uncle missed out on the Olympic-worthy run Eddie had made to the phone the second it began ringing. And Chrissy had spoken. A lot. But so little at the same time. He was happy to hear you guys made up. Truly he was. But Chrissy had carried on for a five minute tangent about how gladly you accepted her back into your life again. Eddie Munson was honestly jealous. Though she had mentioned how you specified wanting time away from her, too, maybe meeting up to speak that coming Monday at school when your suspension would be over. Eddie had wondered if you would speak to him then, too. But he didn’t have to wonder much longer. After he so kindly told the cheerleader to get to the point, the real point he wanted to hear, she had assured him that you were okay. Physically, at least. Eddie had dropped to his kitchen chair with a breath of relief that no one had touched you. But then Chrissy kept speaking. She wants to see you. Tonight. That had Eddie trajecting back up from his seat. But his questions had disappointingly gone unanswered. No details. No explanation. No reasoning. Just show up, Eddie. At midnight. At her window. And not drunk. Chrissy had never gotten the full story as to what went down between you and Eddie, so that part desperately confused and intrigued the girl, but she didn’t push any further. Eddie, though, had cringed in disgust at himself because he knew.

An owl had hooted in the distance as he followed the tracks his beloved, dying van had made on your green lawn. Once again, Eddie had found himself in the same position as last night, cracking his neck and rolling his limbs for the climb of a lifetime. If it was somehow possible, he felt he was quivering more than when he was three beers down and no dinner. Yes, he was sober, but his heart could stop beating at the neverending questions his mind was bombarding against himself. Were you mad because he sent Chrissy over? Surely you couldn’t be, she would have said so. But you could also be really fucking pissed. The same type of anger that caught him off guard when his father swung on his little face when Eddie thought they were having a good time.

But he couldn’t rely on heavy thoughts as such. He just needed to get to you. Passed the trellis, over the trimming, onto the roof. Quiet as Eddie Munson could be. He couldn’t really be quiet, but he tried for you. Crouching his way to your window, he sucked in a deep breath before he ever so gently tapped on your window. He was eyeing his reflection, wondering who the hell he had become. The one definitive figure he didn’t want to become: his father. A relentless pessimist, hatred against the world, bruteness to show off, and the inability to take accountability for the hurt they cause, because they were hurt first, right?

But then your curtains opened, and there you were. You.

You, who’d included his friends when no one wanted them. You, who made him smile despite his hesitations of getting hurt. You, who took the fall for everything. You, who gave Eddie Munson a chance.

You lifted your window open. “Hi.”

Eddie could cry right then and there. His shaky trembling hands slowly offered themselves to you, and you peered down, gently laying yours in his, where your warmth dissipated his coldness. He sighed with a loving grasp. “Y-you’re okay? He didn’t- did he touch you?”

Eddie had heard it from Chrissy, but hearing your small “no” was more comforting than a third-party person.

“Why, um, why did you need to see me?” He softly cleared his throat.

“I want to talk, b-but not here.” Eddie nodded ardently at your request. “Just somewhere far.”

Somewhere far, he could give that to you.

Helping you out of your window, you followed Eddie’s led to the edge of your roof, where you traced the dying height from your second story room to the hard, hard, ground. “Don’t be scared.” He soothingly smiled. “Remember, I made the climb drunk.”

You shook your head in disappointment, but he saw that small, beautiful smile peak through your lips. “Just, um, please don’t let me fall.” Your stomach sunk at the eerie possibility.

But Eddie was there, and he let you know with a secure squeeze to your joint hands. “Never.”

You watched him descend. Off of the roof. Over the trimming. Down the trellis. He made it look so easy, as if he actively partook in the illegal activity of breaking and entering. Eddie would never admit it, not now at least, but for good reason he had done it once. Once. Mr. Godly had a cat that fifteen-year-old Eddie once saw the old man kick. Safe to say, Cronkers now resides in the makeshift cat house of cardboard, wood, and a childhood blanket behind the Munson’s residence. Her favorite is Wayne’s Monday meatloaf.

He encouraged you down delicately. Instructing you to take small movements, find your steps, and he’ll be right there. He’d always be there. When your Converse hit the holes of the trellis, his hands faintly found your waist, where you trusted him to carry you down the last couple abrasive steps onto your crushed garden. Feet safely on the ground, you gazed up at his staggering height and met his concerned eyes. You merely nodded before he could get the words out, are you okay?

“Your car?” You interrupted his staring. But in his defense, your face was illuminated mesmerizingly in the moonlight of the dark sky.

“Right, right.” He cleared his throat. “Sorry.” He muttered in embarrassment, as he quickly walked away before you could see his flushing cheeks. As if you hadn’t already witnessed him ugly cry drunk in your bedroom.

You walked the quiet trip to his van, where he graciously opened the door for you. You didn’t know at the time, but the couple yards it took to get to his car, he’d been battling himself whether or not that’d be the right move to try. He’d never opened the door for anyone. But your small “thank you” that flashed his way had him praising to the gods he didn’t even believe in that he was a genius.

His car smelled strongly like cigarettes and weed. It honestly hurt your head, but you hadn’t expected anything less from Eddie. It made you giggle to yourself. The usual was everywhere; littered receipts and wrappers crumbled into the door compartments, numerous scented trees hanging from the rear view mirror, which you could only assume had been Eddie’s attempt to mask the nicotine and marajuana, and of course, an array of tapes thrown upon the floor at your feet, you could vividly imagine Eddie getting tired of a tape and carelessly getting rid of it. But then there was something else.

Eddie appeared in the front seat. “You ready?” He heaved.

“Yeah, but, um, why do you have these?”

“Ice cream?” He questioned more than answered. Yes, ice cream sitting in the tight space of his cupholders, two cartons with a spoon for each. “Um, well, I figured it’d be nice to, uh, have. I always, uh, liked having it, I guess. Always made me feel slightly better as a kid. It’s vanilla and chocolate. You can take whichever.” You eyed him incredulously, he eyed you worriedly. “Do you not like either of those flavors? I know I went basic, but I thought they were safe choices. I can get you whatever. Strawberry, cookies n’ cream, mint?” He grimaced, as though it was a deal breaker but he’d look right past it.

You giggled at him. “No, Eddie, it’s okay. I just didn’t expect it.” You shyly smiled.

“Okay, good.” He smiled, with a whistle of relievement. “So, it’ll make you feel better?”

Lovers Lake had been the destination of choice for Eddie. It was quiet and calming. The car ride had been, too. Eddie had suggested some music, but was adamant about his disdain for the radio, though you weren’t necessarily in the mood to have the voices of Megadeth screaming at you this late at night. Eddie had begrudgingly agreed. So it was quiet. He was itching to ask you why you wanted to talk, though that only seemed appropriate whenever you would arrive. You had reached over and played with the mini bobble head figure of Garfield that was nestled against his van’s windshield. You said it was cute. He blushed. Then proceeded to nervously ramble about how Uncle Wayne had one of Odie in his work truck. You didn’t know Uncle Wayne, but he spoke about him like you knew every detail about Wayne already. The lake had been abandoned and lonely upon arrival. The lights to Rick Lipton’s lake house had been shut off for nearly a year now after his arrest. Eddie had only agreed and smiled when you mentioned how an old, lovely couple probably lived there and sat out by the lake to watch the sunset. Sure, something like that. He’d let you have your fantasy. The way the idea lit up your face and eased your tension, he wasn’t about to ruin that.

“We can, um, head to the back.” He offered, to which you agreed.

In truth, the bundle of blankets and pillows in the back of his van didn’t paint him out to be the greatest of all people, but he quickly assured that he frequently takes nap in the comfort of his van when he doesn’t have the energy for Mrs. O’Donnell’s voice. Specifically adding a yapping gesture with his hand to emphasize. So there you were. Sitting in the back, doors open to let in the midnight breeze, as you looked out to the glistening waters. You’d settled on vanilla after you noticed the tighter grip Eddie’s hand had clutched around the chocolate flavor, and surely, a blooming smile erupted on his face when he got to secure his preferred flavor of dessert.

“So, um-”

“I just wanted to speak to you.” You confided. “You know, when we’re not yelling, crying, or drunk,” you giggled at his wincing face, “as we have been doing for the past couple of days.”

“M’a fucking mess, I’m sorry.”

“So am I, Eddie-”

“No, you’re not.” He firmly attested. “You were absolutely perfect before I came into your life and fucked everything up.”

You teased, “You're saying I’m not perfect now?” Your mouth dropped in a dramatic gasp that had him smiling.

“No! No! I’m not saying that at all, you are perfect now, you’ll be perfect for the rest of your life and you won’t even have to try.” He sheepishly grinned, filling his mouth with a big spoonful to bite back the smile.

“Hate to break it to you, Eddie, but I’ve been far from perfect even before I met you. I wish you would see that. It’s doing more harm than good.” You spoke sincerely. “I don’t like you placing me into a bubble, Eddie, especially when you’ve hated the people who’ve done it to you. But I never have.”

His head dropped with a nod. “You’re right.” He accounted. “I’ve had the bullshit done to me for years, I thought it’d finally make me feel good to do it to someone like you. And it was fucking gross of me, because you’re right, you’ve never done anything to me. Actually, that night you took our photo, that was quite literally the nicest anyone has ever treated me- us. And, fuck me, did I like the shit out of you.”

You laughed at his shy revelation. “You have such a romantic way with your words, Eddie Munson.” You joked.

“Sorry.” He covered his mouth so kidlike. “But, uh, yeah I obviously liked you, and well, something in me was just fighting me to stay away. Or get away, more than anything. Because, um, it’d… it’d really fucking hurt if you didn’t like me back.” He couldn’t meet your eyes, speaking with pure shame as to who he was as a person. “And, well, mission fucking accomplished, I, sorta, kinda went above and beyond with that logic.”

“You think?” You smiled.

“It was so stupid of me.” He regrettably sighed. “Because-because I thought- you were just so nice to me. Ready to be my friend and everything, that I knew, I fucking knew my feelings would get too much for me and the realizations that I couldn’t be with you fucking scared me.” His voice had significantly softened to ease the burning ache in his throat. “A-and I’m such a shit excuse of a person that I fucking hurt you when you didn’t deserve it.”

“You are not that, Eddie, don’t say that-”

“But I am, Y/N, I’m so fucking terrible. I-I’m, fuck- I really fucking hate my dad.” Your brows creased at the sudden change of topics. “He was an awful person, he- he would-” The crying began. “Fuck,” he wiped his tears completely embarrassed, “He would just do terrible things to me and my mom, and I fucking said- I fucking said I wouldn’t be like him, be like her- she just fucking took that shit, Y/N, she said it was for the best.” You held his hand, his ice cream long forgotten and pushed to the side. “I just don’t want to be like him- them. M’tryin’ so fucking hard that it fucking backfired. M’such a terrible person, and I’m so sorry.”

You wished this conversation wasn’t full of tears, but you realized how inevitable that idea was. You and Eddie Munson were hurting and releasing. Crying was necessary.

“You are not a terrible person, Eddie.” He had to hear, loud and clear. You rested your head on his shoulder, where his head dropped upon yours. “Terrible people don’t sit and wonder if they’re terrible. And the fact that you care about how you are as a person shows it.” You caressed the back of his hand. “You are a worthwhile person, Eddie. I can so clearly see it.”

“I’m really fucking sorry for everything I’ve done to you, Y/N.” He wiped the incoming snot from his nose with his denim sleeve. “I-I need you to know that everything I did was out of fucking stupidity.” He huffed. “What I called you, those names, that was fucking disgusting, and I don’t believe that about you at all. I never have.”

“I’m sorry for what I said about you, too-”

“Don’t you fucking dare say you’re sorry for telling the truth.” He deeply laughed through his sniffles, voice deeper from the being nasally stuffed.

You smiled back guilty. “No, I am! What I said was really mean, too.”

“Absolutely not, sweetheart.” He chuckled. “What was it, ‘a sulking asshole too pathetic to deal with their problems?’ You hit it right on the nail, princess.”

“Well,” you giggled, “even if you won't let me apologize, I need you to know that I still feel bad. Slightly.”

“Fair enough.” He grinned. “But I do need to apologize, and I need you to know that I’m truly sorry, Y/N. For everything. For what I said. For what I did. For making you feel horrible and scared. And for just putting you through all that. You didn’t deserve any of it. I’m so sorry, Y/N.”

“I know.” You whispered. “And if it’s any consolation to you, Eddie, I also hate my dad.”

“Oh, my god.” Eddie clutched his heart. “He really put a fucking number on me, fuck me.” He groaned, turning to face you. “Please, please, please tell me if he does something. I won’t be able to fucking live my life not knowing.”

Your lips tucked tightly within themselves, and with a soft nod you assured him you would.

You spoke. You both spoke for a while. The hours had passed unknowingly until both tubs of ice cream were empty by 3:33 a.m. Tears and laughter had flooded the back of the van, and you felt like you’d been his friends with him since childhood. He couldn’t fathom the way he treated you, when speaking to you floated him into another dimension of peace and acceptance. Something he hadn’t felt in the entirety of his life. But when you caught a glimpse of the repeating digits on his watch, your heart panicked and you urged him to take you home, which he suddenly complied. This time, though, Megadeth was gladly played, and to say you were shocked would be quite an understatement. Eddie had belted a laugh at your abrupt introduction to metal, finding your this-is-weird-but-I-don’t-want-you-to-think-I’m-judging-you face as the cutest thing ever. And sooner than he liked, he pulled up behind the De Tomaso Pantera. Your attempt to say goodbye fell short, though, when he shot down your idea to walk home alone.

“Really, Eddie, go home, it’s late.” You huffed, when you reached your house.

“I will, I will,” He snickered with defensive hands. “Just, uh, th-thank you so much for, um- well, being so understanding even after all that I did. I just- you really are the best, Y/N.” He ranked his hands over his face in hopes of concealing the ever growing smile on his face.

“Thank you, Eddie.” You giggled at his flustered state. “You’re quite incredible yourself.”

“Do, um, where does this… leave us?”

“I still want space, Eddie.” You spoke honestly, to which he concurred. “Until we’re okay.”

“Until we’re okay.” He sighed.

Eddie had managed to take advantage of the four hours of sleep left until school began. There was no sleeping past his alarm clock, no rush to get dressed, no giving up when lateness was inevitable. He’d shown up, showered and full with a bowl of cereal that went a long way, as he approached Ms. Kelly’s office. It was nerve wracking. He’d never considered this to be a good idea, in fact, following his father’s word, therapy was a pussy excuse for the delusional to waste money on. But those were the words that held him captive from the potential he so well deserved to reach. Turning from her filing cabinet, Ms. Kelly had caught sight of his timid figure standing at the door.

“Eddie.” She hadn’t been unfamiliar with his being, she’d actually been the one to break it to him the last two times that he was in for another year at prison Hawkins High. “How can I help you?”

He sauntered his way into her office, taking a seat with a gruff. It was evident his persona to seem calm, cool, and collected was falling through the cracks, as his finger spun the numerous rings on his fingers. “I, uh, I was wondering if it’d be cool to, um, just talk?”

“Absolutely.” Ms. Kelly dreamed of the day Eddie Munson would enter her office with good intentions. “Anything in particular?”

He shook his head. “No.” He sighed. “Just got a lot pent up inside, I guess.”

“Well, the floor is yours, Eddie.” She smiled. “Talk as much as you need.”

𝐓𝐚𝐠 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭 | Unfortunately, my tag list for this series has gotten too long, so I will not be adhering to any further requests to be included. I'm so terribly sorry, but the amount of tags has beyond reached its limit, and I think it's best to stop. I hope it's understandable. Nonetheless, thank you all for your kind support, I hope you guys continue to enjoy the series, and if you ever have any ideas as to what you'd like to see, I'd love to know!

@sierrahhh @harrysgothicbitch @niallerlover8022 @aunicornmademedoit @spring-picnics @sleepy-bunnie @eggo-segual @bambi-horror @aheadfullofsteverogers @sademoloser @freakymunson @princess-eddie @vxnilla-hxrddrugs @negativity4you @nope-thanks @allsortsedits @callingmrsbarnes @f0rgggg @hurricane-abigail @sweet-sunflower64

@redlovett @goldstars-to-all @eddiesguitarskills @goslytherin @sashaphantomhive @maxinehufflepuffprincess @emeritusemeritus @angel-upon @middle-of-the-earth @scarletwitchwhore @my-tearsricochet @ericasdumbworld @animechick555 @gewrgia-black @hookandchain @roseanddaggerlarry @prestinalove @sebismyhubby @maddsunn

@zoeymunson @corrcdedcoffin @sweetmariihs2 @thefemininemystiquee @monserat @findmeincorneliastreet @sheneedsrocknroll92 @silent-stories @batkin028 @btbabyy

#stranger things #eddie munson #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson oneshot #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson angst #the yearbook: club pictures

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fabled-lady-twilla · 1 month

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Hi, I'm Twilla and I'm currently in the process of writing a ShigaDeku Dystopia/Soulmate AU fic that no one, and I mean literally NO ONE, asked for! ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Why do I always join fandoms late and why do I always somehow end up loving/shipping the rarepairs in fandoms that barely anyone likes or wants to read about lmao? 🥺👉👈

I just finished reading the latest manga chapter, watched all six seasons, and binged all three movies. I am absolutely BURSTING with ideas of where I want this story to go. I want to at least post the first chapter by the time ShigaDeku Week 2024 is here next month. :)

In my fic timeline, the MHA canon story line doesn't happen until Class 1-A's third year, and since my story is set six years after their graduation, most of the main characters are in their mid to late twenties. My story starts after the Quirk Affliction, a strange illness that begins killing off Quirk-users all around to world, resulting in a massive a death toll that causes civilized society to collapse.

Anyways, here's the general synopsis:

The Final War was over before it had even begun. With the onset of the Quirk Affliction, a mysterious illness that disproportionately targeted the Quirks of heroes over the Quirks of villains, the world was left defenseless as it plunged into a new era of chaos and devastation.

It’s been six years since the onset of the Affliction and the death of All Might. Six years since the world’s heroes, and the society they desperately fought to protect, have crumbled into dust in Shigaraki Tomura’s hands.

From the ashes of this destruction, Japan’s new regime was born. The country was split into three territories, each with its own Grand Commander, united in nothing save for one singular rule: life for those who submit, and death for those who do not.

As Grand Commander of the largest and most plentiful of Japan’s territories, Shigaraki has lived the last six years reaping the fruits of his labors and taking pride in helping his Sensei accomplish his dream. But as of late, Tomura has been having strange dreams of his own: hazy memories of an abandoned park, of blooming wisteria trees, of laughter and freckles and forest green eyes.

Midoriya Izuku, now Quirkless due to the Affliction, has not stopped his pursuit of helping others, despite the world — and everything in it — turning itself upside down. Izuku dreams of a brighter future, and strangely enough, dreams of his long-lost childhood friend, Shimura Tenko.

The same Tenko that Izuku had unknowingly befriended as a young boy. The same Tenko who’d stopped him from jumping off the rooftop all those years ago. The same Tenko that, Izuku realized with horror, was now the monster known as Shigaraki Tomura.

Unfortunately, Izuku learns all too late that having a Soulbond with the King of Villains comes with a heavy cost. Shigaraki seems hell-bent on keeping Izuku as close to him as possible, believing Izuku to be his Soulmate, and thus, Shigaraki’s only true weakness, stirring up an ill-fated romance that neither has prepared themselves for.

As a new calamity encroaches upon them in the form of a mad man attempting to become a god, the heroes and villains must find a way to work together and solve the mystery of the Affliction before it destroys the world and everything they hold dear.

✨ P l e a s e ✨ let me know if you're interested in hearing about this by either, liking, reblogging, or sending me a PM. I'm working really hard to get the first chapter of this out by ShigaDeku Week 2024 in May!

Thank you so much for reading. 💚💚💚

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redcoralpot · 11 months

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hiii! not sure if your requests are open, if so then can you do a TWD Daryl x Walker male reader?

Like Reader followed Daryl & the group & always pops out time to time & Daryl goes to hunt but sees him just watching the walkers eating someone & Daryl sees him making an expiration of descust shocking Dayrl cuz Reader is a walker? Have a great day & take care off uself ^^

Dead Man Walking - Daryl Dixon X Male (Walker) Reader

I had a lot in mind for this request, so I decided to break it into multiple parts/chapters!! <33 If this series gets popular enough, I will post an extended version on AO3. If you have any questions on how the reader’s infection works, don’t be afraid to ask politely! Xoxo

The romance with Daryl will most likely start next chapter! 🫠

Warnings: Blood, violence, implied cheating (Shane + Lori)

Word Count: 1.8K

Your life from before the outbreak didn’t matter anymore, though it wasn’t like you remembered very much of it. Humanity’s civilization had crumbled within a few mere hours, and you had seen the worst of it.

At first, you wandered the streets of the city with plenty of others in your same predicament. That life was lonely, and your comrades never seemed to be good conversationalists. As bad as that was, you couldn’t find it in yourself to blame them. Your mouth felt uncomfortably dry after having no water and a hanging jaw for days. Days! You should be getting paid for this.

That all changed after a man disrupted this slow, daily routine, charging on a horse around the wrong corner. Was this how modern cowboys acted? Seriously, maybe the water deprivation was getting to you after all.

The mob went crazy at the sight, a sudden change from the prior leisurely pace, attacking the poor animal. You could do nothing, even as your stomach lurched, and you decided to focus your attention on the man instead. He was brave to a stupid extent, sliding under a tank as ravenous arms reached for him. The rush forced you forward too quickly as you stumbled over a bag, hitting the ground with a smack.

Everyone else was uncaring, focused solely on the target. You have never seen them from this perspective before, and here, you could see many more bite marks and unhealed injuries. And God, it stunk. You were surprised that anyone could get caught by these people, they could probably smell them before they could even see them! Especially the cowboy under the tank, there, for his age. Would he live, would he die? If you had a partner, you would bet on death.

Fate apparently had different plans for him, as he suddenly popped out of the tank, smacking a nearby infected hard enough to give him room to escape. Damn, you definitely didn’t want to get in his way. He struggled down the sidewalk, shooting to safety in a closed off alleyway. Part of you wanted to curiously follow him, but the smarter end told you to stay.

“C’mon!” A voice shouted from the alley, followed by gunshots.

Your name tag swung as you followed a group of survivors. The man and his savior had joined it after the drama on the street, and you were curious enough to see where they would head next. Apparently, that was a survivor camp, not too far away from the city’s borders. It was here that you learned the man’s name was Rick, and he had family there. It baffled you that he even thought of risking himself like that with a child as young as Carl.

His family seemed to think the same, running towards him and shouting in surprise. From your little spot yards away, you wondered if your family ever made it, and if they missed you just as much.

“Dad!” Carl shouted, and the man himself dropped to his knees to hug him. Was Rick crying?

You felt a little guilty for staring at such a vulnerable moment, so you turned your eyes onto the other members. They were a plenty, diverse group, bigger than any camp you’ve witnessed before. There was one other kid among the survivors, a little girl, other than Carl.

This observation session was quickly shut down, interrupted by a gruff alert, “Walker!”

A what? You?

Whipping your head towards the noise, you came to face a crossbow pointed at your face. Ah.

“I got it.”

Your slow, dead reflexes tried their best as you dived behind a tree, but they weren’t fast enough. An arrow pierced through your shoulder, knocking you off course, and into a bush. Using this as cover, you scampered back farther from the camp, praying that this day wouldn’t be your last.

“Daryl! Just leave it.”

“I ain’t never seen one smart enough to dodge before.”

“Exactly, don’t waste your ammo.”

“Pff, would’a gotten my arrows back anyway.”

The shock from the shot dulled as your head produced a light feeling, making you abandon any thoughts of getting up. You sat there, frozen, as the voices faded away. Well, one of them had been paying attention after all.

You gripped the arrow, ripping it out in a smooth motion, biting down on your shirt. The taste of dirt filled your mouth, and while you’ve done this a number of times, you had never expected to perform it on yourself. Red trickled down your shirt, making the hole even more obvious. This Daryl was a great man, amazing even. If you couldn’t have a bath, or any human interaction, you at least deserved a shirt without stains or holes in it. You didn’t have any spares!

Should you still follow this group? They’re bound to move soon, mobs will start moving out of the city and out among the borders. It was suicide if you did, but you found you didn’t care all that much. The world had ended, you had no family, and nothing to live for. A little fun before you died wouldn’t hurt anyone, you decided.

Your body felt heavy as you pulled yourself into a tree, pressing yourself against the bark and peering through the leaves at the camp. Here, it should be safer. Their threats were all on the ground, only hunting will bring them to look in the trees.

The same gruff voice reached your ears, “And you just left him?”

“We had to, we had no choice.”

“Yeah, well, I’m goin’ back to find him.”

A pause, “I’ll go with you, we can form a rescue group.”

“Fine.”

“I’d like to get my bag back, too; it has supplies.”

Through your cover, you could see Rick choosing different survivors to come with, and you couldn’t help but feel relieved that one of the sharpest was among them. Now that he and his crossbow are gone, albeit temporarily, you feel a weight come off of your shoulders.

Before you could dwindle in that bliss for long, a second group split off, significantly smaller than the other. Just two people, a man and a woman, one you recognized to be the mother of Carl. You shifted, trying to get a better view.

“We can’t do this anymore, Shane,” the woman started, “He’s back now.”

“Rick doesn’t have to know.”

“He’s your best friend, and don’t forget the only reason I did this was because everyone thought he was dead!”

These people were lucky you couldn’t talk.

“Lori—”

“No, we’re ending this.”

Shit. As the woman briskly walked back to the main camp, you could still see Shane hadn’t moved. He grumbled incoherent, resentful sentences, and you felt like a rat. You wanted to scream at Rick about what you just witnessed, snitching the very details of the things his wife and best friend had been doing.

None of the survivors seemed keen on hearing you out, though, so their secret was safe, for now.

You woke up with a start, hissing as you accidentally banged your head on the wood behind you. Sitting up, you heard feet shuffling below you. Not just a pair, however, it must’ve been at least ten. Was it happening already? The rescue group must have led them back to the camp and knew they were coming, surely.

Yelling rang through the camp, snarling and the snapping of teeth almost overpowering it. You could see the fire, shadows of the survivors dancing around it, the moves quick and fearful. An arrow flew, gunshots rang, and you could smell blood. Daryl was back, with the rescue team following close behind.

“What happened here?”

“Walkers, a whole mob of ‘em,” stated a rather stoutly, panting old man.

Rick asked another question, “Is everything alright, was anyone hurt?”

…

“A few, uh, Amy and Ed, Carol’s husband.”

You weren’t familiar with this Amy, but you weren’t fond of Ed. You had caught him trying to hit his wife, a sweet woman, while she was doing the laundry earlier. Really, he deserved this fate, but it must be concerning for Carol. It couldn’t be easy to raise a child alone in this environment.

A silence fell over the group, a moment of mourning for their first losses. You closed your eyes, not wanting to see the fate of the two victims. You knew what would happen, knew it well, as the final shots of the night sounded.

“He was bit,” Daryl growled, and with a click, a gun was pointed at him.

“We don’t kill the living.”

“But you can point a gun at me?”

“You woulda killed him if I didn’t.”

“What’re we gonna do with him, then? Let ‘em turn?”

“We have to leave.”

“There’s nowhere to go, walkers are everywhere!”

“I know a place, it’s a facility in Druid Hills. If anywhere has a cure, it’d be in there.”

Shane made a face, “Are we sure ‘bout this?”

“It’d be protected, a safe place to stay; we can leave in the morning.”

His tone made it sound final, and his best friend looked unconvinced. Daryl gave the bitten man a final, bitter eye, stomping off to brood alone. As much as the two of you were different, you had to agree with him. The man would only suffer and die in a more brutal way, after all. Alas, the only thing you could do was watch.

You watched as the remaining survivors settled into sleep, you watched as Shane grew more agitated, you watched as they packed their things when the sun rose, and you watched them drive away.

A few decided to hang back, to go their own way. Silently, you wished them well with the others, and then you watched them leave too. This is where you deemed it safe, sliding down from the tree to slip back onto the ground. With a stick you snapped off, you started your journey to Druid Hills, the bite mark on your left leg aching.

And who knows? Maybe they could fix this pesky infection.

The signs were still in good shape, and what a blessing they were. You hobbled on, for two days and nights, not catching up to the people of your interest. Halfway through, a familiar face caught your eye, sitting propped under a tree. He gnashed his teeth, eyeing you, clearly not able to get up to reach you. Sighing, you shook your head as you realized what they did.

You raised your stick, finally looking down at him with pity, and drove it through his eye. Blood and body residue dropped off the end as you ripped it back out of the unmoving Jim, and you leaned heavily on it again. No matter how exhausted, you continued on your way, determined to be a normal man again.

End of Chapter One.

#male reader #x male reader #the walking dead #twd #daryl dixon #gay #male y/n #daryl dixon x male reader #daryl dixon x reader #negan smith #rick grimes #lgbtq

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prettyboykatsuki · 9 months

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nanook...the aeon of destruction who detests both personal desire and interference. who believes their position as an aeon, their duty is to rid the world of the cancer of civilization through power and force. labelled an enemy of mankind as they watch societies burn and crumble to ash for the sake of change. a necessary, just evil - completely detached from concepts like desire. an aeon who does not dirty things for their own selfish wishes

and you, the only mortal they've ever thought about more than once. who did not cry when the world ended. the mortal that lived the destruction of your home planet. that seethes with anger towards the aeons but does not let the will of it over take. nanook knows the feeling of resentment in short-life species more than any aeon across time. they're no stranger to such a thing, and yet it is your indifference that tugs them towards you

and yet they cannot help but watch you. cannot help but keep their gaze on you in the distant ways they are able as you board the astral express. cannot help but waver as they watch tragedy befall over and over and feel some urge to intervene.

they watch you carefully, as you choose to move forward on the path of destruction with no regards to them as an aeon. they think of making you an emanator - give you the will to embody them completely if only to close the distance between you as impartially as they can.

you are beyond their reach otherwise.

#aristotle.txt #nanook x reader #sorry. experiencing something absurd #ill get over it its fine #writing tag #a.hsr

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amyriadofleaves · 3 months

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outside it starts to pour — neuvillette | chapter four

synopsis: in the limelight of fontaine, the prying eyes of its people never truly tears their gaze off the iudex and you, the présidence du conseil d'état, which makes for baseless rumours to fester and echo throughout the theatrics of opera. you and neuvillette are challenged by the reputations the both of you are expected to uphold, and the weighty decision to navigate these intricacies rests upon the discerning judgement of fontaine's archon.

{prev} ; { nav } ; { next }

ao3 : wattpad ˚　.˚　

⌗ pairing : neuvillette x fem!reader ⌗ feat : neuvillette, reader, wriothesley, clorinde, sigewinne ⌗ warnings : a lot of blood?? ⌗ word count: 6.6k (a little longer this time teehee)

“I never knew entourages were your thing.”

You tilt your head. “How’d you know I had someone with me?” The image of the Chief Justice flashes through your mind for a moment.

Clorinde shrugs. “Some people from outside the Pankration Ring were babbling about seeing someone with the head of civil affairs. Were you always such a high reward person? Fame catch up with you yet?” She says this as she deepens her voice, posture straightened with her hands on her hips. Your eyes wander around the fortress, at the brass that graced every corner, seeing a few puddles pooling under a number of leaky pipes.

Playfully nudging her arm, you snort at her jab. “You’re acting as if I’m some textbook rags-to-riches story. And no, fame has not caught up to me. I am no snob,” you tell her with a chastising look, but the attempt to steel yourself breaks when you feel your lips unwillingly quirking upwards into a smile, before you begin to shake trying to restrain your laugh.

It is not long before it infects Clorinde, too, and she falls victim to your foolish sense of humour. You lean on each other like two girls who’ve had too much to drink, afraid to let go lest one of you falls over; and you fail to notice the chiding looks of the people around you, but Clorinde shakes herself off before flicking your forehead causing you to stop your fit of laughter.

“Gosh, remind me why I’m here again?”

“Oh I’ve seen you in your office, working away like a lifeless machine—” Clorinde feels at your arm. “What a pity. All that muscle is now reduced to flab.”

“Okay, ouch.”

Someone clears their throat from the other end of the room, and a manly voice sounds. “Hey. Clorinde. Get your friend over here so you can finally get to sparring.”

“Alright, alright,” Clorinde groans before dragging you by the arm to the ring; you stumble on the heel of your boot, stride broken by the unexpected force.

She chuckles at your clumsiness, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Come on, don't be such a klutz," she teases, her grip firm as she leads you towards the sparring ring. You shoot her a playful glare, feigning annoyance.

As you approach the ring, the shouts of brutes and the scrape from blade against blade pierces the air in a dissonant choir. Clorinde releases your arm as you stand at the very base of the stairs leading to the ring, and you square your shoulders — drawing in a long, sharp breath. Acutely aware of their eyes on you, you smirk. You are knowing how their eyes follow you — others, a bit more indifferent in the ‘affairs of the ‘overworld’’ so to speak. If you were any younger and naïve as you were, you would’ve crumbled under their watchful eyes, but you know better than to have your weakness out for show, to be an open book.

A man clad in a dark grey coat and haphazardly bound black bandages stands in the centre of the ring, eyeing your every move, and you see him smile to the duelist next to you. From description alone, you surmise that this is the Duke; and you take in how he is a lot more different in appearance than you last saw him: a little bulkier in frame, the pinch of boyish recklessness now discreetly tucked under the guise of responsibility.

A cheeky grin plays on his lips, before he gives you a bow. You return the courtesy with a light curtsy. It is a lie to say you aren’t a little intimidated, but you play it off by avoiding his eyes, afraid that he might see right through you and immediately think you an idiot. And you are not an idiot, you tell yourself over and over like a broken record.

“It is a pleasure to meet you again, Your Grace.” Your eyes stay trained on the floor before a chuckle breaks the silence.

Bewildered, you look up to face him and he waves a gloved hand in jest. “There is no need for such formalities. If anything, it should be me doing all of that. And plus, a friend of Clorinde is a friend of mine.”

Clorinde sees right through his facade and dismisses it with a derisive ‘pfft’. “You certainly didn’t act like that when you first met me.”

“Oh come on my dear, dear Clorinde,” he places a hand on his chest in faux distress, a pout forming on his lips. “You know it isn’t like that.”

The duelist rolls her eyes before he puts his hands up in surrender and steps backwards.

The ring awaits, and you take a deep breath, ready for the impending spar. The crowd's anticipation adds to the pressure, but you push aside any lingering hesitation. Clorinde smirks, sensing your resolve, and steps into the ring beside you.

The announcer from the side announces the start with a rumble. “Let the sparring begin!”

The duelist bows her head, and you follow suit. Instinctively, you reach for the pellet gun at your hip as Clorinde does for her sword; it is an odd selection for a spar, and the crowd seems to raise a few eyebrows at this. Dejected as you are at the pellet gun resting in your fingers instead of your normal musket, you take this as an opportunity to give yourself more of an advantage with a slowing factor. A mere practice of skill, it was, really.

Clorinde rushes in with a burst of speed, her blade flashing downward in an opening diagonal slash at your torso. You slip left of the weapon’s reach and step backwards, barely missing a cut by a finger’s breadth. You and Clorinde possess different skill sets: she requires a closing of distance whilst you have to create distance.

A space separates the two of you and you slightly duck before firing a shot at her shoulder blade. The gun recoils against your arm and sends the bullet ricocheting against the wall and you stumble. Frustrated, you palm the holster of your gun and wriggle your hand to loosen your muscles. Can’t blame me for this, you think blindly, giving yourself a petty excuse for your blunder. Clorinde springs forward at the brief seconds of your imbalance and slashes at an angle. Rather than trying to escape backward or sideways, which you cannot do in time, you draw your gun as you drop to the ground on your back and you fire upwards. You cannot help but smile as the bullet hits her in the torso.

She grimaces in stinging pain as the bullet falls to the floor. Rolling onto your stomach, you fire again from a crouch. From all the spinning, your vision swirls in a blur and your head is clouded. Without thinking, you stand and attempt to create more space, but realise you have unequivocally cornered yourself against the restraints of the arena. Before you can manoeuvre your way through the ring, the duelist comes in at full speed and you are given a mere few seconds to react. Clorinde slams her own blade into the path of your weapon with the intent of disarming you with so much force that you feel the impact reverberate through you like a shockwave. You fully expect the impending pain to come at any moment, but it never does. Instead, a resounding clash sounds from metal against ice echoes throughout the ring. You do not even realise the sword that comes to manifest through your fingers until you notice the gleam of light blue shielding you from the overhead lights.

A still silence fills the air as both of you widen your eyes in astonishment. Amazed gasps sound from the onlookers, and they are now eyeing you with more intent. You do not dwell on it for long before you bring your sword down at a speed, sending Clorinde staggering.

You cannot help but laugh. “And you called me a klutz.”

The look in her eyes almost shouts a flippant: 'I am totally fucking you over,' and it makes you instantly regret even speaking.

Clorinde’s left hand seizes your hand, gripping hard. You let out a grunt of pain. With a light twist, she forces your makeshift weapon downward, and the numbing pain that grows in your wrist knocks the blade out of your arm, and you barely catch the glint of your own gun at the base of your feet. One final cry to win was you squirming in her grasp to reach it, but your fingers hover helplessly, unable to grab the grip of the gun.

The next move you make is miscalculated, an oversight. You jab your elbow into her shoulder, overlooking the blade that she left hanging in the little space between the both of you. Adrenaline pumps through you like a vice, and you push further, forcing another blade of ice spiralling through your fingers, ignoring how you are completely stripped of your energy and the sudden humidity of the room. The crowd gasps, and for whatever reason, you do not pay it any mind — until you see Clorinde stopping too, stepping away.

Your eyes flicker haphazardly and notice that her eyes trail slowly to your abdomen, and you absentmindedly comply. At first you do not notice anything, but then the hand that had come to rest over your stomach comes away red, and you stumble in horror at the wetness flowing down your pants as if your intestines had given out. Your blouse blooms red too, clinging to your skin like a lifeline, and the forearm that clutched your stomach is now stained with blood, diluting further as it trails down the sword swirling with the condensate that rests on the ice.

Clorinde steps forward, but you hold out an arm to command her to stop. You can handle this, it is nothing you can’t bear. You take a few steps backwards, your free arm reaching for the rope that lines the ring. Sweat beads on your forehead and suddenly everything is burning and your stomach is catching fire. Your heart thumps furiously against your ribcage and you greet the feeling like a friend; it is a familiar one, the same heart that beats whenever you are huddled in the corner of your room blocking out the shouts from the other end of the door along with other more unimportant things.

No. You can already vision how this would turn out for you. You cannot emerge from the depths of the sea injured and dead weight for the contract that stands. How will Neuvillette push through without you to serve as a catalyst? This was no one-man act, and this, you have come to terms with.

With your blade still held and your resolve unchanged, you advance with a futile step. Might as well push forward now; it would be pathetic to surrender in a friendly match against your own best friend.

Clorinde’s eyes flood with worry as you show no sign of yielding. “Name, stop. Let’s get you to the infirmary.”

You are wordless as the pain festers to your upper chest and you feel as if you cannot breathe and all the air is knocked out of your lungs. People are going to think you’re weak, unable to defend yourself: a delicate worse-for-nothing figure. But I’m not weak, you want to scream at the world. If they think otherwise, so be it. The thought teeters precariously before ultimately shattering into the void of the unspoken.

The duelist looks over at Wriothesley pleadingly as she stabilises your weakened figure and eyes the audience with a sort of disdain. “I concede,” she says, before repeating: “I concede.” She also doesn’t fail to shield you from them, and you wish to thank her later for it.

“Wriothesley, help me out here?” She manoeuvres herself so she can wrap your right arm around her neck and, expectantly, waits for Wriothesley to take your left.

“Yes ma'am.”

Though you do not hear it, you see the silhouettes of many receding from around the ring in a blur. Black spots form in your vision and you barely catch Wriothesley taking your left arm over his neck before your consciousness lurches what it feels to be a sudden moment. A brief thought is pushed to the forefront of your mind before everything swarms black — and the question is as mundane as the person it concerns:

Just what exactly could the Chief Justice be doing right about now?

____

“Ah, my dear Neuvillette. Don’t you just love the taste of fame?”

Neuvillette’s eyes do not leave his paperwork and the last thing he wants right now is to be pestered by the lady in front of him. “Now’s not the time, Lady Furina.”

She steps forward, the thud of her heels growing increasingly louder in an act of taunt. “And when is the right time, Chief Justice? This is a breakthrough for your career, and you’re sitting around your office like a nobody when you’ve quite literally stolen the hearts of the whole populace.”

Neuvillette taps in rapid succession at a blank piece of paper, subconsciously counting the dots that spray from the quill in his hand. It is not everyday that the Chief Justice loses his temper. But today is not everyday and nor is it anything normal. He still feels your warmth against his ear, and he lightly ghosts his hand over it.

Furina snaps her fingers repeatedly. “Monsieur Neuvilletteee! Earth to you?”

He responds with a darkening glower. Looking away, he makes out the shape of her pout through his blurred peripheral vision, and hears her sulk. “I need to talk to you about preparations for the proposal! This is very important — go too long without one, and the people will think the two of you are simply an affair. Oh, I bet you don’t like the sound of that.”

“The proposal? We’ve barely gone a day with the approval of the contract, and you’re already pressing me for the proposal? Give her a rest, she is out with a good friend of hers.

“Well obviously the proposal isn’t for today, I’m talking about preparations. You need to purchase a ring, she needs her hair done — perhaps a new dress tailored — I think the dress she wore yesterday was rather tattered and worn…” she tuts, finger on chin. “Oh! And I don’t think it would be much trouble to have the Melusines involved, would it?”

The silver-haired man sitting in his seat is being pulled from all his limbs like a puppet. He subconsciously notes all the things she had just listed, and his mind hiccups at the idea of purchasing a ring.

“Can’t it just be simple? Such exaggerations of a mere profession of romance shan’t be necessary.”

“But that is exactly the point! Don’t forget that I have my own duties to attend to in the dark, you are hot news. I saw how you two were this morning — everyone did!”

The flashing of cameras and the unwavering look on your face rushes through him like a deluge and his stomach pits. When he returned from his trip to the Fortress of Meropide, he had washed his face in a nearby restroom earlier and noticed the touch of lipstick on the very point of his ear. He found no point in removing it.

“So you want me to purchase a ring and propose to her in front of every breathing Fontainian, is that right?”

Lady Furina's smile widens a little too much and becomes a pain to look at. “Why yes, it is a statement of love and devotion, after all. Make sure what you pick makes her eyes pop. No woman wants a ring that dulls complexion.”

He does not care that it is him that has to oblige — but subjecting you to unwanted fame is beyond him.

Not wanting any further arguments, he caves.

____

You are in and out of consciousness, but not so much that you cannot make out the panicked conversations the two are having in hushed voices. Funny enough, you're unsure if the fact that they can't find Sigewinne anywhere troubles you a little or if you're simply just drained and want to go to sleep.

“Can’t you walk any slower?” Wriothesley grunts.

Clorinde snaps back with a glare .“Can’t you realise we’re dealing with a gash that could tear open if you keep up this pace?”

“Can’t you both,” your voice breaks off, and instead of continuing you droop your head before mumbling: “just shut up?”

The two people on either side of you are stunned into a chastising silence and if this were any different you feel that you would’ve laughed.

The man to your right clicks his tongue. “Oh, whoops. Forgot you were even awake.” He adjusts your arm a little too roughly and you let out a cry of pain as it doubles the sensation of your wound.

Clorinde smacks his arm and you slightly shift backwards at the lack of support. “What did I tell you? Okay — let's set this aside for now. We need her in the infirmary before her whole blouse gets drenched.”

You don’t see or hear his response, and so you briefly imagine him having an indifference to this. Sure, it is everyday for him in the Fortress, but you do not know him very well, so he might have had a different reaction — perhaps a brief look at Clorinde almost begging her through his eyes for her to know what to do even though he, too, knows basic protocol? Plausible too.

“You’re going to need to take a deep breath for this.” The duelist’s voice is as monotone as ever, and as your lids flutter open you see that you are greeted with your archnemesis.

Stairs.

Not like they were anything too taxing; a mere five steps up and another few steps down and you’d be in the infirmary; but you instantly flinch back as they assist you with the first step, and you feel their arms grab for your back. You almost black out again the moment you glance at your abdomen but Clorinde promptly pushes your chin upwards so you don’t see the worst of it.

“I don’t think I can make it up the stairs,” you say, defeated. You eye both of them carefully and they seem to almost weigh the possibilities and come to a solid conclusion (the word ‘solid’ is an overstatement).

“I mean we could bring the infirmary to her…”

Safe to say, Clorinde isn’t amused. “Wow, let's bring a whole bed out for everyone to see! Forgive me, but I won’t allow that for her. There are many problems on the surface as is, and I don’t think this paints a good image for her.”

As delirious as you are, you manage a nod in agreement and squeak out: “Whatever. Get me there.”

Wriothesley’s eyes are crazed as he looks at you with doubt.“W— you just said you couldn’t make it up the stairs.”

“...And that claim still stands. But what other choice do I have?” You say this through gritted teeth as the pain wells up in your side for the nth time this afternoon. The light peeking through the ceiling of the Fortress seems to dim and you take this as a sign that is just shy of dusk.

Clorinde’s lips quirk into a small smile, and you miss it because you are unable to keep focus on anything except the blood you feel dripping into your slacks. “Alright. Just squeeze something every step you take. On the count of three:”

Wriothesley starts and they alternate. “Three.”

“Two.”

“One.”

With a yelp, you grip firmly onto the man next to you and let out a sigh of relief when your feet touch another step of the staircase.

“Next time, please grip me somewhere else.” You slowly eye where your hand lies and it is unfortunately somewhere not ideal. Oops.

“Not my fault you have a built-in stress ball,” you look at him and Clorinde and realise that you have four more to go. “OK. I think we can go at a faster pace.”

Clorinde’s hand leaves your wrist as she wipes her palm on the base of her shorts and finds your hand again. “Are you sure? You looked like you’ve walked ten miles and it’s been just a step up.”

You look forward and nod your head. “Affirmative.”

“Alright then.”

Wriothesely announces the count of three rather plainly and you grip somewhere else this time. You bite your lip harshly; you do not want to complain any more than you have and instead shut your eyes to steel yourself, but fuck, did it hurt more than the first time.

You thank the gods above that it did grow easier the more steps you took, and with having given Wriothesley more bruises than dignity you finally made it to the platform at the top.

“Tough part done,” you mumble, eyeing the corridor with contempt. Not as tough, you suppose, and push ahead, your arms still hanging limp by their shoulders. You can't help but notice your blood swirling in the pools that flowed from each end of the hall, but the metallic scent of the pipes overpowers the metallic of your own.

Your boots touch the ground with a heavy thump that echoes so loudly it feels like your head is whirling quicker and you can’t make out any object in front of you.

“Smells like murder.” His attempt at lightening the mood does more harm than good, and through your lethargy you still furrow your brow. Clorinde berates him in a low voice and you don’t even attempt to say anything in response. It is awfully silent, and suddenly you wish he had continued speaking. You force your eyes wide open out of fear that you might not wake up the moment you close them, but you have to fight against your weighted eyelids, and it is, by a mile, a terrible battle.

Fatigue - 1, You - 0.

A light shines from your left and you let yourself breathe.

“We’re here. Just need to tough through another flight of stairs and you’ll be alright,” Clorinde comforts, lifting your right arm a little more after noticing that you were slightly being raised a little higher on your left because of the height difference between her and Wriothesley.

“Here goes,” you tell yourself. This is not the first time you’ve been in a situation like this.

Just a bit of blood and you’re crying? You look just like your mother.

You do not particularly enjoy the feeling of descending the stairs, but at least it is better than ascending them, and faster too. No need for any counts to threes.

You wring your arms out of their grips, and soundlessly stumble to the bed closest to you. Mindlessly, you slip into the slight depression of the mattress and the springs groan under a new added weight.

Wriothesley frantically looks around and suddenly his head is in his hands. Clorinde seems to adopt the same wrinkles between her brows as the man beside her has, and they are both thrown in a panic. The duelist still appears calm and collected throughout, and you’re surprised that the ‘panic’ they are thrown into has been reduced to a civilised conversation on how to deal with you.

Unbuttoning your blouse reveals that it takes a lot of work to separate skin from material, and you feel something stir in the pit of your stomach, or lack thereof. Dried blood starts to flake from the chilly air and the skin lining the wound is swollen pink, puffy and tender to the touch. Turning away, you aren’t partial to someone like Wriothesley to seeing the other scars that are littered throughout your skin like a canvas, and you know it isn’t pretty. You do not like your idea on what you are to do next, nor do you think it’s ideal, but with nothing to show of Sigewinne, you have to take the risk.

“Clorinde. Pass me rubbing alcohol and a towel.”

Clorinde casts you a weary look. “Surely you’re not thinking to do what I think you’re gonna do —”

“Yes. It's exactly what you think. Now pass it to me.” You turn your head a little as your hands beckon her over, and she hesitates before reaching for what you asked for and passes it to you. You do not miss the long look she gives Wriothesley.

The items weigh like a burden on your hands, and you almost decide to hold out until Sigewinne arrives. Even though you know this is probably the worst choice you'll ever make, you choose to ignore the nagging voice and go forward with it because simply, you are impatient. And what good were you to the public if you were ugly and unkempt? You know that everyone and Lady Furina would find you ridiculous. Would the Chief Justice share the same opinion? Would he break his impartiality to think that of you? For a brief moment, the answer flickers to a yes, but you swallow it down like a pill. No. No, he wouldn’t.

“Shouldn’t be too bad.” Bracing for the sting, the anticipated pain hovers like a phantom before the fabric even grazes your skin, but before you can give yourself room to yield, you jab the cloth over the gash and almost scream at the sting. You keep your mouth sealed shut and only rapid pants escape your lips. The pain courses through your veins and suddenly every working limb is now subject to agony. You absolutely detest the feeling, and you were sure that you would never find yourself like this after your father…

Shaking your head, you distract yourself by observing how the blood seeps through the cloth with ease, and you begin to question just how much blood you’re losing and how your body hasn’t given out. But the answer to it is fairly simple. Or maybe it isn’t.

Your composure is so frigid you think the Duke is beginning to grow a little uncomfortable with just standing there.

“You can look away.” Even though you didn't have much energy to begin with, you startle yourself by being able to talk coherently in spite of everything.Your mind is dumbfoundedly collected, almost as if trained; for this you know why, and you decide not to mope over the memory. It still does end up slipping through the cracks.

The clean blade against skin. Your father’s nasty laugh as you let out a cry of defeat. The reopened wound triggers a cascade of memories, but you resolve to relegate it to the past: a mere memory. You know you will never see him again, the idea of closure long gone and ties severed. His name, once a burden, now fades into the recesses of your memory, and you find solace in no longer sharing it.

Wiping the blood around your wound, you robotically reach for a needle and thread next, and this time Wriothesley steps forward with his hand outstretched to finally say something. “Woah there. I think we’re gonna need Sigewinne for this one.”

Your arm retracts from the needle and you wave him off with a curt wave of your hand. “I got this under control, don’t you worry,” you declare, but the claim dies on your lips when you feel your eyes drooping and your limbs going slack and the two are thrown into another dispute.

“We need Sigewinne!”

“She should be coming in about,” the Duke checks his watch. “Five minutes.” He steals you a glance and continues: “Hang in there.”

Clorinde tears her gaze off yours and her brows knit again. “Well what if she doesn’t ‘hang in there’?” Her voice is thrown into a hush, but you can still hear it, and she knows you hear every word leaving her lips.

You use this time to silently teeter to the open cupboard of needles and thread. Surprisingly enough, you look back and find them in their own world. Perfect! You take a generous amount of thread along with a few needles with different gauges and slyly return to your place at the foot of the nursing bed. You dab antiseptic on the tender flesh of your gash. The sting is something you never get used to, and a low groan leaves your lips, and your head tips over.

Clorinde whirls lazily on her heel and points a finger at you. “You. Stop playing a fool. Your wound will get infected if you keep going at this rate. And don’t think I can’t see what you’re trying to do when I’m not looking,” the duelist reprimands, and you can’t help but admit defeat. Hah! She thought.

“Yeah, OK. Shut up and come over here for a second.” You do not face her, but hear her slow strides from behind.

“What is it?”

“Come closer.” you place the needle under her fingers, and flick her forehead. A zap courses from her fingers.

“Ow?”

Her complaints morph into incoherence as you study the needle and find that it is warm to the touch and slightly blackened at its point.

“Thank you!”

Feeling at your abdomen, you conclude that it is numb enough to begin stitching. The sanitisation is a mere precaution, because as much as you trust everyone in this room and the nurse that isn’t present, you cannot trust whatever might be in the Fortress’ air. It takes a few attempts before you successfully guide the thread through.

And before Clorinde can stop you, it is far too late. The needle pierces skin, and you squint your eyes at the discomfort. If you could manage one, you could manage seven more. You are nowhere adept nor do you have a steady hand, but you are quite proud of the deep cuts you’ve stitched up in the past; they still did their job.

The Duke’s complexion is nothing short of sickly as his hand flies to his mouth. “I can’t— I can't watch this.”

“You just don’t listen, do you?”

You smile wearily. “Well, Clorinde, that is my expertise.”

Just before your fingers swoop down for another stitch, a certain Melusine skips down the steps and pauses at the sight.

“Oh? What do we have here?”

Wriothesley scratches the back of his neck before cracking a smile that seems to say: ‘caught us!’. “Ah, Sigewinne! We were just looking for you. Now if you could tend to this high demand patient we have it would be greatly appreciated.” He points over his shoulder without turning his head, and yet the shaky undertone in his demeanour is unmistakable.

You give him a look even though his back is towards you.

Sigewinne nods her head. “Alright then. Let’s take a look…” if she’s surprised, her face betrays nothing. She waddles to the other side of the room and reaches for a new, cleaner towel; and you realise how comical a sight this is — with both the Champion Duelist and the Duke following her every move in silence as you sit stiffly on a worn mattress. She returns and studies the needle in your hand and holds her own paw-like hand out. Placing it in her hand, she dips the towel into a bowl of warm water and cleans the area properly this time.

“Take a deep breath in for me please.” you do not know why you silently follow her orders. “And out.”

That was your que to prepare for the second stitch. Not bad; it did feel less haphazard than your own. Sigewinne’s eyes do not leave your wound as she pops a question: “Will you need your entourage to escort you to the Overworld?”

Suddenly all your worries are gone and are now replaced with a new one. “My entourage? Oh, no, that wouldn’t be necessary.” The needle comes up from under your skin and her paws move downwards.

“Are you sure? I can contact him if you like.”

You playfully look to the side. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

Sigewinne unfortunately does not take the hint and questions your dismissal of your dealing with him. “But you were just with Monsieur Neuvillette just now, I don’t see why it would slip your mind. Unless you’re suffering from short term memory loss, that is.” Your eyes widen at the mention and you motion your hand to to your neck to stop her before she goes off on a tangent.

The pair standing on the other corner both seem to share the same concerns. Wriothesley quirks a brow. “Monsieur Neuvillette? Surely you haven’t made yourself fancy for the Chief Justice.”

“No, he is not my suitor; just a mere colleague of mine. Our relationship is strictly professional — that is all.”

The Duke smiles. “Yeah. Sure. That’s how it always starts. Workplace romance is a classic.”

Clorinde tilts her head. “What has gotten into you? Always blabbering about romance this and romance that.”

“You, Miss Clorinde, should be aware that I have always been hopeless for things like this. I am not as stoic as you or the Chief Justice of Fontaine.”

“I am well aware. I just choose not to acknowledge it — oh and…” she breaks off mid-conversation, leaving Wriothesley sulking like a defeated dog. “How has Monsieur Neuvillette been? I’ve heard that he’s been involved in some ‘scandal’, but I’ve been too busy resolving business. I haven't an idea what it’s about.”

Dread fills your gut as you come to another decision you have to make today. Either you tell her the truth or skirt over some details so she doesn’t tie any link back to you. “As it turns out I haven’t really been well-versed in the melodrama of the people, but from word of mouth,” your hand cups one side of your face as you whisper, “he has entangled himself with a commoner.”

Wriothesley and Clorinde both shout a distressed “What?” in unison.

“I surmise he hasn’t taken any of it into account,” the duelist guesses, shooting a blind shot in the dark.

Your lips curve into a leer. “He’s doing what he always does. His job.”

___

"M-monsieur Neuvillette! What brings you here?”

“Good afternoon. What rings do you suggest would suit...”

The jeweller, filled with the delicate hum of conversation and soft hushes of conversation, momentarily hushes in anticipation. Neuvillette, however, maintains a calm demeanour, allowing the flustered individual to collect himself.

The person takes a moment, clears their throat, and continues, “... suit your refined taste? We have an exquisite collection of vintage pieces or, if you prefer, more contemporary designs. Perhaps something that resonates with the essence of your intended occasion?” He glances nervously at Neuvillette, awaiting his response with bated breath.

“A simple engagement ring would be right up my alley. Your guidance…” He quickly searches for the name etched into his nametag and spots a ‘GATTINEO’ on his person “Monsieur Gattineo,, in finding the perfect ring, would be much appreciated,” Neuvillette states, and he smiles stiffly, unable to tell if he’s just scared the worker senseless or struck the first normal human conversation he’s had in weeks.

The person behind the counter nods profusely and points his arm to the left. “R— Right this way, monsieur.”

Neuvillette gazes at the employee intently, studying the way his hands slips at the knob that seals the rings from under the glass display and slowly retrieves them, pushing the array of wedding bands toward the Chief Justice as if a single sound might shatter the fabric of time.

The Iudex takes pity and reassures him that he ‘need not be so tense’, but whether the employee buys the claim is a story he does not remain privy to. Gloved hands pick a ring from the second row from the array and he holds it in the light, checking the glimmer of the diamond that sits snug under the hooks of white gold. Too dull, he notes, already picturing it against your ring finger. He thinks that you do not deserve such a ring of commonplace, and he politely places it back into its respectful place on the display.

He reaches for another, acutely aware of the growing pairs of eyes that are burning into his back. Another ring is victim to the light and he needs little inspection to know that this wouldn’t flatter you in the slightest. Scrunching his nose, he turns to look at other options.

None seem to suit his taste.

Neuvillette stands stationary for a moment before noticing a glint to his right. It is a ring that appears lacklustre at first glance, but when he looks at it for longer, he realises that the ring is not as uninteresting as it initially seemed.

He points at it through the glass. “Would you mind if I take a look at that one?”

“Why, sure. It is a latest addition, monsieur, and is very much flattering on any bride.” The Chief Justice, who is ever impartial to opinions, disagrees. He does not think it is flattering on just any bride.

Its centrepiece is a gorgeous sapphire, and his mind immediately shifts to the casual blue undertones of the clothes you wear. It would certainly complement her eyes, he thinks, picturing the glimmer of blue on your skin. It would make your complexion ‘pop’, as Lady Furina had said. It is nowhere near extravagant, but keeping it simple is to make a statement.

He pinches the ring in between the pad of his thumb and index finger. “I would like to purchase this — does it come with a box?”

The worker is stunned, eyes practically popping out of his skull. “Y—Yes! It surely does. That would be one hundred thou—”

“Please, put it on my tab.”

Now the worker is really ogling at him. He hasn’t even heard the full price! He figures up how much he will get for this commission, and it will buy him a luxurious lifestyle for several months. Heavens above, he really was lucky today.

“I can do that for you. Just give me a moment to get the box from the back.” The man scutters away, and the conversations around Neuvillette are now brought into vivid technicolour.

“Is it for the woman in the tabloids? I heard she’s the newly employed head of civil affairs.”

“She really has done everything under the sun.”

The Chief Justice’s ears perk at the phrase in response. “You can’t trust everything you see in the media. Looks to me that she’s only in it for the money.”

“You are right… Perhaps it is a calculated move to push her way through the ranks! What a sly, sly woman she is.”

Are they seriously speaking about you around the very man that dictates the verdict of whom is guilty? That kind of daring makes Neuvillette's eyes narrow. He does not wish to entertain their idle gossip, but he also can't watch while his future wife is being disparaged in such a manner. To him, your resilience is remarkable. That, is one aspect of your character that he truly admires. But one thing rings true: fame comes with a price.

Neuvillette’s jaw ticks, and his warm, serene mien freezes over, his glare a piercing chill. He composes himself, and turns on his heel with a rigid calm. The words that leave his lips send the people’s blood running cold.

“If you are to speak ill of the woman I am to propose to — and that is certain — I hope you see to it that the repercussions are to be nothing but shy of being remarkably uncomfortable. ”

a/n: this one kinda strayed off my outline if im gonna b honest but like are we really complaining cuz PROTECTIVE NEUVILLETTEE OGME

taglist : @sek0ya, @souxiesun

#neuvillette x reader #neuvillette #genshin impact #neuvillette fanfic #neuvillette genshin #enemies to lovers #marriage of convenience #arranged marriage

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