#monsoon issues | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hatredmadeofgold · 7 months ago

Note

So, Raiden has DID, right. This is a fact.

What do you think about his system? I know you write fanfic about him, do you think there are any other elaborated parts other than Raiden and The Ripper? (I'm not a fan of "evil murder alter," but I feel like naming would be pretty ambiguous. :)

Hey anon, I am sorry in advance but this answer is 2263 words long lmao Go sit back with a beverage of your choice (I recommend water) and enjoy the ride.

[Not sure if you’ve read my little attempt at an essay from July 2022 about him having DID (it’s here), but I do consider it outdated now and would love to update it (same as the one on him having ASPD) at some point when I got the energy for that.]

This is a fact made me laugh a bit, ngl.

I am not a fan of the “evil murderer alter” thing either (I watched Split once and while I give my kudos to the actor’s portrayal of various alters, the story itself sucks ass and I also found it boring as hell to be honest) — if anything, Raiden’s entire system consists of “evil murderer alters”, or none of such at all. We’re speaking about a character who admits to enjoying murder, and that wasn’t The Ripper speaking back then in MGS2 either — Raiden isn’t left in the dark of his violent nature, but he’s left in the dark about the details.

I don’t want to give too many spoilers for my fanfiction series @mgsr-sing-to-me away, since the story goes in-depth about my concept of his DID system, how it was created and what each alter roughly represents, but I’ll try to give you a quick rundown:

Something I think most MGS fans can all agree on is that Raiden in all three games in which he appears feels somewhat different, to the point of ‘inconsistency’ even, and this has created my interpretation and headcanon for him to have DID in the first place, and Raiden having suffered from amnesia is a well-known canon fact.

To me, however, it’s not MGR Raiden who feels strongly different in terms of personality — it’s MGS4 Raiden who feels like an inconsistency.

I consider the Raiden we see in MGS4 actually a different alter being in control of the body than the one who is in control during MGS2. During MGR, it feels like a mix of both of those alters but let me get to that later.

‘Jack the Ripper’ is an obvious alter, not an ‘alter ego’, and when I played MGR in Japanese, the cutscene after the Monsoon boss battle in which Raiden touches the wound on his abdomen made me realise — hold on, he suffered amnesia right there.

Something that I strongly dislike about the English Dub of MGR is that Quinton Flynn isn’t really good at the portrayal of Jack. Throughout the Japanese dub, however, Ken’yuu Horiuchi uses his voice to show the literal switching between at least three alters present in Raiden throughout the game. Unfortunately, this isn’t evident in the English dub much at all, aside from the Jack the Ripper Awakens cutscene.

For easier understanding’s sake, I will give those alters some nicknames (also to prevent spoilers for my fanfiction):

The Raiden of Denial, as we see him both in the first half of MGR and MGS2

The Raiden of Dissociality, as we see in the later half of MGR and on and off during MGS2 (especially during {optional} Codecs with Rose)

Jack the Ripper

The Raiden of Sorrow, as we see him during MGS4

I took these 4 observed alters from the canon as my pillars to roughly create my concept for his DID system, which boils down to an approximate number of 16 or more alters in total.

I say ’16 or more’ because Raiden has never received adequate therapy for his mental health issues during canon, and it’s hard to determine an exact number of alters in general due to the covert nature of the disorder.

I decided to keep the exact number ambiguous but clear and simple enough to not get overwhelmed because technically someone with such severe trauma as his could result in poly-fragmented DID (aka 100 or more alters), but that’s not even set in stone.

Let me get into the specifics a bit.

—

Raiden of Denial alters are parts of him that are, what the (flawed) model of structural dissociation would probably call “apparently normal parts” (short: ANP). I take this model with a grain of salt because DID isn’t as neatly structured as this model suggests (in my experience), but to keep it simple, these alters are less aware of the full extent of their traumas and are therefore ‘functional’ in everyday life as well as interpersonal relationships, however, they feel less ‘fleshed out’ or ‘mask-like’ in his case sometimes.

All Raiden of Denial alters tend to run away from their past, hence I label them with the word “denial”. All of these alters are adults, and the apparent Host alter {at the time}, present in the first half of MGS2 until the nanomachines suppressing a part of his memory (aka suppressing the majority of the system) are deactivated by Solidus Snake, is one of such.

—

Throughout MGR, we can see two alters intruding on each other’s consciousness with thoughts, feelings and memories. One of them is like the one we see in MGS2 and the prologue of MGR, one in denial. Then there’s one we see sometimes in MGS2 and more and more prominently during MGR, a dissocial one.

We see an indirect switch right at the beginning of Chapter 1, where a dissocial type takes over. This shift is also picked up by Kevin, mentioning Raiden’s callousness that Raiden does not respond to.

These two alters are in so much conflict with each other throughout the game that Jack the Ripper decides that he’s had enough of that shit from the other two because neither of them is capable of handling being consistently confronted with triggers and reminders of “who they all really are on the inside”, and shoves them both out of the frame and takes on full control.

This comes with strong amnesia about what happens during his takeover. It’s not total blackout amnesia, but rather that it feels like watching himself act in the third person perspective, and the memory feels like Raiden is watching a YouTube video on a bad internet connection in 360p resolution.

—

Now Jack the Ripper is a persecutor-type of alter — an alter that has a protective role for the system, however, a persecutor’s methods are causing harm to the system overall.

I don’t want to give too much away from my fic as I said, but I’ll give you the hint that Jack the Ripper that we see during MGR is both an adult and a child at the same time.

A child who is trying to protect himself by lashing out at everyone and everything around him. It is obvious given the context of what we are told from the games that Jack the Ripper was born from the horrible things he was forced to witness and forced to do himself when he was a child soldier in Liberia, hence his age-ambiguity. And even The Ripper is split into several variants, making The Ripper his own category of alters.

The variants of The Ripper handle various parts of the horrible things that he had to endure as a child soldier, and they vary in ‘age’ and what triggers them out but they all behave roughly the same.

Despite being different alters of the same category, unlike the other alters within the same category, Ripper variants all consider themselves to be one and the same, perhaps unable to understand the barriers between them as well as gaps in memory.

Also one part of these alters is a child alter who has none of these violent and hostile traits at all, but is still a part of this category. This alter is protected by the rest of The Ripper, and contains all of these emotions that he was not allowed to openly show to guarantee his survival back in Liberia, like fear, sorrow, and pain but also empathy.

There are multiple of these child alters in the system, but they are hard to distinguish without giving them names, some have memories of their trauma, and some are completely oblivious.

—

The Sorrow type of alters are what we exclusively see in MGS4 and are what I associate with self-hatred, recklessness, suicidal ideation (internal homicide), self-harm and substance abuse.

Sorrow types are either adults or teenagers. They exclusively have a detailed awareness of Raiden’s addiction issues, which is another headcanon I have and is also listed in the content warnings for Sing to Me (ARC 2: Parasite Eve will handle this topic the most; and it may or may not be rather graphic, it depends on what I decide in the end what I will decide to publish).

—

Now I have listed 4 types of alters but I did not say anywhere that each category of them equates a set amount of alters to get to the number of 16 known alters in the system.

Because there’s another category to throw into the mix: Introjects.

So far, I have 4 introjects in mind that are part of Raiden’s system, but due to Sing to Me spoilers I cannot share them all.

Introjects are alters based on another person, be that a person in the system’s life, a celebrity they look up to, or even a fictional character. They exist in all DID systems in real life (and some sources confirm fiction-based introjects aka fictives since the 1980s) and their existence has a link to the psychology of child development.

One introject Raiden possesses is based on Solidus Snake/George Sears. Said alter is also a persecutor type and could be overlapping somewhat with the Ripper category, but is not a direct part of them. This persecutor introject of Solidus causes the entire system a major hit to their self-esteem, as he enacts the very same punishment onto the system, as the real Solidus Snake did on Raiden when he was a child soldier under his control, and also sabotages a lot of Raiden’s relationships by ‘protecting’ him from perceived threats that he sees in others.

—

Another I have in mind is perhaps based on Solid Snake/David and could have formed way before they’ve actually met. This makes sense because Raiden had gone through 2 years of VR training for the Big Shell mission, which put him into Snake’s role when he was on a solo infiltration mission on Shadow Moses Island in Alaska. This David introject is very loosely based on the actual person and is more of a fragment of what Raiden had been made to believe during those times. After their meeting, this introject might take the role of a ‘caretaker’ type of protector. Caretaker in this context must not be understood as to be something like a mother or father figure! However, this alter is counteracting the Solidus introject as well as the Ripper variants, by trying to get himself back on track.

—

Then there’s a fictive I feel like I can share about, and it’s the only female alter in the system: Ripley. And with that one I mean the actual Ellen Ripley from the first 4 movies of the Alien franchise.

Given that MGS2 mentions Raiden and Rose having met over arguing over King Kong, I came to think of what other types of fiction Raiden would enjoy and wrote myself a (still unfinished) list of movies and books.

The Alien franchise started in 1979 with the first movie, so it even matches timeline-wise that Raiden possibly saw those movies in his late teens, perhaps on TV or borrowed them from a local video rental store. Kaijū movies seem to be his thing, and although the Alien franchise is not considered one, it does overlap in some aspects of the genre.

Ripley as an alter might have formed when Raiden was moved into a foster family’s home, and to cope with his terrible nightmares that felt far too real, his psyche latched onto the fictional character to dissociate himself further from his past.

What I imagine is that he saw his nightmares, the flashbacks, and what he went through as something as undefeatable and unkillable as the xenomorph as described in the first movie, “the perfect survivor, without a conscience, guilt or remorse, nor moral code”.

Now Ripley was able to survive the xenomorph, and also kill it — by shooting it into space. Something that Raiden always wished to do with his past, just to erase it, as we learn in MGS2. At the time this alter takes its shape, he was maybe 15 or 16 years old. Ripley is also a protector, to protect the child in him additionally from pain. This alter then also takes a motherly role for the system inside Raiden’s Inner World, something that cannot be seen by an outsider.

—

The last introject I cannot say anything about it, since that one would give a too-harsh spoiler for my story plans with Sing to Me. I’d LOVE to talk about this alter and the absolute mindfuck he will create once he surfaces and interacts with other characters in the story, but my hands are tied. It sadly takes me so much time to work on the story due to the lack of energy I have overall, but it’s on my mind every single day. Even writing this answer took me two nights T_T

And considering that I’ve written over 2200 words to answer this ask already, I will make a cut here. Because honestly, I could write an entire book about Raiden (and Sam).

Which… I am actually doing, sort of, with my fic, due to its sheer estimated length of around 100 chapters for just the main story.

#Raiden #Raiden MGS #Raiden MGR #Metal Gear Solid #Metal Gear Rising #MGS #MGR #MGRR #Metal Gear Rising Revengeance #MGS2 #MGS4 #Dissociative Identity Disorder #golden writing #long post #anon #ask #Sing to Me #Golden Essays

60 notes · View notes

saltsicklover · 1 year ago

Text

Title: Not a Cyclone, But a Monsoon

Part 1 of 2 - Completed

Find Part 2 HERE and my Master List HERE

A request based off of THIS prompt, from the lovely @inkandarsenic

Romantic Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Fem!Reader Past Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Fem!Reader

Platonic Pairing: Beau "Cyclone" Simpson x Fem!Reader

A few uses of Y/N

Word Count: This part: 6k+ Total Fic:20k+

Rating: R

Warnings: Talks of death, minor character deaths, labor, loss of a child in utero, abandonment, drinking, talks of God and destiny, swearing, general military talk and lingo, descriptions of food and eating, coughing fits, talks of violence, actual violence, blood, vomit and throwing up, mention of near death experiences. ANGST

---

I DO NOT CONSENT FOR MY WORK TO BE REPOSTED OR TRANSLATED

Miramar, California. TOP GUN. Six years before the organization of the Dagger Squad.

The Officers Club, better known as The Flight Line Bar sits on post in Miramar, frequented by the big brass and educators at Top Gun. The whole place glows with amber light from the buzzing light fixtures that hang from the rafters, dusty and hot to the touch. This half of base, on the far side of the air field has yet to be updated, evident by the chips in the glasses and the inconsistent flickering of the halogen bulbs. The wallpaper is peeling; discolored around the old neon signs that have slowly begun to fizzle out. If it were any brighter inside those four walls, one might be able to see the discoloration of well walked floors and one too many spilt beers.

Two loan pool tables sit in the center of the bar, their felt faded from use and tearing, flanked by a couple of dart boards, their cork crumbling from age. The patrons look about the same, old and wrinkled with age, lines worn into their faces that read closer to distinguished than wary. That's what the military does to a person, wears itself straight into the skin and makes a home there, the ghosts of lost wingman and battle buddies still looming in the whites of their eyes. Too many memories are stuck in the deep folds of their uniforms, worn in around the elbows and shoulders, the creases worn from friction- salute after salute.

It's really a hard to believe that people still frequent The Flight Line Bar. After all, there are so many better places for the students of Top Gun to meander into, just off post where they don't have to risk rubbing shoulders with their instructors- or heaven forbid, hit on their guest lecturers.

After all, It's all fun and games, flirty touches and smooth words until you're slapped with a SHARP report.

The students always figure out the good places to drink after class, shortly after their arrival after one too many moments spent inside the crumbling bar. The drinks are good in taste, better in price, but not worth it at the risk of saying just the wrong thing to just the wrong person.

The new recruits arrival happens like clockwork, and it's a ritual the newly minted Admiral Beau "Cyclone" Simpson loves to witness. He has been watching the little ordeal for the last four years, with each new Top Gun class, even choosing to mark the date on his calendar after having almost missed an incoming class last year.

The new Top Gun recruits wander into The Flight Line Bar in gaggles. Most still clad in their uniforms if they had been lucky enough to get issued a drinking order. The wide eyed aviators would file up to the bar, uneasy looks on their faces as they took in the ranks drinking around them. If the Flight Line Bar was a small pond, the Top Gun inductees are guppies surrounded by some very big fish. One year, a young aviator even tripped over the base commander's seat and was met with a glare that even Cyclone would have been nervous to stand on the receiving end of.

The recruits each drink a beer, the brave ones chancing a second, before they're heading for the door. Cyclone loves to see the discomfort that would roll off of them the moment they crossed the threshold back into the parking lot. Some would even shiver, which always seems to pull a hearty laugh out of the Admiral.

This year, however, Cyclone is met with a very different scene before him when he himself broke the threshold of the Flight Line Bar. Having been stuck in a meeting with Admiral Kazansky, Cyclone ends up arriving later than the usual crowd of recruits. So, when he finally wanders in, he is met with the fleeting glances of some top brass, but no new eyes. He can't fight the way he almost deflates; after the shit day he managed to barely claw his way through, the one thing he was looking forward to were the wide eyes of the newest, freshest meat that Top Gun managed to recruit.

As if today of all days wasn't hard enough to begin with.

Instead, it looks like a regular Friday night, which wouldn't do the leg work needed to actually flip his day around for the better. But he's already there, the drinks are cheap, and he really, really needs a drink. So, he orders with a silent wave of his hand, the borderline elderly man behind the bar meeting the wave with a nod of his head. Cyclone plops down unceremoniously onto one of the rickety barstools. It almost sways under his weight, however it does creak weakly as he settles. His temple meets his knuckles as he lets out a deep sigh as the beer being set down in front of him. Cyclone can only manage a nod to the bartender before lifting the glass to his lips.

The question of why he still drinks here, in this lousy bar, floats through his head for a moment, but he doesn't put fourth the energy to grant himself with an answer. Maybe it's the cheap beer and half price shots. Or, maybe the fact that he doesn't have to fight off the happy hour drinkers or the five o'clock somewhere partiers that seem to be carried in with the wind. Again, he doesn't entertain the question long enough to form an answer.

Cyclone doesn't even have to glance around the bar to know the crowd this Friday night hosts. Top brass, tired officers, and disgruntled wives, each drinking their own bad days away.

The glass feels about a hundred pounds and it meets the bar top with a loud thunk, the amber liquid sloshing around inside. A bit of foam sneaks over the rim, running down the crack in the glass. Cyclone scratches at it with this thumbnail, wondering how the hell the bar is still getting away with using nearly broken glassware. The thought doesn't last long, not many seem to this evening, and he is bringing the impossibly heavy glass back to his mouth for another sip.

As he tips it back a little further this time, the sulking woman a few seats down catches his attention. If this were a normal Friday night, Cyclone might make bets with himself on just why a woman might be crying, in this bar, all alone. He might puzzle that she is a soon to be ex-wife, her spouse making the choice to cheat on deployment. Maybe she is a daughter, or a sister, or a cousin, her base escort hiding in some other corner of the bar, or of the base. But tonight is not a normal Friday night, regardless of the absence of the new incoming class or not.

The Admiral can't help but watch her lazily out of the corner of his eye. She brings a shitty bar serviette up to wipe at her cheeks, sniffling as the paper touches her skin. Cyclone should feel guilty about how much the sight comforts him. At least, he thinks, someone else seems to be having just as bad of a day as he is.

Then, she catches him staring, his beer lost in the space between his lips and the counter. His fingers are sticky against the chilled glass as he holds it there, still watching her. Cyclone doesn't look away, no point in it now. Then, she breaks the disillusioned bubble forming between them with a sniffle and a hiccup.

It's not a pretty sound, but then again, the sight of the woman in front of him isn't exactly pretty either. After all, it's hard to be pretty when snot is rubbed up over the tip of her nose, catching the light as she sniffles again. Her hair is akin to a nest, like her fingers have been making their way through it over and over again until it is more mess than style.

"I'm sorry, Admiral, Sir," Her voice is straining from holding back tears. There is snot dripping from her nose again, and she wipes it with another flimsy napkin. A half effort is made to sweep back the hair in her face, her well kept fingernails catching in newly formed knots as she pushes it back. The woman doesn't break eye contact with him, even as the sight of him begins to swim through her newly forming tears.

"Hey, kid, it's okay, don't worry about it," His eyes meet the fluttering neon sign behind her, not wanting to lock eyes with her again. It lights her in a halo of sickly blue and Cyclone can see the fizziness of her hair in it's light- it's a half distraction from the way she is still looking at him with those tears in her eyes. He can't stand it when women cry, not after watching his wife, June, sob through her entire pregnancy. It's really the way their eyes glaze over- that helpless look where he can just tell they are fighting with everything they are worth, deep down knowing that it might not be enough. Though, it warms his chest a bit to call her "kid", like he has always been meant to use the term.

The Admiral's brown eyes go misty, locking onto the chipped portion of his glass as the memory of his wife, six months pregnant, stuck in a hospital bed as hot tears carved their way down her face invades Cyclone's memory like a plague. He will never forget the crimson staining her cheeks from the exertion as she fought. And fought. And fought. The way her skin was more chapped than smooth from the constant flow of tears- the way the light would catch the shininess of her skin from the petroleum jelly that he lovingly spread over her weeping skin.

She didn't make it home.

Neither did their baby boy.

And now, as this woman sits a couple stools down, crying in a way that's anything other than gentle, corralling her sobs into the fence of her chest; her face that same color he used to be so used to seeing, that same damn sheen to her skin and Beau feels sick. His eyes snap down to her hands and he watches as her fingers push through the soggy material of the napkin, a sight that makes him grimace a bit. Gross is not the word to use to describe a crying woman, that is fact he has to remind himself of, but the way her fingertips slipped right through that soggy excuse of a napkin is damn close. Cyclone schools his mouth into a tight line, knowing that anything he might say could make both of their day's spiral downwards even faster.

"Admiral," Cyclone wills himself to look her in the face, but his pupils dance around, not locking in on one spot too long. The frizz of her hair, then over the puffy skin under her eyes, then back up to the buzzing neon just over the top of her head. Anything to keep from looking into the woman's eyes. He manages a nod in her direction, rewarded with a hiccup from behind her glass.

A couple more used napkins are tossed up onto the bar, adding them to her steadily growing pile. Her beer is cold, and she can feel it travel all the way down, chilling her burning insides with each swallow. Cyclone takes a drink of his too, waiting for her to continue her thought. He closes his eyes as he tips back the glass, the image of the crying woman in front of him replaced with one of June, and he's not really sure which is worse.

Thunk goes the glass again.

"Can I ask a favor?" Her tone is so sweet, yet so, so sad. He thinks of June, then he nods, his body doing the motion for the sake of his heart, even though his brain is screaming at him. He was taught a long time ago that there are people who don't just ask for favors, specifically strange women in bars, new recruits, and the big brass. But, the woman looks about the age his son should have been now and his chest constricts with the realization that he could have been sitting here drinking with him if things had turned out different.

"How can I help you, kid?" The glass is hitting the bar top just a little bit too hard again, the splinter in the glass growing a millimeter. It's quickly covered by the large pad of Cyclone's thumb.

"I- well, I'm supposed to be here celebrating my Mother's leg-legacy," Another sob-full hiccup breaks up her sentence. Cyclone waits patiently for her to finish. She wipes at the tip of her nose with the back of her hand.

"And, she really liked to shoot whiskey," The explanation is coming out too wet and not at all concise, but Beau is nodding along anyway. The woman is rubbing at her eyes again, this time with her fingertips. She carefully runs her nail along the underside of her waterline, trying to catch the new tears before they streak down her cheeks with the rest of them. It doesn't really work, or even if it does, Cyclone can't tell. New tears fill up the spaces the freshly wiped away ones once occupied.

Despite the unclear delivery, Cyclone gets the message. Ordering two double shots of Tennessee whiskey, his wife's favorite, Cyclone offers his best sympathetic smile to his new drinking companion. Then, as the whiskey is being poured and he is shuffling over to the bar stool next to hers. That one creaks and sways too, but he tries not to pay it too much mind.

"What's your name, kid?" There's that warmth again, breaking through the tightening feeling in his chest.

"Lieutenant Y/N "Monsoon" Mitchell," Monsoon raises her shot glass to Cyclone, offering him a nod. It's such an informal introduction but both are thankful for the lack of salute, the lack of military theatrics, tradition, that they are usually stuck to upholding. After all, what is tradition except peer pressure ringing through from years past.

Cyclone knows her, well, her name, this recruit- on paper at least. Suddenly he feels a bit worse for feeling less alone when he spotted her crying.

"Beau "Cyclone" Simpson," He raises his own glass, moving to tap them together. It's a risky move with the state of the glasses, each sporting chips in their rims and hairline fractures down their side. They share sullen, makeshift smiles, neither putting any sort of heart behind the expression. It's a knowing sort of thing, the look they share, one that says I won't say anything if you won't.

"To my Mama, Lieutenant Maria Davis, the best damn medic the USS Vinson ever saw," Monsoon's toast is simple, but she means every single word. Beau's mouth turns up at the corners, nodding to her in acknowledgment of a good job.

"And too my wife, June, and our baby boy, god rest their souls."

The bottoms of the glasses hit the table before the rim makes contact with their lips. The alcohol goes down with a burn, but it's a welcomed sensation. Anything feels better than swallowing grief and there's too much in the air right now. Cyclone chases the shot with a gulp of his beer. Monsoon doesn't. She rests the cool glass against her warm cheek, squeezing her eyes shut. It's a refreshing feeling, almost like she is being rinsed from the inside out.

The alcohol settles deep within them. She is buzzing, he is a bit queasy. Neither need to say a thing about it. It kind of feels like church- like a well spoken sermon where one sits in the pew the furthest from the crowed, tucked away in the back, poking holes in each lesson the preacher delivers. After all, it's not really God's plan, is it? More dumb luck than divine circumstance. Yet, they are both still there, sitting on stool that could give out at any moment as the lights above them buzz and the world feels a little smaller.

"I was watching the class today. You're a damn good pilot, Monsoon," Beau speaks after a few beats of silence, not quite sure what to say. Go with the truth, right? It would be rude to move back to his original seat, especially after the woman next to him just got control of her tears, so small talk is the next best option. She cracks her eyes open, trying to read the expression that follows the compliment. It looks genuine, if not a little proud, so she nods.

And then the world is a bit smaller, still.

"Thank you, Admiral, sir," She sets the glass down, gentler than he has done the whole night, "That means a lot, coming from such a talented pilot as yourself, sir."

And then Cyclone is chuckling, his chest vibrating. That feeling being the closest thing to godly he has felt in a long time, but it's more Zeus, more Jupitar, than it could have ever been God. Monsoon's words are so genuine and it catches him off guard. Most people who say something like that are trying to kiss his ass so hard that there they all but wear marks on the backside of his trousers.

"Are you getting excited to graduate? The ceremony is next week, right?" He asks, bringing his eyes back to the neon behind her. The light above them flickers, neither one acknowledging it. There is a sort of kinship between the way their souls feel and the state of the bar, where living feels like the flickering of a light, tonight.

"Sir?" The question comes with a tilt of her head, her fingers wrapping loosely around her beer. He watches the condensation drip down the glass, the water disappearing behind her fingertips.

"To graduate," he explains like it's the clearest thing, "To finish Top Gun,"

"Oh!" Monsoon almost chuckles, but her soul is too heavy. She settles on a small smile, as kind as she can manage.

"I don't graduate for another six weeks. Today just wrapped my seventh week here, but halfway done does feel good," He can tell she is holding something back with the way her eyes are pinched at the corners, the smiles on her lips straining a bit under her words. Monsoon looks like she almost doesn't believe the words that are leaving her own mouth, but when Cyclone catches her eyes again he can see that look again, I won't say anything if you won't.

"Oh," Beau's hand comes up to scratch the back of his neck, all of a sudden feeling like he was caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "In that case, you are one of the best pilots I've ever seen,"

The words fall from his tongue like they are the simplest thing in the world. His eyebrows are still raised as he downs the rest of his beer. He contemplates Monsoon's career in his head, attempting to think back to files he knows are sitting on his desk, but the alcohol swirls the statistics together in his brain.

"Thank you, sir,"

"Is your father planning on coming to your graduation?" The question is so simple, the next plausible question after toasting to her Mother's life. Monsoon bristles at the question, her expression becoming impossibly more tight, pinched.

"He's uhm," The foam in the bottom of Monsoon's glass is the most interesting thing in the room. Tears are flooding her eyes again, and she's turning back to the shitty bar napkins in the even shittier dispenser. Cyclone knows his question hit a nerve based on how she is frantically pulling napkin after napkin out of the dispenser; and the Admiral's guilt swims to the surface. He is sure that the horizon of it can be seen in his iris's, if Monsoon were to look past the evident sadness that has made a home there. He's pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket, blue in color and perfectly folded. He offers it to her and it's taken with a slightly shaky hand.

"M.I.A. or AWOL?" Cyclone asks. There's a bit of humor to his question that neither of them comment on.

"He went AWOL when I was seven," She doesn't take her eyes off the popping foam in the bottom of her glass, "Then I suppose he went M.I.A. three years later, when he stopped sending birthday cards,"

Cyclone hates the way her shrugs are all noncommittal and vaguely unbothered. He would have killed for a chance to raise his child, hell, he would move the Earth if that meant he even had a chance to do something. The fact that a man would walk out on his family, on his own child, it makes him sick. There is still something else Monsoon isn't saying; the way she chuckles is almost wax poetic with the way she rolls her eyes. Cyclone raises an eyebrow at her as he gestures to the bartended for two more on tap.

"I was in Admiral Kazansky's office today," She chuckles again, eyes glassy and unfocused. Cyclone slides the new beer over to her. He brings his up to his lips as she breathes deeply, trying to order the words together in her head, words she can't believe she is about to say out loud.

"There's a fucking picture of my father on his desk," Then she is downing the beer in quick, deep gulps. It's half gone before she sets it back down. Cyclone's brain is working on overdrive, swerving the hazy clouds of intoxication, searching for the mental picture of the Admiral's desk. Monsoon is chuckling in quiet disbelief, picturing the damn photo on his desk, her father and the Admiral shaking hands during their time at Top Gun. It makes her sick, really, but she doesn't need to say it based on the way her face feels, all contorted and ugly.

"I didn't even want to be a fucking pilot," Cyclone doesn't know if she is speaking to him anymore, or if the words are meant for her half empty glass. Hell, the way she speaks them they could be meant for the universe, for Khaos, for the air itself. There's a chip on that glass too, in the smooth side if of it, where it tapers down. He watches as Monsoon rubs her fingertip over it again and again and again.

"What did you want to do?" The question is leaving Cyclone's lips before he can stop it, common sense kicking in too slow. He is kicking himself.

Then, her thumb is stopping.

"I wanted to be a RIO," The glass is lifted to her lips again, her eyes rolling at the mere thought, "I wanted to fly with my Dad,"

The laughter that leave Monsoon's lips is dry as autumn air. Her lips crack too, under the stretch of her half hearted smile- one that holds no joy, it's all lukewarm and apathetic. He watches the skin of her lips crack and separate- it looks painful, and Cyclone has to fight not to grimace at the sight. Blood slowly begins to leak through the new flesh wound, bright red as it crests over the fullness of her bottom lip. He remembers watching the same thing happen to Maverick in the back of a helicopter as the wind whipped around them. But then, Maverick wore a truly joyous smile, one that rounded out his cheeks with a rosy hue that went deeper than the wind burn.

Then it hits Cyclone like a ton of bricks- like pulling 6 G's in a fucking barrel roll. Mitchell. This girl in front of him, this broken, fatherless girl is Pete Michell's kid. As if Cyclone needed another reason to hate the reckless man.

Beau wants to punch Pete Michell so hard that the only thing the man can make out in his field of vision is stars. Either the ones in the sky as he is planted with his back in the dirt, or the ones that would no doubt sparkle behind his eyelids. He wants to watch as the other man bleeds from the nose, the lip, the inside of his mouth. Cyclone can almost see the way the blood would pool in the spaces between Maverick's too white teeth, turning them a sickly vermilion. He would take a little too much pride watching the blood drip out of the corner of Pete's mouth, or down the crest of his chin.

Hell, Pete Michell, bloody, is a justified sight in Cyclone's book.

But that wouldn't help her right now. So Cyclone takes a breath, calming the flames of anger, of Hades that often lick at his legs, at his hands, whenever he so much as thinks about Pete "Maverick" Mitchell.

He's a bastard, that much is for sure. And it doesn't seem that Monsoon needs reminding of that fact.

"Well, kid," Beau is hunting, hurting for the right words, "If it's not wrong of me to say- your talents would have been wasted as a fucking RIO, especially for that son of a bitch," That gets Monsoon chuckling. She wants to ask if her grandmother was really that bad, but she doesn't make the joke. Though the laugh sounds a bit strangled as it untangles from the dense pain in her chest, Cyclone is happy to hear it. Something small swells in his heart at the sound.

Somewhere, deep in the cavernous spaces of his soul, a broken part of him feels like a father for the first time in years, even if it isn't exactly proper and the woman in front of him isn't his kid. Cyclone feels like a father, not even in a pseudo sense of the word, but truly like a father, and the feeling warms him from the inside out. It overtakes his whole body, leaving him almost buzzing.

Now it's his turn to chuckle. It's sour with pain and longing, but it's still there. Like joy is trying to crawl it's way out, lukewarm and dripping wet.

"Well, Admiral, sir," Monsoon's voice is a little lighter now, sweeter maybe. Cyclone is watching as she's pulling her coat over her shoulders, "Thank you for the favor, and the drink,"

She's nodding her head in the direction of the half full glass still dripping with condensation.

"Thank you for remembering them with me, too," They share a knowing smile, it's a little broken but it is still warm. Again, it's one of those I won't say anything if you won't looks shared between the pair. They lock eyes one last time before Monsoon is turning on her heel, ready to head right out of the front door.

For just a second Cyclone wonders if Monsoon will shudder with relief in the same way the new Top Gun recruits usually do, or if something as simple as that will effect such a skilled pilot. He wonders if anyone will be there for her on graduation day, or if she will be stuck alone in the seas of families and friends- just like he was all those years ago.

I won't say anything if you won't. Yeah, that's not a chance he's willing to take.

"Wait," Cyclone calls after Monsoon, his voice a little too loud and not at all hesitant enough. Monsoon chances a look back, confusion written into the furrow of her brows. He becons he back with a wave of his hand. Cyclone pulls a business card from his front pocket. "I am going TDY, but I should be back for your graduation," The words don't make sense to Monsoon, and neither does the card that he's presenting her between his two fingers. She is cocking her head to the side again, eyebrows furrowed. Cyclone tries to not notice how much she looks like her father.

He notices anyway.

"Email me, remind me of the date, and I'll be there," He is presenting her the card again with a shake of his wrist. Then, she reaches out, grabbing it with nervous fingers.

"Oh, uh-" There are new tears forming in Monsoon's eyes at the words, the card now swimming in her vision. "Thank you, sir,"

"Oh, better yet," Cyclone plucks the card from her fingertips, a move that may have been considered crass but Monsoon can't help but find a little bit funny. Cyclone quickly scribbles down a phone number in messy loops of blue ink, the numbers taking up a little too much room on the back side of the card. Then, he blows on it carefully to make sure the ink won't smudge before handing the card back out to her in the same manner as before.

"Text me the reminder, so it doesn't get lost in my email," Cyclone's smile is so kind and there is a ribbon of hope, a glimmer, really, shinning through the lightest parts of his irises. Monsoon can barely hold back her tears at the sight, and so the card becomes the most interesting thing in the room, held between her shaking fingertips. "You deserve to have a parent there, kid,"

Those are the last words they share that night. They don't need to say anything else. After all, how do you explain the want to stand in as a lost family member? Beau would never admit just how much he's dying for a kid to support, to cheer on and celebrate. Monsoon knows the feeling too, the want to be a daughter who isn't seen as an inconvenience, a burden.

The next time they see each other, Cyclone is sitting in the front row at her Top Gun graduation, a small bouquet of calla lilies on his lap. There is a proud smile on his face and the moment Monsoon sees it there are tears in her eyes. She wonders if this is the feeling she had been missing out on, a father's pride, his love. She tries not to dwell on it, even as walks across that stage.

When the pair meet in the crowd, Cyclone doesn't hesitate to pull her into a hug, one that may not have been professional or regulated, but he feels a weight come off her shoulders the moment he pulls her in. He feels a little more whole too. The hug is short, quick, really, but there are tears in both of their eyes when they pull back.

Cyclone has so much pride for her, and God, Monsoon can feel it. From the way he beams at her to the way he shoves a camera into the hands of his battle buddy, tucking her under his arm. Both clad in dress uniform, posing for the camera as she holds the flowers against her chest to try and quell the beating of her heart. They both sport tears in their eyes, cheeks round and plump red as they smile too wide.

That photo makes onto his desk a week later, displayed in a beautiful mahogany frame.

USS Stennis. Somewhere in the Pacific Ocean. Four Years before the organization of the Dagger Squad.

The first time Monsoon calls him Pops, it's an accident. She got shipped out to an aircraft carrier somewhere in the Pacific. The tour is lonely. She doesn't know the team, the group who have been stationed there for the last six months, and they weren't overly keen on the 'new girl'. Monsoon made it through three months before she started to feel like a part of the team. It's a conscious choice, really, to keep working at fitting in. But in the end that team, those people, they aren't her family and they aren't going to remember her after she ships back stateside.

Emails to and from Cyclone kept her going, as he reassured her that life on the carrier isn't easy on anyone. He urges her to try and make better friends with those who hold a more permanent position on the vessel, so she does her best to take the newbies under her wing. If she wasn't welcomed, that was out of her control, but she can sure as hell make sure that the newbies are.

The plan starts off a little rough, the new sailors unsure of the overly friendly Lieutenant amongst the standoffish seasoned crew of the vessel. But days turn to weeks, trust is earned and the long days and nights onboard get easier to swallow.

Then, Cyclone gets shipped out to the carrier for a briefing. He can't help the rumble of excitement that tracks through him. He might get to see Monsoon, his kid, and he's going to do everything in his power to track her down on board.

There is too much joy on his features as he touches down on the carrier. Too much joy for the briefing he is getting ushered into. It drags on longer than necessary as they hash and rehash out plans for missions. He knows he should care, he really does, but it's not like people's lives are on the line this mission. It's all practice runs and jet maintenance, and how could anyone expect him to focus when his kid is on the same vessel and he is just fucking sitting there. Cyclone barely sits still, knowing the clock is ticking down on his time aboard and if this meeting goes on any longer than planned he is going to miss his chance to see Monsoon.

Around suppertime, Monsoon is heading to the canteen, desperate for some sort of nourishment. It has been a long day, trial after trial, and thankfully for her, she's fairing better than some of her other wingmen. At least she hasn't puked over the side of the carrier since her first week aboard.

She guides one of the newer pilots, Story, down the stairs from the flight deck, her stomach rumbling as they go. The new Lieutenant on board hot on her heels as they make their way down the stairs.

"I know, Story, but you're going to get through this," Monsoon's voice is low as they wind their way through the tight hallways of the lower decks. "You're a good pilot, there is nothing you can't do. So what if you need a little more practice. That's why we're out here, right?"

The younger man hums in agreement, disappointment scribbled all over his face. They are both coated in sweat, Monsoon's hair sticking to her sweat soaked skin. She craves a shower almost as much as she craves food. Her body is weighed down with flight fatigue as she drags her feet.

The halls of the ship begin to smell more and more like hot biscuits and butter the closer they get to the mess hall. Their stomach's rumble in unison at the smell wafting down the hallway. Monsoon is rounding the corner with her front turned towards Story, not bothering a glance in the direction her feet are heading. A second later, her back meets a hard body, a grunt coming out of her mouth at the impact.

Story goes white at the sight of his new friend running straight into an Admiral. Monsoon doesn't like the look on his face, he looks like he's just seen a ghost, or maybe prophesied a murder. So she turns around slowly, so, so slowly. Her eyes are scrunched as she turns. There is already an apology on her lips as Monsoon peeks to see just exactly who she just ran into.

Eyes go wide, and smiles break out over their faces.

The need for food, a hot shower, and sleep dissipate from her body as she looks up at the man in front of her, joy overtaking.

"Pops!" The name comes out a little too quick, catching them both of guard. Monsoon's cheeks flush dark with embarrassment, realizing what she just said and who she just said it to. Without warning, Cyclone is pulling Monsoon into his chest, wrapping her into a warm, tight hug, just the kind of hug a Dad would give.

"Hey Kiddo,"

TAG LIST

@its-the-pilot

@t4medicroe

@inkandarsenic

206 notes · View notes

koukaaa-descent · 10 months ago

Text

something about love.,, likely incomprehensible as this is just 60% monsoon & indigo and 40% emotion

You are curled up in my arms. I do not understand how you remain so gentle. I do not think I will ever understand.

There is something on the horizon. I am afraid of it. I do not understand why I am afraid of it. I understand that it is something I must reach. But I do not yet want to.

You are here, in my arms. You are too big to fit as you used to. I am stuck here until you wake up. (I could wake you. I do not want to.)

There is something on the horizon. It is not beautiful. It is the single most awful, frightening thing I have ever seen. I have rarely known fear. You are in my arms and I begin to wonder about dying. I wonder which of us will die first. I think I know who. (It’s always me, in this daydream. It’s always you, when I am able to stop and wake up.)

There is a star on the horizon. There is purpose, devouring the piece of me that I gave to you. I do not understand it. I do not think I will ever understand it. It sears my eyes until I am blinded for minutes at a time. I still can only barely tear my gaze away from it.

There is a star on the horizon. You are in my arms. I have a purpose, and it is not you. It is not you. (There is an awful form of mourning, here.)

#oc indigo #this is written mostly in the pov of indigo #oc monsoon #kokadrafts #feeling some awful emotions about the lore I’ve cooked up #my purpose has never been you. but I wish it was #‘you’ refers to monsoon #indigo has a lot of issues . The kind that come with being Frankensteined into existence

3 notes · View notes

amyriadofleaves · 9 months ago

Text

outside it starts to pour — neuvillette | chapter eight

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, furina, sedene, literal cameo of wriothesley, clorinde and navia, other melusine characters ⌗ warnings : n/a ⌗ word count: 6.5k

“Ouch! Sedene, can you go any tighter?” You really just intend on patting her arm to stop, but your hand meets her face and she reacts with a little squint to her nose.

You look under your arm, and find that she has tilted her head. “But isn’t it a Fontainian custom to tighten a corset to its limit? For a woman’s youthful look to ‘shine through’, as they say.”

“Well — my youthful look is going to turn into a wrinkly one if you’re going to constrict my airways.” The ironic thing is that, although you've had your share of tighter corsets and could wear them tighter yet, the issue persists; the innumerable comforts you've offered Neuvillette over the previous few days have served just as a distraction. You're still in excruciating pain.

The week had unfurled in a whirlwind of activity, traversing boutiques and bakeries alike, where both you and Monsieur Neuvillette took the painstaking sacrifice to your schedule to craft the wedding arrangements. Arguments, though not exempt, arose with discussions on which croquembouche would most harmoniously blend with the theme (Neuvillette eventually bent his opinion in your favour, your excuse being that he is not allowed one as his profession forbids him so). However, the task of securing the venue had been entrusted to Lady Furina's capable hands, and to Monsieur Neuvillette's discerning eye, her choice did not fail to impress.

In the days leading up to the wedding, the place at which you have been staying happens to be the very Palais Mermonia — and though you were initially apprehensive about living in the same place as your ‘fiance’, it was a strategic move, a calculated step on the chess board. It has proven to be of other conveniences as well: a shorter commute to your office and the excuse for leisurely strolls around the Palais grounds, weather permitting, which you’ve come to realise isn’t very often during this monsoon (odd how this period of the year in particular isn’t known for its rain, but then again, it never has really been consistent).

But out of all of the days where the rain poured and the levels rose dangerously high, a common denominator stood true: the Iudex of Fontaine, standing tall and erect over the balcony of the Palais, water matting his hair to his face, his robes to his skin.

You briefly recall the night in which you weren’t dressed in any garments but a nightgown, toeing lightly down the steps in hopes that you wouldn’t awaken anyone at such a late hour over a matter as trivial as a cup of tea.

If a memory is worth recalling, it is worth noting that embarrassment is one of its most prevailing factors. When it comes to you, of course.

And to see such a sight at such an hour had you almost playing death with the ceramic cup in your hand.

____

The Chief Justice of Fontaine stalks down the hallway, and though it is too dark to see the dampness of his clothes, you are sure of how he radiates a certain coolness, ridding wherever you are currently standing of warmth. His silhouette appears more fitted, a likely reasoning from the clothes that cling to his skin. For someone who sees nothing but the warm lights of the Opera, he is certainly of a robust build.

You don’t think he sees you when he almost slams into you with the full force of his momentum. A most depressing sight turns out to not be the both of you, but the lemon tea that spilled onto the marble floor.

“There goes my cover. And my midnight tea.”

The clarity in the whites of his eyes grow more pronounced, the adrenaline-fueled rush that spurred his almost inhuman speed beginning to fade. “Goodness, I am sorry. Let me make another cup for you.”

“No, really, it’s fine. I’m very much hydrated now that you’ve decided to show up,” you jab, eyeing him from head to toe. It's doubtful that he notices your scrutiny, though if he does, you hope he realises it's not in a particularly flattering light — more of a bemused acknowledgment of his somewhat unkempt appearance. Most definitely up to par with his reputation, you muse.

(Is it just you, or did the rain stop?)

He shoots you a fatigued smile in the dim-light. “I was just about to make myself a kettle of tea, to soothe the nerves. I could pour you a glass, if you’d like?”

“If you insist.” You finally look him in the eye, a subtle gleam of indigo glowing against the night.

And with a midnight snack consisting of awkward small talk and sips of tea, you wish you never rolled out of bed to begin with.

___

“Earth to you?” Sedene taps at your hip, but such a gesture would’ve gone unnoticed had it not been for her insistence. The corset you wear is the main culprit, taking the jabs of her hand.

“Yes? Is something the matter?”

“Does it feel better now?” She finishes, the discomfort increasing once she finishes tying the knot at the base of your waist.

“Yes, thank you Sedene.”

If anyone were to barge into the room at this particular moment, you would have been set for utter humiliation on your wedding day. You are clad in nothing but a corset and an underskirt — surely a most scandalous sight!

Sedene calls for someone to grab the dress off its hanger, and you see Kiara peek from a corner, clearly struggling under its weight. You immediately rush to take it from her hands, and you notice her immediate expression of relief. How adorable.

With a swift move, you retreat behind the privacy of the changing screen. The gown’s delicate lace and silk shimmer softly, catching glimpses of the stream of light peeking through the window. With a gentle touch, you slip into the gown, but the sleeves, as if possessing a will of their own, elegantly drape over your arm, reluctant to rest precisely where intended.

You glide towards the dressing table, greeted by a reflection unfamiliar in its elegance. Flowers weave delicately through your hair, stray curls framing the soft contour of your cheeks. The white wedding gown, meticulously tailored, drapes like a dream, its sleeves sitting off your shoulders, leaving them bare. Slipping on your lace gloves, you make a statement to have the engagement band to remain on the ring finger of your right hand.

The two share reactions in astonishment, with Sedene voicing "Oh, wow," in disbelief, affirmed by Kiara's nod of agreement.

You gently smooth down the gown, then look a little forward to see the two of them waddling toward you, all smiles. Returning the warmth, you affectionately pat both of their heads. “And you two as well.” They had eagerly volunteered to be the flower girls ( you harbour doubts, having spotted them in the Chief Justice's office—a more likely scenario being that Neuvillette ordered them so), and were thus given sky blue dresses to wear.

Kiara hands Sedene a translucent cloth, and Sedene promptly relays it out to you. “Would you like me to put on the veil for you?”

“It’s quite alright, I can manage.” Playing with it in your hands, Kiara takes her leave, but Sedene stays. Your eyes follow her as she slips past the door, but she stops, seemingly greeted by someone on the other end.

Focused as you are, it is diverted when Sedene taps your hand. “You do not seem happy.”

This prompts your smile to drop. “What do you mean? Can’t you tell that I am from my smile alone?”

“A smile it is, yes, but it is a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. Your expression is the textbook definition of joy, yet I cannot help but feel like you are anything but.”.

Your fingers pinch at the bodice, and you try your best to keep composure. If someone were to see you like this, it would be only you. Not Clorinde, not Sedene, and certainly not that Iudex. “It is nothing to be concerned about, Sedene. I am just fine.”

She blinks, and you think she doesn’t really believe you. “Alright then, if you say so. I'll call for Monsieur Neuvillette—see you at the venue! And in case I haven’t mentioned it yet, you look absolutely stunning.”

“Ah, thank you Sedene. You flatter me too much.”

She smiles and walks toward the door, closing it gently behind her, yet it fails to muffle the voices emanating from the other side.

The resounding echo of the door's closure bears down upon the room, casting the weight of burden in the now still silence. How could you have possibly subjected yourself to this stupid, senseless excuse of an arrangement? With hesitant steps, you approach the mirror, only to be met with a stranger's visage staring back, prettied and prepped for a sale that was never your choosing. Today is supposed to be an opening of a new chapter, of a life you haven’t lived, yet why does it feel like you are the corpse in a casket, awaiting your own burial?

With a shaky effort, you steady your fingers under your eyes to stop the tears from ruining your makeup. Not here, not anywhere, you assure yourself, hoping that if you bite it back, the feeling will eventually go away.

You try to affix the veil to your head, but it slips off to the right, resisting your attempts to secure it to your head. In an act of desperation and haste, you remove it, cautious not to catch any stray hairs — only to discover that your subsequent attempt moves it too far back. With your vision blurring from the effort, you reluctantly decide to leave it be.

Time does not wait for you to wallow in self pity, and instead it sends you something even more frustrating to get your mind off it.

“Mon coeur?” a deep voice whispers from the other side of the door, but you don’t have to think to recognise who it is.

“Monsieur Neuvillette?” you question in return, a hopeless act of confirmation.

Wiping your eyes, you take in a sharp breath before allowing him to come in. He stands apprehensively by the doorway, wearing a white suit with blue accents on its lapels. Given how the outfit bears elements to his everyday wear, you entertain yourself with the notion that work life never seems to leave him, no matter the circumstance.

Monsieur Neuvillette, the Chief Justice of Fontaine, is comically frozen in his place.

You raise an amused brow. “What are you staring at?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all,” he says, blinking, before proceeding to shut the door behind him, beginning to walk toward you with a hesitant pace.

You flash him a brief, cordial smile, but a grimace manages to fight through. “You ready?”

He stops before he can get too close. “I’ve spent days convincing myself that I was, but to tell you the truth, I am not so sure,” he whispers, gaze lingering on the flowers woven through your hair, to the earrings clasped to either side of your ears. He does not dare look any further.

Neuvillette finds himself at a loss for words. Should he offer you words of comfort? No, that would only rile you further.

The two of you motion to different spots in unison, lips parting to say similar words.

“I bought you a gift —”

“No, please, your gift first—”

“I insist that you present to me my gift first, to avoid disappointment.” You think he takes it lightly when he chuckles. But for once, it truly isn’t in jest.

“I thought this gift would be fitting.” He reaches into his breast pocket and presents to you a bag. Curiosity piqued, your brows raise. It doesn’t take much discerning to realise that the fragrance emanating from it is, in fact, a handpicked array of tea packets.

“Oh. Thank you for this, I needed to restock my stash of it but I had gotten a little lazy in doing so.” You fidget with the bag antsily, taking a peek at the content. Pulling the drawstring closed, you face Neuvillette, to whom returns the look with an expectant one. “If you’d just give me a moment.”

Pacing toward the dressing table, you reach for his gift, making an effort to avoid your reflection in the mirror. You turn around and meet his eyes, only for him to break it and find interest in a… pot?

You walk over to him and simply hand him the gift. “A notebook — for when inspiration strikes you at all the wrong times.”

“Ah, thank you. A very thoughtful present —”

“Don’t think too hard about it, Monsieur. It’s just Fontainian custom.”

A pained smile paints his short lived, light manner, and he tugs at the elastic that keeps the notebook from opening of its own will like a boy who's never seen a toy quite so fascinating. “Does it hurt to appreciate a gift?”

A spike of childish reminiscence leaves your lips before you can think anything of it. “On apprécie mieux le soleil quand on a connu la pluie.” We appreciate the sun better when we have known the rain.

Neuvillette’s expression softens into recognition. “On trouve toujours que la douleur est moins amère après l'avoir sentie quelque temps,” We always find that pain is less bitter after we have felt it for a while. “That quote derives itself from an old play. How did you come to know of it?”

“Well, Monsieur, like any normal person, I had interests. I was once a fan of the arts, poetry, plays, you name it — but look at where I ended up.”

“I never knew you were so attuned to the fine arts. I should have purchased an anthology if I knew of it.”

“Dwelling on it won’t do anything, Chief Justice,” you stop to adjust your glove. “Is our escort here yet? The wedding reception begins in under two hours.”

“We shall anticipate their arrival within ten minutes. Shall we adjourn to the entrance promptly?”

If you were anymore rushing with adrenaline you would’ve answered immediately, but you notice that your head feels a little bare. “I certainly do wish that were the case — but I do still have a veil to put on. So if you don’t mind.”

“Alright then. I shall be waiting by this very couch.” He points to the leather seat you’ve grown accustomed to in your stay in the Palais, and promptly sits, making sure to look away.

For the nth time today, you make your way to the vanity, and try again. It almost drives you mad at how it just cannot sit right, and your heart pounds anxiously against your chest as if in sync with the intrusive ticking of the nearby clock.

A distant voice interrupts your struggle. “Do you require hel—”

“No. I am fine. Just, ever so amazingly, fine.” Your response is tinged with sarcasm, a hint of irritation slipping through despite your attempts to mask it.

Ignoring Neuvillette's persistent offers of assistance, you wrestle with the veil again. And again. And again. Each attempt is punctuated by audible sighs of exasperation, likely loud enough for him to hear from across the room.

With your eyes still trained on the reflection of the veil, you ask the other person occupying the room an offhand question: “Do you remember when you asked if I needed help?”

“Yes, I do remember it very well.”

“Well I think an emergency such as this is worth warranting help.”

Before you can even finish your sentence, he rises gracefully from his seat. As he moves closer, occupying space in the reflection beside you, his eyes lock onto yours with a depth of uncertainty that sends a shiver down your spine. Ego aside, you feel bare, stripped, vulnerable.

His words brush against the nape of your neck. “Do inform me if my touch proves too unyielding,”

You take a nervous gulp and choose a nod over words, fearful that any utterance might betray your inner turmoil. Neuvillette deftly accepts the veil from your hands, then gently pushes a few strands back with a practised touch. His left hand traces your bare shoulder, a fleeting warmth that tantalises before dissipating, now lingering at the very lobe of your ear — and your lungs begin to plead for more air as you begin to hear your heart beating against your skull, the cloth of the Iudex’s suit the sole barricade between scandal and sin.

But there’s no one to stop you.

“That is enough,” you remark, turning to face him with a newfound resolve — and in that instant, a dawning horror grips you, realising it to be a grave oversight. There is something terribly wrong with the air in this room! Your eyes, usually sharp and commanding, now betray a flicker of uncertainty, quickly masked by a defiant lift of your chin. It doesn’t seem to last, your authority dwindling — robbing you of composure, the marble floors swirling in your vision; your high ground caves beneath you and it stirs a strange, undefinable confusion of feeling. It's as if all sense and logic have been threatened by his proximity alone, his face uncomfortably near yours, hand still in your hair. Despite the undeniable allure that you might grudgingly acknowledge, your stance remains firm, a silent refusal to entertain such thoughts, buried beneath the weight of your loathing for him.

Pull yourself together. This is the man who ruined your life.

You swat his hand away with a quick, dismissive motion — a gesture of indifference, of your forced aversion. There's a fleeting expression of disappointment that crosses his features, but you steel yourself against any sympathy, unwilling to entertain thoughts of his feelings. Instead, you draw in a deep breath, the cool air filling your lungs as you straighten your posture, a silent act of regaining control over your emotions.

“Did I clip it on too tight?”

“No. No you didn’t,” you say, taking an awkward step backwards. “It’s fine, you did half of the work.”

His eyes do not leave yours — a narrowing, apprehensive gaze that has you fighting against all your composure.

You take a brief once-over of yourself in the mirror before letting out a breathless, dry laugh. “We should get going.” He really did good work on that cloth — but what is to be made of him as a husband (however temporary) if he wasn't able to do something as simple as clipping something in your hair?

His engagement ring glints in the blooming sun. “We shall.”

____

The hour preceding the arrival of guests is nothing short of chaos, with eager individuals clamouring at the doors of the coach in a flurry of excitement. With all your judgmental tendency, you cannot help but regard them with a tinge of annoyance, at their fervour for a touch of fame, at a corrupt ideology planted into them — a flaw they have no one to blame for but themselves. An imperceptible roll of your eyes goes unnoticed by the man next to you, who seems nothing but aloof amidst the commotion.

“How civil,” you chide, clearly amused at the state of madness possessing these people.

“Ah, well,” Neuvillette replies with a knowing smile, “I suppose you're quite familiar with their ways, given your role as the Head of Civil Affairs.”

“Archons forbid a woman be fascinated,” you muse, a sneer making its way to replace the frown that had come to form since your time in the Palais.

The man at the wheel swerves to the right, and you grip onto the handle by your side of the coach, but the effort is fruitless when you end up scooted up against your fiancé’s arm. Before Neuvillette can make a reaction of it, you step on all of whatever he might be thinking. “I know, I know, you think I cannot get enough of you.”

The Iudex uses his right arm to help yourself back up — but you shake your head. His brows furrow. “I beg your pardon?”

“It’s called humour, Monsieur. You’re going to need some of it.”

He says nothing.

After what feels like aeons, the coach jerks to a sudden halt — and before you can lurch forward, Neuvillette instinctively extends his arm to shield you.

You eye his arm with a raised brow. “That wasn’t required of you.”

Though visibly hurt, he soundlessly slips his arm away, and turns to open the door.

Reaching to do the same, you find that Neuvillette happened to reach an inhumane speed and is now opening yours. He offers his hand, but you find support in the handle near your seat instead.

But there is one important thing you seem to forget. Eyes follow.

Neuvillette seems to come to the same conclusion and gives you a knowing look. You begrudgingly accept his hand, heels meeting on cement.

You wish not to engage in whatever he seems to be planning behind those eyes that gleam like ice: cold and unforgiving, and yet, you realise this is what you’ve signed your life for — to act, to be a pawn mercilessly thrown around on the table.

Standing at the precinct of the mairie, amidst the bustling noise, a stark loneliness envelops you. You're about to walk down the aisle as an orphan, bereft of a mother's reassurance or a father's farewell kiss. Gripping Neuvillette a little tighter, you cling to the only semblance of support and he stops (everyone else surrounding the barricade does too, but you pay it no mind).

___

Judging by Lady Furina’s shriek at your appearance, you sense her disapproval of how you look. “Y—Your makeup! It’s smudged! Oh God.”

Your hand hesitantly brushes against your cheek, detecting the subtle dampness where your makeup has indeed betrayed you. With a superficial calmness, you respond, “It should be expected, Lady Furina, given the unpredictability of the weather as of late.” Despite the Hydro Archon’s critical gaze, you maintain a dignified demeanour, unwilling to let her judgement dampen your already heavy heart.

Neuvillette intervenes before Lady Furina can continue her scrutiny. “Lady Furina, the wedding reception commences in fifteen minutes. I kindly request you save your critiques for another time.” His protective stance shields you momentarily, prompting you to seek out Sedene amidst the commotion.

You venture further into the hall, and to your satisfaction, find them giggling with baskets in their hands, their dresses a perfect blue against the backdrop of the glass architecture. Bands of joyous light peek stream through the windows, casting a sheen against the silk of your dress.

The Melusines pause in their chatter, their eyes widening in admiration as you approach. “Madame!” they exclaim, encircling you in excitement. Their gentle inspection of your dress brings a fleeting sense of satisfaction amidst everything.

However, Sedene’s gasp and concerned inquiry shatters the brief respite. “What happened?”

You attempt nonchalance, replying, “What do you mean?”

“Let's put that aside for the moment, shall we? What's important is that you look your best,” Sedene declares, determined. She leads you to the dressing room, where makeup supplies are scattered in a chaotic array, likely the result of others' hurried preparations. You note the various shades of lipstick and the slightly uncomfortable puckering of the Melusines’ lips all likely because such application of the cosmetic was in a rush. Sedene works swiftly, applying powder to salvage what remains of your makeup, her movements deft and purposeful.

After a brief pause of silence, you rub your hands against either side of your arms in an attempt to find warmth. Sedene prompts your eyes to close, and you hear her tap her brush against an eyeshadow palette. A familiar softness of a brush swipes over your eyelids, the quiet bringing the Melusine to hum jubilantly in tandem with the strokes.

You hear the door creak open, but the brush lingering on your eyelid has you still, unable to move. “Ah. There you are,” the voice says, a middle ground between panic and relief.

Your lips pull upwards in sardonic spite. “Yes, Monsieur Neuvillette, I am well aware that we have but a few minutes left — but won’t you give your fianceé a few minutes of solace before she walks down the aisle with you? You can have her all you want until you grow tired of it.”

Satisfaction courses through you when your response is met with a tense hush, abuzz with silence that dances like errant shadows against the walls. “What, cat got your tongue?”

“No, no, certainly not. We shall rendezvous by where we met Lady Furina, if you do not mind.”

What difference would it make if you did, in fact, mind? Could time, against its natural course, be reversed at the hands of a clock at your beck and call?

“I have no problem with that. Now, if you would excuse me.”

Neuvillette acquiesces, and this you know from the way the pad of his boot clicks against the cement instead of the wood tiling the floors of the room, each step a catalyst for the brimming tautness.

The frantic brush of the trail of his coat twirls the strands of your hair and you make no interest in fixing it. Response would be idle, a futile attempt at salvaging the rubble of whatever the two of you have.

And with almost no regard for the now tense quietude, Sedene resumes her putting on of your makeup. You think you can almost slip this under the rug for how easily a quarrel like this could go under Sedene’s nose — but it appears that you forget that naivety comes with a lack of filter.

“Neuvillette tells me you aren’t entirely fond of him.”

A wrinkle forms between your brows and your eyelids push against the brush that hovers above it. “What?”

A hand in which she holds nothing comes to fly over her mouth. “Was I not supposed to say that?”

You scoot further into the stool, the rustle of your dress leaving the ground. I suppose this discussion has come earlier than anticipated, the thought is rueful, a catalyst that weighs you down just as much as your dress. “You're not wrong,” you finally admit; though your voice is soft, only the most adept of hearing would hear the edge that cuts a thin abrasion through the air. “But fondness is a luxury I've learned to live without.”

“You make it seem like he had committed a crime,” Oh, how vicious of a contrast. But what he had done to you, it might as well be.

“It’s… complicated, Sedene. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Oh, dear,” Sedene murmurs, shifting eyeshadow palettes and lipsticks alike into an arranged array, the mess you were once greeted with now left with no trace to a crime.

You shake your head, bitterness possessing the shift in your bearing. “I do not need your pity,” you assert, though the words feel hollow even to your own ears. “What matters is that this must go on. For however long it wills to.” With practised ease, you straighten your posture, a facade of composure settling over you like a second skin.

Sedene nods slowly, her gaze thoughtful. “As long as you're alright,” she says softly, her concern palpable.

“I always am,” you reply, exhaling a shaky breath you hope goes unnoticed by the Melusine in front of you.

You hear someone (or something) scurry past the door, and Sedene promptly peeks from your side, her eyes widening before she waves at whoever it is.

“Who…?”

“Kiara has just gone to usher the guests. You must go. It is nearly time,” Sedene's voice breaks the tranquillity, grounding you back to the horror you find reality. With a shaky breath, you steel yourself for what lies ahead, drawing upon the fleeting moments of solace and camaraderie within the dressing room as you prepare to face the orchestrated spectacle awaiting outside.

____

The bouquet of flowers thrust into your hand by Lady Furina slips slightly in your hold, and you await behind the grand doors of the hall, except there is no one to guide you through the aisle. A sudden, icy cool works from your fingertips, the cause of your own fault.

Frost accumulates at the bottom of the wrapped posy, but you crush it before it festers any further up the stems. The glow of your vision is the sole source of light that falters in tandem with the flutter of your heartbeat, and you recognise it well — it does not stem from excitement; rather, from an overwhelming confusion of impending doom.

Aeife and Aeval come to hold the train of your dress, Sedene and Kiara, ever giddy, come to stand in front of you — one, holding a basket of flowers, and the other, meticulously protecting the rings in the palms of her hands.

The colloquy breaks off as a beam of light peeks through a crack in the door. Before you can make a name for yourself as a runaway bride, the gasps of all almost succeed in shattering your resolve — but you swallow, choosing to use it as a vessel to fuel the unwavering smile that comes to paint over your lips. You feel it creep up to the squint of your eyes, but the only receiver of the sting happens to be the man standing high and mighty at the end of the aisle.

You can almost hear the judging hushes of ‘an orphaned bride?’ and its more degrading counterparts stirring from the crowd. Keys of a piano start in a rapid crescendo, arpeggios drowning out the whispers of condemnatory tones regarding the absence of the man next to you.

But scandal is what fuels the people, you conclude, a more stirring, grim smile coming to twitch at the corners of your lips.

Kiara skips down the aisle, opening the way with flowers, excitedly giggling as she makes her way through the stretch.

Every step you take towards the man that you have come to hold in a loathful regard grows more weighted with hesitance.

You reach the steps, catching a glance of Clorinde and Wriothesley sitting beside each other, along with a woman you do not recognise clad in a black dress, blonde hair tied neatly with a ribbon.

Helping yourself with your trail, you bring yourself to level your gaze with your future husband, eyes flickering in uncertainty, his mirroring yours.

(You try to ignore the absolute excuse of a woman officiating the wedding to your left, but you cannot.)

Lady Furina’s eyes dart between the both of you with a childlike wonder, a growing grin showing teeth flashing in the rising sun; cruel, but a smile nonetheless. “Ladies and gentlemen, today we are here to witness the most influential of marriage unions Fontaine has ever seen! Please, provide your utmost respect.”

A light courtesy of clapping incites from her very words, and through the very edges of your peripheral vision you see her cant her head to the side, basking in the pleasure.

Her loud, and debatably authoritative voice drops to a whisper, as the smile she dons stays picture perfect — a smile, that to the naked eye, would appear that she is soundless and simply happy. “Please tell me you memorised your vows.”

You do not give her the satisfaction in turning your head to her; instead, it stays fixed in place, taking in the man that stands as stiff as a rod in front of you, further fueling the confident tilt of your chin.

“Why, of course,” you start, “But we must proceed now, or they will grow suspicious. Surely you must agree, mon amant?”

Neuvillette blinks, shaking him of his stupor. He appears awfully dazed, the distinct authority you know that applied exclusively to the Chief Justice pools at his feet, disrobed him clean. He takes your hands in his, the agonising act of a real, authentic smile coming to oppose his duty as the ever impartial.

“I, Monsieur Neuvillette, take you to be my wife, promising to hold you close from this day onward, through every joy and every challenge, in times of plenty and times of scarcity, in sickness and in health. I vow to love you deeply and cherish our bond, knowing that nothing but death itself can part us.” The words leave like a burden, and you take it with morbid conclusion that the words you must say will have you linked inextricably with him, no matter the farce.

“I…I take you, Neuvillette, to be my husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, through better or worse, through richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish; until death parts us.” You let out a defeated sigh, the only aspect of your form that betrays the rest of your otherwise joyous mannerism.

Lady Furina’s eyes light up with a brightness of a thousand fires, exuberance radiating from her despite her affinity with water. “Monsieur Neuvillette, will you take her to be your partner through life? Will you love her, protect her, and spend your days in laughter together forever?”

His grip on your hands tightens a little, the friction of glove against glove exuding a warmth that snakes up to the tip of your spine. “I do.”

“And to the bride,” her gaze fixes on yours, intense like a hawk's to its prey, “will you take Neuvillette to be your partner through life? Will you love him, cherish him, and pledge your days to laughter and love for all eternity?"

A thousand rational voices come to scream in response. No! they say, objecting to the very idea of it. It sickens you, that in all your years of living, that this is how you are to be wed; forcefully, stripping you of all sense of control. But alas, who are you to make that choice? The sole influence you hold over Fontaine’s population is but a fraction of the people's devotion towards the Hydro Archon. It would mean nothing of your rebellion.

“I do,” are the words that spill like poison from your lips, betraying your own autonomy, betraying the promise you vowed to yourself that night, hidden in your closet.

Sedene eyes you with pity as she presents the rings, but you dismiss it with a quick glance away pretending to find interest in the way the clouds swarm above the glassed roof.

He makes a calculated move to lift your right hand, making sure of the absence of an engagement ring that lies in your left (he cannot help but be meticulous in handling your cold touch). He then reaches to remove your glove, but you shake your head. No need for that, you order with your eyes alone, and the solemn smile on your lips says just as much. With a knowing nod, his hand slips from your hold, leaving you with nothing but a looser fit for a glove.

You make the intent of no longer meeting his eyes when he slips the ring on, the band of blue an irresistible target for burglars who do not know any better. Though the ring fits like a dream, you cannot say the same for yourself; how do you fit in as a bride? Before being tangled in this rout, the very notion of marriage was a faraway fantasy; a pipe dream. It was, and still is something that only fairy tales could fulfil. Fairytale indeed, for what you face right now is hellish, an arrangement designed primarily for Lady Furina’s own personal gain.

Sedene shuffles to your side, and when you turn to look at her, you can only make out the blonde head of hair from under the pillow where the last wedding ring sits. She pushes it slightly forwards to make for an easier reach, a move that brings the edge of the cushion to touch the tips of your fingers. Hopeless is what can only be described of your effort in bringing the ring to level with the Iudex’s own, admittedly warm hand.

Neuvillette’s gaze bores into yours, and this, you do not need to affirm for yourself; it is truth, as is the word of the law. Your dress shields how you move to steady yourself (because, frankly, you think you might just lose consciousness if you don’t), the probing eyes of those in the crowd a factor you further take into consideration at your own, reckless ambivalence.

The moment this ring pushes against his finger, it will all be set in place — and the final verdict lies in your hands. You briefly entertain the childish notion that you’re almost back as the Acting Chief Justice — though, really, it is a stupid distraction.

And so you bite your own hand, the one that feeds you. The band slips on with troubled attempt, its own reluctance a humorous prospect you amuse yourself to.

Lady Furina's hands shoot out from her sides, buzzing with exhilaration. “Monsieur Neuvillette, the Iudex of Fontaine, and Madame (Name), the Head of Civil Affairs are now officially wed! Put your hands together for this union!” Furina bellows, voice ricocheting off the glass walls of the town hall. This is the only time you revel in her love for spectacle, an uproar of celebration conjured by the command of a god.

Amidst the mass of commemoration lie the most miserable: the newlyweds; the ones, who in all of tradition, should be amongst the completely joyous — and yet, here they stand, rigid and mourning.

What you do next is not by the command of Furina, but of your own volition.

You make the first move to step closer. It is a silent vow you make to your husband. I will not forgive you, but for once, I make an exception, just for this moment. You reach for his tie, fingers tracing the fabric as you pull him close, until the only sound you hear is of the both of you breathing, until you two are nose to nose, foreheads touching.

The longer you stand in such a manner only serves to heighten the thundering acclaim of the crowd, a ceremonious cacophony of anticipation leaving you to marvel at how the rain outside roars a solemn hymn in response.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his voice husky and unfamiliar, as though it hadn’t been used. You forcibly guide his arm around your waist, feeling the warmth of his touch against the cloth of your dress, a silent reassurance, however unideal.

“It is of no consequence, Chief Justice,” you whisper, a breathless act of convincing, a facade you know deceives no one. “The damage has been done.”

a/n: sorry for putting this out so late I got sick midway thru writing this chap[ter LITERALYL almost got admitted cuz my head was pounding like crazy

taglist : @sek0ya, @souxiesun, @11111112222222sblog

#neuvillette x reader #genshinimpact #neuvillette fanfic #neuvillettexreader #neuvillette genshin #neuvillette #furina genshin #genshinblr

78 notes · View notes