CW: GN!reader, Praise, break up (not with Kuni) Slight NSFW, angst, Sick Reader, SoftWanderer, Angst, and Slight Possessiveness.
Note: Lost Inspiration near the end, so it's the reason for the low key rushed ending. It feels like this needs a part 2, but I just wanted to post something for now.
-Rushed proofread.. so just a heads up if you see a mistake with anything.. 😭🙏🏽
Your running through the rain, tears falling down your cheeks; not being able to hold them in after your boyfriend- or lets say ex-boyfriend, broke up with you. Your overwhelming feelings and emotions in your delicate young adult heart, ripping into pieces causing you to run out his door like a TV girl in distress with your hands over your eyes crying buckets worth of tears.
You felt like a little kid who just had her lollipop taken away, absolutely balling as the rain poured down on you, drenching your clothes. He didn’t chase after you, of course he didn’t, when did he ever chase after you after an intense argument or disagreement? Never.
You sit at the bus stop, your eyes stuck on the ground unmoving. Not because you wanted to, but because you didn’t care to. Completely shocked from the aching pain in your chest and a knot stuck in your throat, keeping you from crying any louder then the tears that fell down your cheeks.
Why did he do this to you? After you thought everything was getting better, the ‘us’ in the relationship was getting better. The bus finally arrived, another 15 minutes of lonely silence, and a long walk to the warmth of your own home, not even the hug the bed gave you comforted the pain.
Your phone began to buzz but you didn't care.
buzz.. buzz.. buzz.. buzz...
Only a few hours after you had finally fallen asleep to the sound of your phone, you slowly wake up to loud knocking at your door, practically banging at this point. You did not care to deal with it, ignoring it.
Untill.. you heard keys, and the door slamming open that you decided to finally lift your head up and peek at your bedroom door which was creaked open, to see who the hell had the audacity to bother you on this long lovely night you were having. The sound of loud footsteps quickly approaching your door, immediately recognizing them.
Shit..
Wanderer walks into your room, shoving the rest of the door open like it was his to do so, "I've been calling you, why aren't you--" he takes one good look at your face and shuts up. Your eyes irritatedly peeking over your shoulder at him, over the blanket that wrapped your body, and passed the tears that laid dry on your cheeks and swollen eyes.
You turn away, a sigh passing your lips; laying your head back on your pillow. Its silent for only for a few seconds before you hear him walk to the side of your bed you were facing. You see his legs, and then his face. He crouched down to your level to see your face properly.
He looks at you for a moment, and you stare glare back at him. "Your an ugly crier" he commented. "noted, next time i'll kick you out when im crying." you were already annoyed.
He chuckles, finding your response satisfying. "HAh, like you would do that," his head rested on the palm of his hand, his head slightly tilted to look at you properly. You only let out a scoff as a response. "..mm, I can't help but be curious.. who hurt you so bad- that your ugly crying like this?" He glances over to the missing pictures of your boyfriend that used to be on your vanity, "You two finally break up?" he looks back over at you.
"Finally?" you snap, letting tears fall down your cheeks from the reminder. He doesn't say anything to make you feel better, he knows better than that. Suddenly, you let out a loud sneeze into your blanket, you nose feeling runny, and your head started to feel heavy and hot.
His eyes slightly widen at you, only taking a second before realization hit. "..Don't tell me you were that stupid to had run through the rain without an umbrella," he looks at you with a disappointed look on his face. Your eyes avoid his, dropping your head onto your pillow, guilty of being 'Stupid to run through the rain without an umbrella.'
He sighs at their carelessness. "Humans and their delicate bodys," he stands back up properly; walking out of your room, coming back in with a bowl and a cloth, and setting it down on your bedside table before pulling up a chair to sit on. "I don't need your help," you reject his help, well atleast try to. "Be quiet" he retorted, bringing his hand slowly to your for head, you feel as if your saw him hesitate for a second but disregard it, there's no way he- The great all powerful Hat guy, would find something undoable.
✿
The last time he took care of someone was a very long time ago, so it's possible, a 'fruitless memory' flickered through his mind of those bucolic moments in his past. Pain, or hurt, was something he didn't want to experience again with someone he, cared about..
"hmph." you scoff dismissively.
He ignores you, and keeps checking your temperature. "Lay on your back" he instructs you, "Who are you to-"
"Lay on your back." he growled.
"I-"
"I don't like repeating myself." he asserted again. Finally you listen, turning onto you back and laying there defeatedly. "Fine," you mumble.
"Oh- Good, you can be obedient.~" he sneers. As soon as you open your mouth to say something, he puts his pinky into your mouth and presses it down against your tongue. After only a few seconds he extracts his finger from you mouth, wiping it clean on the cloth again. "Your running a fever. Way over a mortals standards." he sighs, "You need to stay in bed" he instructs. You mouth gapes open in shock to what he just did, "What? I'm capable of taking temperature with my fingertips, is that so surprising? Or is it that you want my fingers back in your mouth?" he says bluntly, a teasing smirk curving onto his lips.
"Oh my god, never mind." You retort. He lets out a chuckle, as he places the damp cloth on your forehead. "I was just kidding~" he purred lowly, amused by their reaction.
You can't turn away from him because the cloth would fall of off. So instead you close your eyes. "Good thinking, get some rest.. i'll be right here." he said in a hushed tone. You fell silent, and actually fell asleep somehow.
Your dream was starting off unsettling, with a huge purple cat with red eyeliner devouring you, eating you whole, while it roarded and laughed- then a black void quickly surrounding you, and the only other thing with you was the white outline of a familiar silhouette approaching you, slowly but surely stopping right in front of your face. It stayed there for a moment, its outline unstable and almost quivering but undoubtedly a person. It inched closer, hesitantly its lips connecting with yours, and you made no effort to move away. Even feeling the warmth of their lips felt real.
It didn't look like your ex, you felt like you would know if it was him. This was a completely different person, warmer, even sweeter.
You slowly open your eyes, and the first thing you see is your white ceiling. The feeling of the warm freshly squeezed towel on your for head, and a flustered Kuni beside you, his face turned away from you with his hand over his mouth.
"What's wrong?" You mumble tiredly. "Nothing. Nothings wrong, go back to sleep." he snaps. You blink slowly, a little confused on why he looked like something had just happened. "anyways, I just had a weirdest dream.." you breathed. He peaked over at you but only with his eyes, "Oh yeah? what was it about?"
Maybe craving more of who ever that was, was wrong of me. You had just broken up with your ex-boyfriend, and you were already dreaming of someone else. Even if it was just a dream, for some reason it just felt so real. You raised your fingers up to your lips, recalling the kiss from the dream as your eyes glued onto the ceiling.
"nevermind.." you say quietly, deciding not to expose your sweet dream. You feel the towel being taken off and watching as he refreshes it, carefully setting it back down on your for head, his hand still pressing down as he leans down slowly. "No, Tell me about it.." he drawls, his eyes darkened with something you couldn't read.
His persistence took you off guard, “well, uh.” Your cheeks turn a tint darker, only because you have never seen this side of him. Like, why does he look so serious? It was only just a dream.
“Well, It was about a cat that ate me, and.. inside that darkness, someone came up to me..” Your voice slightly shaky as you recalled and told the dream that you had just a moment ago, trying to leave out the unnecessary details, but of course he caught you. "and then what?" he got slightly closer, and you hesitate to tell him, but of course you did anyways. "it kissed me."
He stared blankly at me for a second, like he was unsure about something, but then backing up slowly onto his chair. "Really is unfortunate for your ex right?" he sighs, "If I were him, I would have totally been jealous of that mystery dream guy"
You sigh in relief, feeling like you could finally get some air. Not really reading into his words.
"Mm, well- that kiss felt way to real. Never had a dream like that before."
He doesn't say anything, only now realizing that one of his leg was shaking. Something that he usually does when he's stressing.
"You thinking about something?"
He sighs, you knew it. "It's nothing important." he says. "tell meee" you nag, "No." he turns away from you. "Pleaase" you keep pestering. His eye twitches in annoyance, grabbing the towel and freshening it up again.
✿
He didn't know what to say or how to say it. That he wanted them? Craved for their attention? They just broke up with her ex and he's already going to make the moves on them? apart from that their sick. That would be wrong, it would be like taking advantage of their situation.
Really tho did he think he was to think that, he just kissed them earlier without their permission. What a Hypocrite. He bites his lip and they notice that of course. Curious to why he was so nervous, it was so out of character, it was a little bit of a shock to you.
"Did I do something wrong?" you ask, having no idea why he was so fidgety. It was a little cute, he was messing with a strand of his hair, he couldn't decide if he wanted his legs crossed or straight, and even the way he hesitated when trying to change the water from my towel.
"No, of course not." He responds quickly. Grabbing the bowl of water, "I'm going to go and change this water, it's gotten cold."
He leaves the room, leaving you alone in the room with your thoughts. You didn't know why you did this, but you got up and followed him to the kitchen. You wanted to sneak up on him to play a trick, quietly walking up behind him.
"You know, you shouldn't be out of bed."
Shit, well there goes scaring him. "O-oohh heyy"
He slowly turns around to look at you. "Don't tell me you were planning on scaring me were you? Heh- Maybe I should have humored you." he smirks.
You smile, trying to hold back a laugh. “Oh? Whats so funny?” Her smile contagious, he smiles too.
“Nothingg, I'm just grateful you’re here. I really don’t know what I would do without you Wanderer.” you were being honest, if he didn't come when he did, who knew how bad your cold would have gotten.
He looks blankly at them for a moment, turning away from them, “Don’t say things like that so easily.” You smirk, walking up to him to try to get a look at his face. He tries to hide by lowering his face a little more, but he doesn’t pull away, of course he doesn’t, it was you.
The moment you look at his flustered expression, your heart skips a beat. You realized his feelings, at the same moment you realized yours. Backing away slowly, clearing your throat. "I'm always being honest. Maybe, if someone else were as honest as me, things would be a little different.." you look off to the side.
He pauses for a moment, looking back over at them. Unsure if they really even knew what they were talking about, or if he was hearing things correctly. Maybe he was assuming things wrong..
"What are you talking about?" he scoffs. You only take a second to reply, your eyes back on him. "You know what Im talking about.."
He looks away, a little taken aback from their straightforward attitude, yet not exactly surprised. They have always had such a no bullshit attitude, something he admired about you.
"Honesty is not always necessary. Especially when one is hurting." he replies to your hints. He was obviously talking about you. He knew you had just broken up with that guy. He felt like you needed time, space, or some sort of break. If what you were hinting was real, he was willing to wait.
You sigh, smiling. "You don't have to filter yourself just because of me. You know, I can hand your honesty any day of the week." You felt like you knew he was trying to do. You appreciated him for it, it might have even made you fall for him harder.
"..Oh really?" He smirks, completely unhiding. He leans towards you, not too close, but close enough to make you nervous.
"Uhh, No hurry though, whenever your ready. I'm all ears." You were curious if he would confess to you today or later. His company so warm, that is completely forgot about the ex. If he could make your mind float and be this careless, you knew you were comfortable with him.
You didn't understand why wanderer; The slick mouthed, lazy academic, fight picker, and sarcastic guy- made you feel so good inside. He was taking care of you, something that 'man' could never do.
"How did things turn out this way.." He mumbles. Maybe he will just tell you about that kiss a different day.. Your lips were "so warm.." he remembers. Not realizing he said that outloud.
"what?" she asks. Curious to what could been warm. Assuming he might have meant her temperature.
"nothing.." he spits out instantly. Looking away from them again, grabbing the bowl of warm water with his hand, ready to head back.
"aaACHOO!" You sneeze again, and he only sighs in disappointment. You were raising your own temperature by just existing. Why was your body so weak, he thought.
They already knew what he was going to say, "I know.."
He sighs again.
"Your impossible. This is why you should have stayed in bed." He grabs your arm, pulling you towards the room so you could rest in your bed again like you should have been in the first place.
Why archons did you let him fall for such an idiot?
Sorry if it felt a little rushed at the end. I was running out of ideas. T_T
outside it starts to pour — neuvillette | chapter thirteen
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.
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ao3 : wattpad ˚ .˚
⌗ pairing : neuvillette x fem!reader
⌗ feat : neuvillette, reader, furina
⌗ warnings : BLOOD. lots of it. inflicted trauma (both mentally and physically I fear...)
⌗ word count: 5.8K
Neuvillette watches you disappear around the bend to your residence, your stride as unmoving as ever. Were it within his power, he would’ve accompanied you to your very doorstep for no more of the lurking dangers that had come to bite your blind spot: a robber, perhaps, or perhaps your door had rendered itself faulty. Yet, in truth, despite his pitiful ignorance in denying that it was merely an excuse, every fibre of his being itched with the desire to see you — even if it meant for only a second longer.
Lady Furina once teased that without you in his presence, he resembled a lost, weeping dog without its master; and at the time, such a bold claim seemed borderline preposterous when made against The Most Impartial Man to Grace Teyvat. Yet, now, with no one but you running circles in his lawyering mind, he thinks Furina wasn’t so wrong.
What had you done that had the conservative faction onto your every bone? He dwelled upon the thought amidst the expected strain of your silence in the coach; and when you left, his chest swelled inexplicably of something he could scarcely articulate — something that evoked fear and a second thing; something the fine workings of his brain and the candid nature of his tongue are much too afraid to admit. Because he had spent the greater part of this year saying that he loved, and loved, and loved you — yet always with a measure of restraint.
Because no person in the world can fathom, let alone bear, the burden of calling the woman who hates them their lover — and yet, there Neuvillette is, with his heart laid bare on his sleeve, yet hopelessly unable to lift the cloth off it — because God forbid he breaks his word; and the Iudex never breaks his word. Not unless it’s for you.
Cut to his blood. Let it spill. And only then will they see how every cell of his body spells your name, into every corner, every crevice the reddish wine of life wishes to touch.
He never questioned why you hated him so much. Many people despise him, wish to have him burnt at the stake. But he had come to accept this bitter truth long — but that was before; before he caught the glint in your eye whenever you smiled — however fake or real. And that was when his heart caved in on itself, to make room for one extra person, despite how difficult you were, and still are.
A pit settles in his stomach, and he cannot help but wonder if whatever it is that is ailing him derives itself from himself, or from you — because if it were from you —
“Uhm, Monsieur? Where to?” The coachman has his elbow resting against his own headrest by the sheer effort of him attempting to grab Neuvillette’s attention — and that he does — just, with a little bit of difficulty involved.
Neuvillette’s blinks, slightly shaking his head to stir him back to reality.
If anything was to take his mind off things, it would be work. So, with a resolute sigh, he gathers himself and straightens his tie along with his posture.
“Ah, right. The Palais Mermonia, please.” He says this with a sort of modest dip of the head, possibly in shame, but more likely because he almost feels as if caught, subpoenaed into telling the world what he had just thought about.
He settles back against the cushioned seat, the moonlight making the blue accents of both cloth and body only fade into a natural monochrome. As the coach rumbles along, he thinks of you.
Archons save you, because whatever it is, you aren’t making a safe trip to your doorstep.
You try to disregard the echo of the footsteps mirroring your own— but from what happened earlier today, you can’t say you aren’t at least a little on your toes. A brief scrape of the wheels of the coach against the tarmac makes its final note within your vicinity before fading into the void of silence, and you mutter a prayer, however severed your belief is with the Heavens above, for someone to come save you.
Trepidation rumbles through your veins like the bass of a drum, and it rings through your already pounding head, making you a puppet to fear’s instrument. A mild shake to your head only presses the incorporeal needle deeper into your head. In an attempt to divert the discomfort, you rub your temples profusely. But, your efforts are relayed out to you in vain as you falter in your steps.
You hear a split second delay of the mimicker; and this time the step resounds a metre closer than a minute ago. Panic drives you through the streets. Reaching for the dagger up the garter wrapped around your torso, the polished sheen of the blade gleaming in the light. You hold it aloft, meeting the tight knit of your eyes in its reflection, every feature bending into every curve of the metal; but you also catch the ominous smirk of a hooded man from behind you.
Your blood runs cold. The sole of your heels rest in discomfort against the merciless cold of cement below your feet. You come to an unideal outcome: this is a do or die situation, and dignity be damned if you don’t at least leave with claw marks. You inhale sharply, the stinging tang of the winter air cool against the violent heat of your skin.
“If you’re here just ‘cause you were sent by Monsieur Moreau, I’d suggest you return to your quarters,” you start, steeling your heels into the cement of Fontainian soil. “and tell him to kill me himself.”
A rustle of cloth ripples through the wall of dull citylife, and you almost instinctively make a turn to confirm your statement — but you realise with horror that this isn’t some assassin sent by your father.
The man ruptures into hysterical, maniacal laughter. “You won’t have to do all that work, Birdie.”
His mania only ticks at your stuttered stride. You stumble to make up for the blunder, working your pace (your beauty sleep is forgotten, and you’ve long gone walked past your apartment complex). “After twenty-five years, this is how you ask for forgiveness?”
“I am not here to ask for forgiveness. I’m here to take you out myself.”
You whirl, making a move to slash at the arm blanketed by the veil of black he wears. “Couldn’t do that the first time?”
He groans, clutching at his forearm before feeling at the warmth of the liquid between his fingers. The heart encased behind your ribs threatens to break, and your fear only spikes when that look you’ve grown to know washes over his dead, dry eyes. “Still afraid to hurt me, aren’t you?”
“Oh, I’m far from afraid.”
He reaches for his own blade, and though you had gone years without seeing him, you cannot help but feel a pitiful tug of hurt in your chest. The chill of steel grazes that very spot, and you instinctively wrap your fingers around it to give yourself space between yourself and your possible cause of murder. “I don’t know, why don’t you tell me?”
You respond with you slicing his side, and he hisses — the sound of it honey to your ears. A trance washes over you in your indulgence of watching the man who terrorised you suffer, and as he stumbles backwards, the blade leaves with it.
A grunt of effort sounds from him and he reaches to slice your neck. A slight tilt of the head mitigates the blow to your right cheek, blooming in a clean line of crimson. In your haze, you are blinded with bloodlust, mindlessly throwing blows before your wrist is caught in his stronger, firmer hold — and this is where your dread festers.
Your mind flashes in a frenzy of this specific scenario, where your father throws you on the ground and places a prop sword to your abdomen — but the weapon curled around his hand is not a prop sword, and you aren’t five anymore.
The only lifeline you had slips from your hold, clinking against the floor. There’s no time, and there’s certainly no room to dwell on your weapon; because you are about to get stabbed, and there’s nothing you can do about it.
Rebellious hands meet malicious ones, and you are doing everything in your power to pry the blade away from meeting your stomach.
And this is where you make your mistake.
Your diversion from left to right gives your father the perfect leeway to slam down with no force upwards — and you only realise this when your grip loosens and metal digs into your skin.
A guttural scream escapes from the very depths of your throat. When you feel the meticulous handiwork of dissolved thread rip from either side, a panicked sob threatens to leave your lips before a hand slams onto your mouth, muffling your every sound.
I keep getting distracted, you think, the wound Clorinde inflicted on you spilling open in memories and sputtering crimson.
Perfectly slicing the scar he dealt you in your teen years, you’re certain he’s out for more than just blood. He’s out to annihilate you — to silence you; for what can be uttered by a corpse?
It isn’t a lethal spot to stab, but, in some way — it is. Why would he stab through the crevice of your right rib, the one that your mother sacrificed in all the superiority of man? Some part of you hoped with a childlike wonder, that your relationship as father and daughter would bring him to relent, to feel remorse for murdering your mother.
But you realise he had done the same to you as he had done to her. He was just as cruel, and just as unfeeling.
Your mind flickers to Neuvillette, your accusation of his lack of emotion a droplet of water in the ocean compared to this absolute villain of a man standing over you,
Your eyes meet your father’s, and you feel like a rabid dog: helpless, violent, and a loser all the same.
Despite it all, he smiles, the corners of his lips dripping with malice and apathy, the look you’d come to face in all your worst dreams. “You really are like your mother. Weak, a pushover, unable to stop when the possibility presents itself.”
Your eye twitches, and you wrench his hand away from his hold on your face. Blood spills from your busted lips, and it sputters at your attempts to speak. You let out a desperate grunt of effort, finally getting out what you think might be your final words. “S—sounds a lot like you’re talking about yourself.”
He flinches at your words, the leer once etched onto his face a faulty circuit. “How dare you,” he snarls, tightening his grip on the blade. Blame it on your delirium, but it is almost as it wrings the blood on the steel, causing it to seep further into the fabric of your blouse (despite how desperately the cloth of your shirt clings to your skin, it seems to drink in the pour of blood as if parched). “You ungrateful, stubborn girl — you know nothing of power.”
Bravado. One would view your father to be a composed, successful man; but you are his daughter, no matter how much it pains you to admit it — and so you can see the cracks (bravado) in his facade just as easily as you can put up yours. One would see a broken man. You just see evil brimming in flames through the cracks of his skin.
“I know… I know enough,” you manage, voice barely clawing above a whisper. “And I know power just as much as you know selfishness.”
He winces, pulling the blade back as if to strike once more, but for once, you are quicker. With a surge of adrenaline, you ball your left hand to reduce the strain on your right, and relish in the momentary satisfaction the crack of bone brings as your fist meets his chin.
Your father staggers back as if drunk, and you squint at the notice of him diverting the direction of his heels, almost admitting defeat, admitting his plan of escape. Foolish; he had never changed his ways — mostly because you never told him that his cowardice always stayed with him. Because he always left.
Your blade is but a few steps away from you, and so you wriggle your arm with a sort of hastiness you never thought you had. It almost seems to increase in distance the more you reach for it, the sheen of the curved dagger dulling in tandem with your effort. With your eyelids shut in an attempt to regain some semblance of strength, your fingers finally brush against metal, and you grasp it with a disregard for your grip around the sharp edge.
You look up, and panic. Managing another blow to his ankle, a shard of ice manifests from your hand. Aimed at his Achilles heel, you shut your left eye. The shard veers off course, slicing just shy of its mark. Shit. His scream of agony resounds like an orchestra in your ears.
Taking advantage of his disorientation, you clutch at the wound, chewing on your lip to muffle the screams that threaten to burst uncontrollably from the very depths of your throat. Pain ripples through every ounce of your being, but you force yourself to stand, weighing on your left heel.
The chill of more unforgiving ice shoots from the tips of your fingers, wrapping snuggly around the ankles of the man who shoots you an indiscernible stare. Sometimes I forget I can do that, you think, loitering around the cool glow of blue around your waist. He’s backed against a wall, legs frozen into the ground, and there’s no where he can run to.
“You underestimate me, Father,” you grit, bringing your blade to his neck, the anxious pounding of his heart made obvious by a tense vein acting as a metronome of his unadmitted fear. “I am not my mother. And I certainly am not you.I’ve worked my way up the ranks fair and square.”
The unbothered facade doesn’t hold up as well as you’d like, and a quiver leaves your lips.
His glare reflects back into your own, and instead of a witty remark, he only scoffs. “Fair and square? Watch your mouth,” he tuts, shaking his head in disbelief. “Madame Lavigne. Willingly giving up the House of Moreau for nobodies like the Lavignes. And the Neuvillette name!”
“At least my mother died a death of honour,” you mumble, seething with blinding rage, that, under the blanket of irrationality, tells you her death was not of honour. It was of humiliation.
To be cursed wealth and to raise a child birthed out of wedlock — that is a legacy of no worth.
To claw at the decadent marble floors stained by a person in which carries himself with the arrogance of man, the sinful coin of those left bloodied under the heel of his boots, is degrading in its whole entirety.
A cruel, spiteful quirk of his lip morphs the wrinkles of his skin into a wicked mocking of his age, and he shivers with rage. “And you think you will?”
The blade at his neck falters, and so does your will. Blood trickles down your face, and even more down your legs, burgundy reveries tracing their course down to the very pads of your heel. “If that’s the question you choose to ask, I don’t think you know me at all.”
He tips his head back (as if he could go any further, given the distance between his skull and the wall), letting the blood drip in the absence of a dagger. “I think I do.”
“P — prove it.” Your vision falters for a sudden, lurching moment, and you find yourself digging your feet deeper into the grooves of the city tarmac.
“Kill me then,” he commands, the authority of conman and a father blurred in the dim light of night.
“You’re making me prove I know you well enough,” Your voice lilts. “That is not what I asked.”
He persists, voice now a constant demand echoing amongst the other phantoms of the same voice, except this time, his tangible voice. “Stupid girl. Kill me.”
You should know that your father is the last person to do what you ask — but can you blame yourself? That’s all you’ve ever wished for. All you’ve ever prayed for.
(but could you call it a prayer? another, more foolish version of you sounds. it says: a prayer is whatever you say on your knees.)
With all the strength you have left, you press deeper into his skin, until you feel it give way with a pool of blood. Another push, and he’d be dead. Perhaps you’d be, too. Killing him won’t stop your own bleeding.
The teeth that anchor your tortured gasps give way to an unbidden dam of tears, each sob a betrayal of your own will. It flows — the pain — in salty rivulets, ebbing in silent streams down your bloodied cheeks. Why do you show sadness in the face of a man that just so happened to be the cause behind your own assassination? To this, you have no answer.
His expression sours into that of a grimace. “You’re weak,” is what he chokes out, gulping for air to spit out more words you think will haunt you for all the days you are blessed (cursed) to live.
“You disappoint me.”
It’s childish — how you awaited the next words with the manner of your old habit: rehearsing his lines in your head. You always find that they’re not quite what you expected.
And in that moment, your realisation comes in grim, gnawing waves. The two of you have come to an agreement; and for this you are somewhat bitterly grateful.
You would never kill your father.
This does not mean you aren’t entitled to feel rage. Rage for what he had just done to you. Rage for what he did.
Archons, you’re struggling to stand because he just drove a blade through your stomach.
And so you give him one last warning by wrenching the dagger out of your abdomen and mirroring the action to his kidney.
His scream is no longer an indulgence, but an overdose. Your mouth parts to shoot another jab, but you find you have nothing else to say. This does not stop you from searching his eyes for an answer, and within their depths, you find everything you need.
Your knees threaten to buckle, but you make yourself a promise not to show yourself weaker than you already are. Sliding with the tips of your toes, your mind springs to make a choice. You aren’t bothered enough to turn and have your father watch you return to your house. Clorinde lives too far off the city walls.
There is only one person you can think of. And with a thawing, yet stiff heart, you pick the kindest of the three evils.
It is safe to conclude that the Iudex of Fontaine has found himself mired in more distress than revelation on Lucien Moreau.
Moreau’s reputation in society is nothing short of a good, upstanding citizen — a man shooting his way up the ranks through very legitimate means. According to accounts, his dealings in business are only transacted through honest income — his wealth easily to link — traced back from esteemed family fortunes and heirlooms. The house of Moreau has always been in favour of the public.
Every document on Moreau’s particulars state the same thing: businessman; trader on occasion; wealthy by inheritance. Businessman, trader on occasion, wealthy by inheritance. All sixteen syllables of those words recur in an agonising mantra as he pores further into the records — because how can Neuvillette ever hope to protect you if there’s nothing incriminating on him?
He’s simply a man who specialises in exports.
The Iudex’s frustration can only mount as his fingers rake in a dance through his already mussed hair. Searching relentlessly for inconsistencies, he finds nothing but a man poised to perfection. But Neuvillette, the Ordainer of Justice, should know full well that no man is perfect. Not even him.
From trade logs to financial statements, connections, he finds his search fruitless.
So Neuvillette comes to a conclusion: he is not to achieve anything driven in such a state of lassitude. He draws in a sharp breath, slips the documents into a file, places it to the top of the stack of cases, and leaves.
He adjusts his hair at the foot of the office door, and realises that he is the only source of sound in the whole of the Palais. The tips of his ears suggest a sharper edge to his hearing, and though it’s somewhat true, he wonders if this is where his age comes to attack his senses. A little birdie would suggest the eerie quiet of the night is a much more unsettling endeavour than one of crickets. Although Neuvillette is not one for superstition, he still takes this thought into consideration as he tugs his glove further up his sleeve, briefly recalling your anthology of fallacy perched on one of your shelves.
A creak sounds from one of the hinges, and his eyes draw into slits, as if to hear better. How awfully peculiar, he thinks; his hands aren’t anywhere near the knob.
Another creak comes to manifest in the door’s screws, and another, and another, until it gives way under the weak weight of whatever’s on the other end. He fully expects a bull to come barreling through, but he sees… you?
What a sight. You’ve come to crawl to sit against the doorframe for support, clutching tightly around the small of your waist. The blazer you’d worn earlier today is nowhere to be found, leaving you in nothing but a soaked dress shirt clinging onto every morsel of your skin — and pants, of course. Bloodied and bruised, your lips twitch into a dazed smile.
“Hey.”
“Mon — [Name], who did this to you?” His first instinct is to pull you up and bring you to the couch, but judging from your state, it would be far more agonising than if you were to just lay where you are.
With the back of your palm, you wipe the crimson staining the corners of your mouth. “What does it matter? I would still bleed if you knew.”
Neuvillette squats down to level his gaze to yours, before his attention dips to the blood seeping from a gash from your side. Against his accord, he winces.
A breathless chuckle escapes through the gaps in your teeth. “That bad?”
“No, no, not at all. Let me help you,” he says, watching the way your head tips, almost submitting to the loss of blood. In a frenzy, he reaches out to cup your face, tapping your cheek to stir your eyes open. “Whatever you do, do not close your eyes, not now.”
Your forehead crinkles in distaste, but you force yourself awake anyway. He reaches underneath you, touch feathering lightly around your figure. “No — I’ll — I’ll stain your robes,” you deny, muttering helplessly, clenching your fingers around his arm.
Does she not recall I’ve had another robe made after I gifted her my own? he frowns, a pinch amused at the thought.
“Then let it stain my robes,” he assures, throat bobbing in boyish anticipation. Your head struggles under the effort of you nodding, and so he wastes no time in scooping you up, the warmth of your beading blood soaking through his clothes.
(He thinks he’s just been cleansed with the ichor of a goddess, but surely the impartial Judge Neuvillette mustn't say such things, lest the Archons realise where his heart truly lies. Blasphemy! he thinks they shout.)
Your lids threaten to fall under the weight of exasperation, and so, with a light poke to your temple, you are disturbed by Neuvillette’s act of keeping you awake. The groan that grows to morph into a whimper brings the Iudex to stutter in his tracks; what should he do? Should he cool you down?
He comes to a drawing conclusion that it would be best to set you down on the leather couch before choosing his next course of action. With all softness, he cups the back of your head, slowly laying you down. His soaked hands abandon their hold on you, and given your lapse in judgement, you shudder at the loss of warmth.
Neuvillette pretends to not notice it.
He turns his back to you, rummaging through his drawer, his hands coming away with a cluster of gauze. Multiple things slip from his shaking grip, and it takes an idiot to realise why: he is panicking, afraid (and for the first time in his life, a solid verdict cannot dictate how to heal his injured wife).Reaching for more, the cadence of an angel commands him to stop.
“Neuv… Neuvillette,” you sigh, eyes clenched tight in light of your bleeding. If he hadn’t known any better, he would’ve turned as fast as the words leaving your lips.
Orpheus had fallen victim to it with Eurydice, and Neuvillette had once doubted his integrity. In all renditions, Orpheus turns because her silence has driven him mad; he turns because he thinks they have triumphed; he turns on instinct at the sound of her stumble.
For if all it would’ve taken was for him to resist that backward glance, why did he falter?
But now he knows why. And he hates that he does.
“I know, [Name]. It will be alright.”
You let out another noise, and this time it’s an agonising scream that tears the very bases of your diaphragm.
You certainly are no Eurydice, and he certainly isn’t Orpheus.
And regardless, he turns.
He rushes, but he feels that his pace is sluggish, comically slow. Your hand is in his before you can even blink, but nothing beats the feeling of your father's blade embedded in you like some sort of morbid heirloom. This is one battle scar you wish not to put on display.
Neuvillette makes space for himself on the couch, his focus trailing down the streams of blood that begin to crack as they dry. He resorts to another solution, but for whatever reason, he thinks you wouldn’t be partial to it.
“I can meld this wound shut, but I must ask you to steel yourself of the pain. Do you believe you could endure it?” He searches your pained, constricted look for a response, and believes he finds one.
With desperate eyes, you nod. However hard you try to avoid his look, it still bores into you, almost relentlessly.
“Just — hold onto me should the pain become too much to bear.” He still has a layer of cloth to get through, and he fears you wouldn’t like it. So he asks. “May I — ahem — undo your…”
“Archons, just do whatever you have to do.” Noted. Extreme cases of duress do not appear to shut your brattish tongue.
He works gently at the buttons of your dress shirt, prying the cloth apart to reveal an absolutely gnarly sight of grime. Looking past the blooming bruise around the perimeter, he places one hand around the curve of your waist to steady his other hand, which glows, almost neon in the light.
Pinching the fingers of his right hand together, he mimics the thread of a stitch through your skin; and as he diverts his eyes, he still sees you, brimming with something more than hurt. Lady Furina once corrected him — said that hurt was not anguish.
Anguish. What a strange word for such a strange feeling.
He strains his hand that hovers over your abdomen, and you bite into your palm to muffle your cries. Neuvillette’s eyes flit to you just in time to catch your act of fruitless respite — and without his usual calculations, he offers his hand, beginning to trip over his own words as if he’s never spoken before.
“Uhm. Here, you can squeeze here.”
If things were any different, he would’ve smiled the moment you registered the lack of sophistication in his diction (well, he thinks you do; but that’s enough for him). However, things are the same, and instead, he’s drowning in the tenderness of your agony. A playfulness buried under the need for survival.
To his surprise, you reach for his wrist — causing him to almost lose his focus, and it’s already showing! The blue glow emanating from his right dims immediately ever so slightly at the little distraction: you.
Just before the skin’s fully stretched taut and the wound is melded closed, you let another grunt of pain.
“Did I do something?” Neuvillette asks, a little too frantic — even to his liking.
You squeeze harder on his wrist. “I think my fa— assailant poisoned the blade.”
“Do not worry. I may not be Sigewinne, but I know how to work my way around poison.”
Your chest rises in a short-lived sweetness of a laugh before you shrink back again, grimacing in pain. “I sure would hope you do.”
“Alright, I hereby suspend any further laughing for the foreseeable future,” he chastises, albeit a little playfully. He does not recognise the twist in his chest that begins unravelling at the sight of you loosened up under some sort of anaesthetic of induced delirium.
You are sound asleep, and as far as he knows, this is the most peaceful he has seen you; other than when you were passed out in your office. Similar circumstances, different couch. You sure do love your couches.
He hadn’t moved one bit, subjecting himself to a most unpleasant position on the leather seat. Given the limited legroom, he’d considered bringing you to one of the guest rooms, but he didn’t intend on disturbing your slumber, either.
Given the way you’re frozen stiff, he assumes you haven’t had rest like this in weeks. He takes meticulous steps in cleaning the blood from your cheek, and even more scrupulous effort at the tear of your lip, curved in a perpetual frown. He worries if he hurts you, even in slumber.
God, even leaving his office to search for antiseptic ailed him to the point where he constantly looked to see if you were fine. He worried to wake you even when the cotton pads reached to clean the blood underneath your fingernails, the dried tears that never fell from the cliff of your eyebags.
He lets the wads of cotton pile in the corner of the couch, scooting closer to get a clearer view of your face. Even dirtied, your skin glows like porcelain in the dim light — and he doesn’t even realise what he’s doing until you shift your sleep.
Neuvillette, Chief Justice of Fontaine, does not know the truth of power ballads and poems. He does not know how to reenact what mortals love to speak of. Somehow, he manages to find all his answers in you.
He just doesn’t know if you find the answers in him.
Rain stirs from the outside, pattering violent drums against the windows, before eventually reaching into the confines of Neuvillette’s heart and ripping them open. To the naked eye, he is just tending to a wound. To the trained eye, he hopes they see a man tending to a wound.
Leaning closer to wipe the fresh blood that begins to bloom once again, he moves to the slope of your nose, then to your brow, and further, and further upwards. His lips threaten to meet the temple of your face, exigent, brimming with want. Neuvillette has never learnt how to want.
Before he can draw any closer, your eyes flutter open, and he frantically acts as though he’s in the midst of cleaning your face (he briefly argues that kissing is an act of sanitisation, though he knows full well he’s conning himself).
Your glassy gaze peeks through your lashes, meeting Neuvillette’s stare in a solemn greeting.
What does one say to someone who has awoken in the early hours, just shy of midnight? Good morning? Good night? Whatever the dilemma is, it washes away at the sound of your voice breaking the wall of silence. “It’s okay. Go on, do what you were going to do.”
“I was merely tending to your injuries.”
“You know what I mean.”
Is there anything in the Fontainian Legal Codex that states anything of a divorce prompted by terrible romantic advancements? Because if there isn’t, he might be the sole inspiration for a new addition to a five-century-old book of law.
Your lips thin in drowsy impatience before bringing a hand to delicately trace his chin, guiding him to you with the touch of what one might mistake for a divine atlas. It’s soft beneath your calloused palm, almost reverent, the act of navigating the map etched in the fine lines of your skin a fervent current.
It is sweet, almost. Doing what is encouraged, but what is also prohibited — your own rules broken by a sick hand. Your sick hand. You are supposed to be strong, firm. But firm be damned if this is the only time you can indulge in regretful desires before your father kills you — properly this time.
Neuvillette’s lips against yours is a gentle war, the first touch of dawn, strings of sun prodding you awake.
He feels you lean forward for more, but he presses you down, afraid of hurting you any further. Desire is an odd, odd thing. Why the tug at heart? Some part of him tells him it’s simply guilt. But emotions aren’t simple.
You are the first to pull away, but not enough to rid yourself of him.
“I couldn’t help it. I’m sorry if I confuse you. I am confused myself.” What you really think of is the begrudging mercy of your blade, the one set to slit the throat of your own blood. But you are weak, you tell yourself, succumbing to the horror of your father’s prophecy. For you truly are frail, and that front you put up won’t hold forever.
He, however torturous, manages to make space between the two of you. However far he searches, he finds no semblance of culpability. That’s what makes it wrong. Impartial as he may be, he has just erred in judgement, but he thinks it’s okay. That it’s justifiable.
But is love justifiable in the face of court?
a/n: aaa KISS KISS KISS
ive been dying to write this chapter for a while!! I thought it would be best to write the majority of the chapter in neuvillette's pov to really build it…
I thought it'd be nice to explicitly talk about reader's impulsiveness and fluctuating moods. and I think we know where she gets it from ermmm mm m
please lmk what u think of this chapter n and feel free to write your predictions hehe
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