Hi, sorry to bother you but may I ask are your request still open? If so, then hooray if not, then OK I’m going and I’m sorry to bother you but may I ask how would you feel about a scenario where the torn prince aka Royce Clayton x fem or gn reader it’s up to you if you are comfortable with gn I understand your reasons and I respect your reason reasons where the reader has been Royce’s girlfriend/significant other for over a year and the moment the reader found out about what happened and the reader is very upset because she/they lost the love of her/their life, but you can make this into whatever you want again sorry to bother you and sorry if this is a bit long
THE TORN PRINCE X READER: “SURVIVOR’S GUILT”
He told you to come to the race and you couldn’t—or, you didn’t. You had homework, you told him. A part of you didn’t want to encourage Royce and his vendetta against Johnny; Royce was your boyfriend, but they were both your friends at one time or another, and cheering on that kind of behaviour wasn’t something you felt right to do. Looking back, maybe that was just the words of your mother coming out in you after all.
What kind of a girlfriend had you been to him, then, refusing to be there for his great feat? In his final moments? It all happened so fast: the day played out so normally, then, when you heard nothing from him, you began to worry. At last, the news of his car crash hit you and you lost all strength in your legs and your will to leave your room for weeks.
When police asked you for a statement, you blanked out. Reporters came and went and you didn’t speak a word, but your anger was bubbling, and that evening, it burst out at your parents. You could only imagine what your peers were gossiping about you, but none of it was worse than what you said to yourself.
When you slammed your door, your lamp fell and smashed, but it was the second crash that caused you alarm. The lamp struck your vanity, cracking the mirror and sending your makeup products everywhere. The photo of you and Royce, posing like the coolest kids in the world on the hood of his new car, fluttered into the pooling nail polish. You scrambled for it, wiping it clean frantically, but when you pulled it back, half of Royce’s beautiful, smiling face was stained in red.
And you couldn’t get the image out of your head.
Your eyes were red and puffy when you left for school the next day. Your parents were relieved you were finally stepping back into your life, but they offered, meekly, that you take one more day. You shook your head. You were going to do this.
But you didn’t mean go to school.
You were going to the race track, to be there for him like you weren’t before.
A monument stood at the track in his memory, lain with a hundred bouquets of flowers that were only just entering a state of wilt. You shook your head. Royce never cared about flowers. He wanted big things, like out of this stinking town. All they could do in honour of him was this?
“I’m sorry, baby,” you said to the grave, imagining it was him. “There was so much more out there for you, for us. I thought you were going to take me with you when you left, but not like this. So I’m gonna leave. I’m gonna leave, go on our trip like you said we would an never come back.”
Little did you know his ghost took the passenger seat and leaned back with a smirk. He looked just as he did in the photo you pinned to the sun visor, bloodied and obscure, almost as if it were taken today.
