Kaiser always liked messing with you, but you didn't think he’d take things so far.
(Warnings: noncon kissing, noncon touching, threats, power imbalances, yandere)
Working for Bastard München was a dream come true.
You’d been a soccer fan all throughout your life. You even played a bit in high school, though your talent never got you far. Nevertheless, your passion for the game lasted all throughout middle school, high school, and college. It was how you got to work for one of the greatest teams across the globe.
Seeing Noel Noa in person nearly made you faint, but your fellow managers kindly assured you it was a pretty common feeling. That was another thing you enjoyed about the league: everyone was so nice and friendly.
Except for one person.
The coach blew out the final whistle just as the ball flew into the net. The practice game was over, and there was one clear winner. Kaiser’s grin was feral as his team crowded around him, celebrating his amazing shot. It was an incredible play; you could hardly believe he pulled it off. Despite your reservations about the guy, he was incredible on the field.
You wish he could just stay on it forever.
The team gathers on the sidelines to take their much-deserved breaks. You’re quick to get to work, trailing behind the other managers as they begin to pass out towels and water bottles to the players. You make a beeline to Ali. He’s the biggest talker on the team; everyone hates being near him once he gets going. Maybe if you can get Ali to ramble about birds or something, he might not be too keen on bothering you.
He steps in front of you. You nearly collide with his chest. He’s so tall, you have to crane your neck up just to look him in the eyes. You think that he especially enjoys that. His blue eyes sharpen with delight.
Kaiser tilts his head. “Got anything for me?”
You look down at the water bottle and towel in your hands. Accepting defeat, you hand them over. His fingers brush over yours deliberately. As always, Kaiser makes a show of it. He languidly wipes at his neck and face. He downs the water like it’s liquid gold. Just when you’re about to attend to the next player, he snaps his fingers.
Reluctantly, you look back at him.
“Thanks.” He tosses you the towel. You barely manage to catch it.
He pats your shoulder just before he passes you. “What would I do without our sweet little manager.”
His tone is so condescending that you feel yourself heat up from embarrassment. Out of all the team managers, you’re the only one he calls that.
Players aren’t supposed to return towels to managers; they’re supposed to put them in the bin. Kaiser, however, treats you more like his servant than as your actual job title suggests. You have to ball up your anger as you trek to the rag bin.
One of your fellow managers gives you a sympathetic smile. You toss the dirty rag and grab another water bottle.
“That bad, hm?” She asks.
“No, just the usual amount of shitty.” You mutter.
“He’ll get better,” she tries to assure. “He just needs a bit more time, since you’re new and all.”
Yeah, more time.
They’ve been saying that for the past year and a half.
You’re not sure why Kaiser has a hyperfixation on you. You’re pretty average, all things considered. Despite your normalcy, Kaiser has made it his personal mission to whittle you down.
Everyone has acknowledged his behavior as abnormal. He’s never picked on any of the non-players of the team. He used to pretend they never existed until you came along.
He’d make jabs at your clothes, ghost touches that lingered on inappropriate if he was any slower, and that dreaded title: ‘sweet, little manager’.
“Ignore it.” Another fellow manager comes up to tell you. “He’ll stop eventually.”
You shrug. You glance out the corner of your eye.
Kaiser’s already staring at you. His grin is infuriating.
“Yeah,” you say, “eventually.”
~
You’ve talked to Noel Noa twice in your life.
First: the day you got hired.
Second: the day you turned in your resignation.
He’s still staring long after you stopped rambling. His stare is so heavy, practically crushing you, and yet you can’t tell what he’s thinking. Even as he studies you from his chair, he still feels bigger than you.
He’d stepped down from playing a couple years ago, but even as head coach of the team, he’s yet to lose his intimidating stature.
“Are you sure about this?” He finally asks,
Noa has yet to glance at the slip you dropped on his desk. You drafted your resignation letter with a bold black pen and the neatest handwriting you could. He barely acknowledged it.
“I am.” You tell him. “Thank you for the opportunity. I’ll forever be grateful for all the experience I learned from this team.”
It sounds rehearsed because it is rehearsed. You practiced in the mirror, mouthing the words over and over so you wouldn’t flail in front of Noel Noa.
He only tilts his head, scanning you up and down. You wonder what he’s searching for.
“Did anything particular happen that made you want to resign?” He prompts.
You think of blonde hair with bright blue tips. A blue rose.
“No.” You smile with tight lips. “Nothing at all.”
He doesn’t believe you. You can tell.
“It’s a shame to see you go.” He says anyway, standing up and reaching out his hand. “You were a wonderful asset for this team.”
“Thank you so much, Sir.”
You shake his hand with all the confidence you can muster. You loved this team. You really did.
But it wasn’t worth it.
He wasn’t worth it.
~
When you leave the office, you aren’t surprised to find Kaiser waiting for you.
He’s leaned against the wall, watching with sharp eyes as you continue to stare at the ground. Stupidly, you hope that if you continue to ignore him, he might not try to start anything.
If anything, that makes him more eager.
“Hey hey.” He grabs your arm, forcing you to stop. “Where do you think you’re going?”
Your lips curl into a sneer, but you’re forcing it back down.
“Kaiser, I have work.” Your voice is quiet even to your own ears. It prompts Kaiser to lean down closer to your face.
“Hm? What’d you say?” His grin is even wider.
You try to pull away, but he’s crowding you against the wall, lightly pushing at you. You're forced to take a step back, then another, then another until your back hits the tile.
“I don’t have time for this.” You say, just as quiet. The bite in your words is mute. He relishes this. Kaiser grins, showing white teeth that glint.
“Aw, C’mon.” He mockingly pouts and you bite your lip. “You were in the coach's office for a while. I was getting worried.” He cocks his head, assessing you.
“You didn’t get in trouble or anything, did you?”
“No,” you say firmly, “Stop it. I need to go–”
“Go where?” He prods, and you feel his hand rest on your upper thigh, daring to creep up.
You freeze.
He’s saying something else, but all you can think of is his fingers drifting over your thigh. He gives a firm squeeze.
“Get the fuck off me.”
You push him away. He stumbles back. It’s not strength that gets him off of you. Your burst of anger just surprised him. He’s used to your meekness, willingness to be pushed around. You use it to your advantage, immediately turning away before he can say anything else.
He doesn’t follow. You don’t hear the second echo of footsteps as you walk off. Relief singes at your fingers.
Just for a moment, just for a peek, you glance back.
He’s still standing right where you left him.
His smile is gone.
~
For the next few days, things are strangely peaceful.
There’s no more beratement from Kaiser. You never suffered any more unwanted touches or annoying quips. It was like you were completely erased from his world.
You weren’t complaining. For the first time in a while, you actually looked forward to working with the entire soccer team, rather than just huddling with the other non-players. It was a nice change of pace.
It’s a shame the change only happened right when you were leaving.
A few days before you officially left, your little team of managers promised you a farewell party. You were looking forward to it. One last hurrah with your co-workers before you move into a new section of your life.
Things were finally looking up.
After hours, the club is pretty quiet. Most players just want to shower and go right home. You know, some like to stay behind to do a little more practice, but this is mostly when staff use the time to reorganize locker rooms and such.
You like working alone. Someone else was with you earlier, but you’d kindly waved her off, insisting you could handle it. It was less than an official storage room and more of a closet. You stood in front of the equipment, your trusty clipboard in hand. Someone mentioned that the team was running low on some items. You might have to edit some orders if they were true.
Loud footsteps echo behind you. You pay them no mind. Probably a coach. A player who’d forgotten their bag.
They stop right behind you. You don’t even bother to look.
“I’ll be just a second.” You tell them, assuming they wanted to set up some cones for last-minute drills.
“You’re leaving?”
Your fingers tighten on the clipboard.
Slowly, you turn to look at Kaiser. He’s still in his uniform. The smell of sweat and rubber is faint in the air. His breaths are slow as he glares down at you. Your eyes trail to his hand.
Your resignation letter is crumpled in his hand.
Something keeps strumming through your arms and legs. You want to fidget: shake your leg, flex your fingers. You feel nervous, though you aren’t sure why.
“Yes.” You respond as curtly as you can. “But that’s none of your business–”
“The fuck it is.” He crowds you, forcing you to back up into the storage room.
You’ve seen Kaiser angry before. On the field, or with his teammates. Never at you. There’s no reason to be angry at you. In his world, you barely exist.
Kaiser wasn’t angry.
That’d be too tame a word to describe him.
His blue eyes almost glow with the way he looks at you. Kaiser has always forced you to feel many things: embarrassment, discomfort, anger, and frustration.
Not fear. Never fear.
Until now, at least.
“You think you can just run from me?” He asks, but you don’t think he’s talking to you. His voice sounds rampant, unfocused. “You think there’s somewhere you can escape to? That I’d just let you walk away from me?”
The way he speaks makes something awful grow into the pit of your stomach. His tone is vile, possessive, and something else you’d rather not name. You feel small, like you’re a toy a child is no longer allowed to play with anymore.
You open your mouth, and then his lips are on yours.
There’s no softness, no gentleness. Kaiser is nothing but harsh and full of teeth. By the time you’re able to pull away, your lips are sore and bitten.
He lets you stumble back, reaching up to wipe your blood off his lips.
You should’ve taken that time to run, but you can’t. Your feet feel like they’re cemented into the ground as you continue to stare at him. Your lips sting. Something burns across your face as he advances forward.
You should’ve run. Even as he shut the door behind you two with a final thud, you knew that.
The tiny sliver of light barely gives you a glimpse of his figure before you feel him against your chest, shoving you against the wall.
“What are you doing?” It’s all you can say, all you can think. “Kaiser–what–what are you doing–”
“It’s my fault,” he says, but it sounds more like he’s talking to himself than talking to you, listening to the words form in his mouth. “I was too lenient on you. Everyone else saw it, and I thought that was enough.”
There’s a click of his tongue. “It’s clear you need to have some things spelled out for you.”
Fingers crudely snap in your face. You flinch, trying to back up against the wall, but there’s nowhere to run. Maybe that was the case from the first moment he saw you.
“Here’s how things are gonna go: You aren’t leaving. You are never leaving me. The minute you try, I’m dragging you right back kicking and screaming.”
You wordlessly stare back at him. Kaiser isn’t finished.
“If you want to try, I’ll make you understand just how hard things will get for you.”
The threat is clear and laced with venom that stings. You stop breathing, but your timid fear isn’t enough for Kaiser.
He leans into your space, lips right at your ear.
“Do you understand?”
Something about his tone makes your body snap up at attention. You close your eyes and nod, pressing yourself further up against the wall.
“Okay.” You find yourself saying. “I–I won’t….okay.”
You keep your eyes closed until you no longer feel him breathing down your neck. Even then, he doesn’t let up on his closeness. Strangely, his presence feels smaller, like he’s slowly calming down. You can still feel the rage emanating from his body, but the heat is a bit more bearable.
“Better.” He tells you. You flinch as he lightly pats your cheek, like you were some rowdy mutt.
“There’s this new restaurant that just opened up. It's too Americanized for me, but the food’s pretty good. Wanna go?”
You blink at him. He’s back to how he acted just hours ago, slightly leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets, casual with the slightest hint of a playful tease.
How was he so casual about this? Why was he so unafraid? The minute you got out of here you planned on reporting him until he got arrested. You should have done that weeks ago, but why was he so confident you wouldn’t.
You glance down at his shoes. Yours were cheap, but you took care of them as much as you could. You wanted them to last. His were rugged and muddy and barely held together, but the brand was expensive. It probably cost an entire month of your salary. He’d easily buy another pair.
Ah, that was why.
That’s why the other managers brushed off his harsh words even though they edged on harassment. That’s why you still hesitate to say anything even though you desperately want to. You’re just a Pawn on the chessboard.
Kaiser is the King.
When you give a wordless nod, Kaiser preens, satisfied. He wraps an arm around your shoulder, jostling you to his side as he drags you out of the suffocating closet. You shrink under his hold, reluctantly following along as his head dips into the crook of your neck.
“Should’ve done this sooner. Everything's so much easier now that you understand,” he says, his voice muffled by your neck.
“After all, what would I do without my sweet, little manager.”
Thank you for doing the Yandere!Red x Reader dabble! I'm really curious now about all the past girls with Red, did he also kidnap them? If so, what happened? Were they too different from his dead soul mate and were killed off? What if the Reader tries to kindly explain that they are not them and, although very saddened by his loss, they are not a replacement? I have so many questions sorry! I'm just so intrigued by this idea ^^'
TW: Kidnapping, implied forced relationship, yandere, stockholm syndrome
---------
You picked at your plate, trying not to wrinkle your nose at the smell of cooked meat emanating from the lasagna. You know that neither brother takes it very well when you don’t eat what you’re given…and they don’t like it when you try and insist you’re vegetarian.
Red in particular seems to be…especially twitchy when you go against what he thinks you enjoy. And he still calls you the wrong name when he isn’t using pet names, but after 6 months you’ve sort of become accustomed to that. Despite the weirdness of it all, in the end, they’re good to you and you’ve wanted for nothing.
Except maybe freedom and answers.
You have a bit of an idea of what’s going on, both from observation as well as the times when Boss has “broken character” and treated you like yourself, given you spit buckets for meat and provided vegetarian alternatives late in the night. He’s even surreptitiously gone and retrieved your Epi-Pens and holds onto them in case Red makes you eat shellfish again–mind you, he won’t actually stop you from having to eat the shellfish, but the fact that he clearly wishes you not to die is…somewhat comforting.
You just wish you knew for sure what their malfunction was. You might be able to help.
“what’s wrong, sweetheart? you’re pickin’ at your food an’ i know lasagna’s your favorite.”
You blinked and smiled, scooping a meatless section as best you could and taking a bite, but his eyelights stayed trained on you. With a sigh, you set your fork down.
“Sans…you know I love you very much, right?” You said softly, in a practiced manner.
The way his face lit up was, quite frankly, adorable–if he hadn’t kidnapped and isolated you from the world then you’re certain you may have fallen in love with him on your own. Hell, in spite of your better judgement, you think you may be doing that anyway.
“heh… ‘course i do, babygirl. love you, too.” He purred, scooting his chair over a little bit closer, leaning in to plant a toothy kiss on your cheek. He smelled heavily of mustard and bourbon, but it was much better than when he smelled like weed, so you smiled and didn’t complain. “so what’re ya butterin’ me up for, anyway? y’want a new dress or sumpin’?”
“No, no, nothing like that, I…I was just wondering if…if maybe we could…talk?”
“sure, kitten. what about?”
Your heart was pounding in your ears, blood running thick and fast through your veins, threatening a panic. You can do this.
“About…about (y/n)?”
You felt him freeze up next to you, his arm tightening around your shoulders. This was a bad idea, but if you’re going to die, then you’re going to die with some answers, and you’re beyond pretending now.
“I realize…I must look a lot like her. Me and the other girls in your pictures,” you said slowly, peeking up at him as he stared, his wide, sharp-toothed smile frozen in a terrifying hyperbole of nonchalance. “But, uhm…I was wondering what happened to the first…what happened to me?”
“car accident,” he said bluntly, scooping a forkful of lasagna up and moving to feed you as if none of this conversation was happening. “but ya pulled through, ya always do. thanks the gods i didn’t have t’beg the kid for a reset, heheh. open wide, dollface.”
You obeyed, enduring the meat in the forkful that he daintily fed you, as if you were a doll, but then again that’s all you really were to him it seemed.
“But I didn’t pull through, did I?” you asked quietly, and though his face was angled towards you, his eyelights flicked away. “And you found other girls that looked like me because you couldn’t accept that. And you took them from their homes and you dressed them like me and made Papyrus play along because you only had one tiny shred of sanity left and you couldn’t let me take it with me to the afterlife…is that right?”
the fork trembled in his grasp and he inhaled deeply, slowly…before slamming his fist on the table and startling you.
“what’re y’sayin’, huh?” He growled, turning and pulling you closer. “you’re here aint’cha? y’love me, right?”
“Yes,” you defused quietly. “Yes, shhh, yes, of course. But…hypothetically…what happened to the others?”
“not you, none of ‘em, they weren’t right,” he mumbled, scooting away from the table to pull you closer. “didn’t wanna be mine, didn’t wanna play along, didn’t have your spark. some of ‘em tried to run and…and i got so mad, i…”
He gripped your face in his massive hands, crimson eyelights blurred and fuzzy under the pressure of his own breakdown.
“y’won’t leave, though. did everything right this time, right? yer favorite foods, favorite colors. i’m gentle, and sweet, and everything you need…r-right? kitten?”
You observed him for a long moment, fear tingling up your spine as you’d grown to accept. His dedication to whoever this person was was…admirable, and though it didn’t make sense what he was doing you felt a great deal of pity for him.
And at this point, you don’t think anyone’s even looking for you anymore or else you’d be found. So what choices do you have? Live life as someone else?
….Or make him love the real you and try to pick up his broken pieces?
Synopsis: A mistake leaves you under the eye of a mad prince who believes you to be something you are not. If you want to live, you'd play his game, whisper whatever pretty things he needs to hear into his ear, and survive.
Warnings: dark content, forced relationship, rape/noncon (not in this chapter), yandereish, Aerion is a pos, murder, mentions of slavery)
word count: 5.5k
Chapter One: Dragons Desire Dreams
All Chapters Next Chapter
Master Rearyn passed away on a sweltering summer where the lilies bloomed, and the songbirds tweeted oh so sweetly.
It was a pleasant day. To him, it may have been a pleasant death. He was peaceful when you came across him that morning. His eyes were closed with a soft smile on his face as sunlight trickled on his aged skin, as he lay in his bed, unmoving.
He lived a life many would find tragic. No sons. No daughters. No family to speak of. Sparse friends–with only a few people to remember his name. And yet, his death was surely a peaceful one. You thanked the Heart of Fire for granting your master this mercy.
The days coming were just as pleasant as the day your master died. You carefully balanced the jug you held as you looked up at the wide, expansive sky. The leaves lightly rustled through the air as the bright city of Lys greeted you.
Being called by your name wakes you from your dream. You glance back, tilting your head to greet the boy who hurries to you.
“Slow down.” You tell Ja’ha with a smile. “I fear one day your legs will carry off without you.”
“Better than dawdling all day, as my Master says,” Ja’ha brightly responds. “He tells me my quickness is a strength and I should use it well.”
You nod, thinking about the swordmaster Ja’ha served. It sounds like a thing a swordsman would say, not that you knew anything of weapons. Your life was filled with books and scriptures and tending to your own Master’s ramblings.
“Tell me then,” you prod. “What did you use your quickness for? To catch me?”
He brightens at that. He’s a bit younger than you, barely in his teenage years, while you are well into adulthood. Yet, you don’t mind the boy’s jovial expressions. He has his youth, and you wish he would keep it.
“Will you be coming to watch the Joust?”
“Joust?” You repeat.
“An event the prince has set up!” Ja’ha proclaims in excitement. “The match is often done in his homeland. He wishes to do one here, also.”
Prince Aerion of House Targeryen. Seldom in Lys would not recognize his name. The dragon. The prince. He went by many monickers. You’ve never seen the prince, but you know he was exiled from his Westerosi home. If you remember correctly, this is the third year he has stayed.
Ja’ha still waits for an answer.
You shake your head, frowning at his clear disappointment.
“Unfortunately, I can not,” you say. “I still have matters related to my late Master to attend to.”
Ja’ha deflates and glances at the jug still settled in your arms.
He hums, settling down. “I see. Again, I apologize for your loss.” He tells you, but it’s more apologetic than sympathetic.
You smile. Not many sympathized with the passing of Master Rearyn. You knew that truth well. Most found the old man strange and filled with dark power. You know, there were rumors he played with dark magic before his time in Lys. He was also quite cryptic. He rambled on and on about skies filled with fire and winds filled with salt and sea. The only time he settled was with a large pitcher of ale.
You could not deny he was a strange man with a strange set of behaviors. And yet, you didn’t care. He fed you when no one else was willing to. He clothed you when others refused to glance at your being. He protected you and educated you. You turned from an orphaned child to an adult with a possible future thanks to his interference.
Even after death, he took care of you. He left you all his possessions in his will. His offerings were no castle, but they were nice and tender things you wanted to keep close to your heart. He left behind his house, where you lived with him for many years. The books and treasures he had accumulated all throughout his life were yours to keep as well. You may not have been his kin, and yet he treated you as though you were of his blood.
You owed Master Rearyn your life. The least you could do was honor his last wishes, no matter how strange they are. The act of burning the dead was not a way the civilians of Lys honored their dead. It’s a custom only done by the Dothraki, the horsemasters of the grassy plains.
Still, you were determined to see this until the very end–just as your master intended.
You waved Ja’ha off as he excitedly disappeared through the grounds–most likely to attend this strange festival. You carried on your walk, passing by bustling taverns and loud markets. You walked over puddles and a dirt road, passing by horses whinnying in their stable. It was as though the city breathed and burned right underneath you. It carried so much life in the summer.
Eventually, the buildings grew increasingly sparse as you traveled further into the outskirts. More trees, grass, and foliage appeared as the people disappeared from your view. The life of the city lingered just behind you as the quietness of the wilderness greeted you.
The pyre had been set long ago. You hired a few men to set it up for you in the coming days. Sticks and wood were piled high into a circle, colored by red dye, yet another detail your Master was so insistent on. Your master lay right in the center. You were not able to see his body, but you knew he was there with his eyes closed in a slumber that would last forever.
“You always had such strange ideas and words.” You tell him as you gently pry open the lid of the jar.
“But I believe this to be the strangest.”
Wildfire is not permitted in the city, which is why Master Rearyn’s funeral could not take place within the city’s territory. You don’t think the master would have minded had he known this would be his final resting spot. You think you picked a good place for the old man. It was right at the top of a hill. Here, he’d be able to look over at sunsets and sunrises.
You poured the green liquid over the pyre, stepping back when the flames grew larger and larger, feasting on the wood. Bright green flames flickered over the wood, hissing and spitting until they eventually took over the entire pyre.
You felt as though you should say something valiant about Master Rearyn. You should make a speech that might make him so jovial he’d rise up from the dead. However, your words failed you today.
“Thank you,” you finally say as the flames grow in the sky, and all you could smell was smoke.
“Thank you for everything, Master Rearyn.”
Your words failed you today, but your soul did not. You stayed with the Master until the flames died down, and all that remained of the man was a pile of burned sticks and ash.
🜲
The master’s study is just as he left it.
You usually come in to clean his study room and gather his writings and scriptures. After his death, you couldn’t bring yourself to care for the room as you once had. You always put it off in favor of something else, something more urgent, more pressing. You saw his body. You saw the pyre. And yet, a part of you was still in denial.
As you stepped into the room, you still expected to see your master hunched over his desk, scrawling away as he always had over one thing or another. He was a learned man, and his knowledge may even rival that of those across the narrow sea in the citadel. He’d often sit there for hours and hours, not even taking a drop of water until you begged him to.
Your feet stepped over old wood that creaked and shivered underneath your weight. The room was little more than a box, tucked away in the back of the house.
Dust accumulated across the abandoned pages and books he left behind. You brushed them away before frowning at the finger marks you left behind in your haste. You’d need a feather brush to make a thorough clean. As gently as you could, you packed away his scrolls and loose papers.
Being here reminds you of your younger days, when you still thought of the old man as a crazed coot. You’d often watch as he scribbled away in his pages and journals–curious, but far too afraid to overstep and ask. In the beginning, you were nothing more than a fetching servant, given to your master to help him with tasks he could no longer do. You should be grateful he thought you were more capable than that, taking you under his wing and teaching you many things.
Something you remembered fondly was the arts Master Rearyn liked to indulge himself in. Even as his vision continued to deteriorate, he never stopped painting. Over time, you also followed in your master’s footsteps, picking up the brush in your efforts to replicate him.
Still, there was a practice you could never best Master Rearyn in: painting dragons.
Even as his motor skills failed him, Master Rearyn’s dragons never stopped being bold and lively, as though they could jump off the page and fly into the sunset. He drew dragons of all sizes and colors. There was a strange type of beauty he added underneath their scales and sharp teeth. No matter how hard you tried, you could never pour enough life into your own artwork.
He comforted you once when you cried to him about your failings. Even at that time, his eyes were crinkled with age and fine lines.
“You have never seen a dragon,” he said gently. “You have seen elk and elephants, and you draw them well. You must see a being breathe and live first before you can imprint its existence onto a page.”
You asked him if he saw a dragon. He said he saw many in his dreams.
Rearyn’s dreams were yet another point of contention for you. Towards the end of his life, he often shifted and groaned about them, waking up at odd hours of the night to yell in terror. Even as you stayed by his side to comfort him, your Master would not rest peacefully. He’d often ramble about odd things. He’d wail about a boy with ivory long hair in a half-asleep state. A storm of ice and sheet. Truly odd things.
It was perhaps odder than you remembered his ramblings, rather than forgetting it as an unknown night terror.
Everyone thought of your Master as bizarre. Insane. You did as well, once, before you formed a companionship with him. A fondness one has for a parent or a grandparent. Perhaps that’s why you took his words a bit more seriously than others, even when you yourself couldn’t understand their meanings.
And even underneath all that, there was a part of you that was wary of these dreams. Frightened of them, even. Perhaps it was due to how your Master looked the days after he had those dreams. His eyes were always a bit too wide. His age showed even more on his skin.
It looked like he lived through them and died through them.
Your hands brushed over yet another piece of your late Master’s scripture. An open journal with a letter binding. The ink was not as old, and the paper was not as crinkled. You recognized it as one of the last things he had written. It was startled and hurried, as though he had woken up from his slumber before pressing wet ink onto clean pages. As always, it was written in High Valaryian than the language of the Common Tongue.
Dragons Desire Dreams
You had to smile at his words. For a man like him, it was fitting.
You hoped the gods were smiling down at him on the day he passed. You hoped they would permit him to ride a dragon high in the heavens, just like he often dreamed about.
🜲
When you return from the marketplace, there’s a huge crowd gathered around the interior of the city.
You never liked visiting the interior city. It’s where many of the noblemen lived, along with their gallant castles and rich abundance of wealth that they rarely hid from the commonfolk. When you were younger, you’d often look up at these castles with a fury you could never act on. Even back then, you could see how unfair this place was. Lys the lovely. One of the nine free cities.
You knew children who were angrier than you. You knew children whose anger turned to violence, and they tried to inflict it on someone who wore silk on their skin and gold on their fingers. There is a reason you remain alive today while they rot in the ground.
Now, you ignore. You evade. Now, you know better than to go somewhere you will not survive in. Men who wear gold on their fingers and drink expensive, sweet wine imported from foreign lands are not ones to be messed with. You have shaped yourself to survive in a place like this. The shape that works best for you is complete and utter avoidance.
As you draw closer to the crowd, you feel something shift inside of you. Unease. It gnaws into your stomach, devouring your flesh and bone as you study them. Rather than a nobleman, you see clothes that resemble yours–old cotton and washed-out cloth. The commonfolk were staring into a large clearing.
You knew this clearing. It’s where the warrior fights were typically held. A place where fighters would don armor funded by wealthy men and fight to the death for pennies and scraps. Yet another practice you had no true interest in, but the faces of the ground continue to eat away at your innards.
Something was wrong.
Extremely wrong.
A part of you knows you will regret what you see, but you push past the ground anyway. You step past children with worried faces, and you brush over men who are still and stand like boulders and stone, cold to the touch.
Your fingers tremble when you hear a sharp crack and a jumble of armor. The crowd's silence makes it easy to hear a voice cry out in pain.
You knew that voice.
You push past men and women in a hurry until you’re at the forefront. The ground beneath you is muddy, and you nearly slip onto the floor in your haste. Someone curses behind you as your desperation shows in your actions. You didn’t care. You didn’t think as you ran out of the mumbling ground and onto grounds no commonor should set foot in.
Ja’ha had collapsed onto the ground. His hands and knees were already bloody. His clothes were torn. Red caked his skin, dripping down into the wet earth as he coughed and pleaded words you couldn’t understand. He was apologizing over and over again.
You didn’t know what he did. It didn’t matter. You knew what had happened. You’ve seen this scene play out over and over again in your time in Lys.
Ja’ha upset someone who wore gold on their fingers. And he wasn’t getting out of this alive.
A guard stops you before you can reach him. You’re held back by iron armor and chains that barely faltered at your resistance. He grabs your arms, keeping you from wiggling around and about.
Ja’ha weakly calls your name, his voice stunted and frail. He must have been choked before he was thrown onto the ground. Here, he looked even younger than he actually was. His eyes were red with tears, just as red as the blood tainted on his skin.
“Please.” You plead to the guard who still holds you. “He’s just a boy, Sir.” You insist, but your voice trembles.
“He meant no harm, whatever he did. Please, I beg you.”
The guard ignores you. Of course he did. You were wrong to beg from him. In this world of kings and queens, he is but a sword. He is a tool to be used, nothing more.
Your eyes travel to the real sword wielder.
Had you not been so frazzled, you may have noticed him first. You recognized him immediately, even though this was your first time seeing him. Everyone in the country knew who this man was. His entrance into Lys had everyone mumbling and simmering, and even years later, the whispers had not settled.
Silver ivory hair cascaded down his shoulders in gentle waves. Sharp cheekbones contrasted with eyes flashing with a dull violet. He wasn’t particularly tall, but the way he stood towered over you and the rest of the guards. His cloak was a sharp royal red, bearing the color of fire his family heralded. The sigil of a three-headed dragon, hissing and spitting, lay on his chest.
“What may we do, your Highness?” The guard who held you asked.
Prince Aerion Targeryen, Son of Maekar I, barely looked at you. He was more focused on his boot, as though it were more precious than the lives he held in his hand. Perhaps to a man like him, that was the truth.
“Kill the boy.” He spoke of the concept of death so plainly, so casually. Horror crawled into your stomach as you stared at him. He couldn’t be a man. No man could be this cruel.
“As for the other one.” He glances at you just then. There’s the subtle quirk of his lips, an attempt at a smile, but his eyes are so frighteningly hollow. Empty. Expressionless.
Bored.
“Maybe a missing hand will teach the lesson of not interrupting one's betters.”
You can barely understand his tongue. Your heart was pounding in your chest as a guard behind you brandished his sword. Another approached Ja’ha, who flailed around in the dirt, struggling to get up even though his arm remained bent in an unnatural direction.
You could only stare at the dragon sigil on his chest. The ivory hair that gleamed in the sunlight. It was such a pleasant day. It reminded you of the day your master died, the way he slept so peacefully, never to open his eyes again.
Dragons Desire Dreams.
“I–I dreamed of you.”
Everything stops. Everything stills. The guard tightens his grip on your arms, surely to break skin, but you could hardly care about any of that.
The prince was looking at you. His eyes were no longer so dull and narrow.
“I dreamed of you.” You babbled on, remembering what Master Rearyn rambled about all those years ago. “I dreamed that you fought a giant blue snake and cut off its head. It died next to a large black dire wolf, which devoured it.”
The Prince stares at you, and for a moment, you think it’s all over. You’ll be dead. You’ll be nothing more than a corpse to join your master in the lands of the unliving.
A guard moves closer to you. Something sharp glints in his hand. You squeeze your eyes.
“Stop.”
Your eyes flutter up, and you look up.
The prince takes another step closer. And then another until he is towering over your imprisoned figure. Long, lithe fingers lightly push up your chin so you can look him in the eyes.
He’s even more beautiful up close. His skin is pale with a flushing twinge of pink right on his lips. His violet eyes are outlined by long white eyelashes and soft eyebrows. How ironic that such a beauty could do such ugly things.
Out of the corner of your eye, the guard’s hold on Ja’ha slips. He takes the opportunity to run, dashing into the ground. The guard chases him, but you doubt he’d catch up. You wish you could feel relief when you watch him disappear into the crowd. At least one of you got out of this horrid situation in alive.
The Prince hardly seems to care about his escape. He’s more focused on you, ever so slightly tilting your face to observe more of you.
“How long ago did you have this dream?” The Prince asks.
You can’t look at anything else but his sharp violet eyes, tinged in fickle cruelty.
“Years ago. A few moons after my ninth nameday,” you tell him, thinking back to that night you woke up to Master Rearyn screaming about dire wolves and headless snakes. It was the first night terror he’d ever had in your presence. Perhaps that’s why you remembered his words so distinctly.
Or perhaps that was just your life flashing before your eyes. Death was certain. After years and years of lying low and mastering the art of avoidance, you decided to jump headfirst into the lion’s den, sealing your fate. You’d follow your master into death just a few days after his passing. It was a servant’s fitting death, some would say.
You didn't want a servant’s death. You wanted something more, but you’d never get that chance now.
There’s a short huff of laughter. You’re back trapped in the guard's stronghold, looking at your executioner.
Your executioner smiles down on you. It doesn’t suit his face. It’s warped and twisted in some way.
He pulls away so suddenly that you reel. For a moment, you think he’s walking away because a Prince doesn't have time to watch a peasant as you die on his command. But then he raises his single hand, an owner calling his faithful dog.
“Bring that one.” He orders the guard who holds you. “I wish to continue this conversation indoors.”
🜲
It’s not a dungeon.
You were expecting something more gloomy. Damp walls and floors. A darkness you could touch and taste in your tongue. Somewhere with far more chains and despair than this place.
Every part of this room was enamoured in luxuries. Rugs imported from faraway lands. Chairs and furniture chiseled by skilled hands and craftsmen.
You’ve never been inside a building this tall before. There’s no need for a candle, for the windows stream light directly inside. Past the glass, you can see the entire city of Lys. You could map out every street, every marketplace, every landmark. It’s truly breathtaking. You think you could stare at the city for hours.
The Prince does not give you such luxury.
“Of whom is your parentage?”
He busies himself with a plate of food you’ve never seen before. There’s sweet red wine spilling from a pretty gold goblet. Though he’s asked you a question, he’s far more interested in the meal itself, taking a hefty bite out of the meat. For an exiled Prince, he lives like a King.
“I do not know my parents, your Highness.” You answer truthfully. “They passed away when I was very young.”
Or they simply abandoned you, but you liked to think that they died. It was a far better story than being unloved.
“An orphan, then.” The prince nods, glancing up at you. “From what I’ve seen, there are two options for those with no parentage.”
He leans forward, eyes flicking up and down your body. You shift, feeling very uncomfortable in your clothes.
“So which one are you? Whore or slave?”
You flinch at his words, but you can’t deny his claim. Lys is not kind to those of low birth, especially if they have no one to guide them. Among these unfortunate souls, you are considered very lucky to follow a master who never sought your flesh, only your labor.
“I worked underneath a scribe, your Highness,” you say.
“A scribe.” The prince repeats, and you can’t place his tone.
You glance down at your feet. You don’t belong here. You can see it from just the way your feet meet the immaculate floor underneath you. Shiny, shaven stone that your clumsy, ragged boots rest on.
“You didn’t dream of me.”
Panic bolts through your veins. You had been so stupid. Why did you even blurt out such nonsense about dreams and wolves? Those dreams are what killed your master, and now they’ll kill you too.
Before you can plead for mercy, the Prince continues.
“You didn’t dream of me. You dreamed of my father.”
Your words die in your mouth. Prince Aerion chews on his meat thoughtfully, letting the wine clean his palate.
“The blue snake is the sigil of House Venear. More than ten winters ago, they foolishly rebelled against House Targaryen. My father, Meakar Targaryen, heir to the iron throne, slayed them, while their meager lands were overtaken by the Starks, whose sigil is the dire wolf.”
He leans back in thought. “I have been told I resemble my father in his youth.”
You don’t say anything. You can’t say anything. All this time, you thought you were listening to your master yelling and wailing about such nonsense when they were…when all those dreams were—
“There are many dreamers spread throughout Targaryen history. My older brother is one of the fortunate. Though I expected to find blood of Old Valyria hidden within Lys, this is a truly remarkable find. A dreamer hidden among rubble.”
He…believes you? The ramblings you managed to spit out in your time of desperation were somehow comprehensible?
You stare at him, and you realize you couldn’t be further from the truth.
It didn’t matter to him if you were telling the truth or not. He was simply bored.
To him, you weren’t a discovery waiting to be uncovered by any lingering eyes. You were just a piece of entertainment–much like the beauties lords liked to keep on their arms in exchange for pretty coin. He just found you interesting enough not to slay.
You may be from the same species, but in his eyes, you were not of the same breed. To princes and nobles and those with gold on their fingers, you were nothing but a mere toy.
“What other dreams did you have?” He asks, but he’s not paying attention to you. Not really. His eyes are more focused on his food. His hands play with gold spoons and knives. A servant woman refills his cup before hurrying away, leaving you two alone once again. You wish she had stayed; at least someone would be able to say if something happened to you, no matter how small her voice may be. If you were in her place, you’d hurry away too.
You think back to the months you spent by Master Rearyn’s side. His bed was too stiff, no matter how many times you fluffed it to aid his slumber. Nothing worked. The ale barely helped in the coming days of his passing.
“A recurring one, your Highness.” You speak, but you don’t think it’s you speaking. “One that’s been had over many months.”
You think back to those words your master spoke over and over, in his deliriums. They meant nothing, just the dying words of an old man. They should mean nothing. And yet…
Somehow, you know these words will get you out of certain death.
“I dreamed of a dragon.” You start.
He pauses at your words, shifting his gaze up to look at you. His piercing eyes make your skin crawl.
“It lay on top of a tall tower with bright gold railings and red and green windows underneath a full Moon soaked in blood.” You repeated your master’s words, forever etched in your memory. “It watched a giant kraken rise from the water and destroyed the city.”
You can still remember the fear in your Master’s eyes as he clutched onto your shoulders, repeating ‘a giant monster will bring the city to ruin’ over and over again. By then, he had lost most of his strength, but the way he held you that day still left marks on your skin.
The Prince still stared. You glanced down at your feet in a meager show of submission.
“That is what I dreamed of, your Highness.”
He says nothing to that. You inspect your shoes again and compare them to the rest of the rug. Your pair of shoes has gladly outlived its youth. They are both shabby and barely kept together by crude stitches. The rug you stand on was anything but that. Hand-threaded, each thread stiffly tied together with a craftsmanship that properly traveled with him across the narrow sea. The disparity between you two was clear even from the floor.
You were playing a dangerous game, one that you never wanted to play in the first place, but you had to. If you wanted to live, you would play, and lie, and you would survive.
“A servant of a scribe.” He echoes your past words.
You look up at him. The Prince stands to his full height and walks towards you. Your hands clasp together tightly in front of you as the man circles you once, then twice, like he’s inspecting a good he purchased.
“I’ll keep you here.” He finally decides. “You’ll pour my wine, and fetch my cloaks. I’m sure this scribe you cherished so dearly managed to teach you basic reading and writing? You’ll do some for me as well.”
You look up at him questionably. For a moment, you believe his words at face value. He was giving you a job. Then, you realize that wasn’t the case at all. He couldn’t care less about your labor or your pay. He was keeping you around to test you.
This was all a game to him.
You bow, tucking your chin into your chest.
“Thank you, your highness.” You say, hoping the tightness in your tone doesn’t come off as offensive.
Prince Aerion continues to study you. After a few agonizing seconds, he looks away with a half-hearted hum–dismissal. You stumble out of that room with shaky legs and trembling hands. It was as though your body itself couldn’t believe you were still alive.
When the sun drops just below the horizon, you find yourself back in your home as you always had in the days prior. Today, however, an imperial guard stands right in front of your door, the same one who ‘escorted’ you all the way back. The intention was hinted at, though you never needed the additional incentive. You would never dare run, even though you desperately wanted to.
You would never return for quite a while–perhaps forever. You touch the worn-down furniture and the dents in the walls, scripting each flaw into memory. The setting sun casts a golden glow through the window, illuminating your tiny home in a warm swath of light.
Currently, you are supposed to pack and prepare yourself for your new ‘home’ and your new tasks. And yet, you still linger around, taking your time. You were never expecting to leave, so everything was in disarray. Even after you left, barely a dent in the work would be covered. You would have to hire other laborers to complete them.
Perhaps you should consider selling your master’s home altogether. The possibility of you living in peace in the aftermath felt low.
There’s not much to keep. You tuck away your clothes and other meager belongings. Apart from the house itself, Master Rearyn didn’t keep many luxuries. You pack away the few books written in High Valyrian. They would fetch fine copper if you were to sell them, but you would not dare.
All that’s left is the master’s old study. You’ve already put away much of his jumbled papers and unfinished projects a short while ago. It’s mostly clean and bare by the time you make your way to that portion of the house. Your hands brush over his desk, roaming around his cabinets.
You find it in a few seconds, pulling out the tattered journal and splaying it out. You flip over page after page. Writings that you once thought to be nonsense slowly made more and more sense. Your fingers stopped when you reached the final page–reading the same words that haunted your mind for hours.
Dragons Desire Dreams.
You stared at them until they turned into murky shapes rather than letters.
Who was your master? You knew of him. You knew he was a drunkard who was obsessed with his scripts. He’d write obsessively for hours and hours. You knew him as kind and generous, taking care of you and teaching you, though he had no blood obligation.
His dreams were supposed to be just that: dreams. And yet, those strange ramblings of his may have saved your life.
You do not know what your master’s words meant. You memorized their shape rather than anything else. Yet, as you spoke his words into the Prince’s ears, something happened within the Prince’s demeanor. They were less than meaningless shapes to him. He knew something you would never know.
These strange ramblings of your master’s may save your life.
Or they may be your downfall.
Delicately, you tuck your master’s notebook into your bag, hugging it close to your body.
You were going somewhere dangerous, and you wanted your master by your side.
He never had any reason to. The players on Bastard München called you ‘Kaiser’s’. Blindly, he took on the nickname as well. He never used it to address you. He had no reason to talk to you. He joined Blue Lock to be the best. He joined Bastard München to be number one.
It’s not until he literally runs into you that he wonders why no one calls you by your actual name.
“Ah, sorry.” He immediately retracts.
It was an accident. He didn’t even realize you were there until he almost walked on top of you. The papers you were holding were scattered across the floor.
You say nothing, calmly bending down to pick them up. Yoichi stutters, but falls silent when he notices the lack of translators on your ears. You obviously didn’t know Japanese, and he isn’t sure if his English is that good to carry on a conversation.
Instead, he sits next to you, helping you gather the pages. When he hands you the last one, you meet his gaze and smile.
You have a pretty smile. He didn’t know why it took him so long to notice before.
He sees you a lot more after that. It’s like learning the name of a color he hadn't seen before, and finding its hue wherever he looked.
But then he starts noticing a few things he shouldn’t have.
How nobody else in Bastard München brought their partners to Blue Lock. How you sat in the bleachers during every practice. How quiet you were. How you’d never talk to anyone, except for Kaiser.
Only to Kaiser.
Your relationship with him is a little strange. You’re like his shadow, with him whenever he’s not on the field, and lingering on the side when he is. You sit quietly by his side during meal times. He wouldn’t be surprised if the two of you shared a room.
He keeps noticing Kaiser would always have some sort of contact with you. A hand on your waist. A loose hold on your shoulder. His weight slightly leaned against yours. Anyone else would call it affection. Critics might call it ‘too much PDA’.
Yoichi keeps thinking of it like control.
It feels corrupt. He wants to brush that thought away immediately. He doesn’t like Kaiser. He hates Kaiser. To him, Kaiser resembles poison. He needs to step on the King and crush if he wants to get any better.
But Yoichi can’t bring himself to think Kaiser could do something like this.
(He only heard your voice once. It was so soft, barely a whisper as you leaned into Kaiser’s side, saying something in his ear. Yoichi didn’t even know what you said, but you had a nice voice. It’s almost as nice as your smile)
It’s not often, but whenever Yoichi would find you alone, he’d smile at you. It was quick, barely even a glance. He didn’t know why he did it. You didn’t know him. He barely knew you. Maybe it was because he wanted to give you a glimpse of friendliness. Maybe it was because he knew it was the only interaction you had that didn't involve Kaiser. Maybe it was because none of the other players ever even glanced at you.
You’d smile back. It felt enough.
It’s moments like these where Yoichi feels something bubble inside his stomach. Hot and fluctuating. It builds up and up and up.
Everything collides, not on the field, but during a random training session.
It was purely an accident. They were running laps when Kaiser brushed past him. It was yet another ploy to bait him, Yoichi knew that.
He fell for it anyway.
Everyone stops when the two hands of Bastard München clash. Kaiser’s grin is infuriating as they stand toe-to-toe together. In the background, Kurona is saying something. Maybe it’s some words to calm both players down. Yoichi isn’t sure. He’s barely listening.
Maybe they both could’ve walked away if Yoichi hadn’t looked.
It was barely a glance. His eyes stray from Kaiser’s to look at the bleachers, where you sat.
Kaiser catches it.
The punch to Yoichi’s face lacks any mercy, and the thing swirling within Yoichi’s stomach breaks.
In the end, Raichi breaks the fight. It barely lasted a minute, a scuffle at most. There are scratches all over Kaiser’s face. Yoichi can taste blood in his mouth.
His teammates from Blue Lock crowd around him. Kurona asks if he needs an ice pack. He’s glancing out from the crowd. He can only watch as Kaiser stomps to where you quietly sit. His grip on your elbow is too tight when he drags you away.
He doesn’t see you until days later. There’s a large mark at the base of your neck. It was clearly meant to be seen. A claim.
