⊹ synopsis despite knowing your ex is a football player , you buy game tickets to a football match and you see him—hugo. as long as you don't make a scene he shouldn't spot you , you're in a sea of people , anyways.. right?
⊹ tags spoiler in tags; use of football instead of soccer fuck you americans; ex! hugo; possessive hugo; dubcon kiss lowk; lowk havent read the manga past the jp vs nigeria game im sorry if hes ooc; 2nd pov; gender neutral reader but use of ma cherie; french guy gives a french kiss son im crine
⊹ wc 1 258
⊹ a/n anyways why'd they make his full name vivian hugo um ok hugo vlad and vivian banshee terramog this dude also i lowk wrote hugo vlad fanfiction for my english assignment js changed the names and made the writing third person i wanna edit some of it to be second person and change the names and post it here but what if turnitin flags me guuulp also this is so self indulgent im sorry i feel like you can watch the writing slowly deviate away from how i usually write and into like super modern stuff idk
Pray tell, why did you allow a man to taint your perception of football? You had come for the match, not him; anyone could come watch a match. Anyone could buy a ticket, sit in the stands, and disappear among thousands of other fans. Yet, your mind fogged with anticipation. You were far above Hugo's reach! Yet you couldn't seem to deny the slow, bubbling feeling of anticipation as you crept through the stadium, the chance you may encounter him. You couldn't even escape him before the game! Lines of merchandisers holding up jerseys, yet only one caught your eye. A vendor had held up a blue shirt with a name sewn across the back that you had recognised immediately. Sitting down in the stadium did little to soothe the tightening of your stomach.
By every moral code, it was preordained for you to loathe him—a preponderance of you did. Howbeit, you could not stifle that breathless, surging tide of expectation that you would meet, reconcile, and relinquish the air between yours and his lips, maybe. He was a conniving man, one who weaved lies like an artisan with the cheapest of fabrics. Still, most certainly, you could not deny the ever-growing thrumming of your heart, a thrum somehow so loud it reached over the cacophonating discussion between fans. Hugo. Vivian Hugo. Such an affinity had made you feel bereft of all identity. The dichotomy between Hugo in your early relationship and his character at the end, when you separated, was astonishing.
You couldn't suppress the history you had with him, tell yourself that you just never loved him because you did, quite a lot in actuality. His love was once reminiscent of your childish, idealistic interpretation of a romantic relationship, marked by constant messaging, gifts, and dates. Seeing a football field brings tear-provoking moments. Back when you used to sit on quiet practice fields and watch Hugo dribble a ball across neon cones on empty grass, when his ambition had sounded like a career and not distance.
"No guy is busy for 5+ hours," your friends texted you. The 'seen' in your messages with Hugo stared back like a slap to the face. Since when did he ever reply with anything other than ‘can’t, got football, ma chérie’? What were you meant to do? Chide him and tell him to give up his lifelong pursuit just to keep you company? That's so selfish. You swallowed your pity, and one thing led to another; suddenly, you were single.
A thunderous boom of a microphone rattled through your ears, shaking your sulk off in a second.
The announcer began reading the lineup.
You told yourself not to listen too closely. In fact, all you did was listen closely; you knew his name would be read, yet when Vivian Hugo reverberated across the stadium, your chest only tautened. Under your lashes, you caught Hugo's striking maroon hair on the jumbotron, strands that fell in a hue that could only be described as a shade comparable to the most top-end of wines. Your stomach fell.
The interviewer pushed his mic closer to the man you had once called your boyfriend, his eyes flashing with amusement.
“Any message for the fans tonight?” Chimed the pre-game interviewer.
Hugo paused for half a second, eyes aimed towards his cleats, wetting his lips—stalling—before straightening his head and answering.
“Watch closely.”
The screen cut away. Your chest ached once more. The ball rolled down the far wing. The reporter lowered the microphone as the cameras cut. Hugo ran his hand through his hair, taking a moment to breathe. The crowd’s roar rose around you, swelling against the walls of the stadium.
By the time the first whistle blew, the first passes were already in motion. The ball rolled down the far wing. Hugo jogged lazily for a second, eyes flicking up to the stands as if hoping to spot someone familiar—you. To spot you. For a moment, everything else but him blurred, and recognition sparked between Hugo and you.
Just as you rounded the corner to head to your car, there he was. Jogging slowly, still in his kit, head tilted slightly as if scanning the near-empty carpark. Your breath hitched. The dark, cold sky loomed over, Hugo's breath blossoming before him. It was well past the game; he shouldn't have been this out of breath unless he was deliberately seeking you out.
The chaos that enclosed your mind faded out, focusing on the narrow strip of air between him and you. The man stopped in front of you. His eyes locked onto yours, and recognition more or less flickered across his face.
"Why were you there?" Hugo demanded.
"To watch a football game, what else?" Your eyes met his, refusing to crack the indifferent expression on your face. Did he always have this effect? It felt like you were being hypnotised. The next statement that left your lips was left in a tone you had not known could be so stern:
"We're broken up."
"No, we're not."
"What?"
"Unblock me."
"You need to move on," you breathed, employing a nervous chuckle out of exasperation, the atmosphere suddenly getting tenser.
His eyes narrowed, the movement punctuating. Hugo dragged in a slowed and heavy breath through his nose before letting it out again—the sort of breath someone seizes when they’ve been trying very not to lose their temper.
"What's your deal? Don't be silly, you know you're destined for me, so why are you trying so hard to deviate from the path paved for you?" Hugo snapped; the hand he had just used to manhandle the opposing football team's players grabbed your face. Pressing his forehead against yours, as if the way you felt like the world was closing in on you was a part of his intent. In any other capacity, a flicker of mirth may have escaped you, maybe you would have lowered your hand to strike your knee and say something along the lines of 'good one!'—but this man, all one hundred and eighty-seven centimetres of him, possessed an unyielding gaze with a sincerity that could only be described as absolute.
“Stop acting like you still have any right to me. Goodness, were you always this pretentious and hellbent?” Your voice rises, jaw instantly tightening as the last few words came out honed, edged with bitterness—but beneath it lingered something softer, almost intimate. His grip tightens at your words, pulling you a step closer before you can react. You lift your chin and huff, “I hadn't come for you.”
“Liar.”
“Let go—”
Your words drowned when his lips touch yours. It is not soft, nor warm; it bears no resemblance to the kisses the same man gave you during the primordial stages of naivety within your past relationship with him. The kiss is all teeth and a battle of dominance rather than a shared moment of affection. Hugo deepened the kiss, his tongue brushing against your lower lip, though you were adamant about not entertaining whatever perverse goal he was trying to get at.
He needily nips at your lower lip, causing you to yelp and consequently open your mouth. Unhesitatingly, his tongue slips into your mouth. The suddenness was warm, overwhelming, and incredibly sultry all at the same time. Hugo's other hand threaded through your hair, roughly tilting your head back, angling your face to kiss deeper. Hugo only pulled away to breathe, a string of saliva connecting you two; you couldn't help but internally scream at the scene.
poverty taught you not to ask questions when opportunity comes knocking; when a translation agency offers an absurd amount of money for a temporary assignment, you accept immediately. so, what do you do when you glaze over the fine print and become your childhood best friend’s translator?
tags ⟢ michael kaiser / reader ; afab reader ; fem reader ; second chance romance ; employer/employee if u squint ; smut ; p in v ; mainly vanilla stuff ; not proof read ; fluff
word count ⟢ 3 . 1 k
author's note ⟢ sort of wanted to extend on the desperate kaiser here LOL yayamrata i thought abt you while writing this
You hadn’t anticipated seeing him again. In fact, you hadn’t pondered about him—Kaiser—in years. The guy who grew up in the same run-down neighbourhood as you, the guy who’d walked you to and from school. Well, before you left. Left because your parents got better jobs elsewhere.
The constant moving wasn't entirely devoid of benefits. New cities meant new languages, and before long, you had become something of a polyglot. Still, none of that justified how a single email spiralled into this. Here you were, standing outside Bastard München's headquarters—one of Germany’s most prestigious football clubs.
The building loomed over you, a stark reminder of the massive gap in talent between you and all these footballers. After a moment of hesitation, you walked through the revolving doors.
The next half an hour passed in a blur of paperwork. Staff members steered you through hallways lined with trophies and framed photographs. With every step, the weight of your new job sank in a little deeper.
"Your assigned player should already be waiting," a staff member informed you as they stopped outside a door. You nodded, smiling awkwardly. You took the folder handed to you. Your heart pounded even harder now.
Assigned player. Right. The entire rationale behind why you were here. Taking a steadying breath, you pushed the door open—and your knees almost buckled under you.
You do a double-take, head looking down at your folder, then shooting back up to look at the football player in front of you. Michael Kaiser. The same man from your youth? No, no. Perhaps merely an eerie doppelganger?
You would’ve forgotten about Kaiser if it weren’t for the validity of his standing before you right now. His hair was dyed, dyed! He looked taller, more mature, better. It was a far cry from the scrawny blonde boy from your childhood.
All you saw behind the costly suit, pristine conference room, and rose tattoo was a person from your childhood. The boy who once sat beside you on the curb, who’d share his sandwich because neither of you had enough to eat. The boy who declared that one day he’d be rich and powerful.
Rich and powerful enough to leave. Enough to never fret again. Enough to take you with him.
Your tongue swiped over your dry lips. You introduced yourself, extending an arm to shake his hand. "It's nice to meet you, Mr Kaiser."
His hand didn't clasp over yours immediately. Kaiser stood with an unreadable expression. His blue eyes flickered with resentment.
“Yeah, real nice.” Kaiser scoffed.
“I'll be your new translator. I look forward to collaborating with you.”Your fingers plucked a piece of paper from your folder. You handed him a sleek sheet of the itinerary. His eyes narrowed at the long list of appointments.
“I don’t need a translator.” He paused. “I don't need you.”
“I survived just fine without you before.” Kaiser folded his arms. His now hardened eyes locked onto yours. By now, you can divulge that he has recognised you. There are innumerable non-work-related queries you have. What happened to that father of his? What on earth happened once you moved? Does he abhor you? When did he get that tattoo?
Swallowing the lump in your throat and omitting all the questions you have about him, you speak.
“I'm here to do a job; none of this is personal. You have an interview with a Japanese broadcaster this evening. You can either cooperate with me or make a fool of yourself on live television.”
Kaiser’s stern face seems to drop instantly at your harsh tone and seems just as quickly to grow somehow more grim. “Alright.”
To the average person, Kaiser’s attitude towards you would have been awfully malcontent. But if any of his teammates had seen how he responded to your chiding, Kaiser may as well have been as assertive as a puppy.
The interview goes like any other interview. Questions about Kaiser’s recent performance, ambitions, challenges, and the like.
The two of you stood outside in the city. 8:51 PM glowed on your phone. Despite the cacophonic traffic, the cold wind—almost as cold as Kaiser’s attitude—and the shutters of paparazzi cameras, all you could focus on was the scowling man beside you—the scowling man who drew you beneath the protection of his arm. Cameras exploded everywhere. Kaiser angled his body between you and the cameras. While steering you through the crowd to his chauffeur, his other arm pushed away the cameras. The space between you two is small enough now that you can hear him curse under his breath. And smell his cologne.
It's infuriating. He seems so unaffected in spite of what he was doing. It was as if protecting you was simply a biological mechanism of his. It's additionally more infuriating that a small part of you hopes that maybe you two would encounter the paparazzi again so that you could be this close to Kaiser once more.
Upon reaching Kaiser’s chauffeur’s car, you leaned your head back with a sigh of relief. Your gaze was set on the city lights that contrasted with the night sky throughout the drive. Now and then, you caught Kaiser glancing at you.
“They’re still following us,” the driver muttered.
Kaiser sighed. “Of course they are. Nosy animals.”
A few minutes later, Kaiser says something that makes you whip your head back in astonishment. “We’re not taking you home.”
“Pardon?”
“If they see where you live, they’ll never leave you alone,” Kaiser reasoned, his voice monotone as if he were discussing the weather. “You’ll stay at my place.”
You opened your mouth to protest, but nothing came out. He was right; it'd be hazardous for the paparazzi to know where you lived. Kaiser turned his head towards you, a slight smirk on his face.
“Don't get too excited. It’s one night.”
“I wasn't.”
“Mhm.”
The ultimate feeling you had as a kid was pity. Pity because you remember the face Kaiser had back then, when you told him you were leaving. Leaving him. Every night since then, when he would go home to his father, all he thought about was how his one safe space was gone. You couldn’t bear the thought of the abuse happening to Kaiser and how helpless you were.
The ding of the elevator snapped you out of your trance, and when Kaiser opened the door to his penthouse. You’re more relieved than shocked that he’s finally out of that house. Surprise planted your feet in the entryway, unable to move.
You’ve been alone with Kaiser before, but that was either when you were kids or in his office, where he grumbles about paperwork. But this? What were you meant to do?
Your eyes watched Kaiser casually hook his jacket on the hanger and place his shoes on the shoe rack.
“So,” your voice quivers, “guest room?”
“I don’t have one.”
You blinked. “You have this whole apartment and no guest room?”
Kaiser lets out an exhale through his nose at that, as if your proposition of sleeping anywhere where he wasn’t personally offended him. Looking back at you, he replied. “I guess not.”
“I’ll sleep on the couch then.” You conclude.
“My couch is broken.”
You finally walked into the penthouse and got a good glimpse of the living room. “It looks fine.”
“It’s not.”
“Since when?”
“Since now.”
Your face dropped, and you couldn’t help but incredulously chuckle.
“Sleep in my room.” Kaiser’s given up on concealing the desperate tone in his voice.
“You’re a hundred per cent sure you have no guest room, and the couch is really broken?”
“Yes!”
“Alright…” You had to repress the slight smile threatening to tug at your lips at how distraught this 187cm man was over whether you’d sleep in his bed or not as you followed Kaiser to his room.
“Goodnight, Mr Kaiser.” After the whole commotion of today, you almost fell asleep the moment your head hit that pillow.
He’s quiet again.
“Don't call me that.”
You cock a brow.
“You used to call me Mihya. What’s with the sudden change? Call me Mihya.” His hands wrapped around your torso, taut, and your body stiffened on instinct. If it weren't for the poorly lit bedroom, you might have caught a glimpse of the way his lips folded into a slight pout.
“You’re my employer; wouldn't it be shameful to call you by a nickname?” You chuckled, trying to inch away and pry his insistent hands off of you. Internally, you’d bask in his touch all day, but you know etiquette comes first.
“Do you have a boyfriend.” His arms tightened, deliberately halting your attempt to move.
“What?”
“Are you seeing anyone? Is that why you won’t call me that?” He murmured, hiding his face in the crook of your neck to maybe muffle his voice, and hide how utterly pathetic he sounded.
“Forget it,” Kaiser huffed. He rolled over so his back faced you. Yet, he shot up again, as if behind his cold words something more tender for you had manifested. “You’re translating for me tomorrow, right? Right?”
You nod.
“Good.” He lay back down.
The lack of space between you and Kaiser the morning after was scandalous. The feeling of his forehead on yours was something you could not have predicted would come out of this. His hair fell in burnished strands, curling upon you two like a curtain. Chirps of birds faded as you involuntarily focused in on the sound of Kaiser's breathing, how his tattoo stretched as his arm tensed. His eyes closed, and another deep exhale left his mouth. Your breath hitched as his hand trailed down your arm, which quickly found your hand with speed like he was begging to touch you.
“Don’t act on nostalgia,” you whispered.
“I’m not.”
“We shouldn’t do this—”
“Don’t.” His voice softened immediately. “Not if you’re going to say I’m your employer again.”
A beat of silence followed, tense and fragile.
“Please,” he added, quieter now, tightening his grip around your fingers as if that alone could keep you from pulling away, physically and emotionally.
“Mihya.”
One single word. That one nickname coming from your lips pierced his heart. His entire composure seemed to falter for a second, no longer the arrogant striker anymore, only Michael.
"You're right." He peeled himself off you promptly, walking across the room to gather his clothes. Kaiser wasn't someone who gave away his emotions freely, not then, when you two were kids, and not now, where he seemed to masquerade around in pride and wealth.
“I shouldn’t have asked you that last night,” he murmured.
“Asked me what?” You sit up.
He bit the inside of his cheek, hand threading through his hair, thinking about an answer. “About whether you had someone else.”
You’ve been Kaiser’s translator for a few months now. Were there times where the line between co-workers and something more blurred? Most definitely. Were there times you’ve softened his words to make him seem more temperate? Perhaps. But now, you wonder whether all that sugar-coating has distorted your own perception.
“Wear my shirt.” Kaiser nudged a copy of his jersey towards you.
“Huh?”
“My shirt. Wear it.”
“What? Why? I'm your translator; people know I work for Bastard München. Why would I need a shirt?” you scoffed.
“The sun’s beating down onto the stadium; shirt’s more, um, air conditioning.” He nudged the jersey a bit closer
“I'm not that hot.”
“Just be a doll and wear it, won't you?”
You reached for the jersey, mostly just to end the conversation.
“There. Happy?”
Kaiser watched as you pulled it on, the smallest satisfied smile appearing on his face.
“Much. It looks good on you—anything looks good on you."
The jersey was different from your usual uniform with the Bastard Mũnchen crest. 'KAISER' was nicely printed on the back; the gold letters glimmered in the sun. To you, it wasn't much. Yet, Kaiser saw it as an oath of loyalty. He liked knowing people knew you were associated with him.
"You should go warm up," you suggested. Kaiser's usually regal posture dropped immediately.
"I want to stay with you a bit more."
"You can after." You leaned back in your chair, watching the lights on your phone glow as you watched him jog onto the field.
The game went fine. Kaiser had a tantrum over his teammate not passing to him. During the post-match interview, the cacophony of camera shutters and fans’ conversations made it hard for you to hear Kaiser. It was bearable, sure. But you were almost convinced Kaiser was exaggerating the noise solely to lean down and get closer to you, or, as he said, “to hear you better.”
Furthermore, you've exhausted all your energy from spending the entire day trying to ignore Kaiser’s piercing gaze since you reluctantly wore his jersey. Getting back to his penthouse felt like a breath of fresh air.
"Mihya.” You rolled over to face him on the bed.
"Mm?"
"What are we?"
Kaiser halted, his lips slightly parted in calculation before quickly morphing into a smile that didn't seem to meet his eyes. "We're us. What else is there to say?”
You gaze towards him under your lashes, a sigh of impatience leaving you. “I’m serious. Stop hiding things from me.”
"Don’t fret your pretty mind over it.” Kaiser crawled on top of you, his lips closing over yours, as if to dissuade any morsel of protest from you. He’s quick to deepen the kiss, indulging in the susceptibility of your astonishment—greedy man.
He planted a hand by your head, his free hand tilting your chin up with such care you would have expected him to be handling fine china. Kaiser’s knee arrived to rest upon your slightly parted legs, as if emphasising the immense unscrupulous control he had over your flustered mind.
He was massive above you; you were transfixed not only by shock but by the lust pooling in your lower stomach. You weren't able to move—you couldn't imagine wanting to. Warm breath brushed against your lips as Kaiser pulled away, only to breathe.
"Answer my question—" Your arms thrashed. Kaiser gripped your wrist, pinning it down to the bedding beneath you two.
“I’ll show you what we are.”
Without haste, like redemption to a sinner, he captured your lips once again. This one was heavier, as if thunder itself had beckoned. Unhurriedly, Kaiser’s lips drove down heavier.
Too caught up with his hand on your thigh, you instinctively parted your lips in response to his tongue brushing against your lips. Your hand—at least not the one being crushed by Kaiser’s grasp beneath the weight of how desperately he needed you—held onto his back, searching for purchase.
"You're so pretty." Kaiser exhaled, resting his forehead against yours. He placed another kiss on the corner of your mouth, trailing down with open-mouthed kisses and stopping at where your neck met your shoulder.
Simultaneously, his hands slipped down your torso, peeling off your clothes—still leaving his jersey on—and settling upon the swell of your hips. Then, another firm grind upwards. Tracing down the back of your thigh, Kaiser angled your hips up and slowly lowered his head.
It started with a graze of his lips against your folds, then escalated into his tongue dipped into you before dragging upward to circle your swollen little nub, leading into a soft suckle on it. His arms hooked under your thighs, bringing you closer so he could bury himself deeper into your pussy.
“Mihya!” Your hands threaded through Kaiser’s hair; instinctively, your hips bucked
“Now, now.” His coos vibrated against your pussy, arms coming to situate your warmth closer to him, slipping a finger past your folds with his mouth still on your clit. The moment his fingers crooked and brushed against that gummy spot, your back arched, Kaiser’s lips curled into a predatory smirk.
“You shouldn’t get so greedy,” mused Kaiser, pulling away to circle your clit in torturous circles. Any remaining retort dissolved into pathetic whimpers as he began to scissor his fingers inside you, causing you to jerk against his hand involuntarily. Every piston of his fingers was immobilising; unyielding. Just as your thighs clamped around his wrist and your body trembled with electric shocks of pure lust, Kaiser pulled his fingers away.
“Mihya..” A whine that sounded more pitiable than you’d like to admit left your lips.
“Patience, mein schatz.” And with that, Kaiser flipped you onto your stomach without warning.
“Prettiest girl I've ever seen. I'll give this pussy the cock she deserves, hm?” The sound of unbuckling and the hymn of a belt clattering against the floor snapped you out of your trance. Sure, Kaiser’s poised, but this poise does not seem to be even the slightest bit present as Kaiser’s cock bullied its way through your cunt.
A heavy exhale left Kaiser once he bottomed out, his tense shoulders slowly relaxing. The gentle rocking of his hips quickly escalated into sloppy, feverous thrusts.
He fucked you like he was trying to prove something, like he was trying to convince himself more than convince you that you would have still loved him even if he refused to get his feelings sorted out.
Your tongue lolled out, your nails frantically scratching down Kaiser's forearm with every brutal drive of his hips, earning you an amused tch. The way your walls narrowed down on his length had not helped convince him of the supposed suspicion you harboured.
Your head was too fuzzy to string together anything intelligent. You’ve underestimated this footballer—he's rearranged your guts and made you see stars and gods you don’t even believe in.
“So pretty, all for me, yes?"
"Mm, all yours."
You blubbered in response, words dying in your throat, head falling back against the pillow. Loud ah, ah, ah’s echoed throughout the room with every merciless drag of Kaiser's length.
With his head buried in the crook of your neck and his large hands on your hips, forcing you back onto his cock; grip had been so tight that marks would undoubtedly be left—maybe it was Kaiser's way of ensuring that your fate would be eternally tangled with his.
Kaiser will refuse to tell you, but the more he can feel his veins rub against your walls, the more he loses the remaining shreds of dignity preventing him from flipping you onto your back and driving his hips into your G-spot till you're fucked senseless and have passed out either from cumming or crying out his name.
There’s too much going on; you can feel him in your cervix, you swear. Before you know it, that sly striker has already ripped an orgasm out of you.
“Too much,” you can barely mutter out, your body quivering. Your walls fluttered around his cock before his hips frantically sped up again, greedily chasing his own climax. Did this man also think you had the stamina of a fellow athlete? You felt like you were going to pass out! His bicep tightened around your face, pounding deeper into you.
“Come on, you can give me one more, can’t you?” He rasped.
synopsis he’s injured and refuses medical care from anyone but you. despite being his ex, you reluctantly come to help but discover a few letters while searching for medical equipment.
tags ex bf phainon x reader, fem reader, second person pov, hospital setting, does ts count as modern au cause i hope it doesn’t and does amphoreus even have medical equipment, snooping, pre 3.4 mission, 1.8k wc
a/n jonny, why couldn’t you be ready, too? i was ready, ready to.. be happy. ready for that long look that never ends. /lyr anyways i was originally gonna write this for kaiser but..
Could Hyacine not have employed her own faculties in the management of such an affair? She bore, after all, the sanctioned offices of physician and healer, duly entrusted to her within the dominion of Amphoreus. It felt as if you had been dragged through an inescapable rip within the ocean once you had received the call Hyacine conferred, aware you had been summoned to tend to a patient you found displeasing to ameliorate. For it was Phainon whom you discovered; his occupancy had not slipped unnoticed, evident in your scrutinising gaze. Where the room was rendered too bright—as though the building itself tried to void any shadow—and saturated by the pungent redolence of antiseptic, never failed to provoke a subtle aversion regardless of all your frequent visits to such walls. Had the words of your coworkers been truthful when reporting how Phainon declared he would refuse medical care from anyone but you?
Phainon’s coat lay absent from his battered body. White sheets were curled against him, and your peripheral vision caught a hummingbird visiting a white lily flower. The bleak white of the bed reflected Phainon’s own childish air, something unguarded within him. In your presence, his reason seemed calmer, his composure quietly undone; for there was, in the way you carried yourself, an omnipotent power to enthral him, to entertain a brief and fragile world in which he was no longer burdened by the name of Deliverer, but permitted—if only for a moment—to exist simply as Phainon. The heavy weight of his gaze was drawn to your attention against your will, the way one becomes aware of heat: gradually, and once it has already settled and suffocated you. Sunlight—gentle in its heat—had filtered through the window, resting upon Phainon’s enlivened smile and eyes that seemed to admit more colour in the interval you occupied him. You draw on your gloves. You do not inquire after his comfort. You do not ask why Phainon specifically required your name. His plaintive gaze lingered on the motion of your hands, precise and unhesitating, in a way that said your actions were out of inclination, and not warmth. When you pressed near an old wound—one long since healed but never forgotten—his breath faltered.
“This mark,” you observed lightly. “It’s improperly healed.”
“I know.”
“You didn’t fathom the action to report such a wound to Hyacine?”
“No.”
Your head inclined, neither approving nor reproachful. “You ought to have.”
“I’m aware.” A light chuckle escaped his lips. The admission came too readily. You did not remark upon it. There are habits you have trained yourself not to indulge in. When you reached for the gauze, you realised the drawer was empty. You turn to the cabinet behind him, shoulders brushing the edge of the bed as you pass. The cabinet was open just enough to suggest use. Inside: medical supplies. For when your fingers abruptly brushed paper, you came to a halt. The bundle was narrow, tethered with fraying twine, and concealed in a way that spoke of something forbidden. One page slipped free. You recognised the handwriting at once. You should’ve put it back, but your thoughts were restless, and you couldn’t help but pry into the page’s contents. You should’ve closed the cabinet. You should’ve taken the gauze and left the rest untouched. Instead, you took the papers with you. Phainon’s eyes flicked up the moment he heard the sound. Something tightened in his jaw. Once you returned to him and set the stack down on the metal tray beside his bed, you did not dare to let your eyes linger too long on the inked paper.
“Those aren’t medical records,” you say.
“No.”
“You shouldn’t keep personal items in here.”
“I had not planned to.”
You resumed tending his wound. Phainon had not spoken again until you were done. Until your gloves were discarded and the bandage was secured. Only then did he say, in a hushed tone, “You don’t have to read them.” You did not reply. In the docile room of the rustling of clothes, the coarse bandage chafed against your palm as you finished binding the last knot against Phainon’s forearm, as if keeping your hands busy would’ve resolved the unsettled words of your circumstances. Your chair glided back and squeaked against the floor.
“You don’t have to leave immediately.” Phainon shot up, despite sustaining injuries that would have immobilised any other man. A silence followed.
“I do.”
You picked up the papers, and the door clicked behind you. Later, much later, you sat unattended.
Letter I
I am writing this with the understanding that it may never be read. That knowledge is, in some ways, a relief. It permits a degree of honesty I would not trust myself with otherwise. I love you. I loved you when I first gazed upon you, when our first argument unfurled, when I dozed next to you in the baths; my love for you still endures. Often, my thoughts replay conversations, not to revise them, but to gain a deeper understanding. In your absence, I have unearthed the habits I have not yet learnt to let go of. One of them is the instinct to reach out whenever anything happens, though I’ve realised now that you’re not there for me to run to anymore, and with this, the true weight of your absence is soon to crush me.
Had I engaged more time, more capital, more endeavours with you, would this have never happened? I will not contest the separation. My failure to listen when it mattered was the catalyst for your conclusion. I recognise that now with a clarity that admits no defence. I was attentive to outcomes, to solutions, to what I believed necessary. I was not attentive to you. That distinction, once overlooked, now appears decisive.
But there were times when I was upset, too, and I would have never gone to drastic measures like these. I am enraged at you, at the casual certainty with which you walked away. You left, and with that leaving, you left me behind—not merely hurt, not simply disappointed, but reduced to the absurdity of wanting something that has already departed. But ultimately, I am most enraged at myself. I should loathe you, and a part of me does, but you were never cruel. Every attribute of you that I should have treasured more carefully was merciful, compassionate even. Hate is too linear a concept. What I feel for you is an unruly and unforgiving love that defies all virtue. You have done nothing wrong, and you are still an amazing girl.
( Some of the ink has smudged due to what looks like teardrops. )
Letter II
I dreamt about you, and I find that my thoughts have been plagued with ‘what ifs.’ Perhaps it was not quite a logical deduction from my premises, but my soul yearns for you. Come hither, be mine once more. I’d incline towards a do-over of the past few years with you. Because I’ve rationalised now. My errors were not born of confusion, but of confidence. I believed myself correct too often to claim innocence in the result. That is what failed us. I wish I had contended and fought for us more then. You were the woman of my heart, and a flawless model of the benevolence one seldom sees. You’ve brought the most delight into my world and yet, the most anguish, too.
No piece of sword is heavier than my heart. No battle has punctured such a hole of sorrow into me. While the chance for the black tide to relinquish its terror over Amphoreus is greater than the chance for us to reunite, I am still consumed by my desire for you—despite knowing I hold no weight in your life anymore. What I accomplish from now on will not alter your judgment, nor get you to take back your words that day; that is what pains me most. Childishly enough, I cannot help but gratify the frivolous hope that our split was but a momentary error of judgment, and that you might yet be persuaded to return to me.
If I had been cognizant enough, I could have prevented this conundrum. I had not loved you amply. I knew you, but I did not understand you. And now, with the recollection of your words oppressing me, I bring to thought that a bright and serene future without you in it is a future I am not in the humour for. I ought to have done more.
Letter III
I had intended for the previous letter to be the finale. That resolve has not held. There is a flicker of ironic dishonesty in pretending that my awareness alone is ample to heal my heart. I am aware that what follows is improper, that it does not align with the values I have so intensely facilitated since that day. With that, I state this openly, knowing my words will never reach you.
I do not want you to belong to anyone else.
I think of you more often than I can allow myself to reminisce while still free of guilt. You haunt me, and I cannot decipher whether that is beneficial for me. I’d label you a disease that I’ve been plagued with yet do not wish to be cured of, but that would mean I’d have to picture you in a negative light to connotate you with something as corrosive as disease.
I’d prefer to believe this dilemma is superficial and easily answered, that it is my vigilance misdirected, or that sense of heroism I often find embedded in me. But I have come to terms with the conclusion that lying to myself may govern the myriad of impulses I have, but, unfortunately, it does not eliminate those impulses. I am woefully conscious of the many grounds I should not permit myself to give a speech to. This letter is not a confession, nor is it an appeal for you to love me back. I have no claim, no ownership upon you, but even with that, the knowledge that another might assume the place I once held does not settle comfortably with me. I fear they would be ignorant and flippant about the things I learnt too late. I imagine an error. Their unfamiliar hands drifting where they are not yet cognizant of when and where to be careful, their words spoken too quickly, and their minds will misunderstand your intricate and beautiful character. If another were to gaze at you with that particular attention, it compels me to experience a sense of unease in a way I cannot reason rationally. For you to be pursued by someone who is not me makes me want to take measures unbecoming of reason, even to the consideration of violence.
I seldom require your affection, and I must not relish the idea of your presence. I demand only the certainty that no one else will enjoy you in my stead.
synopsis the dots connect themselves. convinced that his girlfriend (you) has harboured a secret relationship with his rival, isagi, rin confronts you—only to discover the truth is far less scandalous and has rearranged every assumption rin made.
tags isagi’s sister!reader x rin, established relationship, accusations of cheating, isagi mentioned, sae mentioned, subtle neo-egoist league spoilers but nothing major, fem reader, 0.9k wc
a/n isagi's sister dating rin is such a funny trope to me i had to try it ok… also im trying to emulate 19th century writing tell me if its ok or i should go back to how i usually write
Rin had found himself a victim of an unusual elaborate misapprehension and your habits only worsened the matter. It was only after you departed for some water downstairs that permitted Rin’s thoughts to lose their sense of reason. You spoke often of Isagi, and always with a warmth you did not trouble yourself to conceal. A plethora of your absences held references to family, a term which Rin, having no reason to doubt your sincerity, had accepted with an ease he would later find humiliating. Inside a mind so entirely devoted to football as to leave minimal room for any other concern, that the scant remaining of his thoughts went to you sufficed to prove sufficient to render him peculiarly liable to misconstrue appearances. Rin’s head hit the pillow with a soft thud and he drew a long, fatigued breath as though surrendering for the day.
His gaze scrutinised your desk through his lashes, amongst your desk lay a myriad of framed photos between you and Isagi, the images served as a preservation of the zeniths of every ephemeral yet nostalgic and blissful memory between you and your brother. But to Rin, the relics of your memories held sinister connotations that one like himself was not ready to digest, disloyalty among them. The mahogany-framed photos were laid out neatly, laminated with a professional shine, as if perfectly curated to display something much more significant than superficial companionship—well, to Rin. There existed within your bedroom a blue jersey, abandoned upon a chair adjacent to the desk which had just thrown Rin’s thoughts into disorder.
The jersey was folded with such care as to imply affection rather than utility, the shirt bore the name Isagi in unmistakable, capitalised print. Romantic jealousy was seldom in Rin’s world, he did not indulge in conjecture without cause. His older brother would’ve told Rin that jealousy was unbecoming of a rational mind anyway, so with this, Rin assured himself he was in fact, not bubbling over with suspicion but rather meticulously attentive. Rin had scarcely finished his thought when the door was opened, and you appeared. Though, the circumstances of your bedroom did little to help Rin’s inner turmoil—and the pensive crease of his brows did little not to catch your eye. Within Rin’s mind, countless possibilities unfurled, weaving themselves into a labyrinth so intricate that your presence had long ceased to register for Rin.
“I’m back.”
A curve drew upon your lips, the utterance of those two brief words snapping Rin from his trance and startling him into sudden motion, his body lifting at once, the ruffles in his hair not escaping your notice. As you set the glasses of water down upon the bedside table, their soft clink marking the moment, his heightened aloofness set the gears of your thoughts quietly whirring. The mattress dipped beneath where you sat, the shift of weight doing little to relax his rigid composure.
“You’re deceiving me,” Rin pouted.
You cocked an eyebrow from where you sat on the mattress, startled, though not—Rin noted—ashamed, merely shocked. You did not expect such a confrontational stance from a guy who was just spewing about owls. “I beg your pardon?” You chuckle awkwardly, as if trying to draw more out of him. Rin’s silence forces a brittle laugh out of you. “Deceiving you?” You follow up, still trying to inquire into a man whose face can express the complete antithesis of what’s happening internally.
“With Isagi Yoichi.” His tone did not waver. “I’ve seen enough. If you’re with that stupid blueberry, say it!” A pause followed—brief, and then broken not by denial, but by laughter. Not the brittle laughter of guilt, but the genuine, incredulous sort, as though she had been accused of some charming absurdity.
“Rin,” you said, once you had recovered yourself, “you couldn’t be the furthest from the truth.”
His expression hardened. “Then explain the memorabilia. The secrecy. The affection.” Your mind regarded him for a moment longer, eyes widening in realisation, before you spoke with careful patience, as if explaining something to a child.
“Yoichi is my brother.”
“Your.. brother.” Rin reiterates with a hint of scepticism, like he’s trying to confirm the absurd idea that you’re related to the man whom Rin harbours the most indelible and ineffable rage for. It was as if the realisation that the misinterpreted relationship between his beloved girlfriend and Isagi was something as simple as familial had only just dawned on him. Once such a revelation had dawned on him, your voice cut through.
“You’ve met him. You don’t recall the match where you grabbed Yoichi by his hair and told him he’s got a box seat during the games within the Neo-Egoist League?” You teased, wrapping the latter half of that sentence in a glaze of provocation and an exaggerated emphasis with your hand gestures, as if you were trying to evoke a fluster out of your boyfriend. In contrast, Rin’s world stopped. He replays every fragment of what he considered ‘irrefutable proof.’ Rin did not speak at once. The thought he had so carefully constructed faltered, then quietly gave way, as each detail he had relied upon returned to him in a different order. What had once appeared conclusive now seemed merely obvious—and his own error.
“I was lost in the moment. I didn’t even tug his hair that hard.” Rin’s gaze was suddenly incredibly intrigued by the birds outside, not daring to look at you. Optimising his peripheral vision, he looked back at Isagi’s shirt draped over your desk chair. He’s never felt so betrayed by some fabric before. How had such a sharp-minded striker like him grown so socially inept to such hints, how had he not realised sooner? Every glance, every laugh, every late-night call was proof of something he’d rather not acknowledge: he had been cheerfully basking in the attention of his rival’s sister.
not my art!! sob idk the artist but i’ll credit them if i find them
“So, I figured you didn’t save my number and this’ll probably show up as ‘Unknown.’ I’m not upset. Just—No I’m definitely upset.
Anyways, my match went fine. We won 3-0. You would’ve hated the noise. You know what’s funny? Every time someone asks what motivates me, I almost say your name.
Then I remember that you probably don’t even remember my birthday. Forget that, hope you’re getting some sleep.”
voicemail 002 — 10:58 AM
“I saw an article about astronomy on my commute home back from morning training. Talked about how light bends around massive bodies. Does that mean the fans’ attentions works the same way? It’s as if the more spotlight on me, the more I can’t see straight. Sorry, I sound weird. Delete this one.”
voicemail 003 — 7:23 PM
“You know, I checked your office hours. They end at 6; technically, you could’ve picked up. I’m staring at the stars tonight. Thought you’d like that.
I remember once, you told me the light we see from them is already dead. That by the time it reaches us, it’s in the past. And I was annoyed, of course. I thought, ‘great, even the stars are lying to me.’
I’ve got a game in Paris tomorrow, If you look up around midnight, maybe you’ll see the lights from the plane. I’ll pretend that counts as saying hi.”
voicemail 004 — 6:12 AM
“You ever notice how airports smell the same everywhere? Like recycled air and overpriced water and snacks? I’m walking to a bus that’ll drive me and my team to where we are staying.
Paris really is beautiful. Don’t worry, not as much as you. Though, I’d like to be a rich, french aristocrat that eats lavish meals everyday. Maybe I am in another timeline, but, right now? I’ll just have to settle for kicking a ball around for the time being. Football makes a lot of money anyways.
If you ever get bored of whatever you’re doing, there’s a seat waiting in the stadium. You don’t have to cheer for me. Just be there.”
voicemail 005 — 1:07 AM
“I think this is the last one. Not because I’ve run out of things to say—but because I’ve realized you don’t owe me an answer. I’m lying. I’ll probably call you again when I wake up. You left for something bigger, and you got there. I stayed for something loud, and I got that too.
If you ever do end up listening to these, I’m glad I was able to reach you and I hope you take care of yourself. That’s all.
And if you ever get bored of your current life, there’s an apartment waiting for you in Berlin.”
synopsis buying a knock off kaiser jersey which has the wrong number
a/n i cant speak german but i can if u like AUAAGH /lyr
tags gender neutral reader, established relationship, banter, fluff, how do u tag stuff, mentions of ness, kaiser crash out, not proof read LOLOL, 1k wc
Well, apparently, Michael Kaiser does care if you wear “blatant, counterfeit propaganda” in his own home.
Warm, light orange sunlight filtered through the curtains, the apartment quiet, except for the whirring of the washing machine and the tapping of your fingers scrolling on your phone. Your back rested against the couch, lounging around while a certain shirt draped over your torso. Listen, the unofficial jersey was a mistake, alright? God forbid you buy something from a TikTok shop.
You ordered it online a few weeks ago. Your laptop rested on your lap, blanketed, as you sat in bed, its pixels creating a website that appeared mostly legitimate. Flicking through the product photos, there were professional-level photos of the shirt and Kaiser mid-match. Bastard’s München’s knife sliced through the shirt, gleaming with a buttery gold that caught your eye. Kaiser’s signature gold—too bold to ignore, too extravagant to fake… Right? Five-star reviews were ubiquitous, and praises of the product just seemed to flood the review page. They were probably written by bots, but you were tired, and it was half the price of the official merch and the back of the jersey flaunted Kaiser’s name in bold and capital! Honestly, you thought you were getting a crazy good bargain.
When the jersey arrived at the front door of your and Kaiser’s shared apartment, in definitely not official Bastard München merch’s packaging, the realisation slowly set in. You were lucky you got to the package before Kaiser could’ve stumbled upon the package and curiously opened it. Bringing the package inside, your fingers dragged across the crinkly plastic which encased the jersey, it was the type of plastic packaging that’s just a thin transparent bag of plastic with the end folded onto some sticky bit to keep the bag closed. Unpacking the package and holding out the jersey, your eyebrows furrowed and eyes narrowed, something felt off… No, wrong. Wrong as in the shirt looked like it was made by a drunk college student—majoring in anything but textiles—on a night out. Bastard’s München’s logo was proudly printed off-centred and blurry. Examining the back, a laugh forced itself between your lips. No, it wasn’t the poor, sloppy stitching or the well-done done bold and capitalised ‘KAISER,’ but the number on the back. A clean, glittery gold eight perfectly captured the light of your apartment lights, gleaming like a trophy.
Still, it was soft. Baggy. Comfy enough to lounge around in without caring. You figured, no harm, no foul. Kaiser was at football practice this morning anyway. It’s not like he’d ever see it.
Except Kaiser did.
Your head perked up at the beeping of the keypad door lock and the door clicking open. His training bag slips from his shoulder to next to the shoe rack by the door with a soft thump. Kaiser’s footsteps grow louder as he walks over to the couch to see you, his face dips and leans in to give you a peck on the cheek before stopping dead, his piercing blue eyes zeroing in on you like you just said football is boring.
“What the hell are you wearing?” His voice tenses but carries no actual tone of irritation. You peer up at Kaiser, looming over you with sweat-damp hair and eyes locked onto your torso, specifically the crime against him you’ve draped across it.
“It’s just loungewear.” You try to defend yourself, but Kaiser’s expression seems to darken even more. Strings of critique pour out of his mouth, the colours are too saturated, the stitching is sloppy, and his beloved partner wearing something so blasphemous is single-handedly tanking his market value. Twisting your body to face Kaiser, your back no longer against the couch and the back of your shirt now visible from overhead, you make an unforgivable mistake of accidentally revealing the jersey’s back design. Unfortunately, Kaiser’s eyes immediately flicker from your face to the tiny teaser of the jersey’s back design.
“Turn around.” He commands.
You blink up at him obliviously, completely forgetting what’s on the back, and slowly turn around. Kaiser’s darkened expression transitions into a full-on scowl. Hey, at least his name is spelled correctly! But, worst of all, the number on the back is completely, utterly, and blasphemously wrong!
“Yeah, that’s a hate crime,” Kaiser announces like an upset child, like you’ve spat on his cleats and kissed Ness on the mouth. Both of you go quiet, a clock robotically ticking with the same predictable intervals of silence between each tick.
“Do you hate me?” Kaiser’s voice breaks the silence.
“What?”
“Just, you know, inquiring. Because clearly you must’ve concluded, ‘Hey, wow I love my boyfriend, let me wear a knock-off version of his jersey that looks like his jersey and Ness’s had a one-night stand.’ His voice speeds and slows within his little rant, a tinge of sarcasm woven into his speech.
You crane your neck to glance over your shoulder. “What? It still says ‘Kaiser.’
Hearing Kaiser’s deep breath—a sign he’s going to go on a tangent—you turn your body to face him again.
“Nah, no, nah, it’s cool. You’d rather rep for mid-tier, mediocre footballers rather than your boyfriend. It’s fine, really. Just go parading around in our house wearing Ness’s number. Just wear his number, you want me to get him to sign this cute little abomination of a shirt?” His hand softly tugs at your shirt, his eyes forcing eye contact. Kaiser’s hand is big, the kind of hand that once wrapped around your hand makes yours disappear.
“Maybe even snap a picture together? Frame it above our bed?” Kaiser finishes his accusation of your disloyalty by turning his back on you dramatically, muttering something about betrayal and fake fans. His head shakes like he’s been widowed and is genuinely heartbroken—even though he’s very obviously not.
“Are you… Jealous?” The question pops out, your head slightly tilted while waiting in anticipation for Kaiser’s response. Kaiser stops mid-pace, subtly(not really) glancing over his shoulder to look at you. “If I said yes, would you take it off?”
synopsis going to sae's soccer game and coming across a stall selling u20 merch and you cave and end up buying merchandise of sae’s japan u20 uniform
a/n i saw some guy wearing messi’s shirt or wtv and felt inspired to write this—also should i do this scenario w other bllk charas idk,,,,
tags established relationship, fluff, gender neutral reader, sae thinks u cant handle ur finances idk, bf privileges™, banter, idk how to tag ts ngl, i dont play soccer idk if the stuff i said here is correct, not proof read :3, 0.9k wc
Blinding stadium lights beat down on you. The moon hung low above the chaos. A plethora of fans from both teams surged through the exterior of the stadium—on their way into the gates—looking like a spilled colorful bowl of cereal, but instead of Fruit Loops, it was overly patriotic merchandise-wearing fans. Colours of Japan’s U20 team and the team they were facing’s scarves and jerseys which were a dizzying blend of colours. Like a salmon swimming upstream, you weaved through the crowd. Jeez, who knew Sae actually wasn’t lying when he said games at night were prime time and the most popular. The environment buzzed with anticipation, and the voices of vendors blended together as they shouted over one another.
The smell of meat and fried foods clung to the air from the multitude of food stalls lining the stadium’s exterior. Long sticks of twirled potato perched on tables, fried to a golden brown that almost made you forget you were attending a soccer game in the first place. Alongside the food stalls and glistening kebabs were vendors selling unofficial and, dare I say, bootleg merch. If you squinted, you could catch sight of a player’s name stitched slightly crooked across the back, the number was right, but the font? All wrong! You suppressed a chuckle threatening to bubble and slip past your lips. Lingering in the same spot, your eyes darted between big signs signaling which gate was where. Like a meerkat, you awkwardly rose onto your tippy toes to get a better view and navigate your way into the gate your ticket had told you. You didn’t even know what was happening. Has the game started? Were you late? Your phone buzzed against your skin through the fabric of your clothes, a soft, urgent thrum that made you jump slightly—a message from Sae.
“Just head to Gate C. Don’t get lost.”
You blinked back at the glowing screen. Sounds simple enough. If only the sea of illuminated signs overhead agreed! You swallowed and pushed forward, slipping between a cluster of enthusiastic fans decked out in bright jerseys. You slowed by one of the street stalls just before the gates—half out of curiosity, half because the vendor shoved a jersey ( specifically Sae’s jersey ) into your face and you'd feel guilty backing out now. Your eyes raked over the merch, it was a white shirt with a red collar and accented with black streaks.
“Two thousand yen! Limited edition!” The vendor said. It looked… fine. A little too red and off colour from the actual jersey. Sae’s name was stitched slightly crooked on the back, and the embroidery was already fuzzing at the edges. You hesitated.
The vendor shoved it closer.
You caved.
Two crumpled bills later, you had it carefully folded in your bag. You told yourself it was ironic, that you had an unofficial replica of Sae’s jersey when you could’ve very much just bought an official one or borrowed Sae’s.
After the game, the stadium lights faded behind you as you and Sae made your way home, the ring of the press and shuttering of the paparazzi chasing after Sae as he left the locker room echoed in your ears. His magenta locks were still damp from showering in the locker room, the silver moonlight sparkling on his slightly irritated face. A muscular hand snaked around your waist, securely dragging you away from the flashing lights, knowing how the press eats up anything about Sae’s love life. Once you two got home, you stood behind Sae’s broad and muscular body, watching him unlock the door to your shared penthouse suite. The lock clicked open, and the door emitted a soft creak. Stepping inside, you were greeted with the familiar ceiling-to-floor panoramic city views and high-end materials of the furniture, such as marbled countertops and stainless steel appliances. Sae flicked the lights, allowing for a slightly golden-tinted white glow to lighten the living room.
Your eyes watch Sae put down his sports bag, which reminds you of your bag and the little item you have folded neatly inside. Taking out the satin-feeling shirt, you proudly—and smugly- hold the shirt by the shoulders and wave it in front of Sae. He eyes the jersey, a mixture of curiosity and amusement glimmering in his turquoise orbs.
“What the hell is that.” He gestures to the jersey with an expression that could only be described as a mix of deadpan and shocked.
“Don’t you recognise it?” You laugh, taunting him by shoving the jersey closer in Sae’s face, resembling a certain vendor.
“Oh, I recognise it alright.” Sae squints at the jersey, noticing it’s not official merch and is just utterly confused why you bought it in the first place. Isn’t he wearing the original of his jersey that you could’ve asked for? Why’d you go out and buy a replica that disgustingly does the Japan U20’s team’s uniform no justice?
“Why’d you buy a replica when you could’ve just asked to borrow mine?”
“Yours smells like locker room and ego. ” You retorted. “Plus, I can’t show love to my boyfriend?”
“It looks like cheap polyester.” Sae rolls his eyes, but he can’t help but feel a little flattered.
“Oh, lighten up! It’s the thought that counts, right?” You raise the shirt higher, a proud smile on your face as you admire your purchase. Sae has to look away; you think he’s doing it out of disgust, but in reality, he’s overwhelmed with emotion because the whole scene is just too wholesome for his heart to handle.
“Just… Just wear mine.” Sae huffs, taking off his jersey and tossing it to you, his hand quickly going to snatch the unofficial replica out of your reach. Since his jersey was off, you couldn’t help but stare at his bare torso. With the jersey—smelling like Sae’s cologne and fresh sweat—in your arms, you transfer it to your right hand and cross your arms.
“Happy now?” You groan.
“Yup.”
Sae leans in, his lips brushing against yours.
if furina didn’t exist then sae would’ve been the theme of my blog
synopsis ayato has no patience for the endless stream of noble ladies contesting for his hand, but when his retainer asks about his type—after sifting through files of betrothal applicants—his answer sounds suspiciously like… them.
a/n it’s 2am, ill check over when i wake up again (i wont)
tags retainer reader, gender neutral reader, retainer/master dynamic, domestic fluff? 2nd person pov, indirect proposal, kinda oblivious reader, not proof read,,, (when do i ever proof read my stuff), i try to not describe the reader to keep stuff as inclusive as possible but there's some info abt reader and ayato's history, use of 'lord' when addressing ayato
Chimes sparkled against each other, harmonizing with the crickets within the empty night. A dim yellow light illuminated the room, evoking a more homely atmosphere. Your fingers grazed over files containing detailed information about betrothal applicants for Ayato. It's already been drilled into your head countless times by the elders: Ayato must get married and have heirs. As his retainer, you should make the betrothal effort easier. But recently, Ayato replies apathetically—disgusted, even—at any betrothal applicant. Even the ones where you sacrificed your time to sift through the massive pile of files, because you thought they would’ve been compatible. You’re half-asleep over applicant dossiers, still trying to comprehend the walls of text on each applicant despite your sleepy state. Ayato was currently absent from the Kamisato Estate, having dinner with one of the betrothal applicants you suggested he speak to. Soon, waves of sleep floated over you, providing temporary relief until your head fell from your hand and you jolted awake again. An exasperated sigh left your mouth. You buried your face in your hands as the short arm of the clock clicked and landed on where the clock says 10.
Your eyes closed. Your body now jumped in between consciousness and micro-sleeps. In the midst of your nap, the sound of footsteps—Ayato’s footsteps—jerked you awake. He’s back early from his date. Soon enough, Ayato’s silhouette emerged with a blurred outline behind the paper of the Japanese sliding door. Instinctively, you shot up to grab the nearby tea and began preparing tea for both you and Ayato. Even though retainers pour tea out of respect for their employer, you needed this tea too. The door slid open smoothly. Ayato’s purplish-blue eyes locked with yours, his lips curving up into a smile as a greeting. Despite the smile, irritation was clear in his furrowed brows. Ayato lowered himself onto the tatami mat. A simple, wooden table separated the two of you. You handled the warm tea kettle with the precision of a well-experienced retainer. The only sound in the room was the gentle flow of the kabusecha tea. With your eyes focused on the green-tinted liquid, you opened the conversation by inquiring about the date Ayato had just returned from. “How was your date? The one with the betrothal applicant I sent you on, I knew she would be a good pi—“
“It was horrible.”
Ayato's irritation instantly fades as he hears your voice. Your presence was a welcome distraction from the awful date he had returned from. You don't respond immediately, the conversation has faltered, words clipped short, leaving gaps that echo louder than speech. Your lips subtly pulled downwards, you really thought this woman could've been compatible for Ayato!
"How so?"
Is all you manage to say. Your fingers nimbly pushed a cup of tea—which was sitting on a coaster—towards Ayato. Ayato's expression softened at your frown; something stirred within him at the sight of the disappointed gleam in your eyes. He hated seeing you sad. A grumble slipped out of Ayato. Ayato took the cup of tea from the coaster and took a sip before responding. "How do I begin? She only wanted the prestige of being the 'Yashiro Commissioner’s wife' and was so incompetent. I don’t have patience for people who want the title and not the responsibility that comes with it. I need someone who'll be able to handle the household or political matters competently."
Ayato bristles as he remembers the date and the woman, the distaste and venom evident in his voice. You took a deep breath and responded. "I think you might have some unrealistic expectations surrounding potential wives, Lord Ayato."
"Unrealistic expectations? Please, have you considered that they are the problem, not me? I have high standards for a reason. I refuse to settle for anything less than perfection."
"What do you deem perfect then?"
Ayato hesitates for a moment, his mind going through a list of traits that he deems perfect. "Someone who is loyal, supportive, and intelligent. Someone who isn’t too noisy or annoying. Someone who knows how to take care of me and work collaboratively to keep a household running. Someone who can keep up with my lifestyle.” He lists off the traits as if reading off a checklist, his expression neutral.
"It kind of seems you want a second retainer as a wife." You comment.
"Maybe I do, what of it? I want a wife who is competent and efficient. Someone who is loyal and listens. It just so happens that you fit those qualities perfectly." Ayato remarked, like he was discussing something as trivial as the weather. His hands were clasped around the cup of tea, gently rocking the cup in a circular motion, swirling the liquid inside. "If you think about it, it makes sense, really—you and I are already basically married. You already cook for me, take care of me, listen to me. Hell, you even put up with my shitty personality and temper and still stick around. You’re the first and last person I see when I wake up in the morning and before I sleep at night.”
You could still remember the first night Ayato had ordered you to sleep in his room. You both were in your late teens, old enough to understand the oddity, yet Ayato claimed it was “more efficient” for their proximity. At first, you thought it was a temporary whim, but the habit had never broken. Even as adults now, Ayato never seemed to see the strangeness of sharing a bed with his retainer—if anything, he treated it as natural, inevitable. And though you had long since stopped questioning it, a small, uneasy part of you sometimes wondered if efficiency had ever been the real reason.
Ayato leans forward in his seat, his gaze never leaving her. He watches her every reaction, noting the subtle changes in her face. He continues, "All that is missing is a ring on that finger of yours and a kid or two. We’re basically a married couple without the papers. It makes sense for me to wed you. It'd be easy. Convenient for both of us, and honestly... I’d get to make you mine, officially."
"Pardon?" Your head tilted at his statement.
Ayato's eyes widened as he realized the string of words that had involuntarily slipped out of his mouth, and his eyes widened slightly. He didn’t mean to say any of that out loud. Immediately, Ayato regains his composure, clearing his throat by a fist elegantly covering his mouth. "Nothing. Forget I said anything.” He mutters gruffly, gaze moving elsewhere.
i goon to ayato but no one will know cus ts is at the bottom of the fanfic
