i wish you love

Sakusa Kiyoomi who’s not so subtly obsessed with his girlfriend.

It all started lowkey, back when he just went pro and questions about the life of a promising player piled on to him, the clip of one of his first ever interview that happened off-court, and not in a conference room when they were all still covered in sweat and trying to breathe evenly, is still circling social media, the interviewer went with the anticipated question, “fans wish to know if there’s someone special outside the gyms, perhaps a partner?” to which Kiyoomi only nodded with the same level of sternness he carried during a match point.

Overtime it seemed to become much easier to let others in, he still appreciated privacy, but to know that people loved seeing him break out a grin whenever mentioning you after a good game was priceless. It was one time after an away game in Malaysia that they’d won in just two sets, he was approached by local reporters, swarming him with questions but one in particular stood out for him. So when he was asked “what do you miss about Japan?” he didn’t hold back the smile, instead leaning closer to the microphone and bluntly saying “my partner”.

Kiyoomi had already prepared for the worst when faced with the fame that’d come alongside success, he’d seen it happen before, the gossip and tabloids, people breaking up or even getting a divorce over others’ opinion, but seeing the feedback from his supporters each time a new photo of both of you walking around Osaka or visiting his family in Tokyo popped out only encouraged him to share you with the world further.

Eventually he had a whole highlight dedicated to photos of you in his instagram profile, stories piled up each year, sometimes domestic, candid ones where you’d be making cocoa or simply rearranging and cleaning his memorabilia that Sakusa had earned throughout his career, or less private moments of you walking around the streets of Rome when he took you with him to the training camp, moments from all across the world with you beside him.

It’s all gotten to the point where people recognise you in the stands when the Black Jackals are playing, some of Kiyoomi’s fans had even asked for a photo whenever you were wearing the jersey or jacket with his number.

One time on Valentine’s Day Kiyoomi had posted a photo of you sprawled out on your shared bed, hand on your heart and phone almost up your nose with a caption saying “sleeping through the special day”. He deleted it not even ten minutes later, but of course people had already screenshot it plenty of times, to this day remembering the random exposure that was gone in record time.

he mourned, of course. harder than he had ever mourned any other lover he had ever entertained.

it was fifty years later before he saw you again. a baker's daughter, softer around the waist, with the same laugh you've always had. of course, you had no memory of your past life, but you fell into loving him like it was habit.

that death was the hardest.

Heat took you once again, this time in the form of fire. the bakery's flame caught your skirt and you along with it. by the time you were saved, it was too late. the final days of your life were spent in horrible pain, crying and screaming and begging for death. by the time it came, it felt overdue.

the cycle kept repeating. the two of you would meet and within five years, you would die. illness and childbirth and a stray bullet from war; even in the lives he tried to avoid you, tragedy would follow. once, you had married another man, only for him kill you within the month.

"You've got-" He tugs the laces of your boots, your foot stepping up on his thigh. He loves kneeling over like this, at your feet. it reminds him of the very short life you had as a princess. "To tie your shoes better."

"What's gotten into you?" you laugh. "I'm not made of glass."

He lets you pull away, sitting back on to his heels. It's amazing how little your face has changed over all of your lives, how you still look the way you did when he first laid eyes on you, just with more lines around your smile. This is the oldest you've ever been-- and maybe ever will be. "Are you sure? I could swaddle you in bubble wrap, just to be safe."

You roll your eyes with a smile. "Sure, I'll just walk around the office covered in bubblewrap. My boss will love that."

The itch in his head gets stronger.

"Why don't you stay home for work today?" His hand runs up your leg, more appreciative than sexual. "Spend the day with me."

He leans forward and presses his head into your thigh, the way you've always been weak for. Your hands immediately find his hair and scratch his scalp, your body's tension giving in just a bit.

"Well..."

"Please." He's not really speaking to you. "Just give me one day."

You give in gently.

"Anything for you."

.

It happens three hours later.

You're laughing, pulling your shirt back on post sex. Lately, you've been insatiable and he knows why.

"I'm just saying-" you muse. "we're stable, we're in love. I'm just waiting for the ring."

He knows. He still has your original ring, the one he always takes from your finger before burying you.

"I'm not getting any younger. I wanna have babies and t-"

Your eyes shift a bit. It's subtle, until you make this garbled sound, not quite a word at all, like your tongue has disconnected from your brain.

Before he can get up, you're on the ground. Just like always, you're give into death gently.

The beat of your heart is gone before he can even call for help. By the time the EMTs arrive, you're cold. They cover you with a blanket, like it saves your diginity as you wheel you out of the apartment building. He cries, just like he always does, when the doctors tell him it was an aneurysm, that nothing could have saved you.

"Why do you curse me like this?"

The voice tastes of forgotten pine, a species now lost. "Why do you speak in tongues I do not know?"

The language should be dead, but it rolls off his tongue as easily as it did back then. No written word, no official name in the modern tongue: a secret between him and the monster he's bonded to.

"You take her from me, life after life." He never ages, but he feels young again, angry, reckless. "You lied to me when you promised a painless life. You lied when you promised no one else would die."

The wind howls with insult. There's a moment where he can feel it there, hunched and hovering above his shoulder, maw gaped and empty.

"The only lie is the one you tell yourself."

It's gone again, nothing but a whispering voice on the breeze. Without worshippers, it no longer holds much power. Without him, it would fade into nothing, just like the other forgotten gods.

"I know your mind does not fail you. You remember your first meeting with the girl."

"In the summer fields."

"Ach. Your lie." It growls its words. "That was her second life."

He has no answer to that. No, he had met you in the fields, right after the grain had sprouted. The memory is his prized possession.

"You play your tricks again."

"You truly forget the face of the woman you sacrificed in my name?" The hiss runs a chill up his spine. "The one who you killed with your own hands? The one who's blood you drank to live for all eternity?"

Blood is always the price. He had taken a woman from the neighboring village, covered her face in cloth so he could not see the tragedy he was committing. The ritual was long, grueling, and the girl had almost died too soon multiple times, but she fought to live, fought against his hand-

"No." Those screams. Were they yours? "That's- no."

"You had chosen her to die, so you may live."

His stomach turns as he remembers the taste of your blood on his lips, the metal aftertaste as you fought with the last ounce of life-

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