KITTYKAISER WORLDOMINATION

"You're not wearing my jersey."

That's the first thing he says upon seeing you.

No 'hi', no 'hello', no 'how are you'. Just a quiet observation said with no visible emotion. The lack of which had you squirm in place under his pointed gaze.

"Uh, yeah…" Your voice wavers as you avoid the way his dull eyes rake over your figure, staring you down like he's trying to undress you of the opposing team's jersey you're sporting.

"I'm supporting my country today…" You jut your lip out, hoping to quell his feelings of betrayal with your honest reasoning. "Does that… does that bother you?"

"…Well, I can't deny that I'm a little hurt." Bunny admits after another silent stare off, sighing softly when your pout came into view.

"Oh." Guilt consumes you in an instant at his confession. The sight of the six foot four athlete sulking at your lack of support responsible for the way your heart clenched with regret. "Bunny, I—"

"But you're free to support who you wish." Noticing your remorse, Bunny is quick to console your worries, bringing a large hand over your head to pet it. "I won't force my wishes on you."

"Really?!" You perk up immediately, the tension in your shoulder easing with relief from his gentle comfort.

"Yeah." He smiles so sweetly, eyes curving with something unreadable as he tucked the loose strands of your hair behind your ear. "Though if I score, can I ask that you at least cheer for me?"

"Of course, I promise!"

They're words you say absentmindedly.

Careless words that you come to quickly regret when you realise what exactly Bunny's harmless request from earlier entailed.

"SUPER GOLAZOOOO!"

"AND BUNNY IGLESIAS HAS DONE IT AGAIN! IT'S 3-0 TO SPAIN, A HAT-TRICK FROM THE YOUNG AND RISING STAR!!!"

Cheers erupt amongst the Spanish fans following Bunny's impressive goal. Cheering that you're supposed to be involved in— that you promised to take part in. Cheering that you just can't bring yourself to do no matter how hard you try.

Because how the hell are you meant to celebrate the utter humiliation your team faces at the hands of a single player?

You can't do that!

Even if you were held at gunpoint, you can't just abandon your team like that!

And thus, you're left with no choice but to break your promise to Bunny. A cold-blooded betrayal that you pray — with intertwined hands and growing anxiety — he doesn't notice.

But, alas, your effort is futile, and your invocations are unanswered. For the athlete has only one thought running across his mind right now, celebrating his goal with you.

Bunny's gaze sweeps over the stands with ease, intense eyes landing on you amidst the crowd as a look of anticipation overcame him. He stands there on the field, breathing hard and sweating from exertion as he waits for your approval. Something that doesn't come— the lack of which dulls the hopeful glint in his eyes.

You see it almost immediately, and while the sight of his hunched shoulders has your heart contort with unease, you still can't bring yourself to applaud him.

Bunny stares at you for a while longer, perhaps hoping you'd change your mind last minute, before he lets out a self-deprecating smile when you remain unmoved. Bringing a scarred hand to the lower half of his face, his deep eyes lingered on you for one final moment as he blew you another kiss.

Sweet affection that you've yet to return. Not when there's nothing sweet behind that mocking gesture of his.

The game continues in Spain's favour. Bunny's momentum is unstoppable as he humiliates your team even further. Something you aren't aware is possible until you see the way he absolutely dominates them. Breaking through their tight defence to score another two goals that send the crowd into a fit of bewildered cheers— noise that you pay no mind to, not when you’re too focused on the conversation behind you.

"Every time he scores, he blows an air kiss in this direction, right?"

"Yeah! I noticed that too!"

"But to who? Nobody's returning any of them?"

Don't tell me—!

Your complexion pales as you find Bunny down below on the field, eyes already fixed onto you, expectant as they wait for you to return the celebratory kiss he blew to you not too long ago.

That he-

After five consecutive goals, it finally hits you.

Bunny has not forgotten your promise of cheering.

And because he is cruel and petty, finding twisted enjoyment in your torment, he has no plans to stop scoring until you return his kisses.

Shit!

You have no words to express your shock, you can't even form a single thought at his wickedness— evil that makes the devil saintly in comparison.

The commentator speaks again, excitement woven in his voice as he broadcasts his unhinged theories. Of this game potentially being the first double hattrick of the year, a notion that strikes you with terror.

Your worst fears manifest in the way Bunny concentres, and you quickly realise that if you don't do anything about it now, this match will go down in history for being a total annihilation!

"Excuse me!"

You weave through the crowd with ease, apologising to the few that you bump into as you make your way down the stands and closer to the barrier separating you from the players.

It doesn't take long for you to locate Bunny, he's across the field, fixed intensely on the ball that his teammate dribbles past the defending line. Any seconds now and Spain can score another goal— another goal that you were not going to allow. Not if you could help it.

Cupping the sides of your mouth, you swallow whatever pride you have left and gather air in your lungs.

"Bunny!"

It's humiliating.

"That's my Bun-Bun!"

So fucking humiliating.

But what else can you do when Bunny is the cruel and unforgiving man that he is?

Your cheering, if you can even call it that given how pathetic it sounds, catches Bunny's attention in an instant. It's something he's been waiting for afterall, and it stops him dead in his tracks. The encouragement resembles a whistle, one has him perk up like an excited puppy as he rushed to find you in the crowd. An endeavour that is terribly effortless when he spots you immediately.

He stares up at you for a good moment, eyes tracing the reluctance in your expression before they fall on your figure, clad in the wrong team's jersey. A distasteful sight that has his jaw clench in tandem. His irritation grows, and Bunny finds himself helpless against his possessiveness — a trait you were always at odds with.

So, like any normal man, he grabs the end of his jersey, pulling the sweat soaked garment over his head and positioning it right in your direction with intent. You blink with utter disbelief, missing the way he throws it at you with perfect aim.

"I won't force you to put it on. It's your choice."

Choice, my ass.

You had no choice in the matter at hand!

The jersey smacks you right across the face, snapping you into immediate motion. You fumble with it at first, arms going in the wrong holes in your haste as you struggle pathetically to pull it over your head. But somehow, at mercy of a miracle, you've managed to put it on.

The collar's crooked and it clings to you uncomfortably. Drenched with sweat that you have no choice but to dismiss, and as if that isn't bad enough, the shirt's on backwards. His name is displayed over your chest like a label of possession, an honest mistake that does you more good than you realise.

The referee's whistle blows in the back, and a yellow card is administered for nudity. But Bunny decides, after taking one long look at your figure engulfed in his large jersey, that it's worth it.

He tests his luck once more, repeatedly pressing his finger against his bare chest, as if conveying a message only you would understand. And to his utter delight, you, weak to his cruelty, are quick on the uptake.

Your ears grow flushed with unbearable heat, but there's no time to revel in your embarrassment, not when the pride of your national team is on line here.

So with trembling fingers, you grab the wrong front of his jersey, pulling it close to your lips as you press a chaste kiss on the fabric bearing his name in bold.

Your eyes are shut close as you send him your indirect affections, utterly humiliated with the sudden turn of events that has you squirm at the mercy of your opponent. The moment you open them, it's no better either. If anything, you come to regret your existence entirely.

Bunny's amused expression enters your vision first, followed by a sickening gesture that has your stomach twist with shame. He holds both hands to his temple, extending his middle and index fingers up while the rest remained down, mimicking the appearance of bunny.

And while the sight of it is barely anything to blink at, with the way his simper grows as he curls his fingers encouragingly, you know better than turn a blind eye to it.

This is just— cruel..!

Fluster glows across your cheeks as you bring your hands over your temple to mirror the awful gesture. It travels across every sensitive nerve, weakening the strength in your knees as your heart stuttered to a flatline.

And just when you think the humiliation ritual has come to an end, laughter greets your ears at once — mirthful and completely entertained at the sight of your torment, one that could only belong to the cruel man that loved to play in your face — shattering whatever blissful delusion you've conjured up in your despair.

Bunny motions with his hands again, bringing one over his face like he'd done the previous other times, a telling movement that had your heart claw at your throat. His fingers lingered above his lips longer than usual, and after a thoughtful pause spent staring you down, Bunny blows you another kiss.

Your brain short circuits, and while your pride wants to resist his love, your arm extends towards him against your will. Hand sprawling out, you made a melodramatic show of catching the air kiss.

Bunny's eyes are wide when they find yours, bright and glittering with elation as he stands there, very clearly awaiting for more. And you give him exactly that. Even if the mortification kills you, you have no choice but to humour him. Who knows what he'll do if you remain stubborn in your refusal.

You heave a shaky sigh, lifting a trembling palm to your face as you press his non-tangible kiss against your lips, finally returning the affection he craved desperately for.

His coach yells something from afar, perhaps telling him to stop messing about and play the last few minutes of the game seriously, but Bunny only waves him off with a crooked grin, too focused on the precious sight of his jersey engulfing you with his name.

"If I exert myself more than I have already…" He can hardly face the man as he comes up with another pathetic excuse, unreasonably enamoured with the way your eyes scrunched shut in fluster after blowing him a kiss of your own.

"I won't have any stamina left to celebrate with my cute cheerleader."

got this idea from dembele-kun scoring on his wife's team and blowing her a kiss, and then i couldn't even mourn france's loss against spain bc i discovered i might have a humiliation kink (only works with bunny tho if ygm) 😂😂😂✌️✌️😔

It started off as a harmless question in one of your passing conversations, as the manager and only girl in blue lock, Shidou wondered if you ever received special treatment because of it.

And you replied truthfully, that no, as the manager and only girl in blue lock, you did not receive any special treatment. It was a common misconception some of the players had of you, that just because you frequently handled the ‘motivational rewards’, you were apparently also receiving them and in abundance at that.

So, Shidou being the enigma that he was, proposed an idea. You could only brace yourself for this self-proclaimed great idea of his. Anything that was great in Shidou’s books was probably the equivalent of a med student mixing red bull with coffee and garnishing the cardiac-arresting concoction with pre-workout to pull consequent all nighters.

Simply not the greatest.

Nonetheless, quiet little you, who was so obviously a textbook pushover, couldn’t refuse his offer to modern day hunger games. Not when he grinned so widely and satisfied, as if his invitation to play UNO with the rest of the captains to decide who would have the mont blancs was actually a great idea when clearly it was anything but!

Yeah, you knew it was a bad idea. But even if Shidou was a big idiot for thinking his idea was a great idea, you were an even bigger idiot for going along with his stupid idea. So being a self-aware victim of his guileful whims, you really had no one but yourself to blame for this.

Dammit! Fuck! DAMMIT! Argh—! WHY did I say yes?! I’m so stupid!

Despite your internal turmoil, you tried to remain externally calm. A pathetic facade to avoid being teased by Karasu and Otoya who seemed to both love taking turns poking fun at you whenever the chance arose. You also made sure to avoid all eye-contact with the brunette beside you, despite the amicable smiles that Yukimiya usually sported, you were convinced his eyes seemed to always glint with amusement at other’s misfortunes. Nagi fortunately was preoccupied with whatever was on his phone and Rin was too busy arguing with Shidou about allowing this game of UNO to happen.

Seeing the argument play out, you tried, your really did, to appear invisible, hoping that you could skedaddle out of this suffocating room. But to your misfortune, your fidgety fingers beneath the round table didn’t go unnoticed by the bespectacled bastard beside you. Wasn’t he supposed to have a visual impairment?!

“Hey Y/n,” he drawled out your name, the tone of his voice paired with this familiar sickening smirk that gnawed at your stomach. Your mouth pooled with excess saliva as you tried to anticipate what schemes he was conjuring up now. “Do you… seriously think that Rin-kun is scared of losing just because he’s refusing to play? That’s a strong conclusion you’ve drawn.”

“….”

Silence ensued following the bullshit he spouted, and your heart? Your heart was racketing against your ribs. Without them you were certain your heart would have flew into oblivion. You swiftly closed your eyes to avoid seeing Rin’s furious expression that would most definitely be aimed at you.

Yukimiya was playing a very dangerous game here. Actively trying to ragebait Rin into submission had a ninety-nine percent change of success, but with the success of having ragebaited Rin came the consequence of being a serious threat on his blacklist.

And the damn bastard, after all the shit you did for him, just had to wrongfully throw you under the bus, didn’t he?

A smile of acceptance softly grew on your face, completely overlooking the other four stages of grief. You weren’t a fool. The slim chance of escape that you had was mercilessly crushed and reduced to a big fat zero. In fact, it was more accurate to say the chances were now in the negatives.

“The hell did you say, you damn bastard?!”

And now he’s calling you a bastard.

“I’ll fucking kill you!”

And would you look at that? The one that posed the least threat in coercing you to play UNO was now the one threatening to decimate you. Yay! Well, isn’t this just the greatest thing you’ve achieved since beginning to work in this cursed establishment. A lobotomy performed by yours truly, Itoshi Rin!

Was there even a point trying to defend yourself when he seemed a little too eager to pounce you into oblivion?

“Relax, Rin.” Karasu coaxed casually, holding the feral boy back in a rather firm grip. Your heart leaped with joy at his thoughtfulness, though your relief was only short-lived. For the next words that came out his mouth urged you to make a mental note of whose breakfast needed to be spiked with laxatives. “Y/n just wants to have fun. Don’t you, Y/n?”

Whether Shidou noticed you curling in on yourself with misery or not, the previous curses that you inwardly— never outwardly — threw his way grew tenfold with his provocation.

“Just say you’re scared to lose, Rin-Rin~!”

Hands flying to your tied hair, you had half a mind to tug at the roots and pluck them clean from your scalp in frustration. Shit! You were suffering through all this hassle because you decided to finally give into Shidou and entertain his stupidity. THIS IS ALL HIS DAMN FAULT! Even if you force fed the freak laxatives as punishment, he’d take it in good light with his stupid smirk and repay your efforts by exploding the toilet with his fucking parasite infested explosive diarrhoea— and knowing Ego, you most likely would be the one tasked to scrub that porcelain clean.

“Tch! Give me the damn cards!” Falling pray to Shidou’s instigation, Rin’s strained voice snapped you out of your brooding. The gloomy boy was too competitive for his own good, and now, he was foolishly signing up to a humiliation ritual.

On second thoughts, maybe you could sneak in a plate or two of yukhoe for Shidou who was currently giving you a thumbs up and a grin that reached his ears. Your brows briefly twitched at his damn audacity, unaware of the pointed stare Rin gave you. Wait… wasn’t Shidou the one responsible for this in the first place…?

Alas, that was about the simplified rundown of what led up to your current situation.

The dreadful card game begun despite your quiet reluctance, and just as you feared, the game intensified. You were all playing UNO with your lives on the line. The company that created the card game may very well sue you all for malpractice with the way they kept coming up with new rules that were beyond absurd. And somehow, these ‘new rules’ all felt a little targeted towards you.

For goodness sake, what UNO game ever had a rule where players shuffle their positions in the circle mid-game to make it ‘more fair’?

Make ‘more fair’ your fucking ass. It was clear they all liked taking turns taunting you, watching you squirm with that frazzled expression you often wore was something they amused themselves with. The captains threw all sorts of trials and tribulations your way in the form of placing plus cards, UNO reverses and skip turns when you were the next in line to play. Even Nagi who was originally spent from the day’s training was taking part in causing your misery with a concealed smirk. The only one that seemed to be suffering just as much as you was Rin, and fortunately for you, he was too busy worrying about himself to be taunting you.

But despite their mobbing against you and Rin, despite their attempts to crush you both, higher power seemed to be on your side. Because you were the only one with two cards left, and right now, it was your turn to place your card down.

“UNO…!” You placed your second to last down, a red reverse card, making clear effect to avoid Rin’s gaze before nervously glanced around your opponents that watched you with owlish eyes. As if the mere thought of you being the closest to winning was as believable as Ego taking a shower. Practically unbelievable.

“Ooo~! Nice one manager-chan!” Shidou was quick to compliment you, you wondered if he did it because he was genuinely impressed with how you were the first one to be closest to winning or if it was because you reversed the round before Rin could get his turn. Seeing Shidou then point and laugh at Rin helped you determine it was the latter case.

“This helps.” Yukimiya did that acid-reflex inducing smile again, one that told you he was up to no good. You watched him place a plus two red card down, and with a jittery expression you watched Otoya blankly stare at his cards and the new addition in the middle pile, not a single sign of anxiety visible on his face before placing down a plus four card.

“Green.”

Your heart hiccuped with guilt for Karasu. But much to your chagrin, he only smirked before placing down a plus two green. ARGH! WHAT WERE THE CHANCES HE HAD A PLUS TWO GREEN?!

“Nice try, buddy.”

Turning towards Nagi, you faintly gulped to see what kind of expression of despair he would sport, but his face barely twitched an inch. Instead, he casually pulled out multiple cards, no one, not two, not even three— but four fucking plus two cards! FOUR??!

“UNO.” He muttered casually before going back to closing his eyes in fatigue. Of course Nagi wouldn’t have lost, he was as golden as lucky got!

Your eyes comically bulged out of their sockets, that was sixteen cards that needed to be drawn! And it seemed Shidou was the unfortunate soul that would be receiving the short end of the stick. Though you debated feeling bad for him, he was the one responsible for your current predicament after all. Perhaps drawing sixteen cards would be enough of a punishment for him.

But you should’ve known better than celebrating too early. Shidou was as wild as one could get. So him having THE wild card of all wild cards in the set— the one that allowed you to create any rule you wanted — should’ve been something you had to have fore sought.

“PLUS 30!” Shidou grinned wildly, slapping the card down on top of the messy pile with more force than necessary, an indirect taunt you deduced from the gleam of malice in his eyes that narrowed at Rin. “I’d do plus 50, but there ain’t enough cards for that, lucky you. And I pick red!”

“Tch.” Rin merely kissed his teeth under his breath, seemingly unbothered with Shidou’s play. The action urged you to instinctively glance down at his deck of cards. You blinked with dotted eyes as he reflexively reached for a plus four. A damn fucking plus four wild card. Loud and obnoxious, it glared at you with mockery. Your stomach sank with realisation.

The victory that you envisioned was abruptly replaced with your loss. Fuck! This was why you didn’t want to play. You hated playing games because that meant losing was a possibility. Once you lost, you’d have to make the walk of shame back to your room, with embarrassment and no desserts. Biting your bottom lip with apprehension, your eyes unwillingly welled with tears. You were competitive, you hated losing, you were a pushover, and most of all, you were… a crybaby. “Oh…”

The sound of your watery voice caught Rin’s elusive attention, his eyes moved with offended celerity at your nosey behaviour. “Stop looking at my damn car—“

“I’m sorry! You can see mine…!” You interrupted him with a sniffle, and his eyes widened when you really did try to show him your card.

Rin’s heart hiccuped and his throat closed up seeing your big, round, glassy eyes fill with unshed tears. Your shaky voice and slumped shoulders along with your trembling lips all sent warning bells ringing in his head. You— you were going to cry!

His brows twitched at your stupidly sad expression, a deep flush of heat burnt the tips of his ears cherry red as he audibly gulped the excess saliva that pooled in his mouth. Fucking damn it! The grip his fingers had on the plus four card loosened, and rather than counting the correct number of cards he was supposed to draw (forty-six cards), he snatched the whole damn fucking pile instead. “I don’t want to see your damn card!”

And if Rin’s self-sacrifice wasn’t flabbergasting enough, the next card he placed down had you reeling with disbelief. A colour changing wildcard! The card itself wasn’t the strangest part, it was the colour he chose. “Green… I pick green.”

Green! Blinking back your tears, you mulled over the fact that your last card was a green nine. With one last, final, phlegmy sniffle, your hands shakily placed your last card down before they went to wipe your tears. “I won..”

And thus, the card game eventually drew its end. One last showdown between Rin and Shidou, and it wasn’t so hard to guess who lost. Rin lost his chance of victory the moment he let you win.

“Okay, here ya go.” Karasu, the most levelheaded of the group, announced as he gave everybody their share of mont blancs.

“Damn! It looks good!” Shidou flaunted the plate with a knowing smirk. Rin caught onto his taunt and opted to express his exasperation with a silent tut.

“I can’t believe he let himself lose like that.” Yukimiya indirectly mocked to the slouching sloth beside him.

“Didn’t take him for a sandbagger.” Nagi let out an amused huff that sounded too close to a laugh.

“Shut up!” Rin didn’t appreciate being called a sandbagger. He’s never downplayed his strength ever, he wasn’t lukewarm like that. It’s just that you were— crying like that! She’s so unfair… Damn it.

Watching as his back hunched into a sulk at his loss that you were technically responsible for filled you with guilt. Your fingers briefly tightened their hold on the plate as you contemplated your next actions, and before you could finish thinking, you trudged towards him. Fingers pinching the sleeve of his shirt, you gently tugged on it to get his attention before letting go when he stiffly turned to face you. “Rin,” you called out softly, his name rolling off your tongue a little too pleasantly for his liking. Holding the plate of the Mont Blanc up high to his face with both hands, you stared at him curiously. “Do you want to split this with me?”

“….”

Your sincerity was replied with bleak silence, and Rin’s brain short-circuited when you stared up at him with big round eyes and pursed lips. The boy’s face erupted into flames of embarrassment, the deep hue of his fluster mistaken for rage in your eyes when he screeched like a banshee. “I don’t need that, you— you damn npc! Unlike y-you lukewarm, half-baked bastards, I don’t need this stupid shit to help me become the world’s best striker! I’ll do it on my own!”

Your eyes twitched at his disrespect, you tried to be nice and this is how your kindness is received? Perhaps Rin’s breakfast should be doused with laxatives…?

“How ungentlemanly.” Karasu cackled with a crooked grin.

“The girls dig a tsun-tsun.” Otoya corrected him with an impressed whistle.

Amid the chaos, Shidou approached you with his stupid grin. “Told ya my idea was great. You got yourself a cheeky little sweet treat and I got to enjoy seeing Rin-Rin losing to me! It’s win-win situation for the both of us.” He gloated whilst jabbing his thumb in his chest.

“Thank you for that. I’ll try to get you some yukhoe tomorrow.” You expressed your gratitude with a quiet sigh, your gaze remained still on Rin’s sulking figure.

Perhaps you should get some ochazuke with bream as well.

Isagi pondered over the hypothetical question with pursed lips, cautiously cradling the exasperated sigh that threatened to leave his burning throat. He trudged forward without any vocal complaint, disguising the displeasure that coursed through his veins for lethargy to fetch the ball that went astray mid-training.

Dammit..! A noise of frustration eventually sounded from him when he deemed his distance far enough from the field. The dull boy was tragically familiar with this little game. Tiptoeing around his somewhat difficult teammates and falling victim to their wishes was a habit that came as naturally as seeing to Isagi.

Cursed since youth with the godforsaken ability to see a world that others couldn’t, to perceive and predict the future that others desperately sought to seek, Isagi yearned silently for the contrary. He wished for it gone, replaced with nothing.

Sometimes, he wondered what it’d be like to be blind or deaf. Well, to be senseless, free from the world’s expectations.

It felt wrong, but he often spent his time imagining what it’d be like to be so. To live without the unusual sensitivity he grew up with, how would that have affected him now? Would he have been less timid? Perhaps he’d be much more fearless than he ever was?

But then that would mean I can’t avoid risky situations… Isagi’s back hunched comically when a gentle wind curled against his sulking figure, brushing softly up his limbs and drawing his attention to the eye-catching obstruction that mockingly stood in his way. The obstruction— a lone stone, oddly shaped and unusually coloured peeked his interest.

“….”

With grooves and bumps that glared at him fiercely, the bright spots of colour challenged him to a stare down and Isagi’s brows scrunched in concentration— he wasn’t about to lose to a fucking rock. But his efforts were for naught, instead, he withered pathetically under the pressure of the pebble’s stare. His nostrils flared briefly at the loss, and the urge to boot the rock that insulted his pride grew.

Leg curling towards himself, he watched with mild satisfaction as it ricocheted off the tip of his cleats, the stone curled upwards and bounced to a soft thud when it landed a fair distance from him. The feeling was unfortunately short-lived, Isagi clicked his tongue when he heard the voice of Tada from afar requesting the former to hasten his search for the ball, souring the fleeting delight that previously loosened the tightness in his tense shoulders.

Isagi aggressively ruffled the tuffs of his short hair, hoping the action would physically remove the unpleasant thoughts that infiltrated his mind as he continued his reluctant search for the ball. It wasn’t until the echo of an abrupt crash nearby, followed by a pained groan that his slouched figure straightened with alarm. That’s where—! The noise had sounded from the vicinity he believed the kicked stone had landed around, a lump lodged itself in his contracting throat. Dammit!

Cold sweat clung to his skin beneath his kit, a physical hindrance to his limbs that urgently raced towards the location. Breath falling short, his eyes widened with comical horror when they fell on the figure slumped across the coarse pavement. He gulped audibly, licking his drying lips as he hysterically approached you, crouching down beside your fallen form.

“Are you— Oh my God, are you okay?!” His hands flayed about with frenzied hesitation, mentally debating whether he should cross an unwritten line and lift you up without some kind of advanced notice.

“Mhm, I’m totally fine, don’t worry.” You replied with a big, closed-eye grin, waving your hands about and unusually joyful for someone who seemed to have dived head first into concrete.

“..Are you sure..?” Hands still hovering unsurely around you, his voice trailing off as he shyly tore his gaze away from your skirt that rode up your thighs to the alarming, bloody grazes on your palm.

“Yes, haha. But, to think I’d share my first kiss with the pavement, it’s rather embarrassing…” Your voice petered out when you felt his presence closing in without warning, an unpleasant chill crawled up your spine. “Erm—!”

“Sorry.” He apologised, voice uncharacteristically serious as he leaned into your proximity, his breath marring your exposed skin with goosebumps.

It wasn’t until you caught a whiff of his scent that your muscles loosened. His clothes smelt faintly of clean laundry and sweat, soothing and nostalgic, but it was his sweat— his scent that caught you off guard. A distinctive smell, familiar and solacing. But familiar how? You couldn’t put a word to it. Dammit, I’ve smelt him before… A brief, featherlight caress on the back your thigh snapped you out of your spiralling thoughts. Your nose scrunched when the ghost of his touch was replaced with a phantom burn. “Your skirt was, um— yeah… should’ve said something first but— yeah, I’m sorry…”

In your moment of wistful stupor, a deep burrowed desperation provoked your heart into movement.

Your eyes may have been blind, but your soul did not follow suit.

Even with your lack of sight, your soul could descry the familiarity of the boy’s warmth. Your hand outstretched impulsively to the unidentifiable being, the wind of salvation grazing the tips of your fingers — an odious insult to your lifelong pursuit — before they came to a sullen, dreadful pause. “Uh, help-!” The realisation of your impetuosity locked the mobility in your nimble fingers. Ah… but—

“Then, ‘scuse me.” The boy didn’t question your unusual call for aid, nor did he let a moment linger in waste. His touch grounded your shaken form, a reassuring grip to your elbow and an arm wrapped around your waist. Epitomised solace embraced the stutter in your heart and mended the gaping hole in the fabric of your solitude. The stranger’s hold whispered consolation in your ear. Softly reassuring your growing worries and replacing them with firm support.

The words of gratitude you spent eons perfecting were not spoken aloud despite your wishes. They remained frozen in your closing throat, dissolving deep within the expanse of your bones and thawing at the persistent grief you carried. Before you could realise, you’d been carefully placed to your feet. The last of his touch lingered mournfully in the soft way he brushed the gravel off your blistering knees and arms.

“You should really be aware of your surroundings, y’know?” He scolded absentmindedly, voice trailing off as he gave your form a quick once over, scanning to see if he missed any injuries that may have required urgent care.

“Yeah… sorry about that.” You apologised mindlessly, your jovial expression dwindling down to a slight sulk.

“Ah-! Damn…” he muttered, immediately backtracking on his words after seeing you deflate comically. “I really didn’t mean to scold you… please, don’t apologise… Just— uh, keep a keen eye out for anything!” Isagi chuckled faintly, hoping the friendly gesture would soothe your moping figure.

“I wish.” You muttered humorously, unaware of the confused brow he raised at your odd response.

“Huh? More importantly— how have you managed falling over on flat pavement?” Harmless curiosity discernible in his query, her eyes have been closed this whole time… he noted.

“It must’ve been the wind.” You joked poorly, only puzzling the boy further.

“…uh, what? You tripped on air? You’re quite the clutz, aren’t you?” He replied unsurely, amused judgment adorning his tone.

“You’re quite rude, aren’t you?” You retorted with a mocking lilt, casually waving off the incoming string of profuse apologies. “I must’ve tripped over something small, maybe a stone?”

“A stone…?” A comical drop of sweat dripped down his temple, don’t tell me…

“I think so, my cane must’ve missed it.” Isagi’s gaze slowly turned towards the smooth pavement, lo and behold, the stone that looked eerily similar to the one he kicked earlier in his fit of anger was there.

“…..”

The silence that ensued would’ve been entertaining if you could see his deadpan expression, but unfortunately, you couldn’t. So rather than being amused, your hands clenched with unease, nails digging into the plush of your palm.

“Erm, are you still there…?” Your voice trailed off softly, dread gnawing in your stomach.

“I am, it’s just— uh, I’m really sorry! Are you— are you sure you’re okay..?” He swallowed the guilt that grew unduly with the realisation that he was at fault for your fall. The cane, your quiet response to his advice on remaining vigilant, your inability to discern whether he was still there or not just now and the fact that your eyes had been closed this whole time, it was obvious that you— that you were blind. His earlier words that made him appear so assured now made him so— so foolish.

Isagi had spoken so surely, with so much certainty, got so ahead of himself whilst being unaware of your predicament. He was a dullard to assume your situation, and he was even more of a blockhead to give you his unsolicited advice. “I’m so sorry.” He apologised for the nth time that day. This time not from the guilt of being responsible for your fall, but for being the one thing he hated others being.

Of all things to be at fault for, it just had to be the one thing he couldn’t stand.

An unadulterated mass of shame festered in his veins and he watched with quiet remorse as a wonderful smile grew bright on your face.

“I’m totally okay!” You simply waved his worries off again, the innocence in your laughter wrenching the blade of contrition deeper in his gut.

“…But, I..” His fingers trembled at his sides, your unconditional comfort undeserved and merely wasted on someone like him.

You hummed with thought before outstretching your hand and waiting patiently for him. “..Then, lend me your hand and guide me to the nurse, stranger.”

Isagi blinked at the visible callouses, momentarily stunned to silence at the roughness of your hand that opposed the benevolence of your conduct.

“Okay, stranger.” His voice cracked as he approached your proximity once more.

Your imperative left no room for disagreement, not that he would’ve argued, but the lack of plea and gratitude in your words eased his growing guilt. With pursed lips, he awed at your perception. You must’ve done it intentionally, he nodded to himself. Even though he was the one at fault, you gave him the chance to convey the sincerity of his apology by allowing him to demonstrate his remorse.

The walk to the infirmary was silent, sauf for the chirps of the birds, nature’s white noise and the trudge of your steps. Every so often, Isagi’s gaze fell from his surroundings to his arm and to your hand that grasped it tightly. You trusted him… enough to let him guide you, but still, there was hesitation in your movement.

Isagi made note of your furrowed brows, your delayed but hurried strides and he slowed his pace down to match yours. Ears tinging a feverish pink, his unoccupied hand fell atop yours, giving it a gentle but firm squeeze. The boy silently signalled his presence, a subconscious reminder of your ceased solitude, provoking your other hand to embrace his arm.

Your pure and charming response eliciting a flustered pout out of Isagi. He inwardly cursed the conclusions he drew in his frazzled state and chastised himself. No, stop. You’re getting ahead of your self. Engrossed with self-conflict, he’d been unaware of your relaxing figure, completely blindsided to how you slumped over his arm and revelled in the warmth of him.

“By the way, I’m not stranger.” You broke the silence, unusually bothered by the label you were ironically responsible for.

“S’that so?” You could hear the amusement in his voice when he replied to you. “Well, me neither.”

“Yeah?” Your brows twitched painfully at his inability to take a hint.

“Mhm.” He hummed smugly, feigning ignorance.

“…Then what is it?” You eventually gave up trying to obtain his name through indirect means.

“Isagi. Isagi Yoichi. And you, stranger?” He tittered at the poor taunt, revelling in your endearingly frustrated expression.

“Y/n. Just Y/n. Not stranger.” You huffed with petulant annoyance, it seems he wouldn’t let your moment of whim slip.

“Alright then, just Y/n. You have arrived at your destination, the nurse’s office.”

“Thanks for the ride, Isagi Yoichi.”

Isagi replayed the interaction you both shared a disgraceful amount of times. It’s only been a day since the unusual encounter, but the kindness you bestowed him with was unforgettable. Providing him with a budding hope for the faith, or lack thereof, he had in humanity. The quiet eccentricity you carried with clumsy elegance became a memorable attribute in his dull life.

The boy flushed bright red with embarrassment when he recalled your introduction, you’d been so insistent on guilefully concealing your family name, revealing only your given name to him. Then, the memory of your contorted expression when he jokingly addressed you as ‘stanger’ crossed his mind. Clearly, you were displeased with the barrier of acquaintanceship, so was it wrong of him to assume you wanted to be more than that? Was it wrong to assume you craved for a deeper connection?

If not, then was it wrong of him to with to wish for that?

Was it greedy of him to yearn for your intimacy?

Isagi wanted to learn from your perception, he was curious, and he simply desired to sate it. Curiosity was a double-edged sword: it was what killed the cat. You may very well interpret his curiosity wrongly, might think he viewed your blindness as some kind of exotic feature rather than a trait you had besides being human.

But, he blinked, your psyche was like the gravity of the moon’s, and he, was the tide. Helpless against your pull. Isagi, with foresight like no other, longed for his future to align with yours.

Ugh, he’s only known you for a day, your exchange had been so fleetingly brief, lasting mere minutes, and yet— yet, it was meaningful. To Isagi, those few minutes meant more than he could physically describe.

And fortunately for him, fate was on his side.

When he parted ways with you, albeit reluctantly, he walked back through the path you’d both came out from. Not the shortcut that would’ve led him to field much quicker, no, Isagi took the long way around instead. Hoping to chase the lingering spirit of yourself in the afternoon breeze and the thriving foliage and the smooth pavement and the— the stone. The stone responsible for your fortuitous meeting.

A lucky charm, he’d rather say. His lucky charm, he decided after pocketing the source of his windfall. It was then, that he took note of your cane. Forgotten and lost, laying there absent of its owner. The key to another meeting with you, another conversation with you, to another opportunity with you lay there before him. It beckoned him over and who was Isagi to refuse? He let himself fall victim to its call like how you fell over his lucky charm, a fair exchange, the boy reckoned.

Isagi believed he set a new record for himself then. He’d never remembered running so fast in his life. Or maybe he has, who knows.

Through the path you both took to the nurse, he didn’t bother concealing his eagerness. Onlookers looked at him with unconcealed judgment, but fuck it, it’s not like you were the type to judge him. Besides, you needed this right? So he’ll just use that to explain his celerity, or so he thought.

When he’d arrived at the nurse’s office, your absence struck him first, ripping a hole in the fabric of his reality. The lack of your presence, the lack of you, caved his stomach inwards. He’d desperately inquired about you to the oblivious nurse, his worry increasing tenfold when she merely shrugged and told him honestly that she hadn’t seen you at all. Isagi pressured her with concerned inquires of you, the act exceedingly out of ordinary for him.

Isagi never prodded around more than necessary. He knew how to carefully tiptoe around the bound of limits and when to stop accordingly. But you seemed to provoke a new side of him.

The nurse, sensing his urgency, consoled his hysteria and informed him of the spare cane you carried with you. One that you apparently used in emergencies, but that’s not what bothered him. No, it wasn’t that. You were injured for goodness sake!

Nevertheless, the nurse mentioned she didn’t see you at all, so it was wrong of him to take his anger out on her, not when she seemed just as confused as he was frustrated. Isagi took a deep breath and loosened the vice-grip he had on your cane. Your belongings didn’t deserve to be a victim of his anger, he mustn’t mistreat them, just like how he wouldn’t want to mistreat you.

Crestfallen and slumped, Isagi left the infirmary with a slug in his steps, a deep contrast to his earlier haste. Thoughts riddled with you, he wondered if you were okay. Sure, you had your spare cane, but what about the grazes on your palm? They looked painful, and your reassurance to your well-being didn’t put him at ease. He wondered what spurred your spontaneity, what was so important that you had to dismiss the wellness of your health?

He’d spent the rest of that day inquiring about you, about yourself and your whereabouts to anyone who was willing to listen. It’d taken much longer than expected to get an adequate answer, but he got it in the end.

Most had initially brushed him off, dismissing his worry for nonsense, whilst the rest judged his adamancy for answers. Some even had the gall to be blatant with their distaste towards you. How could anyone hate you? It irked him but Isagi bit his tongue hard, he couldn’t afford to lose his only lead to find you.

Shockingly, it was actually Tada, his teammate, that provided him with the best answer.

“Y/n, the Itako, huh? Heard she’s always holed up in the art room trying to speak to ghosts or something.”

Isagi’s jaw went taut at the response, he wasn’t particularly fond of how Tada worded that, it sounded too mocking for his liking, nonetheless, he begrudgingly thanked the boy through clenched teeth. It was too late in the afternoon right now to find you, you might’ve already left the campus by now since school hours had long ended.

Tomorrow, first thing in the morning, he would look for you in the art room.

And true to his unspoken promise, Isagi was there, clutching your cain protectively close to his chest. The answers to his confusion lay before him, beyond the doors of the art classroom, in the very form of you.

He sighed, giving himself a once over in the reflection of the window. The boy hurried to smoothen the mess of his tussled hair, a byproduct of his morning rush. Isagi was determined and it showed. It showed in the way he carefully placed your cane on his desk at home, out of harms way and in line with his sight. It showed in the way he peddled faster on his journey to school, it showed the way he skipped the optional morning practice and it showed, it showed in the way he rushed over to the art room— to you.

The door was open, much to his relief, and he took that as an invitation to enter. Immediately upon his entry, he was greeted with unpleasant whispers, none directed at him, no, not at him, but—

Hushed conversation was shared amongst the occupants of the room, those of which condensed one side of the space. The other half of the room vacant sauf for the clutter of sculptures that kept a lone figure company. Your lone figure.

Deep amid the crowd of inanimate, clay faces, your small stature resided, back hunched over another piece of work, unbothered by the words of defamation tactfully aimed at you.

Isagi’s heart thudded in his chest, horror dawning on his expression as the joints in his knuckles fell weak to the baseless accusations thrown at you. How could anyone speak slander of you?

You, you of all people.

Your retractable cane fell to ground with a clatter through his loose grip, alerting the inhabitants of the room, including you, of his presence. They watched with mild interest as he scrambled to pick it up, a barely audible curse aimed at himself left his mouth in a short huff. Even so, you with your peculiar enigma picked up on it. On the familiarity of him.

You may have been unable to see, but you’ve clearly memorised every eye that’s looked your way.

“Yoichi..? Is that… you?”

Your hesitant voice awoke him from his stupor, the octaves in your tone rising higher with waver. He couldn’t pick up any uncertainty in it, rather, you sounded shocked. Incredulous of something, something he wasn’t exactly sure of himself.

“….”

A jarring beat of silence arose following your slip of tongue, your brows furrowed uncomfortably at the sudden stillness, ignorant to the gaping expressions thrown your way.

“…Did you guys hear that..?”

“The Itako used his given name…!”

“I didn’t know Isagi was close to her!”

“It’s probably because he doesn’t know that she—“

“Oh my God, do you think Isagi’s just like her?!”

Now, with the topic of discussion shifted from you to him, Yoichi watched with bated breaths as your brows raised with unease. Regret bloomed in your countenance, and he wondered why that was the case. It didn’t take long to figure out why though, the claims people were now pinning on him because of his newly revealed relation to you were a tell-tale sign for the alarm in your disposition.

Yoichi, could care less what others thought of him. Not now, not anymore. And especially not when you called him so dearly, so intimately. His name sounded so much more pleasant with the way it rolled off your tongue. Yoichi? Seriously? Were you trying to kill him?

Yoichi replied before you could even attempt to correct your supposed blunder. Well, he hopes it wasn’t one. The boy didn’t want to toot his own horn, but you’d done it so casually, so intrinsically. As if calling him by his given name came as naturally as breathing to you.

“Yes, Y/n. It’s me, Yoichi. I’ve bought your cane.”

If only you were able to see the bounce in his steps as he bound his way over to you, cane in one hand and whimsy in his grin. The scene eerily resembled a puppy returning to its owner with the stick they’d thrown whilst playing fetch. The hiccup of his heart came to a pause seeing the knot in your brows unfurl, your tense shoulders drooped with what he could only hope was relief.

“D’you mind if I sit? I’ve got some time to kill before lesson starts.” He asked hopefully, placing your cane down on the table besides a much more worn one, your emergency replacement he assumes. His request surprised even himself. Yoichi rarely socialised, he never initiated conversation.

“Go ahead…” You responded quietly, still very much in disbelief at the turn of events.

“See, I told you guys. The Itako’s not actually blind. She was able to recognise Isagi without even hearing him speak.”

“Yeah, well obviously. No blind person’s capable of creating those kind of sculptures.”

“….”

A muscle in Yoichi’s temple ticked at the brazen disrespect, what the hell happened to common decency? The boy scrutinised your expression, you, for one, didn’t seem bothered by it. Years of being subjected to strange whispers has desensitised you to the judgement of strangers. He tried to not let it bother him, bless him, he really did. Though the effort had been for naught. How the hell could he allow himself to be a wallflower in this situation?

“Y/n, how many fingers am I holding up?”

The question caught not only you but the rest of the quidnuncs in the classroom off guard. A gobsmacked silence ensued, namely by those who were smearing your name earlier, before it was followed with their outraged gasps at his audacity.

Strange. Were they not shameless when accusing you of faking your impairment just a minute ago? The depth of their hypocrisy was laughable, but his eyes were focused on you. You were the centre of his elusive attention. He watched you with unwavering determination as you briefly opened your eyes and faced towards the general direction of his voice.

“Uh, one..?” You guessed after a painfully awkward pause, your face scrunched up in thought. What was he trying to do?

“Wrong.”

“Then, four?”

“Way off.”

“Five!”

“Nope.”

“Two? Three? Ah—! I really don’t know, Yoichi!” You eventually gave up after a couple of pathetic guesses, your fists clenched and bottom lip jutted out in frustration.

“I was holding up no fingers,” he yielded in due course, determining your sulking expression a lethal weapon against his self-restraint. Yoichi pinched his chin in mock thought, as if he finally came to a conclusion on something before declaring rather passively aggressive the obvious. “I guess you really are blind.”

“Huh? Well— yeah…” You sweat-dropped at his bluntness, utterly bewildered by his peculiarity. “I really am blind..”

“Are these all your sculptures?” He then asked curiously, nodding in the general direction of all the clay models surrounding you, those of which he assumed have kept you from being forlorn in place of people. There was a considerable amount of them, and he wondered how long it took you to make each piece. Each oeuvre different from the other. Some with chips, cracks, and discolouration, and others without. Despite their differences, they were all strangely alike.

“Mhm, I need to get rid of them. They’re taking up way too much space.” You hummed indifferently, as if the thought of throwing away your art was such an effortlessly easy task. As if the very notion of it didn’t sicken your soul.

“I see, have you always been sculpting?” Yoichi doubted the endeavour was as straightforward as you made it out to be. If it really was, you wouldn’t have hoarded them till now.

Besides, there was a similarity in each piece. For one, each sculpture were depicting men, and one with ordinary sight may say they were all of different men, but Yoichi would argue otherwise. He assessed the condition of each piece, a telling sign of their age, and then mentally listed them in chronological order. Now, with the makeshift timeline in mind, anyone could see the pattern they followed.

“I guess? I’ve been doing it for a while now.”

The most recent one may have seemed unrelated to the presumed oldest, however, that wasn’t the case with the other more recent ones. It was as if your sculptures followed some kind of iterative process, but rather than getting closer to and refining what you’d hoped would be the final version— it seemed like you were headed in the polar direction. Perhaps, over time, you began forgetting the details of the man’s appearance. Maybe that’s why you hadn’t thrown away even your oldest of works. Even if you hadn’t acknowledged it yet or you simply wished not to, they were the closest thing you had to the original.

“No wonder, you’ve got many calluses on your hand. I was curious to why that was.” That same passive aggressive tone he used earlier when vouching for your blindness adorned his tone again. An indirect message to the onlookers listening in on your conversation. Yoichi was making an absolute statement to them, to those that expressed their prejudice against you.

“I… never noticed.” You admitted honesty, fisting your hands and true to his words, you could feel the hardened area on your skin. It was something you never gave much thought, not when your priority lay in capturing the immortal spirit of him. “You’re very… perceptive.”

“Haha— hardly.” He brushed off your comment, you were much more perceptive than he could ever be.

“I’m serious!” You argued, displeased with his self-doubt.

“I believe you.” And he did. Yoichi did believe you. After all, it was you, with your perception, who claimed him to be so. How could he ever doubt you? “How are your injuries fairing?”

“Eh— ah, uh… they’re okay…?”

“Yeah?” He pressed, strangely calm despite seeing through your white lie.

“Uhuh… erm… actually—! Yesterday, I didn’t go to the nurse’s office…!” It took absolutely zero pressure for you to fold, you didn’t want to lie to him. Not to him. Not to Yoichi.

“…How come?” He sighed, dismayed. Not at you, no, but at the thought of you quietly dealing with the pain of your grazes.

“Well,” you gulped the saliva that pooled in your mouth whilst twiddling your thumbs anxiously. “…I was overwhelmed with inspiration… and I wanted to sculpt again.”

“S’that so…? Can I see your hands?” He requested after a small beat of silence, pulling out a pack of wipes and plasters from his pocket with a crinkle.

“Here!” You threw your hands right at him, desperate to make amends by heeding to whatever demands he wished to make.

Yoichi wordlessly grasped your dry hands with quaint gratitude. The boy cradled and probed at your hands in his much softer, warmer ones, pleased with how you melted into a pile of pliant mass under his ministrations. And with antiseptic wipes and band aids, he began his meticulous treatment. Cleaning away at dried blood and tenderly dressing the cuts that were the plague of his worries.

“Done.” He muttered feebly, reluctant to let go of your hands but too timid to keep hold of them. With one last, final squeeze, he’d let them free from his grasp and watched the grateful smile grow on your face.

“See! This is what I meant I earlier, Yoichi. You’re super attentive!” You complimented shamelessly, clenching and unclenching your now nursed hands whilst marvelling at his handiwork. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to fall over every once in a while, not if Yoichi fretted over you like this with his serene warmth.

“Quit saying stuff like that, Y/n. You’re really going to embarrass me, y’know?” He whined, the sound music to your ears.

“Embarrassed? Will your ears turn pink?” You tilted your head curiously, tucked strands of hair falling loose from the confines of your ears to frame your face. “I heard people turn pink when they’re embarrassed.”

“Well, I don’t.”

“You definitely do!” You insisted boyishly with a breathy giggle.

“How would you know that, hmm? Are you pretending to be blind after all?” He teased, absentmindedly taking another dig at the gaping audience that he’d long since forgotten about when you’d enraptured him with your presence.

“I’m not.” You huffed, folding your arms over your chest, “I promise.”

“Yeah, I know you’re not lying.” Yoichi agreed pathetically quick, he wished you didn’t make promises to prove your innocence to him. No matter the odds, Yoichi seriously believes he’d always take your side.

Ring. Rrrrring

Alas, good things must come to end. The bell finally rung, signifying students of the commencing lessons. Your interaction with Yoichi had yet again been quite short, nevertheless, it was worthwhile.

“….”

Honestly, you hoped this wouldn’t be the last of it, but that was wishful on your part. You heart sunk at the reality of it. All things must come to an end.

“Will you be here afterschool?” He broke your train of wistful thoughts.

“Hmm? Uh— I will..?” You answered unsurely, mouth gaping at the possible implication. That can’t mean anything—

“Good! I’ll come to check up on your injuries, yeah?”

“Okay…” You replied blankly, unable to process what just happened. If Yoichi wants to check up on your injuries, then, does that mean that he wants to—

“Alright, see you later!” He bade farewell, waving on auto pilot before realising that you couldn’t see the gesture. “I’m waving goodbye, by the way!”

“You too.” You waved back tentatively, mulling over the bizarreness of this all. Wait a minute… Oh my God! Your brain short-circuited when his words finally registered in your mind. Yoichi wants to see me again!

True to his words, Yoichi came to visit you later on in the day. That afternoon was followed up with tomorrow, and tomorrow was then followed up with the day after.

You’d wait eagerly for his presence with sweets in your hands for the boy to alert his presence with an intimate call of your name. Yoichi would then examine the state of your injuries like he usually did and after the initial prodding and caressing that were allegedly vital to finalise his verdict, he would deem your injuries unhealed, much to your greedy relief. Apparently, your injuries were still in need of monitoring, and thus, he would schedule another ‘follow-up appointment’ for the subsequent day to assess his treatment’s effectiveness. You’d offer him sweets that he offhandedly mentioned liking to return the favour of his concern, but he’d outdo you by applying lotion to your dry hands. Part of the treatment, he’d reason rather cheekily. Your cheeks would heat up at his audacity, nonetheless, you overlooked it. Yoichi was coming to see you again, he was coming to hold your hand again. You’d be a fool to argue with that.

His visits became a routine. They became your new custom. Conversing with him became the most anticipated occurrence of your day, even when he asked you the most outlandish queries you’d ever heard in your life. Most would be normal, the usual ice breakers like your favourite colour, your favourite song and your favourite food. Others would be about his curiosity towards your blindness, if your eyes hurt, if you see darkness and if your other senses were heightened because of your impairment. His curiosity was most ridiculous and knew no bounds. Questions exceedingly insensitive to your condition left his mouth unprovoked at times, those of which had your audience choking in disbelief, outraged at his blatant insolence. But, contrary to the crowd and their unsolicited anger, you were never bothered by them.

In fact, you enjoyed them. You enjoyed being the centre of Yoichi’s usually transient attention. Besides, it’s not like he meant any harm by them. You knew he would never intentionally insult you, not when he was so quick to profusely apologise after realising their inadvertent implications. You casually brushed them off, as you always did. If he was comfortable enough to be his candid self around you and ask you questions that would send others in an orbit then that so be it.

Unfortunately, your indifference wasn’t shared by the common folk.

Self righteous bastards that listened in on your conversations always felt the need to share their unbidden scoldings towards him. You shut them down sharply before softly reassuring Yoichi that it never bothered you. The sharpness in your tone returned as you aggressively informed them that you’d much rather someone question the accuracy of an assumption they have of you than blindly believe in them.

They were riddled with shame and resorted to silence shortly after. The silence then urged you to respond to Yoichi’s curiosity. Your senses weren’t necessarily heightened, you just relied on them more. You didn’t see darkness, you simply saw nothing. It was like seeing out of your elbow, you simply wouldn’t see anything. Your eyes stung when they were open, hence why you had them closed most of the time. You enjoyed eating sushi and snacking on matcha flavoured mochi. You didn’t have a favourite song, not when nothing could live up to the sound of Yoichi’s laughter. And your favourite colour would be the colour of his eyes. Whatever colour they were, you were sure they’d be beautiful.

Yoichi would quietly revel in your sincere answers, short circuiting whenever your replies consisted of him. You really are trying to kill him, aren’t you?

You always took your time when answering each of his foolish questions, Yoichi’s patience to blame for your endless words. He’d sit there and stare at you, taking you in wholly with a dazed glaze in the brilliance of his eyes like you hung the stars in the sky. It’s a shame, he’d always think with a pout. It’s such a waste to look at everything else when you— when you existed with your quaint luminescence.

You asked him questions too.

Unable to see and view the world as he did, you asked him what his favourite sight was. What his favourite thing to look at was and he replied honestly to your curiosity. Mindlessly, without even a garner of thought, Yoichi told you that your smile was the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

When your ears heated up at his sincerity, and your hands flew from his sacred hold to cover your burning ears, he’d worry about you all over again and scold you lightheartedly for cutting his medical examination short.

Yoichi always left you befuddled. It was a bad habit he had, one that always drew radiance out of you in the form soft laughter.

The interactions you shared with Yoichi were always ridiculous to the onlooker, but it was nothing of the sort to you both. Just as there were times you both conversed endlessly, there were also times where you both enjoyed the solace of silence together.

When Yoichi finally fell quiet, his mind free of idle thoughts and his heart full of you, the boy enjoyed the eccentricity of your presence as you diligently worked on your sculpture.

The sculpture— the man you carved with meticulous precision and intimate care— the source of his envy called to him one day. Wearing an expression of melancholy that ruptured his heart, Yoichi’s wonder sprouted. The seed of impatience plagued him with turmoil. Its roots grew as did its stem, sapping away at his perseverance. Till one day, he could no longer endure the tribulations of his curiosity.

“Y/n,” he drawled out with a sulk in his voice “Who’s the man you’re always sculpting? Is he your dead lover or something?”

“Huh?”

He’d meant it as joke, obviously, but the question… left you dumbfounded.

For the first time ever, you struggled to give him an answer. Your hands trembled with unease above the moulded mass of clay. A mysterious man with sorrow in his eyes and misery in his furrowed brows— who the hell was he…?

“I… don’t know, Yoichi.” You replied after an unsteady pause, your expression briefly mirroring the man’s. “I can’t seem to remember…”

The boy was quick to notice the shift in air. This time, even if your refused to admit it, he truly did ask the wrong question. Yoichi swallowed the curse that threatened to leave his constricting throat, he didn’t deserve to revel in his unbridled guilt, not when your posture curved in on itself with dejection.

He might’ve been unintentionally insensitive at times, but he wasn’t clueless.

He watched as you continued sculpting. Your nimble fingers firmly traced the man’s strangely ordinary features, a telling sign that you were forcefully busying yourself. Even when he’d probed carelessly and been the one at fault for your morose, you tried not to let it show.

Yoichi’s stomach lurched at your efforts, his voice rose an octave higher as he hysterically attempted to change the subject with another one of his outlandish queries. “D-Do you dream?!”

“What?” Again, you paused to process the words that Yoichi spewed out with hurried frenzy.

“Like, y’know since you’re blind, what do you see in your dreams?” He tried to explain, gesturing wildly with his hands hoping it’d help get his point across only to groan at its futility. “I mean— ugh..”

“Well,” you pondered with a drawl, endeared by his desperate haste to distract you. How cute. “I do dream. Though I don’t experience any visual imagery because I’ve been blind since birth.”

“So… you dream through your other sense?” He expressed his genuine interest with another follow-up question.

“That’s right,” your brows twitched at his discernment. Your touch softening against the clay figure. You caressed the slope of the man’s short nose, the bump of his pursed lips, the curve of his hallowed cheekbones, the wrinkle between his furrowed brows and the length of his short hair with your fingers.

The man was clearly weeping, but even so, you’d always found great comfort in his lamenting expression. It consoled you during the many times you drowned in desolation. Your recollection of the mysterious man was faint, but the peace he bought you was a factor you could never forget. And when you sculpted him and immortalised the memory of his spirit into your work, the guilt of debt you subconsciously carried was relieved. Come to think of it, when did you first start sculpting him?

Hmm, you’ve been sculpting him for a long time, so you must’ve started in your youth.

That day, you must’ve been in a trance. An indescribable urge to chase the fleeting essence of him must’ve hypnotised you— and your soul, desperate and wistful, spurred you into reifying it. You didn’t have clay on you at the time, but the soil, softened under the rain’s ministrations, was the next best thing.

You’ve never been fond of the rain for unknown reasons. But in your moment of lucid reverie, your knees weakened with delirious gratitude towards it.

Was it in a dream?

The rain has always been unpleasant.

The stench of mildew that lingered in the air, the moisture in the wind that persistently stuck to your skin with its frigid embrace, the reverberating splatter accompanied with timed thunder, and the scudding clouds that were useless and transparent against the lightning that blinded your sight.

You loathed it all. You loathed the rain.

You could never understand the common folk’s fondness for it. The rain was pleasant, they said. It was peaceful, they insisted. That the land would become quiet and tranquil under its ministrations.

You begged to differ.

Unlike everyone else, you were the sole being sensitive to the minuscule changes of the sky. Unlike everyone else, you were cursed since birth with this supposed divine blessing. The godforsaken ability to see a world that others couldn’t, to perceive and predict the future that others desperately sought to seek.

You, the Saintess of the Land, both pious and virtuous, pure and holy, devout and benevolent, were born with purpose. Protector of humanity. Healer of mankind. They would chant all sorts of praise to you ignorant of fallacy. The Church’s doing, you became entangled in the strings of their cruel intentions.

You were young, impressionable. A fool easily manipulated.

The livelihood of mortals became your responsibility. You’d become a pawn. An idyllic marionette, no longer human, now the marked property of the Church.

To save the world from evil, you were born to become the sacrifice that wedged a bridge to eternal peace. A being of salvation.

“….”

You may have loathed the rain, but the hatred you had for it was mere compared to your hatred for the world and the cursed fate they’d forced upon you.

In your act of vengeance, the world will come to hate the rain they were so fond of and you would come to love it in place of them. Tonight will last an eternity, not for you but for the world.

The walk to your grave was unusually peaceful. Eyes closed, as you often did to rest your overburdened sight, you trekked onwards through the labyrinth of darkness. At peace and no longer overwhelmed with information. Perhaps, the relief of your impeding doom overcame everything else.

“There’s an intruder in the Demon King’s fortress!”

The hysterical announcement of the demons didn’t deter you nor frighten you. Not when you decided that nothing would stand in your way. Human or demon, no obstacle will stop you from achieving solace.

Every demon in the foreign establishment that crossed path with you quickly met their demise with a wave of unrefined holy power. The thudding of corpses silenced the thunder of the brewing storm and your armour clinked with an unpleasant echo from every looming step you took towards the throne room.

You briefly wondered why you were obliged to wear this fitted, hunk of reinforced metal that did nothing but restrict your movement. Was it to protect you from the Demon King’s wrath? Or was it to chain you down and have you do their bidding? The Church’s last ditch effort to control you.

You laughed dryly at the mournful realisation, the noise self-depreciating and scratchy. This armour would stand no chance against the Demon King’s might. If he really were so weak, you wouldn’t have been able to step foot inside.

“Saintess…” a low rumble greeted your ruptured ears, the noise resembling a hymn you faintly remembered being sung at the Church.

If you were the soul obliged to shield and maintain tranquility in the Lands, he was your foil, conceived to wreak havoc in it and question your false utopia.

“My position’s been revoked, I’m no longer the Saintess.” You informed him with a crooked grin adorning your bruised face. Your gaze turned to the direction of his voice, and there, in all his wicked glory, resided the Demon King on his throne.

The phantom mass of evil, ambiguously taking the form of man, stared back at you. Despite the omnipotence of your eyes, you could never perceive him. Yes, you were able to see the Demon King and how his presence emanated wisps of darkness, but never beyond that. What kind of man are you, really?

You questioned if this was another one of the Church’s ploys, did they want to make sure your view of evil didn’t change? Ha! What wasn’t a scheme of theirs at this point?

“…Is that so?” He eventually muttered after a perturbed beat of silence and you wondered if he even cared. His indifference to your lifelong endeavours always bothered you. You could cruelly massacre several of his servants and yet, even then, he would never bat an eye to your doings. “You’re bleeding, Y/n...”

It must’ve been a shock to him that you were bleeding. You never bled, you were the Saintess. Holy power flowed through your veins in lieu of blood. But after releasing so much of it earlier, it was natural for it to catch up to you. You were a mortal being yourself after all.

But it wasn’t that— nothing, absolutely nothing could’ve prepared you for the shock of being called your name. When was the last time you heard of it? Maybe in your youth when you were still untainted with the countless sins of murder? It’s been… so long since you’d been called by your given name.

The strength in your knees weakened and they buckled under the weight of wistful memories and bone deep fatigue. Your sight turned bleary, eyelid glazing with unshed melancholy. For the first time ever, your eyes could not perceive what was before you besides a blur of incoming darkness. The realisation awoke a painful stutter in your heart, and your throat tightened with clawing agony as you choked on another laughter.

The irony of your life only now visible to your eyes.

You were really about to kneel before the Demon King, before the very presence of despair. A sight that would’ve sent the Elders into an orbit. Your only regret was that you hadn’t done it sooner. The Demon King wasn’t what locked away peace from you as everyone hacked into you, he was the key to it all along.

With bated breaths, you awaited for the clank of your armour to resound against the marbled floor, the final sign signalling your surrender, but you were instead enveloped with foreign warmth. “Don’t kneel before me.” Tendrils of darkness in the form of arms cushioned your fall, his voice, tremulous but soft, lulled you out of your spiralling reverie.

Another beat of silence passed before you filled it in, your voice croaking with stupefaction, “but you’re kneeling…”

“I don’t wish for your surrender.” He replied sincerely, his shadowy figure stable under your shaken form.

“But- But I’m tired…! And I’ve never wished for this life!” You mustered up your remaining vigour to spout out the thoughts that plagued the depth of your soul. “Take it from me— take away the burden that is my sight!”

Your cursed sight that granted you heightened perception, while powerful, was a double edged sword that overwhelmed your senses. The constant strain on your mind wore away your sanity, manifesting profound misery in your heart.

“….You cannot say stop to this now.” The Demon King’s perseverance withered under the guise of your lamentation, he couldn’t stand to witness the tears of your solitude. “Your words,” gently caressing your chapped lips, his featherlight touch wandered to the teardrops that gathered in your lash line, “your eyes,” he grabbed your limp hands and placed a chaste kiss on your palms, “and your hands… are only for me.”

Your feeble fingers twitched in his tender hold with a desperate itch to grab him, his imperative concern an enigma to your forsaken self. The Demon King noticing your intentions, leaned into your calloused palms, the warmth of it fading along with the brilliance in your eyes. “My hopes,” he whispered, aware of your senses that began to cease with your existence. He felt it in the way your holy power embossed him in its warmth, extracting a crooked grin on his face, “my smiles.” And he felt in the way his senses went overdrive from your divine gift, “and my dreams are only for you.”

In your stupor and longing, you traced the man’s face, committing to memory the fading spirit of him. The slope of his nose, the bump of his pursing lips that oddly resembled a pained smile. Your hands combed through his short, straight hair, what colour is your hair? Your hands wandered to his scrunched eyes, softly caressing his wet lashes, what is the shape of your eye? You wondered what kind of expression he sported, what do you look like?

No longer burdened with your cursed sight and heightened perception, a pang of regret coursed through your veins. I wish… I still had my sight. You tried to smoothen the furrow in his brows, but to no avail, they remained steadfast in a frown.

“Take me with you, my dear.” He mourned quietly with a broken sigh, tears meandering down the expanse of his cheeks and falling onto yours with a scalding burn, the noise of his solitude twisted your heart with sorrow.

“I want to see your face…” you rasped out, possessed with the indomitable spirit of mankind. I bet you look kind.

“Give yourself back to me, my dear.” The Demon King weeped, his hands clasped over your cold ones unable to let them go and acknowledge the absence of your presence— the absence of you.

That night, the Lands you diligently protected became swept with darkness. And the rain everyone was so fond marked your surrender, it marked the beginning of their demise.

You were the Saintess that craved chaos, and he was a demon that sought peace. Perhaps, if you had met under different circumstances, your lives would not have been wasted in vain.

You couldn’t recall the strange man ever appearing in your dreams, if anything, the memory of him felt too innate for that kind of possibility. And whilst the unknown of him normally paralysed you with fear, this time— this time you felt surprisingly quite calm about the whole unresolved situation.

It’s been so long... Your lifelong pursuit— the several years of sculpting away a mysterious figure in hopes to discover the purpose of your wistful longing, the one thing that kept you from the lunacy of solitude— should come to an end.

A reason to live, something alive as opposed to the reminiscence of the dead, has graced you with its warmth. You’d truly be a fool to refuse him in your chase of bygone nostalgia. One last farewell, you told yourself as you held the man’s crying face. Your forehead gently bumped his, the clay cool against your warmer skin, a bittersweet reminder of his lifelessness, and you mentally reviewed your final words.

“Thank you for keeping me company in my loneliness,” you whispered with heartfelt gratitude, your lashes brushing against the sculpture’s furrowed brows. “But he found me at my lowest and I long for him in your stead—“

“Y/n! You really are an Itako, aren’t you?!”

The interruption had you slowly part ways with the clay model, an accusatory tone adorned his pleasant voice. He’s probably pointing at me—

And true to your prediction, Yoichi was really pointing at you despite your inability to see the gesture. “I’m pointing at you by the way!”

Of course he was, you turned to face the direction of his voice, raising a brow with feigned ignorance. “What did you say, Yoichi?”

“I said,” he exhaled through clenched teeth, before gathering his bearings, “people think you’re a shamen who speaks to the dead.“

“People think I’m a shamen that speaks to the dead?!” You repeated, your expression declamatory.

He owlishly blinked at your appalled response, incredulous that somebody so perceptive can be just as equally unaware. “Yeah… and guess what?” He rhetorically drawled out, giving you no time to guess with his next words that followed with celerity. “I’m starting to believe it too!”

“Huh?!” You gasped melodramatically, brows shooting up in mock surprise, your hands flying to cup your cheeks. “How could you!?”

“Well, for one,” he sassed, crossing his arms over his chest, petulant envy so visibly audible in his voice. “You’re caressing a sculpture and whispering words of your affection to him.”

“Uh… actually,” you pointed out with a mellow smile after a beat of awkward silence, hoping to clear the not-so-ridiculous conclusion Yoichi came to. “I was bidding farewell.”

“…Huh? What?” He immediately reeled back puzzled, there’s no way—! “But you’ve been working on it for so… for so— no.. no—! There’s- there’s no way!” His hands grabbing the tuffs of his short hair in disbelief.

“I’m being serious.” And to prove your honesty, you clenched your fist and pounded dead centre down the face of your sculpture. The clay, still wet and clearly not dry, folded into itself under your ministrations. The out of blue action drawing out a noise of horror from Yoichi which you payed no mind to. “See?”

“But, but— Y/n, that was—!” He stammered with frenzy, incredulous at the fact you actually destroyed it. You’ve hoarded them for so long, why the sudden change?

“It’s okay, Yoichi.” You waved his guilt as you often did, the casualness in your tone meant to console. “It was about time anyway.”

Even when you said that, he still felt conflicted. The sculpture was your treasure. That along with the rest of them, they were what kept you afloat in your isolation, was it really okay to just get rid of it like that? “…How come?”

“Hmm,” you hummed a tune absentmindedly as you thought. “No particular reason, I just wanted to experience the world through you.”

You waited patiently for his response. The silence that stretched was still unsettling and unnerving, nonetheless, with Yoichi, you always felt inclined to try. Yes, with Yoichi, you wanted to experience the world. Unconsciously fiddling with your nail bed, your fingers came to a bated pause when the familiar touch of his hand enveloped them.

“…Then,” he whispered, tone husky as he timidly, but firmly guided your palms to cup his face, “experience the world and your relationship with me through your touch.”

Your heart hiccuped in your throat as a gasp, choked and relieved, sounded from you. Your fingers trembled as you caressed his face, the boy nuzzled into the warmth of your calloused palms and you took that as a sign to continue your scrutiny.

The swell of his slightly chubby cheeks, the soft arch of his brows, the curve of his small nose, the bump of his slightly dry lips, the sensations of him gutted you. Your brows pinched with uncertainty. You couldn’t quite put your finger on it, it’s as if you knew hi— “You feel familiar, Yoichi…”

“Familiar?” You felt his eyes widen briefly at your review, then you felt him jut out his bottom lip with boyish petulance. “…Is it cuz’ I’m ordinary looking?”

“Ordinary?” You tilted your head, perplexed on why he would come to such a conclusion. “You’re the first face I’ve ever felt, I’m not sure what to say to that.”

“I’m… the first face you’ve ever touched?!” His hands briefly tightened over yours in shock, before his thumb gently stroked over the area with silent regret.

“Yeah,” you nodded and the implication had his cheeks burning pink, “so I’m not exactly sure what makes someone ordinary or extraordinary.” Your thumb softly kneaded the pliant flesh of his cheeks, ignorant to the effect it had on him. “Besides, I don’t know of the beauty standards people with sight have, y’know, since I can’t see?”

“Mhm,” Yoichi only hummed in response, not trusting his voice to express his thoughts. Then, after another beat of silence, he spoke so quietly you questioned the state of your hearing. “Then… do you… think that I’m— y’know.. handsome..?”

Your hands trailed from his face to swipe at his plump lips, before they meandered down the base of his throat that bobbed nervously against your sensual touch, “your voice is so husky, and when you laugh it sounds like wind chimes are playing. I want nothing more than to bottle the sound that resembles a hymn.” Gripping his shirt, you pulled him to fuse your proximities together before taking a deep whiff of his exposed neck. “And your scent carries the aroma of a spring garden after a gentle rain, it makes me find the rain pleasant…”

“Y/n…” Yoichi softly whimpered under your ministrations, his ears flushing coral, but you, as cruel as you were, continued your flattery despite his fluster.

“And your eyes, Yoichi,” your hands found their way back to his eyes that were scrunched closed with embarrassment. “Nothing goes past your eyes. You’re so attentive, Yoichi. You pay attention to every little thing, your perception is so attractive and that’s why the colour of your eye is my favourite. So yes, in short, I do think you’re handsome, Yoichi.”

“Ugh…” He groaned in frustration, becoming a pile of pliant mush under your hands. “That’s because you’re so damn charming, Y/n! It’s such a shame-! It’s a damn a waste to look at everything else when you exist! You’re the apple of my eye!”

His sincere declaration released a kaleidoscope of butterflies in your stomach, and your heart warmed indescribably. “Yoichi… you’re the apple of my eye too.” You confessed shyly before continuing in earnest, “even though I can’t see you, I wish to see you, but your quaint radiance has blinded me, Yoichi.”

Your heartfelt words were for him, and your pretty smile was too. Your hands, still fondly caressing his face, were also for him. Ah, dammit. You’ve enchanted him with your shamen powers, body and soul, and he wishes to exist in your proximity forever.

Another bout of silence greeted your ears, and you quietly waited for Yoichi to speak. Imagine your surprise, when rather than being responded with his words you were instead replied to with a sniffle.

“You shouldn’t have said, Y/n. Dammit… it’s not fair.”

Your heart sunk at his croaky voice that broke with an unrestrained sob. Then, you felt it. Warm tears travelling down the expanse of his face and staining the tips of your fingers with sorrow. Under your heightened touch, his weeping expression crumpled into something that was way too familiar.

“I’m a crybaby… y’know?”

"You're not wearing my jersey."

That's the first thing he says upon seeing you.

No 'hi', no 'hello', no 'how are you'. Just a quiet observation said with no visible emotion. The lack of which had you squirm in place under his pointed gaze.

"Uh, yeah…" Your voice wavers as you avoid the way his dull eyes rake over your figure, staring you down like he's trying to undress you of the opposing team's jersey you're sporting.

"I'm supporting my country today…" You jut your lip out, hoping to quell his feelings of betrayal with your honest reasoning. "Does that… does that bother you?"

"…Well, I can't deny that I'm a little hurt." Bunny admits after another silent stare off, sighing softly when your pout came into view.

"Oh." Guilt consumes you in an instant at his confession. The sight of the six foot four athlete sulking at your lack of support responsible for the way your heart clenched with regret. "Bunny, I—"

"But you're free to support who you wish." Noticing your remorse, Bunny is quick to console your worries, bringing a large hand over your head to pet it. "I won't force my wishes on you."

"Really?!" You perk up immediately, the tension in your shoulder easing with relief from his gentle comfort.

"Yeah." He smiles so sweetly, eyes curving with something unreadable as he tucked the loose strands of your hair behind your ear. "Though if I score, can I ask that you at least cheer for me?"

"Of course, I promise!"

They're words you say absentmindedly.

Careless words that you come to quickly regret when you realise what exactly Bunny's harmless request from earlier entailed.

"SUPER GOLAZOOOO!"

"AND BUNNY IGLESIAS HAS DONE IT AGAIN! IT'S 3-0 TO SPAIN, A HAT-TRICK FROM THE YOUNG AND RISING STAR!!!"

Cheers erupt amongst the Spanish fans following Bunny's impressive goal. Cheering that you're supposed to be involved in— that you promised to take part in. Cheering that you just can't bring yourself to do no matter how hard you try.

Because how the hell are you meant to celebrate the utter humiliation your team faces at the hands of a single player?

You can't do that!

Even if you were held at gunpoint, you can't just abandon your team like that!

And thus, you're left with no choice but to break your promise to Bunny. A cold-blooded betrayal that you pray — with intertwined hands and growing anxiety — he doesn't notice.

But, alas, your effort is futile, and your invocations are unanswered. For the athlete has only one thought running across his mind right now, celebrating his goal with you.

Bunny's gaze sweeps over the stands with ease, intense eyes landing on you amidst the crowd as a look of anticipation overcame him. He stands there on the field, breathing hard and sweating from exertion as he waits for your approval. Something that doesn't come— the lack of which dulls the hopeful glint in his eyes.

You see it almost immediately, and while the sight of his hunched shoulders has your heart contort with unease, you still can't bring yourself to applaud him.

Bunny stares at you for a while longer, perhaps hoping you'd change your mind last minute, before he lets out a self-deprecating smile when you remain unmoved. Bringing a scarred hand to the lower half of his face, his deep eyes lingered on you for one final moment as he blew you another kiss.

Sweet affection that you've yet to return. Not when there's nothing sweet behind that mocking gesture of his.

The game continues in Spain's favour. Bunny's momentum is unstoppable as he humiliates your team even further. Something you aren't aware is possible until you see the way he absolutely dominates them. Breaking through their tight defence to score another two goals that send the crowd into a fit of bewildered cheers— noise that you pay no mind to, not when you’re too focused on the conversation behind you.

"Every time he scores, he blows an air kiss in this direction, right?"

"Yeah! I noticed that too!"

"But to who? Nobody's returning any of them?"

Don't tell me—!

Your complexion pales as you find Bunny down below on the field, eyes already fixed onto you, expectant as they wait for you to return the celebratory kiss he blew to you not too long ago.

That he-

After five consecutive goals, it finally hits you.

Bunny has not forgotten your promise of cheering.

And because he is cruel and petty, finding twisted enjoyment in your torment, he has no plans to stop scoring until you return his kisses.

Shit!

You have no words to express your shock, you can't even form a single thought at his wickedness— evil that makes the devil saintly in comparison.

The commentator speaks again, excitement woven in his voice as he broadcasts his unhinged theories. Of this game potentially being the first double hattrick of the year, a notion that strikes you with terror.

Your worst fears manifest in the way Bunny concentres, and you quickly realise that if you don't do anything about it now, this match will go down in history for being a total annihilation!

"Excuse me!"

You weave through the crowd with ease, apologising to the few that you bump into as you make your way down the stands and closer to the barrier separating you from the players.

It doesn't take long for you to locate Bunny, he's across the field, fixed intensely on the ball that his teammate dribbles past the defending line. Any seconds now and Spain can score another goal— another goal that you were not going to allow. Not if you could help it.

Cupping the sides of your mouth, you swallow whatever pride you have left and gather air in your lungs.

"Bunny!"

It's humiliating.

"That's my Bun-Bun!"

So fucking humiliating.

But what else can you do when Bunny is the cruel and unforgiving man that he is?

Your cheering, if you can even call it that given how pathetic it sounds, catches Bunny's attention in an instant. It's something he's been waiting for afterall, and it stops him dead in his tracks. The encouragement resembles a whistle, one has him perk up like an excited puppy as he rushed to find you in the crowd. An endeavour that is terribly effortless when he spots you immediately.

He stares up at you for a good moment, eyes tracing the reluctance in your expression before they fall on your figure, clad in the wrong team's jersey. A distasteful sight that has his jaw clench in tandem. His irritation grows, and Bunny finds himself helpless against his possessiveness — a trait you were always at odds with.

So, like any normal man, he grabs the end of his jersey, pulling the sweat soaked garment over his head and positioning it right in your direction with intent. You blink with utter disbelief, missing the way he throws it at you with perfect aim.

"I won't force you to put it on. It's your choice."

Choice, my ass.

You had no choice in the matter at hand!

The jersey smacks you right across the face, snapping you into immediate motion. You fumble with it at first, arms going in the wrong holes in your haste as you struggle pathetically to pull it over your head. But somehow, at mercy of a miracle, you've managed to put it on.

The collar's crooked and it clings to you uncomfortably. Drenched with sweat that you have no choice but to dismiss, and as if that isn't bad enough, the shirt's on backwards. His name is displayed over your chest like a label of possession, an honest mistake that does you more good than you realise.

The referee's whistle blows in the back, and a yellow card is administered for nudity. But Bunny decides, after taking one long look at your figure engulfed in his large jersey, that it's worth it.

He tests his luck once more, repeatedly pressing his finger against his bare chest, as if conveying a message only you would understand. And to his utter delight, you, weak to his cruelty, are quick on the uptake.

Your ears grow flushed with unbearable heat, but there's no time to revel in your embarrassment, not when the pride of your national team is on line here.

So with trembling fingers, you grab the wrong front of his jersey, pulling it close to your lips as you press a chaste kiss on the fabric bearing his name in bold.

Your eyes are shut close as you send him your indirect affections, utterly humiliated with the sudden turn of events that has you squirm at the mercy of your opponent. The moment you open them, it's no better either. If anything, you come to regret your existence entirely.

Bunny's amused expression enters your vision first, followed by a sickening gesture that has your stomach twist with shame. He holds both hands to his temple, extending his middle and index fingers up while the rest remained down, mimicking the appearance of bunny.

And while the sight of it is barely anything to blink at, with the way his simper grows as he curls his fingers encouragingly, you know better than turn a blind eye to it.

This is just— cruel..!

Fluster glows across your cheeks as you bring your hands over your temple to mirror the awful gesture. It travels across every sensitive nerve, weakening the strength in your knees as your heart stuttered to a flatline.

And just when you think the humiliation ritual has come to an end, laughter greets your ears at once — mirthful and completely entertained at the sight of your torment, one that could only belong to the cruel man that loved to play in your face — shattering whatever blissful delusion you've conjured up in your despair.

Bunny motions with his hands again, bringing one over his face like he'd done the previous other times, a telling movement that had your heart claw at your throat. His fingers lingered above his lips longer than usual, and after a thoughtful pause spent staring you down, Bunny blows you another kiss.

Your brain short circuits, and while your pride wants to resist his love, your arm extends towards him against your will. Hand sprawling out, you made a melodramatic show of catching the air kiss.

Bunny's eyes are wide when they find yours, bright and glittering with elation as he stands there, very clearly awaiting for more. And you give him exactly that. Even if the mortification kills you, you have no choice but to humour him. Who knows what he'll do if you remain stubborn in your refusal.

You heave a shaky sigh, lifting a trembling palm to your face as you press his non-tangible kiss against your lips, finally returning the affection he craved desperately for.

His coach yells something from afar, perhaps telling him to stop messing about and play the last few minutes of the game seriously, but Bunny only waves him off with a crooked grin, too focused on the precious sight of his jersey engulfing you with his name.

"If I exert myself more than I have already…" He can hardly face the man as he comes up with another pathetic excuse, unreasonably enamoured with the way your eyes scrunched shut in fluster after blowing him a kiss of your own.

"I won't have any stamina left to celebrate with my cute cheerleader."

got this idea from dembele-kun scoring on his wife's team and blowing her a kiss, and then i couldn't even mourn france's loss against spain bc i discovered i might have a humiliation kink (only works with bunny tho if ygm) 😂😂😂✌️✌️😔

"You're not wearing my jersey."

That's the first thing he says upon seeing you.

No 'hi', no 'hello', no 'how are you'. Just a quiet observation said with no visible emotion. The lack of which had you squirm in place under his pointed gaze.

"Uh, yeah…" Your voice wavers as you avoid the way his dull eyes rake over your figure, staring you down like he's trying to undress you of the opposing team's jersey you're sporting.

"I'm supporting my country today…" You jut your lip out, hoping to quell his feelings of betrayal with your honest reasoning. "Does that… does that bother you?"

"…Well, I can't deny that I'm a little hurt." Bunny admits after another silent stare off, sighing softly when your pout came into view.

"Oh." Guilt consumes you in an instant at his confession. The sight of the six foot four athlete sulking at your lack of support responsible for the way your heart clenched with regret. "Bunny, I—"

"But you're free to support who you wish." Noticing your remorse, Bunny is quick to console your worries, bringing a large hand over your head to pet it. "I won't force my wishes on you."

"Really?!" You perk up immediately, the tension in your shoulder easing with relief from his gentle comfort.

"Yeah." He smiles so sweetly, eyes curving with something unreadable as he tucked the loose strands of your hair behind your ear. "Though if I score, can I ask that you at least cheer for me?"

"Of course, I promise!"

They're words you say absentmindedly.

Careless words that you come to quickly regret when you realise what exactly Bunny's harmless request from earlier entailed.

"SUPER GOLAZOOOO!"

"AND BUNNY IGLESIAS HAS DONE IT AGAIN! IT'S 3-0 TO SPAIN, A HAT-TRICK FROM THE YOUNG AND RISING STAR!!!"

Cheers erupt amongst the Spanish fans following Bunny's impressive goal. Cheering that you're supposed to be involved in— that you promised to take part in. Cheering that you just can't bring yourself to do no matter how hard you try.

Because how the hell are you meant to celebrate the utter humiliation your team faces at the hands of a single player?

You can't do that!

Even if you were held at gunpoint, you can't just abandon your team like that!

And thus, you're left with no choice but to break your promise to Bunny. A cold-blooded betrayal that you pray — with intertwined hands and growing anxiety — he doesn't notice.

But, alas, your effort is futile, and your invocations are unanswered. For the athlete has only one thought running across his mind right now, celebrating his goal with you.

Bunny's gaze sweeps over the stands with ease, intense eyes landing on you amidst the crowd as a look of anticipation overcame him. He stands there on the field, breathing hard and sweating from exertion as he waits for your approval. Something that doesn't come— the lack of which dulls the hopeful glint in his eyes.

You see it almost immediately, and while the sight of his hunched shoulders has your heart contort with unease, you still can't bring yourself to applaud him.

Bunny stares at you for a while longer, perhaps hoping you'd change your mind last minute, before he lets out a self-deprecating smile when you remain unmoved. Bringing a scarred hand to the lower half of his face, his deep eyes lingered on you for one final moment as he blew you another kiss.

Sweet affection that you've yet to return. Not when there's nothing sweet behind that mocking gesture of his.

The game continues in Spain's favour. Bunny's momentum is unstoppable as he humiliates your team even further. Something you aren't aware is possible until you see the way he absolutely dominates them. Breaking through their tight defence to score another two goals that send the crowd into a fit of bewildered cheers— noise that you pay no mind to, not when you’re too focused on the conversation behind you.

"Every time he scores, he blows an air kiss in this direction, right?"

"Yeah! I noticed that too!"

"But to who? Nobody's returning any of them?"

Don't tell me—!

Your complexion pales as you find Bunny down below on the field, eyes already fixed onto you, expectant as they wait for you to return the celebratory kiss he blew to you not too long ago.

That he-

After five consecutive goals, it finally hits you.

Bunny has not forgotten your promise of cheering.

And because he is cruel and petty, finding twisted enjoyment in your torment, he has no plans to stop scoring until you return his kisses.

Shit!

You have no words to express your shock, you can't even form a single thought at his wickedness— evil that makes the devil saintly in comparison.

The commentator speaks again, excitement woven in his voice as he broadcasts his unhinged theories. Of this game potentially being the first double hattrick of the year, a notion that strikes you with terror.

Your worst fears manifest in the way Bunny concentres, and you quickly realise that if you don't do anything about it now, this match will go down in history for being a total annihilation!

"Excuse me!"

You weave through the crowd with ease, apologising to the few that you bump into as you make your way down the stands and closer to the barrier separating you from the players.

It doesn't take long for you to locate Bunny, he's across the field, fixed intensely on the ball that his teammate dribbles past the defending line. Any seconds now and Spain can score another goal— another goal that you were not going to allow. Not if you could help it.

Cupping the sides of your mouth, you swallow whatever pride you have left and gather air in your lungs.

"Bunny!"

It's humiliating.

"That's my Bun-Bun!"

So fucking humiliating.

But what else can you do when Bunny is the cruel and unforgiving man that he is?

Your cheering, if you can even call it that given how pathetic it sounds, catches Bunny's attention in an instant. It's something he's been waiting for afterall, and it stops him dead in his tracks. The encouragement resembles a whistle, one has him perk up like an excited puppy as he rushed to find you in the crowd. An endeavour that is terribly effortless when he spots you immediately.

He stares up at you for a good moment, eyes tracing the reluctance in your expression before they fall on your figure, clad in the wrong team's jersey. A distasteful sight that has his jaw clench in tandem. His irritation grows, and Bunny finds himself helpless against his possessiveness — a trait you were always at odds with.

So, like any normal man, he grabs the end of his jersey, pulling the sweat soaked garment over his head and positioning it right in your direction with intent. You blink with utter disbelief, missing the way he throws it at you with perfect aim.

"I won't force you to put it on. It's your choice."

Choice, my ass.

You had no choice in the matter at hand!

The jersey smacks you right across the face, snapping you into immediate motion. You fumble with it at first, arms going in the wrong holes in your haste as you struggle pathetically to pull it over your head. But somehow, at mercy of a miracle, you've managed to put it on.

The collar's crooked and it clings to you uncomfortably. Drenched with sweat that you have no choice but to dismiss, and as if that isn't bad enough, the shirt's on backwards. His name is displayed over your chest like a label of possession, an honest mistake that does you more good than you realise.

The referee's whistle blows in the back, and a yellow card is administered for nudity. But Bunny decides, after taking one long look at your figure engulfed in his large jersey, that it's worth it.

He tests his luck once more, repeatedly pressing his finger against his bare chest, as if conveying a message only you would understand. And to his utter delight, you, weak to his cruelty, are quick on the uptake.

Your ears grow flushed with unbearable heat, but there's no time to revel in your embarrassment, not when the pride of your national team is on line here.

So with trembling fingers, you grab the wrong front of his jersey, pulling it close to your lips as you press a chaste kiss on the fabric bearing his name in bold.

Your eyes are shut close as you send him your indirect affections, utterly humiliated with the sudden turn of events that has you squirm at the mercy of your opponent. The moment you open them, it's no better either. If anything, you come to regret your existence entirely.

Bunny's amused expression enters your vision first, followed by a sickening gesture that has your stomach twist with shame. He holds both hands to his temple, extending his middle and index fingers up while the rest remained down, mimicking the appearance of bunny.

And while the sight of it is barely anything to blink at, with the way his simper grows as he curls his fingers encouragingly, you know better than turn a blind eye to it.

This is just— cruel..!

Fluster glows across your cheeks as you bring your hands over your temple to mirror the awful gesture. It travels across every sensitive nerve, weakening the strength in your knees as your heart stuttered to a flatline.

And just when you think the humiliation ritual has come to an end, laughter greets your ears at once — mirthful and completely entertained at the sight of your torment, one that could only belong to the cruel man that loved to play in your face — shattering whatever blissful delusion you've conjured up in your despair.

Bunny motions with his hands again, bringing one over his face like he'd done the previous other times, a telling movement that had your heart claw at your throat. His fingers lingered above his lips longer than usual, and after a thoughtful pause spent staring you down, Bunny blows you another kiss.

Your brain short circuits, and while your pride wants to resist his love, your arm extends towards him against your will. Hand sprawling out, you made a melodramatic show of catching the air kiss.

Bunny's eyes are wide when they find yours, bright and glittering with elation as he stands there, very clearly awaiting for more. And you give him exactly that. Even if the mortification kills you, you have no choice but to humour him. Who knows what he'll do if you remain stubborn in your refusal.

You heave a shaky sigh, lifting a trembling palm to your face as you press his non-tangible kiss against your lips, finally returning the affection he craved desperately for.

His coach yells something from afar, perhaps telling him to stop messing about and play the last few minutes of the game seriously, but Bunny only waves him off with a crooked grin, too focused on the precious sight of his jersey engulfing you with his name.

"If I exert myself more than I have already…" He can hardly face the man as he comes up with another pathetic excuse, unreasonably enamoured with the way your eyes scrunched shut in fluster after blowing him a kiss of your own.

"I won't have any stamina left to celebrate with my cute cheerleader."

got this idea from dembele-kun scoring on his wife's team and blowing her a kiss, and then i couldn't even mourn france's loss against spain bc i discovered i might have a humiliation kink (only works with bunny tho if ygm) 😂😂😂✌️✌️😔