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𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 (𝐇𝐎𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐓 𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐘𝐎𝐔)

pairing. kinich x fem!reader

word count. 3.4k

genre/warnings. childhood friends to lovers (yes kinich literally invented this trope okay. sue me), mini-drabbles, childhood to university, modern!au, fluff and slight angst, lots of bantering but it's light-hearted i promise

summary.

you've always been a sore loser—kinich is just the only one brave enough to say it. or, you and kinich fall in love over the course of your lives, and one thing never changes—you're both idiots

author's note. credit to @/scythidol for the header images! a bit of a different fic format this time (who is she....). i'm sick over kinich, i have nothing clever to say or excuses to make. that's all, thank you for reading! i'm finishing this at 5am so i'll fix any errors later lol. reblogs/interaction highly appreciated!

I.

“You’re annoying.”

The old TV in your backyard treehouse buzzes with static and the constant thumps of Kinich’s fingers against the controller buttons.

It’s a summer evening—crickets chirp merrily in the grass and lightning bugs float lazily through the air, glowing among the stars. You’re sitting next to him, knees pulled to your chest and the straw of a Capri-Sun settled between your lips.

His reaction (or lack thereof) to your words leaves you less than entertained, a sour pout fixed on your lips as he sighs.

“You’re a sore loser. We said whoever got up here first got to play first.” Despite the intense game occurring on the screen in front of him, he diverts about half his attention to watching you out of the corner of his eye. “And I got up here first.”

“But you always win,” you whine. Kinich nudges at his own juice box with his knee, and you roll your eyes before picking it up and holding it to his lips—he drinks gratefully, still focused on his game. You’re not sure why you keep agreeing to this bet; you don’t think you’ve ever won.

“Then you need to get faster.”

Both of you know that such a feat would be impossible—Kinich has been the fastest kid in your grade since you started school. His athleticism affords him a bit of popularity, still at the age where winning a playground race is essentially the deciding factor between the cool kids and the lame ones. But he’s not interested in any of that, and he makes that quite clear in his actions.

After all, all the popular kids avoid him since he started a fight with them last year. 

“They were saying things about you,” he’d shrugged, like it was no big deal. The school seemed to think a bit differently, and his suspension felt like the longest week of your life.

The screen flashes then, a loud and colorful display that shows the words “you win”. Kinich leans back in his seat, a pleased half-smile spreading across his face. 

“Okay, now you can play.”

He tries to hand you the controller, but you huff, crossing your arms and turning away.

“I don’t even wanna play anymore.”

Kinich is far more mature than you at this age—even your own mother tells you as much—so he merely sighs, accepting of your tantrum.

“Okay, what do you wanna do then?”

You ponder that for a moment. There’s a lot of things you do often, but many of them are things that Kinich is much better at than you. Playing video games, climbing trees, riding bikes—he’s far more talented at them all. It’s one of the reasons you even became friends in the first place—you’d practically begged him to teach you to beat the final boss of Super Mario Galaxy, and the rest was history.

“I don’t know,” you mumble noncommittally, blowing your straw wrapper at him. It lands right on target, bouncing lightly off his forehead as he rolls his eyes.

“Come on, whatever you wanna do, we’ll do it,” he says, poking at your cheek. “I’ll even play house.”

And you know Kinich hates playing house—he has boundless amounts of energy most days, and house isn’t “challenging” enough of a game for him to expend it. But he does it occasionally, just for you.

You brighten at the prospect. 

“Really?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he sighs, already descending the treehouse ladder, waving you along. “Let’s go inside first, though. I’m hungry.”

Scrambling to your feet, you jump down to meet Kinich, already standing in the grass.

“Last one inside is a rotten egg!”

II.

The rainstorm ends just as classes dismiss—when you walk out the school entrance, a slight drizzle is still letting up, fresh puddles lapping at your toes. Kinich’s gaze finds you instantly as he slinks out of the school gates, bag tossed loosely over his shoulder.

“My socks are wet now,” you whine, patting down the edges of your skirt to look down at your shoes. You’d only just bought them recently, and your mom likely wouldn’t be pleased with the prospect of you ruining them so soon.

Kinich chuckles at first, a snarky sound as thick as the gathering clouds, only to sigh when your pout persists.

“Alright, alright,” he relents, squatting to the ground and gesturing for you to get on his back. “Don’t say I never did anything for you.”

He’s a bit frail, still in his growing phase—his bones and muscles shift rhythmically under his skin as he walks—but he’s so distinctly warm. The heat makes you curl closer, nose brushing against his neck.

He walks you home most days like this, spending the day at your house until the sky grows dark with dusk. His home life is something he rarely discusses, but you know enough, and you’re happy to welcome him to yours.

“You’re slow,” you mumble into his shoulder. The steady thump of his steps is comforting, nearly putting you to sleep.

“You’re heavy,” Kinich replies teasingly, adjusting your weight atop his back. His words are biting, but he’s being careful with his steps nonetheless, taking each one lightly so as not to jostle you.

“You’re rude,” you scoff back. His nose scrunches in annoyance when you loop your arms tighter around his neck, pretending to choke him as punishment. “You’re not supposed to say that to a girl.”

He blows his bangs out of his eyes, peering up at the newly visible sun that starts to dip low in the sky. You watch a cat scurry through the bushes to your right, golden eyes peering through the foliage before disappearing into the darkness. 

“Yeah, that’s why I’m saying it to you.”

Kinich is always a bit wittier than you, a bit quicker to the punch, but you like that about him. You like a lot of things about him, and you’re sure he knows it, too. A weighty silence settles between the two of you, unnatural—it’s usually you who fills the silence, and Kinich who patiently listens.

But something bigger sits at the back of your mind, and the words are having trouble surmounting the obstacle of your tongue. 

You’re still floundering for something to say by the time your house appears in the distance. The sight lights a fire under you—you don’t want to discuss something like this with your mother in earshot. You force the words out, voice weak and small.

“I heard Mualani confessed to you yesterday.”

The rumor had flown through the school like wildfire. Mualani is popular with the boys after all, so there’s bound to be quite a bit of heartbreak if she ends up in a relationship. Someone had seen them together at that sakura tree behind the school, and it instantly became a hot topic—it’s all you’ve heard about all day.

And though you know it’s not really any of your business, you can’t help but be curious, and the thought fills you with dread.

You manage a glance at his expression, searching for any sort of unrest, but he doesn’t show any at all. In fact, he seems wholly uninterested in the topic.

He shrugs. “Yeah, so?”

You take a deep breath for courage—you’re not sure you want to hear his answer. 

“So? What did you tell her?”

And it’s nothing against Mualani, really—she’s kind and beautiful, and you wouldn’t blame Kinich for falling for her. She’s never done anything wrong to you at all. But a beat passes, and you’re already halfway through mourning the end of your long-time crush when he replies.

“I told her I was flattered, but I wasn’t interested.”

A sigh of relief escapes you then, but you reel it in quickly—he can probably feel you relax against his back at his response.

“Oh,” is all you say, as aloof as you can manage. Kinich latches onto your hesitation instantly.

“Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” comes your hasty reply. “...Is there any reason you said no, though?”

He frowns. “I don’t know. She just isn’t my type.”

“...Then what is your type?”

You’re going too far, you know—even just speaking the words has your chest twisting painfully, and you want to crawl into a hole and disappear. If Kinich isn’t an idiot, he can surely tell why you’re practically breathing down his neck over the whole thing.

But maybe Kinich is a little bit of an idiot, at least about these things, because he merely shrugs.

“Not sure. Never really thought about it.”

A frost unfurls in your chest, bitter—of course Kinich wouldn’t know, he’s never thought about anyone that way. Including you.

“Right.” You attempt a laugh, teeth gritting. “It’s all stupid anyway.”

You drop your head into his shoulder, trying to hide the pained expression on your face, and only then does Kinich’s stare flicker to you, soft.

“Right,” he says, a quiet rumble from his chest. “It’s really, really stupid.”

III.

Walks turn to drives when Kinich turns sixteen and buys his own car.

He’d saved up for months, working part-time jobs on weekends and after school, until the day finally came when he pulled up into your driveway, keys in hand. Your mom had been overwhelmingly proud—bought a cake and everything—and you’d merely been grateful that you no longer had to beg her to drive you places. 

It’s nothing crazy, just a simple sedan, but it represents a freedom that the two of you have never experienced together before.

That’s how you end up parked underneath the flickering streetlight just outside your house, excitedly recounting a story to your best friend. He’d driven you home from your club after school, an errand that always ended in several other stops—today, it had been fast food and boba.

His eyes seem to glow in the fading daylight, a pretty jade and amber that you’ve always thought was beautiful. It feels a bit more intense with his stare trained on you—Kinich isn’t the talkative type, sure, but he always ensures that you know he’s listening.

“So then she was asking me about you.”

“Mhm.”

“And get this,” a nervous chuckle escapes you then, “she thought we were dating.”

Everything falls still.

It’s times like this that you really start to hate just how unreadable your best friend can be. Despite how much you tease him for it, you actually enjoy how difficult it can be to force an expression out of him—it’s a little challenge every day. But now, when you’re on the precipice of pouring your heart out, his impassive expression stings.

Nothing on his face changes, save for a slight tilt of his head—he’s considering your words. The silence feels endless; a lump starts to form in your throat, humiliation burning at your cheeks. 

“I know, it’s so ridiculous,” you assert hurriedly, trying to avoid the rush of shame. “I mean, we would never—”

“Tell her we are, then.”

You’re sure that in that moment, your heart stops. 

Truthfully, you hadn’t planned to get this far—you were planning on brushing over that part of the story and moving on, but something deep in your heart had forced it out of you. Now, you aren’t sure what you really want to happen.

It’s always been your underlying fear, that once Kinich finds out, everything will change. Or even if he does return your feelings, it’ll all go up in flames eventually and you’ll never be the same. It’s terrifying enough to have kept your mouth shut all these years.

A tense laugh erupts from your throat, cutting through the silence. “I—I mean, it’s not that simple—”

He arches a brow. “Do you not want to?”

That’s another difference between you and Kinich—he’s far more straightforward about getting things that he wants. It’s one of the reasons that people misinterpret him as cold, but he sees it as being logical.

You gnaw at your lip, fingers tracing over the car door. Do you?

If the countless daydreams and romantic notebook doodles are anything to go by, you do. You really do. You’re just not sure if you’re brave enough to take that step.

When you look at him again, he’s observing you carefully, a delicate fondness lying in his stare. You shrink under the weight of it.

“No, I do,” you admit quietly. 

The moment falls still, and your eyes are drawn to the only movement within your line of vision—the quick bob of Kinich’s throat. Then, his hand advances toward your face at a measured pace, giving you endless opportunities to retreat.

Of course, you don’t.

“Can I…?” he asks, barely a brush of a whisper. The tension runs thick in the air as his tongue peeks out, swiping over his bottom lip at a tantalizing pace. It’s nearly enough to drive you crazy, but you know he’s just as anxious.

“Yes,” you breathe, wincing at the sound of your own voice—it sounds almost too eager.

But Kinich presses his lips to yours all the same, soft and wanting, and your heart flutters in your chest. It’s a chaste kiss, nothing like the fireworks-exploding-making-out-with-tongue types you’ve seen on TV, but it’s just right—it feels like him, and that’s all that matters. He pulls away slightly, lips still millimeters away from yours.

“I like you. If I’m not wrong, you like me too. I think it’s that simple.”

You almost want to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. Though you’d never admit it, you’ve practiced this scenario thousands of times in front of your bedroom mirror—what you would say to him, what he might say to you. Leave it to Kinich to not follow the script.

But he’s always done things his own way, so really, you should’ve expected this.

Gently, he reaches for your hand, fingers slotting through yours with ease. You sigh.

“I guess it is.”

IV.

“...that far, huh?”

Kinich stares at you upside down, head dangling off the edge of your bed as you sit at your desk, laptop keys clicking rapidly. He knows you’re serious about your future goals; you both are. He just never imagined it would bring the two of you so far apart.

You pause with one hand resting on the mouse, still staring at the screen. The map looks so daunting, too daunting, and you can’t imagine being that far away from him. 

An awkward, weighted silence hangs in the air, and by the time a few seconds pass, you’ve already foreseen eighty different bad endings for this situation. Clearing your throat once, you force yourself to speak.

“Kinich, I—”

“I get it.”

He doesn’t mean to interrupt you so suddenly, but he does. He couldn’t stop himself if he tried. Because while he does understand—he really does—he also can’t help the stinging sensation of tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. It feels pathetic. It feels selfish. Here you are, chasing your dreams and supporting his, and he’s caught on the fact that there will be a little space between the two of you. And it’s not like it’s anyone’s fault, but maybe you’ll get tired of waiting and—

“You’ll come back to me, right?”

There’s an unmistakable thickness to your voice, evidence of the steadily growing lump in your weary throat. It grows larger with every passing second, an insurmountable mass dwarfed only by the impending distance between you and him.

That question catches Kinich off-guard, and he nearly wants to laugh then; not because he doubts you at all, but because he doesn’t, and he finds it ridiculous that you would ever think otherwise. Here you are, worrying about him.

Kinich doesn’t have any doubts or fears. He never does when he’s with you.

Maybe that’s why.

With a light laugh, he lets his eyes flutter closed, finally allowing an uneven breath to fill his lungs. The natural light outside is slowly dimming, the fluorescent lamps dotting your street flicking on one by one. He knows he should go home soon. His car is sitting outside, the same one the two of you have had endless adventures, fights, and make-ups in. It’s the same one he will use when he moves an unfathomable distance away from you. The same one he will use on the day you will cry, clinging to him like your life depends on it, before watching him disappear into nothing but a mere dot in the distance.

His fist clenches at his side. 

But you’re still here, the closest feeling he has to home, and you’re still in love with him, and he is still in love with you.

Maybe that’s why this is enough, for now. 

Turning onto his stomach, Kinich sees you right-side up this time, and it’s like nothing has changed.

“Don’t ask questions you already know the answer to.” 

V.

A knock echoes on your apartment door in the middle of the night.

You raise a brow at the sound, a bit unnerved—a lone college girl answering the door in the dark isn’t the safest thing, you think as you peek one eye through the peephole. But there’s a familiar figure standing outside, and it has your hand turning the knob immediately and flinging the door open.

He’s here.

“Kinich,” you breathe, in disbelief. Last you’d heard, he was somewhere halfway across the country, and certainly nowhere near your front door. But he’s here, in a black hoodie and grey sweatpants, looking like he’s just walked out of your dreams.

“Hey,” he says simply, as if his appearance hadn’t been totally shocking. He takes advantage of your shell-shocked state to invite himself inside, curiously looking through your apartment. “Nice place.”

You step aside in a daze. “Kinich—you—what are you doing here?”

He’s holding three flimsy bags in his fist, grocery store logos and restaurant labels stamped over the plastic, keys hanging off his pinky finger. He’d come prepared, clearly, but for what you’re not sure. 

He towers over you a bit more than he used to, hair a bit longer, and everything about him feels so grown up. It reminds you of all the moments the two of you have missed over the years, how much change has occurred beneath your nose, maybe without you realizing. 

He spreads the bags over your kitchen table—the mouth-watering smell of Chinese takeout filters through the air, and your stomach grumbles in reply. But it’s your tear ducts that react initially, a sting at the corners of your eyes as you squeeze them shut.

Kinich doesn’t notice at first, absorbed in inspecting the photos displayed on your wall—photos of you, photos of him, photos of the two of you together. It makes his chest warm that you still think about those times. He does too—after all, it’s rare that you leave his mind.

But he turns back to you, tears running rivers down your cheeks, and his breath hitches.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, carefully cupping your face. A lilt of panic laces his voice. “Does something hurt? Are you sick?”

“You’re here,” you sob, curling into his shoulder. None of it feels real. He’s warm and firm beneath your fingers, and you clutch at him tighter, half-expecting everything to disappear. It’s so much different than FaceTime or calling or anything else you do when he’s away. Because right now, he’s completely within your reach, and everything falls into place.

“Of course I am,” he murmurs. You cry into his hoodie, soaking the fabric with your tears, but he holds you close all the same. “Because you’re here.”

You spend a few minutes that way—you crying until your tears dry over your skin, and him comfortingly rubbing at your back. Air slowly returns to your lungs, and you sniffle, glassy eyes meeting his. 

“But why? I mean, it’s the middle of the semester, isn’t it?”

A rare half-smirk graces his lips.

“We made a promise. I came back to you first. So I do believe that means that I win,” he says. If you weren’t so emotional, you might have rolled your eyes—of course, all he ever focuses on is winning.

He drags you over to the couch, laying down and pulling you on top of him, safe. You draw closer to him, tangling your limbs together until you’re not sure where he ends and you begin.

“You’re annoying,” you whisper, muffled into his chest.

Kinich shakes his head, pressing a kiss to your forehead. 

“You’re still a sore loser. Thought you’d grow out of that by now.”

You grumble a few choice words at him, and he smiles—a sight that only you and the stars can claim to have ever seen.

And he’s right; you are a sore loser, and he’s been right just about every time he told you so. But you find it doesn’t matter, not really.

You could never win against Kinich anyway.

(Maybe you never wanted to.)

one thing you loved about living in spain was that you could always drive sae to and from football practice in his expensive car.

these late-night drives were undeniably romantic. your fingers would grip the steering wheel as your passenger princess— your boyfriend— rests his hand on your thigh, his fingers lightly rubbing circles on the soft skin. occasionally, he would give a playful pinch, sending shivers up your spine as the cool breeze entered through the open windows and hit your skin.

tonight, however, as you waited at the red light, you decided to blast a song that you knew sae secretly enjoyed listening to. you eyed your boyfriend mischievously, cranking up the volume of the car's sound system to its highest.

sae flinched and turned to you with a raised eyebrow, the slightest hint of embarrassment flickering his eyes, though he wasn't surprised that you had somehow discovered his guilty fondness for this song.

“really?” he asked nonchalantly, gently pinching your lower hip with the hand already resting there. you could barely hear him over the loud music you had blasted on the speakers.

“what?” you replied, feigning innocence as you bit your lip to stifle the giggle that threatened to escape. “you don't like it?”

he rolled his eyes as he shifted his hand from your thigh to your cheek, leaning in towards you slightly. you hesitated, but as you felt your cheeks fill with warmth, you leaned in as well. soon, your lips were slotted together in a tender kiss.

but suddenly, you both were startled and broke the kiss as a horrified voice boomed from the backseat.

“. . . y–you two are disgusting!”

you glanced in the rearview mirror, meeting the gaze of an offended and a literally gagging man.

your fault. you had completely forgotten that you were dropping rin off, too.

© 2024 bluelockmaniac — do not repost, copy, translate, modify, etc my work on any platform !

Thinking about Bachira Meguru assuming he's unlovable.

Being called a monster for their whole childhood really makes a mark on a person's life and self-esteem. But for Bachira, they were unavoidable.

At first, he tried to ignore the mean comments and pretend he didn't hear them. Maybe that would make the loneliness go away. Maybe it would make the problems disappear.

"He's a freak!"

"Eww, don't get too close to Bachira! You'll get lice!!"

"He's stinky"

He heard the whispers. He just used to pretend he didn't. For both his and the children's sake. So he could pretend he was normal. At least for a while.

And, sometimes, even parents, grown-ass adults, called him weird. Shouldn't they set an example for their kids? They tell them: "Don't judge other people! You never know what they're going through!", but are always the first to talk shit about someone, even if said someone is a little kid.

"Poor kid. It's probably the parents fault."

"He says sees a 'monster'! He's probably schizophrenic."

"My son is afraid of him. Specially when he's playing soccer. He said he's very scary"

He tried to ignore them. He really did. He tried to smile through it all and treat people the same way he always had nevertheless: with respect. Because crying would make his problems real. He didn't want them to be real. And he was doing a good job at it! But one faithful day, he snapped. The final nail in the coffin.

"When I grow up, I want to be a football player, just like Zico!" 11 year old Bachira said, showing the whole class a drawing of him, Zico and his monster playing soccer together. His smile was as bright and blinding as ever, specially because he was talking about his passion: soccer. He loved it so much. It helped him escape the harsh reality for a while.

The class went silent. They used to think Bachira was weird, to put it slightly, but this? It just made him even more weird! They all knew that he could never be a football player. He was an outcast. A freak. He was a monster. And monsters couldn't live with humans. Nobody wanted a monster on their team.

And so, instead of clapping like they did with the other kids' drawings, the class started to laugh. It started out quiet, but later it turned into a full, loud laugh. All of them. And Bachira always dreamed of making everyone there laugh, but not like this. They weren't laughing with him or because of him, they were laughing at him.

"Uh? What's happening, miss?" He asked the teacher, confused and on the verge of crying. He couldn't cry here. Not in front of them, please. That would be another thing for them to laugh at.

He swears on his life that he heard the teacher laugh a little, before the adult crouched down to match his size, grabbed his drawing and put it on his desk, while the other kids' drawings were being stuck to the board with tape. And then, he heard one of the worst sentences he ever heard in his life. One that he knew would definitely keep him awake at night:

"Meguru, being a football player is too hard for you. Why don't you settle for something more real and reachable? Like a doctor or a lawyer?"

He didn't understand. Some kids here wanted to be astronauts, others wanted to be models. Hell, one wanted to be a dinosaur babysitter. And their drawings were hanging on the wall, like they were going to be achieved. Bachira felt like no one believed in him. Like he was being put aside.

He then realized the problem wasn't what he wanted to do. It was him. Anyone could be a football player, but he couldn't. Because he was a monster. He was different from others.

And so, the tears began to fall. One by one, first from his left away and then from his right eye. His vision began to blurry. Left eye, right eye. Left, right, left right. Kids laughing, teacher laughing. His drawing on the desk. Left, right. Left right. He couldn't even see his own hands anymore from how blurred his vision was. He looked to his side. Left, right. The door. His escape. He needed to leave.

So, without second thought, Bachira ran towards the door. He couldn't care less for the teacher calling his name. He wouldn't come looking for him anyway. Nobody would. Nobody cared enough to do it.

He sat behind a tree, protected by it's shadow. He continued to cry. Hard. He put his hands in his eyes to try and stop the tears from falling, but he couldn't. He needed to let it all out. He just wished he had someone by his side during his breakdown. He really wanted a shoulder to rely on.

"Hey"

Maybe he was, indeed, schizophrenic. Because, the moment he looked up, he saw a girl he swore was too pretty to be real. The sunset made her have an angelic glow, and the wind made her hair flow just the right way. Her face was like a greek statuate, and he swore he could hear a soothing symphony playing in the background when he met her eyes: they were the most beautiful color he had ever seen, and he could imagine himself being lost and found in them. She was just too pretty. Too pretty to be here for him. And so, he managed to stop crying for a while and said, between sniffs:

"Did you lose a bet?"

The way your face contorted was almost comic.

"What?"

"Did someone pay you to come here? Where are the cameras? And how much was it?"

"I didn't lose any bet" you said, frowning. "I came here to check on you because I wanted to. I don't get why everyone laughed at you. Your dream is not stupid. Nobody's dream is."

"Even Richard's? He said he wants to be a dinossaur nanny" he said before he even thought about it. He then widened his eyes, because what if you were Richard's friend? What if you hated him now because he said something bad about your friend? What if he already screwed everything up? What if...

"Okay, you win. That one's actually stupid." You laughed. He made you laugh. This time, someone was laughing because of him. He felt like he was capable of everything at that moment. Your laugh was a sweet, infecting, honey-like melody. It made him wanna laugh too. He didn't realize it, but he had already stopped crying, and was now just staring at you with big, blown and unwavering eyes. His mouth slightly parted, like he was studying you and comitting everything about you to memory. Almost as if you were indeed an ilusion, and would disappear the second he blinked. He couldn't believe you were real. You were real, and you were talking to him.

After a while, you stopped laughing and finally noticed his intense staring. Suddenly bashful, your cheeks turned a bright red.

"I-I just want you to know that you shouldn't be ashamed of your dream. I think- no, I'm sure you can achieve it. You just have to work hard for it. I-I've seen you playing sometimes, and it's honestly amazing how focused you are. Bachira, I want to be your friend. That's it, if you'll let me-"

He hugged you. Hard. If it was any other time, he would have been afraid of scaring you off with the sudden hug, but he couldn't care less right now. He needed this. He needed a friend. You were just what he needed. You were perfect.

He started to cry again. This time, the first tear came out of his right eye. Right, left. His vision was getting blurred from how hard he was smiling. Right, left. Right, left. Your arms hugging him back. Right, left. The sound of the school bell, signalizing the end of the school day. People would see you and him hugging and you would probably be called weird by them for being next to him, but you still didn't break the hug. Right, left.

He didn't want to escape like he did during the class incident. No. He wanted this moment to last forever. He wanted time to stop, to be in your arms for eternity. He didn't want to pull away. He finally made a friend. You were his first friend.

Bachira Meguru used to think he was unlovable, but you proved him wrong. You proved he could, in fact, be loved. He wasn't a monster. He wasn't a freak. He was Bachira Meguru. Your best friend. And he wore that title with pride. Later on, he had the honour to be called your boyfriend, and he was even prouder of that one.

He used to think he would never find happiness. That's why, the moment the ref blew the whistle signalizing the end of Japan U-20 against Blue Lock eleven match and securing Blue Lock's victory, he couldn't think of anything else besides his girl. He ran across the field to you. Because you were like a magnet. He couldn't be apart from you, or else it felt like the whole earth would explode. He was yours and you were his. You both were meant to be.

"You did it! I love you, Meguru!"

He laughed. A pretty, genuine laugh followed by a couple of tears, beginning from his right eye, of course. His mother was recording behind you both, the blue lock team was smirking and whistling at the sight of you two and the television was streaming the moment for the whole world to see. But neither of you cared about the extra eyes. You were the only ones on the world. You always made him feel like that, and he hopes he makes you feel that way, too.

"I love you so much. Thank you."

Thank you for being with me. Thank you for being there. Thank you for not leaving me. Thank you for accepting the title of being my girlfriend proudly. Thank you for being you. Thank you for everything. Thank you.

He then lifted you and spun you in the air, smiling hard. He brought your lips closer and then kissed you. A kiss full of emotion and love. So much love: raw and pure.

You proved he wasn't just lovable. He was also capable of loving. And there's nothing prettier than loving someone.

Bachira Meguru was lovable, and you made sure to show him that. You loved him, and he would do everything to keep it that way forever.

~A/N: there's a "saying" that says that if you're crying and the first tear is from the left eye, you're crying from sadness. If the first tear comes out of the right eye, they're happy tears!!

Masterlist

thinking about rin having a girly girlfriend who's obsessed with adorable pastel-colored things .. he'd look so out of place inside your bedroom, it's filled with cute posters, mini and big figurines of sanrio and your favorite fictional characters, pastel colored clothes, and your bed has your beloved stuff toys at every corner.

his backpack would have cute keychains and plushies hanging on them, some were a gift from you and some are yours that you just wanted to him to have on his bag (your bag is heavy from all the keychains you have, plus there's no more space).

just imagine him looking intimidating and scary, but then you hear the loud clinking of pastel colored keychains hanging from his bag. he doesn't mind having them, sure it's a bit loud and distracting, but it prevents girls (and sometimes boys) from approaching, asking him for his number.

he calls it a repellent of some sorts.

and !!!! he also has a bracelet that you gave him, a pink colored one with an owl charm. if he has a clear phone case, then a polaroid photo of you (or the two of you) would definitely be in it. if not, he'd have a picture of you as his lockscreen, specifically a photo that you don't know about.

people who seem him for the first time in campus think “oh .. that guy definitely has a lover.”, and give up the motive of asking him for his name or number.

SWEET BABY (rin i.) !

features: rin itoshi

contents: tooth rotting fluff. no wc (prbably like 0.4k?). brainrot.

notes: for the loml zen (@saexy) because its ur fault i'm thinking about him.

rin's voice is muffled against your neck, soft black hair ticking under your chin. his massive frame is sprawled overtop of you on the couch (which his feet hand over the armrest of because he is simply a big baby).

"i'm not cute, that's lukewarm." he grumbles, plush pink lips brushing slightly against your pulse point. you can feel his scrunched up brows against your skin: he was sulking.

your chuckle rings like bells in his ear, it doesn't help to distract him from the gooey warm mush clouding his mind. "rinnie, i believe many boys would be lucky to have their lover calling them cute..." there's a playful lilt to your words, corners of you lips quirking upwards in amusement.

he finds himself suppressing a whine, you know damn well why he's acting this way and you still chose to torment him, to tease him to ruthlessly.

"i'm not a baby, i'm a man..." rin huffs, but the soft pout on his lips and the grasping hands against your shirt tell otherwise. his head lifts up to expose his reddened cheeks: giving you the meanest glare he could muster (which looked more like an angry puppy than anything...)

your hands instantly cup against the roundness of his cheeks. though his baby-face had long since grown sharp, there's still just enough to pinch gently between loving fingers. "you'll always be my baby rin, my sweet boy..."

the boy only groans, large hands reaching to gently encircle your wrists. there's no real force exerting from him as he pushes your hands down against the pillow beside your head.

his knees dig into the plush of the couch on either side of your hips, allowing him to hover over you. turquoise eyes dart around every slope and valley of your face, memorizing what love looks like to him.

"i'm not a damn baby, and you know it..." his voice is gruff as he falls back onto you, pulling a soft 'oof' from your lungs. rin's fingers intertwine with yours, still keeping your hands down by your head.

he claims not to be a baby but he's just so damn soft when it comes to you, how could you not want to spoil him rotten?

okotsuus 24

Michael Kaiser — Voyeur to Belonging

PAIRING: Michael Kaiser/Reader WORD COUNT: 5.3k TYPE: Humor, Slice of life/domestic fluff (its technically a roommate setting) WARNING(S): None? NOTE(S): Reader character is an alien. Yes you read that right. A shapeshifting alien of some sort. The narrative is non-linear

Birthday

There was a coconut on the kitchen counter top.

Kaiser was confused. Most days he was disoriented on account of your incomprehensible behavior anyway, but this was new. You stood there, caressing it, and he wasn’t really sure what it was supposed to achieve while he watched you. Of course, there was other bullshit too, but the coconut was the most attention grabbing.

He didn’t bother asking. He also didn’t bother announcing himself to begin with when he first entered, since he had come home not long ago, and mainly because he was impolite. It was fine because you didn’t have any standard conventions about courtesy.

Instead of raising any valid questions, he went to shower.

Not like he cared to converse — when he wouldn’t immediately see you upon entering, he’d walk around looking for you because the thought you disappeared somewhere without notice kind of irritated him, and then he’d spot you and he’d be calm again. And then he wouldn’t explain what it was all about. Maybe you thought it was some funny human behavior he was exhibiting. The notion was appealing.

Though Kaiser was a bit over the top and didn’t have much consideration towards the water bill which made showering an entire event for him, it couldn’t have taken that long for him to emerge. He still had the towel on by the time he stepped back into the kitchen, curiosity eating at him. What was the coconut for? Surely it was something moronic and frivolous, but he was too impatient to keep pretending inquiring was beneath him.

Any intrigue he was feeling dropped to the floor and dissolved into the puddle he’d created by moving around while still wet when his brain processed the sight in front of him.

There was… a lot of powder(?) everywhere. Mostly on the kitchen counter and then some.

“What the hell,” said Kaiser, gesturing. “What the hell are you doing?”

He didn’t really like getting angry over stupid shit like this, the kind of problem which could easily be fixed. It reminded him of his dad, but then again how the fuck was he supposed to stay calm in this situation. In the face of his own ire, Kaiser was nauseous.

You turned around to respond and seemed rather joyous. His jaw clenched further, his forehead wrinkled more.

“My preparations,” you said.

“Your preparations,” he repeated. “For what?”

“The cake.”

Kaiser pinched the bridge of his nose.

“The recipe said it needs ‘coconut-pecan frosting,’” you continued even though he did not want an elaboration.

It occurred to him what had happened. Usually it would be more obvious, but the shock was so severe, he didn’t contemplate the situation as he was focusing his energy on not blowing a gasket. “You can buy the ingredients for that at the store-”

“Well, I didn’t.”

“-not grind it down. Would you hunt and skin a fucking chicken in cold blood if you wanted to make wings?!” He was raising his voice now.

The volume grated on your nerves and you raised your hands as if to placate him, backing off. Your reaction didn’t mollify him in the slightest. “It’s more convenient and it costs no money.”

“How is it more convenient?” There was a loaded silence. Kaiser didn’t understand where you got a whole coconut to begin with, but that was besides the point. “Why were you trying to make a cake anyway? ‘Cause if it’s some shitty new hobby you’re taking up again, do it away from my house.”

You blinked at him twice in this slow, deliberate manner, scrutinizing him as if he was stupid for not understanding what the purpose of this was. Then you said, “For Micha’s birthday.”

Even though you’d flinched away from him and he kept yelling without a care, that was what it took for him to immediately deflate and feel like shit. If anything, he was flustered and unsure, all that bravado for naught. You wanted to celebrate with him — wanted to do something for him. Remembered the date, even. His hand wrapped around his throat unconsciously, albeit without squeezing.

It wasn’t an extraordinary or special occasion. You technically celebrated with him last year too, but you didn’t know what that was all about. Wherever you came from, you claimed birthday parties weren’t a ‘practice’ there. The two of you were similar, in a way.

“Listen, so, I looked up ‘German cake’ because you claimed you were from Germany. The website said to use coconut-pecan frosting.”

“I don’t claim I was from Germany, I really am, and I still am, it’s not past tense,” he said, trying to distract from his regret by nitpicking.

“Well, anyway,” you beamed at him, and then you reached out towards him, and then you embraced him with the skills of a natural, even though that was something else you said wasn’t a ‘practice,’ “happy birthday, Micha!”

He let go of his neck to stiffly wrap his arms around your back. There was coconut powder on your fingers still, and it was sticking to his bare skin in clumps and copious amounts because you were touching him since he was still wet. It was a funny ploy, intentional, like you were checking how far you could go with an abused dog, trying to see if it’s comfortable with you yet. If giving him affection was enough for him to overlook anything in the world.

Kaiser was enjoying your hug, but he didn’t say anything about it beyond an ungrateful sounding thanks after the birthday wish. It was obvious, though, in the way he held onto you tighter the moment you tried to separate from him.

“But what about the cake? Should I scrap it…?”

“You can burn down the kitchen if you want to,” allowed Kaiser, both generous and unwise. Imprudent in that he was trying to flex on an alien in a roundabout way — look, I am rich, I do not care about superficial things like the kitchen, and coming from the guy who almost threw a tantrum over it.

The development pleased you, however, because you cheered and pecked him on the cheek. He flushed under the attention. You always found it fascinating, the way his skin could change colors, even if the shift wasn’t so dramatic. “Yay,” you said as an afterthought, “I love fire.”

The experiment was a success. You could get away with pretty much anything as long as you played your cards right.

To Kaiser’s surprise, the cake even ended up coming out delicious. Again he did not compliment you on it.

Dye

Kaiser was in the bathroom, which was a place he spent a lot of time in. But instead of admiring himself (that was what he called his creepy staring at his reflection), he was doing something to his hair. He was applying a mysterious liquid to it and he’d tied it up strangely. You hoped it wasn’t a new look he was trying.

“Do you need something?” he asked, not looking at you.

You stepped closer. Not knowing how to formulate a more specific question on the matter, you asked, “What is this behavior?” and then gestured vaguely at what he was doing.

For a second, Kaiser halted in surprise at the strange wording. “I’m refreshing my dye.”

“Ah,” you said with a smile, “I thought it was natural?”

“Sorry you had to find out this way.”

“You are deceiving.”

“Hopefully it wasn’t too big of a heartbreak.”

“Are you insecure your hair isn’t blue, Micha?” you asked. “The advice columns always say you should just be yourself.”

There was a good chance you were mocking him, but due to the possibility you were genuinely concerned about him, he wrinkled his nose to make a show of his disdain towards your ignorance and said, “No, it’s not a self esteem thing. Who the fuck is insecure their hair isn’t blue?”

“Are you trying to signal you’re poisonous?”

“I’m not some shitty animal,” he said in earnest, even though this confirmed you were messing with him.

“Do you cut it by yourself too?”

“Yes.”

“Why, can’t you afford a barber?”

Kaiser’s eye twitched in irritation. “I don’t like strangers touching my head.” It came out sounding stupid in relation to a hairstylist, but he hoped you wouldn’t question it.

“Ah, ok.” You smiled in an unsettling way. Kaiser tried to concentrate. There was a long bout of silence before you delivered the next ego killer of a question, “If you cut it by yourself, why would you willingly shape it like that?”

“There’s nothing wrong with it.” He crossed his arms and tilted up his chin, upturning his nose in a snobby gesture, before he ran his fingers through his hair. “In fact, I think it’s unique and charming, and one of my best features.”

You grimaced as you watched. “Micha, you’re totally messing it up! Don’t move like that! It’s dripping everywhere and you’re getting it all over your fingers.”

He, too, blinked like an owl, and let go of his strands at a dramatically slow pace, and then he stared at the tips of his fingers coated in blue like they were burned. “Fuck.” Then he glanced at his reflection in the mirror and realized he had smeared dye where he was supposed to still be blond. “Fuuuuck.”

You stood there, useless. As sympathetic as you were to his predicament, you didn’t want to contribute anything.

Kaiser narrowed his gaze at you anyway and said, “Maybe instead of standing there distracting me, you should help me fix it.”

“Ah. The mystic workings of the concoction evade me.”

“They clearly don’t!”

You inched away from him until you were out of the door. Kaiser bared his teeth and glared at the spot even after you’d long vacated it.

Massage

Your human was ill-tempered and prone to sulking.

Often he was unhappy or had an attitude for no discernible reason. Most days, on average, he could find an opportunity to turn at least three interactions into something painful.

The internet was an unintelligent place, which made it easy to parse through (as long as you didn’t take everything said at face value, which you learned after you warned him that his deodorant was going to give him breast cancer; apparently people do not fact check before publishing and lying is not a punishable offense). All you had to do was type, and there — information. You were used to the more reliable system back home, but those networks had nothing to offer on this culture, so…

Anyway, you searched for inspiration for what you could do. It was obvious Kaiser was susceptible to kindness and you thought maybe you could coax him into being more pleasant, at least occasionally. So, what you looked up was ‘nice gestures.’

A lot of the results seemed impractical: babysit for free — you could not find a baby; donate — all the items in the house were his so you did not see the point of donating them to him; listen — you listened to him daily; acknowledge his efforts — he looked at you as if you were a weirdo when you started calculating the trajectory of that magnus-impact-whatever thingy and then gave him a fake diploma for a physics degree.

But then you came upon a sensible suggestion, which was to give a massage. It seemed applicable, since he was an athlete and all. Kaiser even agreed to it without making a fuss.

He was on his stomach, lying on the bed with his face half-hidden in the pillow so you wouldn’t be able to see if he did anything embarrassing. You sat on top of him and tried being gentle even though you were tempted to dig your fingers in his scapula just to check if he would scream. 

Things were going well, he was even relaxed, until you asked, “Hey Micha, do you get massages?”

“Yeah, sometimes.” Though they were usually the painful sports ones and he wasn’t about to admit to feeling pain in front of you or anything else embarrassing.

“Is it like some kind of mating ritual?”

“What the hell?” he asked, bemused. “Of course the fuck not.”

“So you’re not into the massage therapist?”

“No! Why would you think that? Do you find it erotic, you strange creature?”

“No. I watched this video where a bird was trying to seduce another bird with a silly little dance. Thought it might be something like that.”

“What kind of conclusion is that?” he asked. You could tell even through the muffle that he was gritting his teeth. You decided to massage his face after you’re done with this, since he made those ugly expressions so often and probably had tension. Maybe the rigidity was making him easy to vex. “I swear, you assume such stupid shit, it appalls me.”

Kaiser drifted off to sleep mid complaining about your apparent cluelessness and woke up in a good mood a few hours later. However, the bad side effect was that he started demanding massages any time he perceived things weren’t going his way, so then you had to think of a way to trick him out of his giving orders addiction.

Clothes

“I like wearing yours, though,” you whined. It was unbefitting for someone at a luxury store, but then again what did you care.

Kaiser’s eyebrows pinched together. It was obvious the employees were judging you both considering the brain dead conversation you’d been having, but he had a different problem entirely. Like a toddler who didn’t want to share his toys at the playground, he hissed, “They’re my clothes, not yours! I’ll get you some.”

You pouted. The action was extremely ungrateful and petulant considering not everyone had a celebrity begging to let them buy them expensive new clothes, but as already established, you didn’t care that you were trifling. “Is there a robe or something, at least?”

“No, there aren’t any robes.” He was already exhausted, squeezing his eyes shut and massaging his temples.

You rolled your eyes and faked a loud yawn.

“At least try one out.” Kaiser pulled out some random miscellaneous item from the rack you were arguing in front of and shoved it into your hands with this expectant look on his face.

Deciding to humor him, you moved to strip. Thankfully it didn’t come to that since Kaiser stopped you, pulling your top back down before you’d even gotten to exposing your midriff.

“You’re uncivilized. Go to the changing rooms.”

“Such a pathetic, prudish society,” you said as if everyone else was wrong. From your perspective it was probably true.

“It’s not prudish, it’s called public indecency and I don’t want to associate with a reprobate.”

“That’s a new one, Micha! I haven’t heard it before.”

He rolled his eyes and ushered you in the direction of the changing rooms. His gaze followed after you while you meandered there, disinterest in the affair palpable. Ingrate.

Kaiser picked a few more clothes he wanted to see you try on. When he turned around, the assistant nearby was looking at him strangely. He remained stoic and went on standing tall and proud as if she was the weird one.

Origin

Kaiser liked to brood on the balcony because he thought that was a productive and angsty activity, fit for a troubled intellectual. You did not understand the point (or even what he was doing in particular), so sometimes you hung around him indifferently. Before growing better acquainted with each other he ignored you, although it was nice to have an audience for his mental movie anyway. He was the type of person who enjoyed things like that.

As time passed and he got more used to your presence, though, he’d sit down with you and talk to you instead. That day he asked you, “You never told me, how’d you end up here?” … With me?

“Micha is rich with a big house!” you said with a grin. His spirits dampened — the reasoning was practical, but he would’ve preferred something more poetic maybe. You went on, “I thought I could hide in the vents, but you found me after I snuck in. Whoops.”

He made a face. “You’re such a weird fucking… creepy crawly.” Then he cursed himself because he would’ve preferred to be more articulate.

“And you are a toddler.”

“Did you try anywhere else before my place, though?”

“Yeah. The guy found me before I could hide and called me a naked homeless bum! And then he tried to beat me with a shovel.”

“You must be bad at hiding,” said Kaiser in a tone as if you were beneath him, unconcerned by this information. Then an odd detail stood out to him. “I’m pretty sure you were dressed when I first saw you.”

You smiled at him, but did not elaborate on where you got those stained clothes from back then.

There was an implication.

Morning

You hung onto Kaiser while he brushed his teeth, hugging him from the back. Usually you slept in way after him, but there were rare occasions you’d barge in on him in the mornings, if he rustled too much and disturbed you. Again, for someone who preached that this was not a ‘practice,’ you sure did it a lot.

“Micha, why do you brush so hard? I don’t believe it’s any more effective.”

“Shut up,” he said, making an effort to go slower and less aggressive now that you’d pointed it out. “Don’t watch me. I don’t accept constructive criticism,” he added when you didn’t respond.

Though you changed your appearance to look human (albeit still a bit uncanny in a way he couldn’t quite place — maybe his knowledge that you were extraterrestrial hindered his view), the inherent differences between you and him were the most obvious when you were in contact skin to skin. He wasn’t warm to begin with, but your skin was so much cooler, it was enough to startle him if he didn’t see you coming. There was a contrast in texture, too.

Your hand rested over his chest while you began leaving feather light kisses over his nape and then down to his shoulder. Kaiser was annoyed because he was getting goosebumps. “You’re so clingy sometimes,” he complained.

“Your heart always starts beating faster when I kiss you,” you said. “It’s cute.”

“Stop observing me like a scientist.”

You hugged him tighter and kissed him a bit more firmly. “I wanna bite you real hard past the skin and suck your blood. You’d probably be one of the sweeter ones.”

What a creepy thing to say at seven in the morning. Kaiser had to respect your dedication to the craft at this point.

“Leech,” he said with disdain, though to be honest he was kind of flustered. “I thought you’re supposed to be an alien, not some lame vampire.”

“What? You have blood-sucking creatures here, don’t you, Micha? There is hematophagy in nature.”

“That’s not really the point.”

“I guess so,” you said.

Kaiser was partly annoyed because he was getting butterflies in his stomach, which was stupid and childish. It was clear you wanted to taste him more than you already had, and while usually that would have a more indecent connotation, in your case it was frightening. Like, so disconcerting, he was afraid of you. And it was confusing to be turned on and scared at the same time, but somehow the anxiety was pleasant.

Texting

You lounged around in the bathtub. There were lit candles and blue petals and some other stereotypical bullshit littered about, and you’d been wasting more time than necessary anyway. It wasn’t your fault the world was so dull whenever Kaiser was away from you. That was why when he wasn’t around the house, you did all sorts of extraneous things.

With a reach, you felt around for your phone until you could grab it, and then you turned it on and took a selfie. When you opened your chat with him, you saw he still hadn’t read or replied to anything else you sent him throughout the day, but you kinda forgot you did that anyway.

There were pictures of the sky and a few trees you liked and some old man you talked to when you went out hiking and of your meal at a restaurant which you didn’t even finish because it made you ill, all coupled with unimportant captions.

You sent him the selfie, where you were frowning.

You - 11:07 Micha I miss you soooooo much! I had some fun today but overall it’s boring I love you ♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Michael Kaiser - 03:32 Don’t spam me Replied to “I had some…”: Whatever, suffer more without me I love you too

Label

“Micha,” you said with grave seriousness as you stared down at your phone, “you have a paraphilia.”

He flinched at the word, directed at him no less, and gritted his teeth. “What nonsense are you saying now? Always throwing around random shit in the air like you’re getting paid.”

You turned the screen towards him, pointing. It was some list on Wikipedia and your finger was hovering near the word ‘exophilia.’ “This is what you have,” you said matter-of-factly.

Kaiser had an unreadable expression, mostly because it was vacant and unimpressed.

“No need to use words you don’t understand the nuance of.” He smirked, getting over the initial… whatever reaction he was having, and then he reached out to wrap an arm to pull you into his lap while he sat like he was on a throne even though it was just a lounge chair. Kaiser gestured in the air with ostentation while he spoke, “It only makes sense an extraordinary person like myself would have a unique lover, to gaze upon otherworldly beauty, unlike all those other scoundrels who need to mingle among themselves.”

Now you were the one with a blank face. After some staring, you tapped his cheek. “Micha is so silly and pretentious sometimes…”

“When you talk about me like that, you make me feel really stupid. You’re supposed to feel flattered, not insult me.”

You ignored the complaint, but wrapped your arms around his neck and leaned in to kiss him on the cheek a few times as an appeasement. As usual, he melted into it, and he found himself embarrassed because it was such a small thing to get so affected by.

“Besides, you’ve got to have the same thing. Because I am to you what you are to me,” Kaiser said, still feeling a need to justify himself.

“Hmm. Yes. That’s true. Yay, we’re a freaky couple! Isn’t it nice?”

Kaiser didn’t understand what was so appealing to you with your enthusiasm about the word choice and all. At least if he was sick for his attraction, so were you. There was a unity in that.

Birthday II

You greeted Kaiser outside when he arrived and began dragging him back in, excited to show him something. Kaiser decided to be a pissy killjoy purely for the love of the game, “I don’t see what the point of buying me a present with my money is. I could do that on my own and probably pick something better too.”

“Don’t worry. I made it myself.”

Well, now he was vaguely scared about what it could be. But he was all cool and collected on the outside, so it didn’t count as real trepidation in his mind.

It was in the middle of the corridor on the second floor. Even though he already had a glimpse of it while approaching, you still presented it to him as if he hadn’t seen it at all, stretching out your arms and pursing your lips for the grand reveal.

There stood a statue of him posing with a ball and some kind of trophy. Kaiser didn’t bother asking how you ‘made it yourself.’ A lot of things about you, he was better off just not knowing. And even if he did, he might not get it. He didn’t want to be in a position where he misinterpreted you entirely, so it was better this way, like some kind of mystery.

But anyway this was very embarrassing. You had some kind of notion you had about him which was being communicated right now without words, that he was the kind of guy who sucked his own dick so much he’d enjoy this demented present. The most shameful part was that you were correct, he kind of liked it. It looked nice and all and it was life sized. His pose was grandiose. He didn’t know if he should be flattered or if he should dig a hole and bury his head in it, but either way he was made to feel exposed and attacked by your actions.

After the initial inner conflict, Kaiser decided to address you since it was becoming uncomfortable. “Thanks, you captured my likeliness rather well.”

You seemed pleased by the feedback. Often he noticed you cared about the more pragmatic things, in this case about whether your handiwork was accurate, if it was up to par.

He stood next to it and smirked at you before asking, “Who looks better?”

“Micha is the most beautiful man in the world,” you cheered. “He’s even more beautiful than himself!”

Hehehehe.

But he wouldn’t dare make such an undignified sound out loud.

Kaiser preened at the praise, even though he knew you were wording it in such an exaggerated way just to please him, going along with his fishing for compliments. While he preferred to think of himself as a complex and elusive person who no one understood, there were things about him that were rather simple.

Taxi

That day you had an interesting conversation with Kaiser over the phone. He instructed you to go to the airport and you argued with him about how planes were insufficient for transportation and then you found out they didn’t have teleportation pods and then both of you got too distracted over some made up, incoherent conflict. But anyway, in the end you asked him what you were supposed to do at the airport to begin with since it was such a boring place, and he said he wanted you to pick him up.

Once you climbed inside the passenger seat, you gave the driver the address Kaiser sent you. The driver didn’t seem particularly inclined to converse, but you talked to him. “My roommate is asking me to pick him up.”

“Cool,” he said, not giving a fuck.

“Between you and me, isn’t he handsome?”

You smiled and flashed him your lock screen, which was an unflattering picture of Kaiser (what the big stink was about, you didn’t remember). Those were surprisingly easy to capture considering how often he made all those ugly grimaces.

Though the driver wasn’t a football fanatic, he recognized the man — a celebrity. His exterior stood strong and he remained impassive on the outside, but he thought to himself, I’m stuck in a car with a delusional socially inept erotomaniac.

He replied in an even tone, “Sure.”

He also thought he was entering mass psychosis when fifteen minutes after he dropped you off, you brought back Michael Kaiser to the car, in the flesh (you were carrying around his luggage as if it weighted nothing before you loaded it in the trunk), and you were even talking to him about his away game, and he was bitching about some other players you didn’t seem to recognize beyond Kaiser’s hatred of them. Which implied you weren’t even a football fan.

Regardless, the driver acted natural.

Orbit

You’d been acting withdrawn all day this weekend, which worried Kaiser since it was uncharacteristic, and in turn he started being annoying and dramatic if not overbearing, as if he was seeking some sign in your responses that you weren’t mad at him through his antics.

The reason for this erratic behavior was rather pitiful. Within him there was an unease.

It wasn’t like you were locked in or anything. You were free to go out at any time, and you did. There were times he feared you’d figure out how to go back to your planet — selfish as it was, he hoped such good fortune would never befall you so you’d need to stay with him — and worse he thought maybe during one of your strolls you’d meet someone, get to know them. You had some acquaintances, but they weren’t really close to you, and he thought if there was someone you connected with and got to know better, you’d realize he was defective. Pathologically egocentric and incapable of… Well, he wasn’t sure what it was, but he knew sides of him were hollow, he was lacking. Since he was mishandled as a kid; even his parents couldn’t love him.

Of course, Kaiser did the mature thing any adult would do and didn’t speak his mind, letting it eat at him.

So his anxiety spiked when after all that avoiding him — on his day off no less — you asked, “Micha, don’t you think it’s time for you to go back to all the other humans?”

It didn’t even sound like a rejection, more like you were shooing him away. He just froze. There was an expression on his face as if he was spacing out, eyes widened slightly and mouth set in a thin line.

“Why do you say that?” he asked right back, trying to remain calm.

“Because you’d always rather spend your free time with me than anyone else. And you’re always doing all those things for me… Doesn’t it other you from your peers? What if I start rubbing off on you?”

Kaiser grabbed you by the shoulders. Though such desperate movements and measures and everything-s were below him in his opinion (or at least they were counterintuitive to the way he portrayed himself), he was already on edge and he didn’t want to mince his words. Like the window for winning you over was timed and he was sprinting to squeeze himself in. He supposed he was able to strip himself of his self-inflicted guidelines if necessary. It was just that he usually didn’t deem things outside of football important.

“I don’t care about that. I choose to spend all that time with you because I enjoy it. You make me feel human, so don’t leave. I want to love and care for someone and… I want to be loved and cared for in return, too.”

You seemed surprised by this. Kaiser thought such a thing would be obvious, but then again there were gaps between you that left room for misunderstandings which wouldn’t even be taken into account before they arose.

His love for you was self-involved to an extent. There was a certain light you saw him in — as a human — and he liked experiencing himself in that way through your perspective, but there was more to it than that, something he’d never felt before and couldn’t put into words. So it was real nonetheless, even if coming from someone deficient like him.

“Do you really mean that?” you asked.

“Yeah. Of course.”

He was really firm on it, too, and didn't hesitate before answering. You were a little nervous about what was about to happen.

“I want you to stay with me for as long as possible,” he said. There was an unspoken, Do you?

This seemed to cheer you up from whatever had caused your doubts because you smiled again. “Let’s mispronounce je t’aime together till the end of time.”

“What a disgustingly cute sentiment,” Kaiser said, letting go of your shoulders to embrace you properly, and then he started leaning in.

You shared a slow kiss with him. At first it was gentle and hesitant, but then you both relaxed into it, and he grew more confident in his advances. Kaiser caressed every part of you he touched with what you recognized as real desire, like it didn’t matter that you didn’t really look the way you presented yourself to him or how different you were from one another or even that there might be ways in which your bodies were incompatible.

___

This was just some stupid experimental half joke half allegorical bs that I wrote because I had the idea and I'm very normal and casual about the fact that kaiser sees himself as not inherently possessing humanity. Anyway if something is unclear u can ask me about it or share what you think!