You've Corrupted The Chief Justice - Neuvillette X Reader (ft Wriothesley)

you've corrupted the chief justice - neuvillette x reader (ft wriothesley)

summary: you and wriothesley have a full conversation about your sex life with neuvillette without saying a single word

a/n: this is neuvillette x reader but its mainly focused on wriothesley, wriothesley being a menance, neuvillette has no idea what the fuck is going on, complete choas, mentions of sex but sfw otherwise, no mention of gender, poor writing but oh well

Once every few weeks, the 4 of you, which includes Neuvillette, Wriothesley, Furina, and yourself, finally get a chance where your schedules aline to relax together. These times are always held in Neuvillette's office with a table full of cakes, desserts, and teas to snack on as you catch up. Since your relationship with the Iudex began, you've grown close to those Neuvillette sees as family and look forward to these peaceful reunions.

You were all sat around the table, with Neuvillette on your left, Wriothesley in front of you and Furina on your right. Neuvillette and Furina had been discussing some recent trials for a while now - you nor Wriosthesley had much to add, neither of you had much involvement when it came to the trials, but you listened in whilst enjoying your desserts.

After a few minutes, you felt something nudge your leg under the table from in front of you. With furrowed brows, you looked up towards Wriothesley to see him looking back at you with a mischievous smirk. Oh, archons... you've seen this look a few times - when he's bored and thought of something to entertain himself

His eyes darted between you and Neuvillette, his finger subtly following, pointing at the both of you. Then, his index finger and thumb joined together to create a circle, whilst his other index finger poked in and out of said circle. With his brow raised, you could tell he was asking you.

You stifled a chuckle as his immaturity before nodding smugly to answer his question - yes, the two of you have had sex.

He nodded along, his smirk growing larger as if to say he knew, then pondered for a moment, looking at the Iudex next to him. Seconds later, he looked back to you, raising 1 finger, then all 10 whilst mouthing '1 to 10' and flashing his eyes at your partner.

You covered your mouth with your hand as if to be in thought, but truly, you were trying to stop yourself from laughing at his antics - discussing such activities in front of the Chief Justice and Archon. Despite having no experience or even desire before you, Neuvillette was quick to learn when it came to pleasuring you, and he was certainly enthusiastic. You held up all 10 fingers, close to the table, to not draw too much attention.

Wriothesley's mouth formed an 'o' shaped, slightly taken back by your rating of his boss, but seemed to get past it quickly. He leaned forward in his seat, pointed between 2 of the cakes on the decorated table, and then looked at you. Your head tilted, glancing between the cakes and the man in front of you, trying to figure out what he meant. Then, you realised the difference between the two desserts - one was vanilla and one was chocolate. You could only assume he was trying to decipher whether Neuvillette was a simple vanilla lover or someone more adventurous.

You blew air into your cheeks, slouching back into your chair whilst in thought. Neuvillette certainly wasn't what you would describe as 'kinky', in fact, even associating that word with him makes you shiver a little, but he was open to trying whatever you desired. There were more daring things that he liked, such as having his hair pulled, messing around in places where he may get caught, or having you take control. He was learning, after all, about himself, about you, and about sex in general, so who knew what undiscovered things he was into.

You held out your finger and wiggled it between the 2 cakes and shrugged - you couldn't really give a clear answer to that one at the moment.

The Duke slumped back into his chair, staring at you with a devilish look for what felt like minutes. You squinted your eyes at him playfully - what was he thinking?

A few moments later, his hands were held in front of him, parallel to each other as if... to measure something. You shook your head at him in disbelief, sucking on your cheeks to hold back a grin. His hands were probably about 5 inches apart - certainly not big enough for the dragon.

'Bigger,' you mouthed at him and watched as his eyes grew wide. His hands moved apart slightly, perhaps 2 or so inches further apart.

'Bigger,' you mouthed again, the smirk on your face breaking through your facade. His jaw dropped.

'Are you two quite alright?' A deep voice startled you both away from your intense discussion. You hadn't realised that the other two had stopped talking a while ago.

'Never been better actually,' Wriothesley piped up, finally taking his eyes of you to face Neuvillette.

'Were you... having a discussion?' Neuvillette tentatively asked - he's been trying to learn about humans for 500 years, but he had no idea what he just witnessed. 'You two look like crabs trying to communicate,' he added. It almost sounded like an insult in his blunt voice, but you knew he meant that as a fact.

'Oh yes, a very productive, important discussion,' Wriothesley trails off, looking back at you with his brow raised. You gasped quietly at his response,

'Don't you dare-' you threated before he cuts you off, speaking up again, but this time with a face of pure horror,

'Wait! Have you...in here?' His eyes darted around the room as his interrogation continued. You couldn't help but giggle as you nodded, not missing the pure confusion on Neuvillette and Furina's faces.

He let out a dramatic gasp, gripping the armrests on his chair, then pointed at you.

'Jail time,' he jokingly declared. You threw your head back in laughter at his statement, clutching your sides.

'Wriosthesley, are you insinuating my beloved has committed a crime?' The Iudex questioned, his face as serious as if he were in the Opera House. However, you could see the cracks of bewilderment come through.

'Yes - put them on trial for corrupting the Chief Justice,' Wriothesley demanded, standing from his chair and pointing at you. Your laughter grew harder at his performance.

'I have done no such thing!' You declared, almost yelled, back at him. You could see his chest shake from the giggles he was trying to hold back.

'You disgust me. He was innocent before he met you,' he spat out. His words were so forced and dramatised, yet he was smiling? This was making Neuvillette's brain hurt.

'Wriosthesley,' he warned, narrowing his eyes at him - no one spoke to his partner like that, not even his family. Between your laughter, you placed your hand on your partners thigh to comfort him,

'He's just joking, it's ok,' you could see Neuvillette's body soften at your words, although it didn't clear up anything that was going on. Wriothesley sat back down in his chair, shaking his head at you whilst grinning.

'You little minx,' he muttered, picking up his tea cup and taking a sip. The room died down for a few moments, but the atmosphere was thick. You looked towards Furina, who hadn't said a word yet, and saw her cheeks were bright red.

'Monsieur Neuvillette, I-I think they may have been discussing your...private activites with dear (y/n),' she stuttered, picking up her plate of cake and stuffing it into her mouth.

'Oh,' normally you could read your partner easily, but right now you had no idea if he was confused, calm, angry?

'I'm sorr-'

'You could have just asked, Wriothesley.'

No blue lock related, but genshin.

I’ve been thinking about the new natlan spoilers lately, and noticed there were only 6 tribes out of 7

And the likely missing tribe was Anemo, which had me thinking about it. And I noticed that in the Manga, Venti, the god of Anemo encountered Vanessa, someone who used to be from Natlan and was enslaved. And it got me thinking, what if there’s something going on? Does Natlan not know the concept of ‘real freedom’? Or is it something else?

I was wondering if you could make a part 2 to "the instrument"? I got invested reading it was so sad that it ended :(

I don't rlly know what I'm looking for but I loved the plot of that fic and I wanted to see it progress further (´；д；)

Like, it js ended with him giving her flowers, I wanted to see their love bloom more yknowww ಥ_ಥ

(Also is it weird that I see y/n as her own person?)

── THE COMPASS

Synopsis: You were right from the start — Michael Kaiser has always been a dog, albeit perhaps not in the way you first meant it. (part one here!)

BLLK Masterlist

Pairing: Kaiser x Reader

Chapter Word Count: 4.5k

Content Warnings: fake dating trope, mentioned/implied/referenced abuse (both child and animal), call me tabito karasu the way i assassinate kaiser’s character in this, relationship dynamics many would consider…interesting…

A/N: EEK i feel like kaiser is so hard for me to do romance with but i tried my best!! and LMAOO this y/n is definitely a very interesting one so i can see why you got that sense 😭 but i’m glad you liked the instrument and ty for requesting 🥹 i hope this is somewhat satisfactory??

Additional: check my pinned post to make sure i have requests open; after reading the rules, please feel free to make your own!

You are quite certain that your mother was involved in this exercise, considering she’s the only one you can think of with a spare key to your house. So, when your phone call to Michael is sent immediately to voicemail, you don’t hesitate in dialing her number, knowing she’ll pick up immediately, as she always does.

The phone rings only once, and then she’s answering. There are voices in the background that are faint and muffled, which means either she’s watching a new drama or your father is watching some sports game. Then you detect the faint sound of cheers, and you conclude it must be the latter. 

“Hello, Y/N,” your mother says. “Did you need something?”

She is very obviously trying to maintain an air of mysteriousness, as if she has no idea why you might be calling her, but the fact that she is putting on such an act makes it all the more obvious that it is just a facade. You’ve known for many years that your talent onstage is not a genetic one, though it does not stop your parents from pretending that it’s something you inherited from them.

“The flowers,” you say. “You put them there, didn’t you?”

She coughs. You don’t know if she’s disguising a laugh or if she’s just taken aback to that extent. Either way, you give her a moment to compose herself, for it’ll be a mess if you don’t. Your mother is like that, after all. If you inundate her with questions, she’ll respond to exactly none of them, so patience is the only method you have if you wish to obtain any measure of success.

“It wasn’t my own doing,” she says finally. You sigh.

“Of course, someone told you to, and I’m sure we both know who,” you say. “What did he say?”

“He meant well,” she says. “Are you angry with him? He seemed to think you might be. Anyways, he just told me to give them to you. It’s his way of saying sorry, I think. Or perhaps of saying something else. I’m afraid I can’t understand him the way you do. It’s magical, really, how you all but read his mind…”

“No one can read his mind,” you scoff. “He’s a convoluted man, and his thoughts are his own.”

“And you despise him because of that?” she prods, in a way that indicates she already knows the answer and is only asking for her personal satisfaction.

“I love him all the more for it,” you say shortly. Somehow, it’s worse saying it to your mother than it was with him. More real, maybe. Unable to be taken back. You don’t want to take it back, of course, but nevertheless, even if you did, you no longer can. It’s out in the world, now, and the world has a strange humor; it takes things one says even carelessly, without thought, and it turns them into undeniable, inescapable truth. 

“Well,” she says. “That is a predicament.”

“There’s no predicament,” you say.

“He believes there is,” she says. “Right before he left, he—”

“Left?” you repeat. The flowers on your counter are arcing towards the sun, their petals unfurling towards the light pouring from your window. It’s a behavior more typical of flowers other than roses, but these roses are blue and they are Michael’s, so it stands to reason that they behave peculiarly. “Where did he go?”

“I couldn’t tell you,” she says. “He didn’t mention where he was going, just that he had to leave for a bit. But he looked sad. I mean, it’s difficult to tell with him, given how stoic he is, so I don’t know. Don’t take me at my word and start a fight about it.”

This is all you’re going to get out of her. You’re sure of it; there’s a wavering to her voice that signals she’s out of her depth. It’ll be unproductive and all but cruel if you continue to drill her, so you grit your teeth, squeezing your eyes shut and counting to three in your mind. Frustration is a wasted emotion, especially when the target of your frustration is somewhere far away, gone with nothing but a pot of flowers as a farewell.

That’s what it really is. Not an apology or a confession, but a goodbye. The fact that he thought to do it does mean something, but that meaning doesn’t outweigh the intention. So you make meaningless small talk with your mother and then your father, who she passes the phone to, and as soon as you can, you hang up and call another person, one who might be your only chance at finding the wandering stray that is Michael Kaiser.

Michael doesn’t really have friends, claims he doesn’t need them, but if there is one man who he might deign to bestow that title upon, it is his Bastard München teammate, Alexis Ness. They have been playing together since they were young, and so, if anything, there is an empathy between the two, although Michael will never admit it.

You’ve only met Alexis Ness a few times, at the various events which Michael used to drag you to when your relationship was still in the public eye. He’s never been anything but polite, albeit reserved, and on your third meeting, he gave you his phone number, telling you to call him if you ever ran into trouble. He had left the with Michael unsaid, but the implication had been there. You had thanked him and never called him since.

He’s quick to respond, like he was expecting the call — for all you know, he really was, though you would never ask either way. However, he does not speak first, so there is an awkward pause as you both wait for the other to say something.

“Good morning, Mr. Ness,” you say once a minute has gone by and he still has said nothing. “This is Y/N L/N. You gave me your number once.”

“Ah, Kaiser’s girlfriend,” he says. They have this habit, those soccer players, of referring to each other solely by last name. Your theory is that it’s to create distance, to avoid becoming close to a person who can be stolen by another team at any moment. You can’t fathom any other explanation. It’s a little sad to you, but you try not to judge, because there’s as many or more judgements that can be passed about your own lifestyle and habits.

“Yes,” you say. 

“Are you calling to ask me where he went?” he says. 

“I am,” you say. There’s no point in games. You don’t know Alexis Ness well enough to play them, and he seems to appreciate candidness, so the both of you are blunt in your conversations.

“I’m not supposed to tell you,” he says. “He swore me to secrecy.”

“I see,” you say. It’s disappointing, but it doesn’t come as a surprise. Michael is more than a little paranoid, so of course he took these ridiculous measures to cover his tracks.

“Nothing against you,” he says. “In fact, you should take it as a compliment. It sounded like there’s some messes he needed to clean up before he could bear to face you.”

“He’s horrible at cleaning,” you say.

“I don’t mean literal cleaning,” he says. It’s patient but also mocking. You roll your eyes, a silent form of retribution that he’ll never know of.

“Neither do I,” you say. Alexis Ness exhales heavily. Perhaps you’ve given him a migraine. It’s a particular skill of yours, or so you’ve been told.

“Berlin,” he says.

“Berlin?” you say.

“That’s where he is. If he asks, I’m not the one who told you,” he says, and then he’s ending the call before you can even thank him.

Berlin’s a big city, so Ness’s advice isn’t as helpful as he might’ve thought it would be, but at least it’s a start. Besides, for all his idiosyncrasies, Michael has a few patterns he follows with religiosity, so you tell your agent you’re going on a trip and silence your phone before he can call you and sputter protests about the impromptu nature of the semi-vacation.

The volunteers at the dog shelter tell you that Michael’s been there for the majority of the day. They’ve left him alone because they don’t know what to say; it’s not everyday that a celebrity wanders into such an establishment without so much as a word, and he’s remained relatively harmless, so they’ve continued about their daily business, ignoring him as best as they could when it became obvious he had no interest in speaking to them.

When you enter the kennel room, you find him sitting in front of one with a large hound in it. It has a pointed muzzle, and its tail does not wag at your approach, but it does lift its head and blink at you a couple of times before going back to sleep. 

The cement floor is cold, but still you sit beside Michael, hugging your knees to your chest in a mirror of his position, careful not to touch him, thinking that he is wild enough to flee if you do. The hound lets out a soft breath. You notice that there are pink lines cutting through the black of its fur, marring its wide torso, shiny as the skin does its best to heal.

“She was seized from her owner,” Michael says. “The neighbors called the police one night when things got too loud.”

He’s not looking at you, but it’s obvious you’re the one he meant that statement for, so you shift closer to him, placing one hand on his arm. He flinches the tiniest bit, but when you try to pull away, he reaches up and stops you, holding your hand there, though he still refuses to turn away from the dog.

“Apparently, the guy got drunk and beat her,” he says. “She belonged to his wife, but once his wife died, he became an alcoholic, and that poor dog was the only one there to see it. I’m sure she tried to keep loving him at first, though. Even when she was frightened. Dogs do their best to love you, because they can’t understand that no matter how hard they try, it doesn’t matter. If someone wants to hate them, then all of the love in the world won’t be enough to stop that.”

He’s talking about the dog, but that’s not what he really means. That’s just how he is: he speaks in circuitous riddles to avoid ever saying anything plainly. Flowers and dogs — both are just methods of avoiding what he really wants to tell you.

“We can take her home,” you say. “Give her a different name and a place where she can be happy. Even if something has been hurt before, that doesn’t mean it has to hurt forever.”

His eyes lower, and then he stands, yanking you to your feet. Steadying you when you stumble, he lets go of you abruptly, frowning and turning away from the dog, who is awoken by the suddenness of the movement, flattening her ears against her head and shrinking back.

“She’s frightened of men now,” he says. “Has been ever since she was rescued. Bites every male that comes near her. I can’t blame her. If I were her, I’d do the same. Apparently, that means she’s not really adoptable. Not by us and not by anyone.”

The dog whines plaintively. You offer her the back of your hand through the bars of the kennel. She sniffs it before licking it carefully, and then she thumps her tail against her bed in approval — only one time, though, and then she’s standing, pacing in unhappy circles around the small kennel, which can hardly fit an animal of her size.

“I want her,” you say. “I don’t care if she isn’t adoptable. I want her.”

“Of course you do,” he says. He would sound aggravated, but there is a curious delight dancing in his eyes, a childish sort of joy that so rarely sparkles in those blue irises, so he completely doesn’t. “Of course you want her. You can’t stay away from hurt things, can you? Who told you I was here?”

“No one,” you say. “I figured it out by myself.”

He purses his lips, following after you as you make your way to the front desk. Disapproval rolls off of him in waves, but also something else. Something shriveled and cowering which is fighting desperately to crawl to the surface.

The volunteers are surprised to hear which dog you insist on taking, and they try to convince you to look at any of the more appealing ones — the puppies, or the well-trained retrievers that already have waitlists of potential adopters. You’re an actress, however, so they’ll put you at the top and give you whichever one you want. You tell them you know which one you want already, and eventually they give up on arguing, only frowning as you sign the litany of documents they produce, clicking their tongues and telling you that she’ll be difficult.

You respond that it’s fine. You’re used to difficult things; in fact, you think that you prefer them. They shake their heads and then you are told that your dog — yours, miraculously she is yours — will be ready for you to get her whenever you want.

Michael’s business in Berlin is not yet completed, you can sense it, so you tell them that you will return later and then you chase after his disappearing back, catching him by the sleeve of his coat in a narrow alleyway which leads to a theater.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says. He’s gazing at a poster with a woman on it; she’s beautiful, with elfin features and flowing hair the color of gold. She’s also someone you recognize. “Fuck Ness. I know he told you. I’m going to kill him when I get back.”

“Leave him alone,” you say. “He didn’t tell me anything.”

“Sure,” he says. “Whatever.”

“Do you know her?” you say, pointing at the woman.

“Do you?” he shoots back. He’s crabby now, snapping easily and readily, though you’ve not really done anything to provoke him.

“Yes,” you say. It’s not the answer he had predicted, which you can tell because he whirls to glare at you instead of the movie poster. “Why are you surprised? We’re in the same industry. I was almost in a movie with her a while back, though it fell through because of an issue with the writers. She’s nice enough, I guess. I went to her wedding a couple of years ago, but other than that, I wouldn’t say we’re particularly close.”

“You…went to her wedding?” he says, and then, inexplicably, his fingers are weaving in between yours. It feels like he is holding onto you for something more than affection, so you stand as still as you possibly can, only humming in agreement.

“Yes, I did. Actually, she married her childhood sweetheart, which took everyone by surprise. It was commonly thought that she’d marry one or another of her costars, you see. She’s always been good at creating chemistry…people always say that she can make even a rock seem desirable, that’s how she is,” you say wistfully, leaning your head on his shoulder. He doesn’t shove you away, enraptured by the story. “It’s amazing to watch. But isn’t it kind of sweet? That despite how excellent she is at feigning affection, how she could’ve had any man in the world, she chose the boy from her youth? I remember talking to him. He has nothing, no money or connections or investments. She really just married him because he loves her for who she is.”

“Is love really all she wanted?” he says.

“I suppose it’s all that a lot of people want,” you say. “Rumor has it that she's pregnant.”

He stiffens against you. “What?”

“Well, I think she’s a little old for it, but it’s common for women in my line of work to wait until the signs of age are beyond concealment before they have children, so it’s not a shock,” you say.

“Why?’ he says. 

“It’s the industry’s standards—” you begin before he cuts you off.

“No,” he says. “No, why is she — why does she want — why is she pregnant?”

“Isn’t it common for people to start a family eventually?” you say. “By the way, you never answered my question. Do you know her?”

“She’s my mother,” he says. The words are angry, but his tone is forlorn, his hand in mine cold and small. “But I’m — I’m not her son.”

He looks so wretched that you cannot help embracing him, and when he reciprocates in earnest and without pretense, you know that you have done the right thing. His breaths are fast and shaky, though he is not crying, and as much as you wish you had not said it, you believe deep down that it is important that you did.

Platitudes are meaningless. If you say it’s okay or something along those lines, you will be a liar, because the truth is that it’s not okay. You are not the one who can decide if it’s okay or not. You can only remain as you have been, motionless and gentle, stroking his back in the way one settles a restless infant, allowing his fingers to dig into your sides and his looming weight to collapse into you — for his sharpness is not borne of malice but helplessness, however loath to admit it he might be.

“Why?” he whispers. There’s a million questions he could be asking, and none of them are ones you can ever answer for him, but that will not stop him. “Why couldn’t it be me? Why couldn’t she be happy with me? I would have loved her. I would have been her family.”

“A lot of people don’t deserve children,” you muse. “Or love, or many other such happinesses. And still more people cannot understand the importance of these things when they are within their grasp. Your mother must’ve been very young when she had you. It’s easy to be blinded by stardom and glamor and fairytales at that age. It’s easier still to abandon everything for just a taste of the spotlight. There’s a school of thought that fame is impossible to attain without that necessary sacrifice.”

“What about you?” he says.

“I’m not an exception,” you say ruefully. “Any normal person would have hung up on you when you first called, Michael. I’m only lucky in that it was you and not anyone else on the other end of the line. It’s only because I know you that I realized there are more important things in this world than celebrity and popularity. Once I would’ve spurned the thought of obscurity, but now, if I can have you, then I wouldn’t even mind it so much. It’s the same conclusion your mother must have reached.”

“It’s too late,” he says. “She reached it too late.”

“Yes,” you say. “Yes, she did reach it too late, but it’s easier to give this kind of life up once you’ve known it than to never have it at all. That’s the only reason why. She was greedy, and you bore the consequences.”

“It’s not fair,” he says. You’ve never heard him like this. Normally, he’d laugh at the mere thought of such vulnerability, but the gray of the city has clearly twisted him into a wounded and fragile version of himself, prone to shattering, made of a glass that is already jagged at the edges and can hardly keep together because of it. “It’s not fair, it’s not — I hate her, and I hate him, and I hate her stupid new family, and I —I—”

He silences himself, obviously unsure of what to say, and then he holds your face in his hands, giving you a pleading stare. Help me, he seems to beg. Tell me what to do. He is lost, and somehow you have become a map of sorts, or a compass, one which points in a direction he has no choice but to follow.

“Why did you come here?” you say. “When you knew it would hurt you, why did you come?”

“I wanted to remind myself,” he says. “For a second, you even convinced me that I was worthy of being — you know. So I had to come back. I had to see with my own eyes the kind of person I really am. If my mother and my father and my entire damn city hate me, then why should you be any different?”

He’s scared that he will hurt you, and that you will hurt him, and that he will be alone again, as he has been for much of his life. For all his brashness, his bravado, his smugness and his smooth way of speaking in public, he’s never really been anything more than a little boy who’s frightened, who presses against the back wall of his enclosure like that beaten hound did.

“You know that I am different,” you say. “I am not your mother, nor your father. I will leave everything behind but you. In fact, I’ll leave it for you. Tell me to and I will.”

“What if I tell you to quit acting?” he says.

“Then I will retire at once,” you say. “I already have more money than I know what to do with.”

“And if I tell you to move across the world?” he tries, resting his forehead against yours. “Would you do that, despite your entire life being here?”

“Yes,” you say. “I am quick at making friends and learning new things, so I will adapt to it.”

“What about if I tell you to marry me?” he says. His lips are so close to yours that he is speaking against your mouth, but he doesn’t try to kiss you yet. 

“You wouldn’t ask?” you say.

“I don’t ask for things,” he says.

“Naturally, I’d marry you,” you say. “There isn’t anyone else I’d ever want, anyways. We’d have the most beautiful wedding in the world, and we’d only invite the people we like.”

“That’s a short list,” he says. His heartbeat is calming down; it’s a temporary solution, but if it manages to distract him, then you’ll indulge the flight of fancy.

“My parents,” you say.

“Ness,” he says.

“I always knew you liked him,” you say.

“Only because I have to,” he says.

“Anyone else?” you say.

“No,” he says. “That’s it. We can even forget about all of those people, actually. I just want it to be the two of us. Nobody else matters but — but you.”

He’s stuttering as he comes to his senses. These declarations aren’t typical of him, as foreign as French on his tongue, but he’s making them anyways. He’s been fighting the compulsion for a while, you can tell, but it’s hard for him to keep fighting on all fronts of his life. Eventually, one side will give. You are glad that it is your side, that you are the one he has given to, no matter how reluctantly he has done it.

“Is there anything else you’d like?” you say. “All of these are easy for me to do. Ask for something difficult, so that I may prove to you that I am telling the truth, that I mean what I say.”

“It’s not a request, but a condition,” he says.

“You only need to name it,” you say.

“If I hurt you, then you have to run,” he says. “Run so far away that I can never reach you. Even though it’ll hurt me, I want you to run. Even though I’ll beg for you to stay, please leave.”

That’s it, then. The most difficult thing he can imagine a person doing: leaving someone they love. Certainly he is unable to do it. It doesn’t matter if he’s suffering. He’ll suffer longer just to stay by your side, just as he suffered for all of those many years as a child. 

It’s how you know he loves you more than he’ll ever let on. He holds you in such esteem that he’ll let you leave him if you have to, though it’ll indubitably destroy him, destroy him more than staying could ever destroy you. Yet still he is giving you that permission, commanding it, even, because he’d rather destroy himself than let even the slightest harm befall your being.

You can only draw that conclusion because you know that he will never, can never, hurt you. He isn’t saying this as a warning, because it isn’t an inclination that he has. No, it’s a dark and ugly voice in the back of his mind — does it sound like his father’s? You feel that it must — insisting that he will do it, he will. He’ll hurt you. He’s the reason that his mother left and his father became something sick, and he’ll be the reason that you are broken and ruined and torn apart. He’ll do it. He’ll be the one to do it, it’s inevitable, he’ll scratch you with his thorns and gnaw at your remains with his fangs and maybe he’ll even cry during the act but he’ll still do it.

“Alright,” you say, though you want to protest that he is incapable, because it’s clear that he is testing you. Every argument which might fall from your lips, he has heard before, and if you dare utter them one more time, it’ll be the proof that you are lying. The way his thoughts work, the paths that they follow, they are winding and narrow, but perhaps your mother is right — perhaps you are coming to understand them.

“Do you think that I can?” he says.

“No,” you say. “The fact that you worry about it tells me that you won’t. You are better than that, Michael.”

“You really believe that?” he says. “With everything you are, you believe it?”

“I do,” you say.

You almost can’t believe it, but he laughs. Well, calling it a laugh is generous, it’s really more of an exhale, yet one which is unquestionably seeping with amusement, and you’re about to ask him what he finds so funny when he was so close to breaking down mere moments earlier, but he stops you before you can.

“I do,” he says. It’s an odd thing to repeat, but a second later your mind registers why he’s done it, and then the corners of your lips are curving up.

In the streets of Berlin, the two of you are alone; his mother’s poster is your only witness, but if she takes some offense, she remains smiling and silent, her gaze far away as her son — who isn’t her son, he isn’t hers at all, he’s yours and only yours — finally closes the minuscule gap between you both and kisses you fully.

Hero (F!Reader x Genya)

This is a small soft story. I just really wanted to write out. Hope you enjoy! I just love Genya.

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When Y/n had first met Genya he had saved her and her brother from a demon.

Y/n was covered with injures from head to toe, fighting to save the two of them from a vicious monster that appeared within their family home suddenly. Her little brother had tears streaming down his face as he hid behind his elder sister. The long brown strands of her hair were dripping in the red crimson of her head injury. Eyes dazed from her concussion, Y/n had no choice but to continue to fight. Fight for herself and her little brother.

"Stay back Kyo!" Y/n yelled, her arm extending out to gently push her brother back towards the wall that trapped them. The farther away he was, the safer he was. Kyo cried for his sister, only wanting to find comfort in her arms as he witnessed the amount of slashes his older sister had received.

Blood dripped onto the wooden floor, the puddle becoming a pool as minutes passed and her injures worsened.

"Nii-c-chan!" Y/n glanced quickly at her brothers cowering form, his hands raised for her to pick him up. A loud slurp caused a shiver to run up her spine and forced her head to snap at the large demon once again.

"You won't be able to kill me. Theirs no point in fighting, just let me eat you!" The demon roared, a devious laugh escaping his lips.

Was this really it? Was this really how the two of them were going to die? Y/n shook her head as small black spots appeared in her vision. No, she couldn't think like that. Maybe, just maybe her parents would be back in time. Her father would come to their rescue at the last moment and that would allow her to rest along the wooden floor in peace.

A small desperate laugh escaped her lips.

"As if." Y/n spoke, her hand gripping her waist as her other hand held up a long dagger. The demon grumbled under his breath, this girl was putting up the longest fight he had ever gone through. The kid he ate just before wasn't even this persistent.

As the demon began to lurch forward with alarming speed, Y/n's breath hitched and gripped the dagger with immense force. Here it comes.

A large sound range through the air and the demon yelled in agony. Y/n instantly looked at were the sound originated from, a boy wrapped in black and purple stood behind the demon. Y/n felt her body succumb to her injures as she fell to the floor, her little brother running to her side.

A sharp breath escaped her lips, her chest was hurting. Everything was hurting. Y/n couldn't focus on the sounds that emitted through their home. The bullets firing and roar of the demon and suddenly it went silent.

Everything sounded muffled. All Y/n could see was her brother hovering her body, his eyes pooling with tears as they dripped down his face so innocently.

Genya stood still as he watched the demons body evaporate, his shotgun strapped back in its rightful place. The sounds of cries brought him back to reality, the boy looking to see a young girl covered in blood and a little boy practically screeching for his sister.

Genya was quick to alarm his crow to send for Kakushi. The crow making swift work to leave the premise and bring back the trained medics. Rushing forward the brother paid no mind to their savior. Genya looked down at the young girl, at Y/n.

Y/n turned to look at Genya, his breath hitched in his throat as she looked directly into his eyes. She was beautiful, gorgeous even as her brown hair was matted with dry blood and her kimono stained.

"T-Thank you." Y/n spoke softly, ragged breaths escaping her lips. Genya nodded sheepishly, before noticing her breath was coming out ragged. Y/n's eyes glazed as her head fell to the side. Genya quickly worked to wrap her wounds in the cloth of his clothing, ripping it off.

"W-What are y-you doing?" Kyo said softly, his hand caressing his sisters as the warmth left her skin slowly.

"Buying some time kid." Genya spoke, his voice coming out rough as he would diligently to keep you alive.

As soon as the Kakushi arrived, their were surprised to see how well Genya had patched you up. The makeshift bandages were tight, but not tight enough to cut of any circulation. Genya turned quick to yell at them to hurry the hell up. They quickly jumped into action.

When Y/n woke up, she genuinely thought she had died and gone to heaven. Y/n was in an unknown room, her head was throbbing roughly and she gasped slightly feeling the pain of her other injures.

"Don't move so much." A rough voice spoke out, Y/n whipped her head to see a tall muscular boy, possibly a year older than her. A small flush made it's way to her face as she examined him. He looked rough, brash, and manly.

Genya tried his absolute best no to explode in flush of red. He had never been good at communicating with girls, but you... You were breathtaking.

"M-My brother? Where is he?" Y/n asked frantically, pushing the covers off her body and moving to leave the bed. Genya was quick to grab ahold of her body just as it was about to hit the floor. A small gasp left her lips at the contact.

"He's safe. He's eating in the kitchen right now." Genya said looking down at the girl. Peeping up to make contact with the boy, his eyes quickly averted their gaze. His ears were bright red.

"I-I need to see him." Y/n said softly, Genya only nodded softly and led the girl out the door supporting all of her weight as they walked.

Y/n heard laughter. Her head shot up seeing her little brother laughing away with three little girls, his face littered in little pieces of rice. A deep sigh escaped her lips, Genya looked down not expecting Y/n to be looking at him.

Genya froze, his eyes unable to pull away from hers. Her eyes were a soft brown, like a pool of chocolate that makes you want to drive in. Her eyes peeked under long curled lashes, making her look divine.

"Thank you so much, for saving us. I don't think I would have lasted much longer." Y/n said softly, unknowingly leaning into a flustered Genya. Y/n softly giggled feeling his body tense up under her touch and a fit of red engulfing his entire face.

It wasn't ideal for the two of them to meet under these circumstances, but Genya could never forget it. Y/n refused to ever forget her hero.

Months had passed that they had yet to see each other since the attack. Y/n healed beautifully and her scars made her look tough and brave. After she had healed, she had met with the Butterfly Hashira that oversaw her treatment. Since then Y/n began to learn how to become a demon slayer. Not many civilians had the strength to fight a demon, so to hear that she could become a demon slayer surprised her.

As time grew long, Y/n trained to become a part of the demon slayer corporation and after passed the trial she officially made it.

Genya sat outside in the garden of the Butterfly Mansion. He had just made it back after a long mission and it was nice to be able to rest. A small sigh escaped his lips as he leaned back to lay against the cool wood, his leg dangling over the edge.

Closing his eyes, he relished in the silence of the mansion.

Suddenly his eyes opened to come face to face with her. His heart pounded in his chest as he noticed it was the girl he saved, that it was Y/n.

Y/n hovered over his body. The sun's rays complimented her features and Genya noticed the uniform she wore. A demon slayer uniform.

"Nice to see again, Genya." Y/n spoke softly, a flattering smile and small red tint adoring her face as she looked with loving eyes at the boy below her.

"Y-YOU!" Genya shouted as he quickly got up. Y/n pulled her body back, laughing slightly.

"Yes, me." Y/n said softly, pushing her brown strands behind her hair. Genya was shocked to see her, especially since he never thought he would see her again.

"I decided to join the demon slayer corporation after you saved me. I trained under the Butterfly Hashira because..." Y/n looked down at her fingers nervously, Genya gulped.

"After everything that happened I realized I wanted to be apart of this. After you saved me, I wanted to do the same for others." Y/n walked forward, her head sinking down to Genya's level. His body froze, eyes wide, and lips slightly ajar.

"Your my hero, Genya. Thank you for everything." Y/n said sheepishly. Slowly, Y/n leaned forward placing a small kiss on Genya's red hot cheek. The boy was shocked as Y/n pulled away. Y/n smiled brightly as she turned and walked away, the gravel sounding softly.

Genya lifted his hand and placed it on the cheek you kissed.

'Hero...' Genya thought as he looked at your disappearing form. The smallest smile graced Genya's features. He never thought he would see you again, but his racing heart told him that he was happier than ever to see you.

life if people stopped mischaracterizing kaiser

BORN TO LOVE YOU

// Michael Kaiser

sum: it’s been a month since kaiser let you slip away from him. he thinks he knows what it feels like to lose everything.

wc: 1080

warnings: probably OOC kaiser idk it’s my first time writing him, kaiser backstory & manga spoilers

a/n: sorry if this is a mess i just had to get exes to lovers with kaiser out of my head xd

likes & reblogs are appreciated :)

When Michael Kaiser was born, he had nothing. Not a family, not care, and most certainly not love. Michael Kaiser was born a mistake, and lived most of his life that way.

Everything changed when he was fifteen, when his life turned around and all of a sudden he meant something. All of a sudden he had a reason to care, a reason to continue living. No longer was he the mistake of a child that neither of his parents wanted, no longer was he a thief that had to steal to survive; he is Michael Kaiser, a member of the New Generation World XI, signed to Bastard Munchen with millions to his name.

He met you at twenty-one, a university student studying in one of the universities in the city, at some coffee shop he can’t seem to remember. He remembers the bored look on your face as you took his order at the register, and the way you didn’t even react when he said his name. If Kaiser was being honest, he was a little offended - but he also thought you were pretty even with your bored appearance.

He didn’t know that that fateful encounter would lead to perhaps the most meaningful years of his life.

Kaiser is not good with love. He was never given even a sliver of it, and he has never been in a relationship long enough to know what it feels like beyond the shallow like. Models and actresses alike all flock to him no doubt as a means of increasing their fame, and he could care less. It was fun to toy with them, and throw them aside when he got tired of them. They were all the same.

You, however, brought him down to earth; you showed him what it was like to be human. You showed him what it meant to enjoy the little things in life, to take a step back and relax for a moment, to enjoy the silence. If he knows how to appreciate the simple pleasures of life, it’s because of you.

Two years with you was more than enough time to get him addicted to the drug that is you. He’s not a passive person by any means, and he’s the kind of person to speak freely of his thoughts no matter the opinions of the people around him - yet he finds himself unsure of what to say when he’s with you. He finds himself wondering if he should say something, if he’ll offend you with his blunt words. So he softens himself the best he can, he tries to be gentler and kinder in his words and actions, all in an effort to keep you.

Yet, you still manage to slip through his fingers, until all he's left with are the bittersweet memories of you.

Kaiser doesn’t enjoy admitting he’s miserable. All that runs through his head are thoughts of you, how you’re doing, what you’re doing, where you could be. He yearns to feel your skin against his again, to hold you at night and let your breathing lull him to sleep, he yearns to hold your hand as you walk down the street, he yearns for you. You, who is just barely within reach, but the one thing he’ll never be able to reach.

Kaiser doesn’t cry. Kaiser gets angry, he gets frustrated, but he doesn’t cry. But when he thinks about you, and what was and what could’ve been, he can’t help when his face grows wet and the cascade of tears don’t stop. He waits for a moment, before he laughs bitterly, remembering that you’re not there anymore, and he’s back to wiping his own tears like all those years ago.

A month passes by, and you’ve never contacted him. His heart hurts in a way he’s never felt before. Maybe it’s an act of desperation, or maybe he’s drowning in his sorrows, but he finds himself at your apartment in the middle of the day looking and feeling like a wreck.

“I’m sorry.” The words slip out of his mouth on instinct. He’s not the kind of person to apologize, but if it’s for you, he’ll do it without hesitation.

You let him in and he almost feels like he’s breathing fresh air again. Your apartment is a familiar sight, and he remembers every inch of it like the back of his hand. The only things missing are the frames of you and him.

“I’m sorry.” He all but whispers when you sit down on your couch, his voice rough and raw. “I love you.”

“Michael…” Your voice, liquid gold to his ears, calls his name so tenderly he might just break down on the spot.

“I can’t live without you. I don’t know how to anymore. I’ll never love anyone as much as I love you, and I’ll never stop loving you. You… You’re my life. You taught me how to live, you taught me how to be human. If I know love, it’s because of you. How can I love another person while knowing you’re the only one for me?” Michael Kaiser has never begged. But for you, he’ll grovel a thousand times over and then some. His voice cracks and he wants nothing more than for you to love him again. “I… I know it’s selfish that I need you. You deserve better. I’m sorry that this is all I am, but I can’t let go of you.”

“Michael, please don’t say that.” Your voice is firm as you take his hands in yours and he swears he feels electricity shoot down his spine. “You are more than enough the way that you are, please never think otherwise. You’re the Michael Kaiser, any person would be lucky to have such a wonderful man by their side.”

He doesn’t realize he’s crying, not until you wipe away his tears with your thumb.

When you embrace him gently, lovingly, he completely breaks. The tears don’t stop and he can’t help his sniffling. He’s afraid to speak, to hear what may leave his fragile heart, but he’s never felt so warm, so loved. Is this what home feels like?

“I was born to love you.” He finally manages to whisper, buried in the comfort of your neck with your arms wrapped around him, his wrapped around you. Your hands tenderly stroke his hair, and he feels himself being lulled to sleep.

“We were born for each other, my love.”