(Multi! Blue Lock x Reader) Manipulation 101

~𝓟𝓻𝓸𝓵𝓸𝓰𝓾𝓮~

"They say emotions are the very fabric of the soul—the vibrant, messy threads that stitch a human being into existence.

Joy, sorrow, anger, fear; these are the proofs of life, the heartbeat of consciousness.

But what happens when the spool runs empty?

If a vessel is hollowed out, scraped clean of the capacity to truly feel, does it still qualify as a person?

Or does it become something else entirely—a beautiful, moving mannequin, pantomiming the play without ever understanding the script?

I've often wondered that about myself. But then again, wondering requires curiosity, and I'm not sure I have much of that left, either."

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.

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The air in the room is stale, a cocktail of expensive cologne, sweat, and the lingering ghost of burned tobacco.

The sheets are tangled around your legs, a chaotic sea of white linen that you are drowning in. You lie on your back, staring at the ceiling, the lit cigarette between your fingers serving as the only source of warmth in the cooling room. Next to you, Bunny Iglesias shifts, the mattress dipping under his weight.

You bring the filter to your lips, inhaling sharply, letting the grey smoke fill your lungs—a substitute for the feelings you can't generate.

As you exhale, you turn your head lazily. You don't blow the smoke at the ceiling. You purse your lips and blow a long, thin stream directly into his face.

Bunny coughs, waving his hand through the haze, his brow furrowing in that way that usually signals annoyance, though his eyes remain soft. Too soft.

"Can you stop smoking in the house?" he murmurs, his voice raspy from sleep and the aftermath of what you'd just done. "It clings to the curtains."

You smirk, the expression practiced and sharp. You shift, letting the sheet fall away to expose your skin, watching his eyes dip down before snapping back to your face. You know exactly what you are doing.

"If you don't like the smell," you purr, your voice dripping with that arrogant, sexy confidence that keeps everyone at arm's length, "you could always leave. Or make me stop."

He doesn't take the bait. He never does. Instead, he reaches out, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw. It is a possessive touch, but one trembling with hesitation.

"You know I'm not going anywhere," he whispers.

"Not yet," you correct him, taking another drag. You look at the ember glowing orange in the dim light. "But I am. Soon."

The silence that follows is heavy. It isn't the comfortable silence of lovers; it is the suffocating silence of a countdown.

"Japan is far away," you say, breaking the quiet. You turn to look at him fully, searching his face for a crack in his composure. "Are you going to miss me, Bunny?"

You don't actually care about the answer. Or maybe you do, and that terrifies you, so you bury it under layers of apathy.

Bunny sighs, shifting closer until your bare chests brush against one another. He reaches for your hand—the one holding the cigarette—and gently moves it aside so he can take your fingers. He lifts your hand to his lips, pressing a lingering, devout kiss against the silver couple ring that encircles your finger. The metal is cold against his lips.