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The bedroom was quiet, save for the rhythmic, low drone of the fan overhead and the heavy shift of Simon’s weight beside you.
You groaned, a low and exhausted sound that caught in the back of your throat as you tried to find a comfortable position.
At nearly eight months pregnant, "comfortable" was a concept that felt so foreign. Your lower back ached with a dull, throbbing persistence, and the pressure in your pelvis made every slight movement feel like a monumental chore.
A massive, calloused hand settled against the bare skin of your hip, the heat of it immediately radiating through you. Simon pulled himself closer, his massive frame bracketing your body from behind like a solid wall of muscle. He didn't wear the mask in bed, leaving his rugged, scarred face bare against the crook of your neck. His breath was hot and even against your skin.
"Still aching love?" his baritone voice rumbled, vibrating right through your skin.
"Everything hurts, Simon," you sighed, leaning back into his chest, letting him take your weight. "My back, my hips... I feel like I'm bursting. I just want this part to be over."
Simon’s grip on your hip tightened slightly. He shifted, his thigh sliding between yours, parting them slightly. Even in his relaxed state, you could feel the hard, thick length of him pressing against the curve of your backside.
"I told you how to fix that," he murmured, his voice dropping into that rough, commanding register that always made your pulse skip. His lips brushed the sensitive skin just below your ear. "Doctor said it yourself, didn't they? Semen softens the cervix. Oxytocin causes contractions. You want this baby out of you, love? You need to let me work my magic."
You let out a breathless, half-hearted laugh, tilting your head back to look at him. "Simon, we did this earlier. And the yesterday. I think you're just using medical advice as an excuse to keep me pinned to the mattress."
"Am I?" A faint, dark smirk touched the corner of his lips, though his eyes remained focused, stilling as he looked down at your swollen belly. He brought his hand around to cup the heavy underside of it, his thumb tracing a slow circle. "Maybe. But it works, doesn’t it? Takes the edge off the ache. Relaxes you."
He wasn't entirely wrong. The endorphins usually did help, masking the physical toll of carrying his child, if only for a few hours.
But there was an underlying motive to Simon’s relentless attention over the last few weeks. And it went far beyond mere pain relief.
Simon had a hunger that hadn't been satisfied by putting a baby in you; if anything, seeing your body change, seeing his mark so visibly displayed on you, had only made it worse.
"You just want me empty so you can fill me up again hm?" you whispered, the truth slipping out in the quiet of the room.
Simon didn't deny it. His gaze snapped up to meet yours. The sheer intensity in his eyes made your stomach flutter. He leaned over you, his massive chest pressing gently against your back as he trapped you beneath him.
"Fuckin’ right I do," he growled softly, his voice thick and rough. "I love seeing you like this. Love knowing I did this to you. But the sooner this one’s out, the sooner I get to put another one inside you. I want you soft, vulnerable, and heavy with my kid again. Understand?"
A shiver raced down your spine. The shameless dominance of his words wasn't new, but hearing him say it so plainly, with your body already heavy with his first child, sent a wave of heat straight to your core. The dull ache in your pelvis shifted, replaced by a tight, throbbing ache of a completely different nature.
"Simon..." you breathed, your fingers clutching at his forearm.
"Good girl. Already nice and wet for me," he muttered, his hand sliding down from your belly, filtering through the soft hair between your thighs to find the wetness already gathering there. He slipped two thick fingers inside you, testing your readiness with a slow, deep stroke. You whimpered, arching your back into his hand as your aching muscles stretched and yielded.
"Look at you," Simon praised roughly, his breath hitching as he felt how tight and warm you were around him. "So ready for me. Let’s get this baby moving, yeah? Let me stretch you out."
He didn't make you move much; he knew you were sore. Instead, he kept you on your side, guiding your top leg up and over his hip to give himself full, unhindered access. He lined himself up against your entrance, the broad, blunt head of his length nudging against your soaking folds.
"Hold onto the headboard," he commanded softly, pressing a kiss to your shoulder before burying his face in your hair.
You gripped the wooden slats above you, your knuckles turning white just as Simon pushed forward.
He didn't rush. He sank into you with a slow, deliberate pressure, his massive size filling you completely, stretching your sensitive, pregnancy-gorged walls until you let out a fractured cry. The sheer fullness of him was overwhelming, relieving the deep, internal pressure of the pregnancy by replacing it with his own massive weight.
"Fuck, you're tight," Simon groaned, his entire body tensing as he buried himself to the hilt, his hips flushing hard against your bottom. He stayed still for a moment, letting you adjust, his hands gripping your waist so tightly his fingers left faint white marks on your skin. "You feel perfect. Holding my baby, taking all of me."
He began to move. So slowly, with a rocking friction that grounded his pelvis against yours. Every stroke was deep and heavy. You loved when he treated you like a vessel meant explicitly for him.
"Ah... Simon, wait, it's—it's too deep," you gasped, the sensation overwhelming your heightened senses.
"It's exactly where it needs to be," he rumbled against your neck, his teeth nipping at your shoulder blade, leaving stinging little marks. "Right against you. Can feel it softening it up for me already. Every time I hit it, just think about how close we are to getting this lad out. Think about how good it's going to feel when I get to start over. Months of fucking, putting as much of me in you as you can hold until you're nice and round again."
The vivid, dirty imagery had your head spinning. You cried out, your hips involuntarily twitching back against his rhythm, begging for more of the heavy, blunt friction. The dull aches in your lower back were entirely forgotten, drowned out by the absolute overload of pleasure.
He accelerated the pace slightly, his breaths turning into harsh, ragged grunts as the friction built. His hands moved to your belly, holding it, anchoring you to the bed as he drove into you from behind. The smacking sound of skin against skin, and your own moans filled the quiet bedroom, a dirty, rhythmically intoxicating noise.
"Simon—I'm close, I'm gonna—"
"Take it," he ordered, his voice commanding and completely devoid of room for argument. "Squeeze around me. Give me that contraction, sweetheart, c’mon."
With a final deep thrust that seemed to touch the absolute center of you, your body jolted. Your internal muscles clamped down hard, pulsing in a violent, rolling orgasm that had you sobbing into the pillow, your fingers locking onto the headboard.
Hearing your undone cries and feeling the intense, tight spasms of your climax was all the trigger Simon needed. He let out a low growl, his hips locking tight against yours as he buried himself as deeply as physically possible. He shuddered violently, his head snapping back as he pumped his release deep inside you, filling you with a heavy, thick warmth meant to kickstart the end of this journey—and eventually, begin the next.
He stayed inside you long after the waves settled, his heavy chest rising and falling against your back, his arms wrapped securely around your middle, holding his child and his woman close.
"There," Simon murmured after a long few minutes, his voice laced with a satisfied, sleepy smugness as he kissed your damp temple. "Aches gone?"
"Yeah," you breathed, completely exhausted but relaxed, the tension drained from your body.
"Good," he whispered, his large hand gently stroking your belly. "Get some sleep love. We'll do it again tomorrow."
The morning sun filtered through the heavy crimson drapes of the Red Keep, casting a warm, golden glow across the expansive bedchambers. Valarr Targaryen, the Young Prince and heir to the Iron Throne, stirred awake. He was a man praised across the Seven Kingdoms for his chivalry, his patience, and his remarkably gentle nature.
But as he looked down at the woman tangled in the silk sheets beside him, a soft, amused smile tugged at his lips. Patient, gentle, kind Valarr—yes, the realm knew him well for those virtues. But what the realm didn’t see the exhausting brat he had chosen to crown as his future queen.
It was a great ordeal he went through to convince his parents that you were the only one for him. A great pain indeed. Your role was to sit and look pretty, he spoke of nothing but sugar sweet words as he kissed your hands. Telling you to let him handle everything.
Now these were the fruits of his labour.
You were fast asleep, a soft pout firmly fixed on your lips, hair splayed across the down pillows. Valarr shifted, the muscle of his chest brushing against your bare shoulder. He had definitely tired you out the night before; the faint, fading purple marks on your collarbones and hips were proof enough of his ardor.
"Wake up, my love," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep as he pressed a tender kiss to the crown of your head, down to the tip of your nose, then down to the slope of your jawline and neck.
You groaned, burying your face deeper into the pillows, kicking a foot out from beneath the duvet in a silent, stubborn protest. You weren't moving. You never wanted to move in the mornings, demanding his warming presence like a spoiled kitten.
Valarr let out a low rumble chuckle, stroking your hair. "I must go. Father requires me at the small council early today. I shall see you before the afternoon sun peaks, sweetling."
Another muffled whine was your only reply. With a final kiss to your exposed shoulder, Valarr reluctantly slipped from the comfort of the bed to face his royal duties.
Much to his dismay, the day did not go according to Valarr’s plans.
What should have been a brief morning session dissolved into hours of grueling disputes over grain taxes and maritime borders. Prince Baelor Breakspear was thorough, and as his heir, Valarr was expected to be equally meticulous. Every time he thought he could slip away to check on his wife, another scroll was unrolled.
He was fighting a loud groan when another ‘concerned lord’ had spoken. If his father allowed it he could pierce him on his blade at this very moment.
And you, growing increasingly impatient with every hour your husband spent away from you, decided to make your presence known.
Around midday, you sauntered into the courtyard where Valarr was briefly speaking with a commander of the City Watch. You basically paraded. You wore a gown cut so daringly low it drew eyes from every guard on the battlements, and you deliberately interrupted his conversation, complaining loudly about the quality of the midday fruit, demanding he taste a bruised plum.
Valarr merely smiled, his striking eyes dripping with patient indulgence. He excused himself to the commander, took the plum from your fingers, and gently kissed your cheek. "I will have the master of kitchens replaced if it pleases you, sweetling. But let me finish this, and I am yours."
You huffed, your face scrunching up into that face Valarr loves, and you slightly stomped your foot before turning on your heel. Valarr covered his mouth and watched your hips sway, thinking to himself that he would gladly spoil you and deal with your fiery temper the moment he was free. He loved your spirit, even when it bordered on exhausting.
But by the time evening fell, your impatience transformed into spite.
Just as his duties were on the cusp of beging completed one of your handmaids had come to inform him of an awful tantrum you pulled.
Valarr walked back toward the royal apartments, exhausted, his shoulders aching, looking forward to nothing more than holding you. Despite your temper. But as he pushed open the heavy wooden doors of your shared chambers, he froze.
He had pushed the concerns of the handmaiden aside, chocking it up as one of your common complaints. But as he stared at the room in absolute disaster he wished he’d taken it seriously.
Finely spun Myrish silks had been dragged from the chests and shredded. The expensive perfumes he had gifted you from Lys had been smashed against the stone hearth, filling the room with an overpowering, cloying scent of lilies and amber. Ink from his personal desk had been deliberately spilled across his state papers, dripping onto the expensive foreign rugs.
And there you sat, prettily perched on the edge of the unmade bed in nothing but a sheer, translucent silk chemise, a smug, defiant look painted across your beautiful face. You had done this entirely out of spite, he knew. You wanted his attention, and you didn't care if you had to burn the room—hell, maybe even the entirety of the Keep—down to get it.
Valarr closed the door behind him. The click of the lock resonated like a death knell in the quiet room.
The gentle, patient prince did not smile. The warmth in his violet eyes vanished, replaced by a dark, simmering heat. His jaw clenched, a muscle ticking beneath his sharp jawline. Even his patience could thin at times.
"Valarr!" you chirped, putting on your best innocent act as you slid off the bed and purred toward him. You threw your arms around his neck, now on your tip toes attempting to smother his face in kisses, pressing your soft body against his rigid chest. "You took so long. I missed you."
He didn't return the embrace nor did he kiss you back. His hands came down, wrapping firmly around your wrists, and with a strength that reminded you he was blood of the dragon, he coldly pried you off him.
"Sit wife," he commanded, his voice dropping an octave, devoid of its usual warmth.
Your breath hitched. You tried to pout, to play the victim. "But Valarr—"
"I said, sit."
Before you could process the sudden shift in the air, Valarr grabbed you by the waist, lifting you effortlessly. He dropped onto the heavy wooden chair near the hearth and yanked you face-down across his lap. Your breath rushed out of you as your stomach pressed against his hard thighs.
Before you could speak a word one swift, brutal motion, he bunched up the sheer fabric of your chemise, pulling it up past your waist to completely expose your bare, plump ass to the cool air of the room.
"You have been a very naughty, very spiteful girl today, my love," Valarr purred dangerously against your ear, his large palm hovering over your skin. "And since you wanted my undivided attention so badly... I think it’s time I give it to you."
WACK!
The first strike brought a sharp, stinging shock that made you yelp, your toes curling.
"You will count them," Valarr ordered, his voice flat, completely unbothered by your sudden gasp. "And if you miss a number, we start over."
WACK!
"O-One!" you cried out, your hands gripping his boots for leverage.
WACK! WACK!
"Two! Three! Ah—Valarr, stop, it hurts!"
"You missed four. Count again," he commanded, bringing his palm down with a heavy, rhythmic force.
He didn't pull his punches. The patient prince was gone; in his place was a dominant, unyielding husband who was thoroughly putting his bratty wife back in her place. The flesh of your cheeks quickly bloomed into a bright, angry crimson. You wept, sobbing your numbers out as the heat radiated through your backside, the stinging pain melting into a heavy, throbbing ache that began to pool straight into your aching core. By the time you reached thirty, you were shaking, your skin entirely flushed, completely humbled by his stern hand.
"Are you ready to behave for me?" he murmured, caressing your bum. He leaned down to bite the sensitive skin of your shoulder, his fingers digging into your hips.
"Yes, yes, please, Valarr, I'm sorry," you sobbed, turning your head to look at him with wide, pleading eyes.
He didn't answer with words. Instead, he stood you up, your legs trembling so violently you could barely stand. He ripped his own trousers down, freeing his thick, rigid length, already seeping a droplet of pre-cum from the thrill of breaking your attitude.
He didn't carry you to the bed. He bent you shamelessly right over the expanse of the table, pinning your chest to the polished wood. You whimpered, feeling the heat of his large cock brushing against your dripping, swollen slit. You were so wet, desperately needing him to fill the ache he had beaten into you.
"Please, Valarr, hard. Insert it hard, please—"
Valarr chuckled, a dark, teasing sound.
If you begged for him to bring you the stars in this state he would’ve committed the taboos of blood magic to attain them.
He guided his tip against your opening, pushing in just an inch—just enough to stretch you, to make you gasp and arch your back in desperate anticipation—and then he pulled entirely out.
"No, no, please!" you wailed, reaching back to try and pull him into you.
"You do not choose the terms tonight, sweetling," he whispered, his hands gripping your hair, pulling your head back so you had to look at his expression. "You wanted my time? You have it. All night."
For the next gruelling two hours, Valarr subjected you to an agonizingly cruel regime of edging. He would push inside you, his thick, heavy length filling you completely, driving you to the very precipice of a screaming orgasm with slow, agonizingly deep friction. Your walls would clamp down around him, your breath hitching as the crest of the wave approached—and then he would abruptly pull out. He would hold you still, ignoring your pathetic begged pleas, letting your arousal simmer and burn until you were practically sobbing from the denial.
He moved you to the bed, then to the floor, then against the wall, repeating the torture. You were a shivering, weeping mess, your mind entirely melted by the constant, relentless buildup without any release. Your attitude was clearly shattered; you were nothing but a desperate, wanton whore at his mercy.
"Valarr… please, I'll be good, I'll never mess the room again, I swear it, just let me come, please fill me…" you whined pathetically, your fingers clawing at the bedsheets as he pinned your knees back to your chest.
Looking down at your completely broken, beautifully ruined state, Valarr finally relented. His eyes softened with satisfaction.
"Open wide for your prince then," he groaned, and with one unyielding thrust, he buried himself to the hilt inside your soaking, tight channel.
He didn't hold back anymore. He hammered into you with a feral, primal rhythm, his heavy hips slamming against your bruised, red ass.
The friction was blinding. Within seconds, the overwhelming sensation caught up to your tortured body. You moaned, your walls spasming violently around him as a massive, soul-shattering orgasm ripped through you. Your vision went white, your legs quivering uncontrollably in the air.
Valarr let out a guttural roar, his own release hitting him. He drove himself as deep as he could possibly go, his crown locking against your cervix as he pumped wave after wave of thick, hot seed straight into your womb. The sensation of his hot cum filling your belly made your internal muscles clench even harder, prolonging your climax until you were panting, completely spent.
But Valarr wasn't done.
He wanted to ensure you were completely compliant, and thoroughly disciplined. Even as his cock stayed buried inside you, softening only slightly, he began to move again. Slowly, deliberately, rubbing against your highly sensitive, freshly overstimulated clitoris and internal walls.
"Valarr—no, stop, it's too much, I cannot!" you cried out, your body twitching violently. Every slight movement of his hips sent sparks of intense, borderline painful pleasure straight to your brain. You tried to drag yourself away, but his grip on your hips was ironclad and he pulled you back easily.
"I told you, sweetling," Valarr murmured, his voice returning to that gentle, smooth cadence, though his actions remained ruthless as he continued to friction your overstimulated core, driving you into a secondary, shaking dry-climax that had your toes curling and tears leaking from your eyes. "I want you to learn how to behave. And a good princess listens to her prince."
By the time he finally pulled out, leaving a mixture of his cream and your juices spilling down your thighs, your legs were completely useless, twitching weakly against the mattress. And a lewd bulge of his cum formed a little bit past your pelvis. It slowly shrunk as his release dribbled out of you in fat, white ripples.
Valarr relished in the sight before fingering his escaped spent back inside of you. A quiet, tired moan seeping from your lips.
Valarr then calmly pulled the ruined sheets over your shivering body. He climbed in beside you, pulling your sweaty, exhausted frame tightly against his chest. He kissed your forehead, his touch once again gentle.
"Goodnight, my love," he whispered into the dark room. "Tomorrow, you will help me clean the ink."
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Bunny Iglesias loves a good scratch! ★ (mild-NSFW) ﹙𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭﹚
Bunny hummed to himself, unfazed by the noise slowly filling the FC Barcha locker room. He was in a remarkably good mood, a soft, lazy smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he reached behind him to pull his shirt off. His mind wasn’t on the drills ahead; it was entirely looped on a highlight reel of last night. Specifically, of you.
If he focused hard enough, he could still feel the sweaty warmth of your skin, hear the way your breath hitched in his ear, with those delicious moans, and remember the exact moment your fingers had dug and scratched desperately into his skin as he thrusted his hips and drove you over the edge.
"Hey, Bunny, you bringing the energy today or what?" one of his teammates shouted, tossing a clean training jersey at him.
"Always," Bunny chuckled, catching it with one hand.
He turned his back to the room, his shirt now off his shoulders, and sliding down his arms.
The locker room went quiet.
It was a sudden, and too unnatural quiet that it made Bunny pause, his training jersey halfway over his head. He pulled it down to his neck and glanced over his shoulder. Half the squad was staring at his back, eyes wide, and mouths slightly open.
Spanning across his broad shoulders and running all the way down his shoulder blades were rows of angry, unmistakable, bright red scratch marks. Some were faint trails; others were deep, crisp, and practically glowing against his skin. They were a vivid, undeniable map of passion.
A slow, wicked grin spread across one of the midfielder's face. "Oh, damn."
"Jesus, Bunny," the goalie barked out a laugh, pointing a finger. "Did you get into a fight with a mountain lion last night, or did you accidentally walk into a thorny bush backward?"
"Bro got mauled!" another teammate chimed in, leaning forward on his bench with a massive smirk. "Are you okay over there? Do we need to call medical to check you for rabies?"
The locker room erupted into a chorus of catcalls, whistling, and ruthless teasing.
Bunny didn't even flinch. Instead, a slow, incredibly smug grin spread across his face. He reached back, lightly tracing the sensitive, raised skin of one of the scratches. The phantom sensation of your nails dragging across his back flashed through him, sending a sudden, intoxicating jolt of heat straight to his core. Almost making him hard all over again.
He remembered how you had cried out his name like a prayer, clinging to him like he was your only lifeline in the world as he showed you exactly how much he loved you.
He didn't feel a single shred of embarrassment. If anything, he was shamelessly proud.
He turned around fully to face his teammates, leaning back against his locker with his arms crossed.
"Joke all you want, fellas," Bunny said, his voice smooth, dripping with satisfaction. "These aren't injuries to be ashamed of."
He winked, a chuckle vibrating in his chest as he pulled the training jersey the rest of the way over his head.
"These are love scars. Just proof that I took very, very good care of mi amor last night."
The locker room moaned and groaned at his shameless bragging, a few teammates throwing crumpled tape balls at him while others laughed and shook their heads. Bunny just laughed it off, tying his cleats with his smile intact. He couldn't care less about the teasing; he just couldn't wait for training to end so he could go home and earn a few more scratches.
—summary: you might be a little jealous of varang, so you have to show who's really the boss around here (and who's freakier).
—pairing: recom!miles quaritch x female!avatar!reader
—word count: 2k
—content: +18, smut !!! (minors dni), p in v sex, unprotected sex, a lots of riding, some porn with some plot, established relationship, age gap, baddie!reader, authority kink, reader is jealous of varang, sub!miles, dom!reader, probably ooc!miles, they match each other's freak.
writer’s note: english is not my mother tongue, so please forgive me if there is a grammatical error. hope you like it!
Okay, you might be a little jealous. You weren't exactly opposed to Varang, per se. She was powerful, fierce, a little out of her mind—of course, she'd been through a lot—and she was definitely a valuable ally.
But in recent days, she had been very persistent in getting close to Miles, too much for your liking.
And lately, persistent didn't even begin to cover it.
Varang was always there. At Miles' side during briefings, leaning close when they spoke in low voices, brushing past him with deliberate confidence. You told yourself it was strategic—she was a leader, after all—but it still made something sour twist in your chest every time you caught the way her hand lingered on his arm just a second too long.
You tried to ignore it. Tried to be mature about it.
You failed spectacularly.
You're angry.
Miles can definitely see it in the whiplash your hips brings every time you bounce down on his lap, your pussy engulfing his full length as you bottom out, his heavy balls flushed up against your ass.
His hands, big, familiar and calloused from the scars of a thousand battles, are cuffed behind his back, twitching from the carnal urge to reach out and touch you, to hold you. It hadn't been very difficult to handcuff him; you know, for some reason, he always gives in when it comes to you.
You have the man practically crawling around behind you. When no one is watching, that is, because to everyone else he's the big, scary Colonel Quaritch.
“W-what's this about, hm?” he purrs, with that sharp-toothed smirk on his face, all smug even though he's basically at your mercy. His amber eyes, glowing in the darkness, scan your pretty, frowning face, as if he could find the source of the savage ferocity behind the way you're fucking him today, though he doesn't complain. “Fucking little pussy is dripping wet, what's gotten into you t-today, kid?”
“I didn't say y-you could talk,” you hiss back at him, making a particularly hard bounce with your merciless hips, your flesh slapping against his and producing a wet, rhythmic sound. Your long nails dig into his broad shoulders, clawing at the still-healing scars that you yourself had carved into his skin. That makes him hiss and half-close his eyes, rolling them back in his skull.
“Jesus, darlin',” he manages to choke out, his voice a scorched-earth rasp. “You're... you're gonna kill me—fuck— slow down, baby—”
You're surprised he hasn't slipped out of the handcuffs yet; he usually would have done so by now. But you also know that Miles loves to play with you, to be part of your little game.
His eyes flutter open again the moment he realizes you're not moving, sitting pretty and flat on his lap.
You're pretty good at holding an angry facial expression, because you can feel his cock up your fucking throat, buried balls deep until he is grazing your womb, poking that one special sweet spot he just knows is the one.
Your tail swings furiously behind you, whacking his away as he tries to touch yours and curl around it, as he usually does when you're fucking. But not today.
Your hands land on his chest, pushing him and forcing him to lie flat on the floor, grunting at the awkward position of his hands on his back under his weight, and yours.
“Easy—” he hisses an all-soft command, looking up at you, his ears flattening in submission.
You press your hand over his mouth, silencing him as you start moving again over him, even harder now, your pussy fluttering and squelching, stretching out extremely around his massive thickness. You still struggle to take him all in, even after all this time and all the fucking.
You bite your lower lip, holding back a little cry when Miles, predictably misbehaves and thrusts his hips up just enough, chasing after yours, bullying his cock so deep up inside you that you can already feel a couple of tears well up in your pretty eyes.
“You think I don't realize what you're—hmph—” his snarky tone cracks as he struggles to speak coherently, his sharp fangs gleaming in the candlelit glow as he bites and lick your hand away from his mouth, “...what you're doing, huh? I'm a soldier, baby. I know when someone's defending their territory.”
His skin crawls at the sight of your eyes squinting in evident annoyance, a drop of sweat trickling down your forehead.
Quite obviously, that is your problem, and Miles is happy to push you your limits. He loves to tease you, loves to see you all worked up. He loves to watch the rage light up your eyes like flames, ready to burn everything in your path. That gets him hard as a rock.
But you don't answer him. You just focus on rolling your hips around dangerously hard, rocking back and forth, up and down with all your strength, letting your full weight impact over his thighs, the sound of your flesh slamming against his is filthy, wet, and oh, so fucking hot that it has him seeing stars every time he blinks.
“She doesn't look at you like an ally,” you hiss after a couple of minutes riding him like it's the last thing you're doing, looking down at him in all your glory from above him. “She looks at you like a conquest. Like— like she can take what belongs to me.”
“And what are you gonna do about it, huh?” he teases back, sweat glistening over his tattoos when your fingers trace the black ink, creeping up his biceps very slowly. “You gonna mark me up, kid?”
You don't answer with words. Instead, you slide your hands up through his bare abdomen to his throat, squeezing just enough to make his breath hitch under your fingers.
He can't bark shit back at you, because you begin to move in slow, grinding circles, engulfing every inch of his cock while your arousal coats his thighs and ground.
“I thought you liked being used?” you response with another little question, your lips curling into a little pout of mock pity, your thumb pressing a little harder on his throat and you can feel his heart pounding fast against your fingertip. “You like being dragged around like a little bitch, hm?”
“Don't push it now—” Miles growls back as best he can amidst a tense sigh, for your hands are still locked around his neck, disproving your accusations, of course, but anyway, his hips are pushing upward needily. “Hah— gonna cum all over me, then? Gonna use me, pretty girl?”
You can't even hear him, bouncing up and down on his cock more quickly, in pursuit of an orgasm that's been building tighter in the pit of your belly.
For whatever reason, he now has his hands free, one of them tight on your waist, helping you to keep the brutal pace, and the other is urgently grabbing your kuru and without much thought he links it with his.
You gasp, your back arching so sharply it’s a wonder it doesn't snap right there, as his thoughts slam into yours—a chaotic, swirling storm of possessiveness, darkness, and a fierce, unwavering loyalty that sends electric jolts through all your body.
Connecting with Miles is never gentle—it’s a sensory overload of war, hatred, and an all-consuming, obsessive hunger for you.
Through the Tsaheylu, you don't just feel your own pleasure; you feel his. You feel the way his cock pulses inside you, the way his heart hammers against his ribs like a trapped animal, and the white-hot intensity of his focus on you only. There is only the overwhelming, blue-tinted vision of you looking down at him, dominant and beautiful.
You see yourself through his eyes: a goddess of rage and desire, the only thing that actually matters to him in this crazy fucking world.
“Mhm, t-there you are,” he rumbles, his voice vibrating through the bond and into your very bones. Both of his hands on your waist tightens, his large fingers bruising your skin as he takes over the rhythm, thrusting upward with a primal desperation. “There's my pretty girl. I see you”
That makes you reach your climax, and it hits you with the force of a physical blow. You let out a strangled cry, your head falling back as your vision goes blurry with tears and pleasure.
You're drenching him now as you squirt all over his lap and low abdomen, your cum smearing all his throbbing cock and balls.
And when the last ripples of your orgasm begin to trickle out of your body, you halt all motion, sitting pretty on his thighs, your legs still wobbling on either side of his hips. His hands are appreciatively groping your ass, silently urging you to keep moving. But no, you're in charge today.
Your hands are flat on his chest, pressing against his pecs to support your own weight, catching your breath, his dog tag pendant flickering the light and shadows under the candles.
“Dammit, kid,” Miles whistles, a rough, triumphant chuckle vibrating through his throat. “If I knew jealousy made you ride like a fucking banshee, I would’ve let Varang touch my arm a lot sooner.”
And as all good things come, all things go.
A second later, you're up on your feet, abruptly disconnecting the Tsaheylu and slipping out his still-erect cock from inside you, letting it plop up against his abdomen. The sudden disconnection makes him hiss and growl, looking up at you with a frown, visibly displeased.
You stand over him, your legs still trembling and slick with the evidence of your release, looking down at the man who could level a forest but currently looks like a discarded god on the floor of your tent.
Miles doesn’t move at first. He just lies there, his chest heaving, his skin gleaming with sweat and the translucent sheen of your cum. His cock is still twitching, weeping a few thick pearls of pre-cum onto his stomach, but you don't give him the satisfaction of a second glance.
“Don't say her name when you're with me,” you snap at him, your ears down in annoyance.
“You're just gonna leave me hanging like this?” he is almost pouting, his voice a low, dangerous vibration. He shifts, propping himself up on his elbows, the muscles in his arms bulging as he stares up at you in awe. “She can stand wherever she wants,” he continues. “She can talk. Touch my arm. Run her mouth.” His lips curl, sharp, seductive and sexy. “Doesn’t mean a damn thing.”
“Good. Next time,” you warn him, looking down at him with eyes blazing with the purest fire, “don’t joke about it.”
His hands find your calves, thumbs brushing slow, grounding circles into your skin and his tail snakes its way up around your leg too.
Hii, sorry to bother you, but by any chance were you the one who wrote an AU about JJK's men in World War II where the Sukuna fanfic was about him sending letters to the reader and her ignoring them? I was reading it but I forgot to save it. :(
Hey love! I did not write that about Sukuna im afraid but I did write something similar about knight! gojo going to war and yearning for his sweet wife! Loll hope you find what you’re looking for!
NOTE: this was a rushed work but I had to get the words down before I forgot!! And the word vomit suddenly started coming out…
The backyard was currently filled with the low hum of chatter, the clinking of glasses, and the aroma of charred oak and marinating meat. String lights were woven through the trees overhead, swaying gently in the afternoon breeze
At eight months pregnant, you were, by your own cheerful admission, "absolutely huge." You wore a flowy, sage-green sundress that stretched comfortably over your prominent, round bump. Walking was more of a graceful waddle at this point, but you refused to sit down just yet. You were too busy playing host to the closest friends and allies you and Simon had.
"Look at you, glowing!" Price boomed, stepping into the yard with a wrapped box that looked comically small in his hands. He wrapped you in a gentle, careful hug, mindful of the extra space you now required. "How are you holding up, love?"
"Like a penguin, but otherwise great," you laughed, resting a hand on the top of your belly. "He’s kicking up a storm today. I think he smells the food."
"He?" Soap’s ears practically perked up from where he was sitting on a lawn chair, a beer in hand. He bolted over, blue eyes wide. "Did you say he? It’s a boy?!"
"It’s a boy," you beamed, your face lighting up with pride. "We just found out for sure last week. A little mini-Simon running around."
"God help us all," Gaz chuckled, joining the circle and offering a warm congratulatory hug. "Are we ready for a tiny Simon. Should get him a skull onesie yeah?”
"Johnny already bought him three, don't worry," a deep, gravelly voice rumbled from a few yards away.
You turned to look at your husband. Simon was standing by the massive charcoal grill, a pair of tongs in one hand and a cold drink in the other. He wore a simple black t-shirt that stretched tight across his broad shoulders, and a lightweight, breathable fabric mask that covered the lower half of his face. His blonde hair was messy from the heat, and his eyes, usually so sharp and guarded, were soft as they landed on you.
"They're incredible onesies, LT!" Soap defended himself, pointing a finger at Simon.
Simon just grumbled shaking his head, turning back to flip a row of patties.
You excused yourself from the guys and slowly made your way over to the grill. As soon as you were within arm's reach, Simon leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours for a brief, quiet second. He slipped a large, warm hand around your waist, his thumb rubbing soothing circles against your hip.
"You need to sit down, sweets," he murmured, his voice dropping into that private, gravelly tone meant only for you. "You've been on your feet since Alejandro and Rudy got here."
"I'm fine, Simon. Just greeting everyone," you said, leaning into his side. "Besides, your son is hungry."
Simon’s eyes shifted down to your bump. He lowered his hand from your hip to cup the underside of your belly, his large palm covering a massive portion of it. As if on cue, a distinct ripple moved across your dress as the baby kicked right against his hand.
A rare, genuine crinkle appeared at the corners of Simon's eyes, the unmistakable sign of a smile beneath the mask.
"Bloody hell, he’s got a kick on him," Simon whispered, his thumb tracing a slow circle over the fabric. "Takes after his mum. Stubborn."
"He takes after his dad," you countered softly, placing your hand over his. "He's just eager to get out here and eat some of that barbecue."
"Almost done. Patties for the lads, and I’ve got your chicken cooked through on the top rack," he said, ever protective of the pregnancy dietary restrictions. He gave your belly one last, gentle pat before straightening up. "Go sit with Nikolai and the boys. I’ll bring a plate over to you in five."
"Yes, Lieutenant," you teased.
He huffed a soft laugh, poking your side gently. "Get going before I have to carry you to a chair myself."
Laughing, you patted his chest and wandered back over to the patio tables, feeling the warmth of the sun. As you sat down and took a sip of your ice water, you looked back at Simon. He was trading some dry, sarcastic banter with Gaz while checking on the food, but his eyes kept darting back to you, making sure you were comfortable.
—
The transition from peaceful afternoon to chaos happened in the span of a single exhale.
You had just stood up to say goodbye to Alejandro and Rudy when a sharp, tight wave of pain gripped your lower abdomen. It was completely unlike the mild braxton hicks twitches you’d been having for weeks. This was different, wrapping entirely around your back and squeezing hard enough to steal the breath right out of your lungs.
A sudden, warm splash soaked the grass beneath your feet.
"Oh," you gasped, freezing in place. Your hands flew to the bottom of your bump. "Oh, no. Not yet."
Simon, who had been packing away the leftovers a few yards away, was at your side before you could even register him moving. His large hands caught your elbows, anchoring you as your knees buckled slightly.
"What is it? What's wrong?" His voice, usually completely unbothered by crisis, had a sharp edge of panic to it.
"Simon... I think my water broke," you managed to squeeze out as the contraction finally peaked and began to recede. "And that was definitely a real contraction."
"Price! Soap! Inside, now."
The backyard erupted into highly disciplined movement. Your house was nestled deep in the rural woods, a private sanctuary you and Simon had chosen specifically to get away from the world, but right now, the long, winding dirt roads and the forty-five-minute distance to the nearest hospital felt like a massive liability.
"Johnny, get the truck started. Keep it running," Simon ordered, his voice dropping into his commanding tactical register as he swept you up into his arms.
"Simon, I'm too heavy!" you protested, gripping his shoulders as another wave of tightness started to build.
"Shut up," he muttered against your hair, carrying you toward the driveway as if you weighed nothing at all. "Gaz, grab the hospital bag from the front closet. It’s by the door."
"On it!" Gaz sprinted ahead, tearing into the house.
Price was already at the passenger side of Simon’s massive truck, flinging the door open and adjusting the seat so you could recline. "I’ll drive," Price said, holding up a set of keys. "You stay in the back with her."
"Negative, Captain, I'm driving," Simon grunted, carefully setting you down onto the front seat.
"Simon, look at your hands. You're shaking," Price said, his voice calm, steady, and entirely unyielding. "You’re a father now. Sit in the back, hold your wife, and let me navigate the road okay. Soap and Gaz are right behind us in the SUV."
Simon swallowed hard, staring at Price for a beat before nodding curtly. "Right." He scrambled into the back seat, leaning over the console to take your hand the second the door clicked shut.
The truck tore down the gravel driveway, kicking up a massive cloud of dust as Price handled the tight turns. But out here in the middle of nowhere, the roads were unpaved, riddled with potholes, and entirely unforgiving to a woman in active labor.
Every time the truck hit a bump, a sharp groan escaped your lips. Your fingers dug into Simon’s hand with terrifying strength.
"I know, hun, I know," Simon murmured. He had pulled his mask completely off, tossing it onto the floorboard. His face was pale, his jaw clenched in pure agony on your behalf. He reached over the seat, his massive, calloused hand cupping your cheek while his other hand remained locked in yours. "Look at me. Just breathe through it. Don't look at the road, look at me."
"It hurts, Simon," you gasped, tears finally pricking your eyes as another contraction hit barely four minutes after the last one. "He’s... he’s coming really fast."
"He's a Riley, doesn't follow a schedule," Simon tried to joke, but his voice cracked. He looked up at the rearview mirror, his eyes burning. "Price, move it!"
"I'm flooring it, Simon, but if I hit these ruts any harder, I'll pop a tire," Price called back, his eyes glued to the winding, tree-lined road. "We’re five minutes from the main highway. Hold on."
From behind you, the loud, familiar blare of an SUV horn echoed. You glanced out the side mirror to see Soap driving the secondary vehicle, hazard lights flashing, practically acting as a rear escort to block any rare traffic. Under any other circumstances, the sheer absurdity of the 141 running a tactical transport operation for a baby shower emergency would have made you laugh.
Another contraction gripped you, harder this time, making you cry out and arch your back against the seat.
Simon unbuckled his seatbelt, leaning entirely over the center console to pull you as close to him as the cramped space allowed. He pressed his lips against your sweaty forehead, whispering a string of low, frantic promises.
"You're okay. You're the strongest person I know," he breathed, his thumb wiping away a stray tear on your cheek. "We’re going to get there. I've got you. I'm not leaving you."
The truck suddenly smoothed out, the violent rattling replacing by the steady hum of pavement. Price had finally hit the highway.
"Alright, we're on the asphalt!" Price called out, slamming his foot down on the gas. "ETA twenty minutes. Keep her talking, Simon!"
"Hear that? Twenty minutes," Simon whispered, his eyes locked onto yours, completely filled with an intense, fierce devotion. He placed his large, trembling hand over your stomach, feeling the tight hardness of another contraction. "Just a little longer, sweetheart. You and me. We've got this."
—
The hospital room was finally quiet, the frantic rush of nurses, monitors, and medical equipment replaced by the soft, rhythmic hum of the postpartum monitor. The grueling hours of labor were behind you, leaving you entirely exhausted but filled with a sense of relief.
Sitting up in the hospital bed, you looked down at the bundle resting securely in your arms.
"Big" had been the doctor’s exact word when he was weighed, and it was no exaggeration. At nearly ten pounds, your baby boy looked less like a fragile newborn and more like a solid, robust little tank. He had a surprisingly thick head of light hair, a pair of incredibly strong lungs he had already thoroughly tested, and broad shoulders that left absolutely no question as to whose genetics he carried.
"He's huge," you whined, a tired but triumphant smile pulling at your lips. "Simon, look at him. He’s practically a toddler already."
Simon was sitting right on the edge of the mattress, his massive frame hovering over you protectively. He had refused to leave your side for a single second, and now, he looked entirely undone. His eyes were looked slightly watery, blinking back a rare sheen of moisture as he stared down at his son.
"Bloody hell," Simon rumbled, his voice thick and incredibly gentle. "He’ll get my shoulders. Poor lad."
"Don't say that," you chuckled softly, wincing slightly as your sore muscles protested. "I think he’s perfect. Want to hold him?"
Simon swallowed hard, looking at his own large, heavily calloused hands—hands that had spent a lifetime holding weapons—and then down at the swaddled bundle.
"I don't want to hurt him," he admitted, his voice dropping to a vulnerable whisper.
"You won't. He's a Riley, remember? He's sturdy," you coaxed softly, shifting the baby forward. "Put your arm right here. Support his head."
With agonizing care, Simon extended his forearms, creating a safe cradle. You gently transferred the heavy baby into his arms.
The contrast was staggering. Your baby boy, though massive for a newborn, looked tiny against Simon’s broad chest. Simon’s huge hands carefully cupped the baby’s head and bottom, his long fingers wrapping almost entirely around the thick swaddling blanket.
As soon as he settled against his father's chest, the baby let out a tiny, snuffling grunt and shifted. One of his surprisingly large, chubby little fists broke free from the blanket, flailing weakly in the air before resting squarely against Simon’s thumb.
Simon froze, his breath catching in his throat. He looked down at the tiny hand curling around his thumb, and the last of his hardened exterior completely melted. A soft, breathless laugh escaped his chest, and he leaned down, pressing his forehead gently against the baby’s soft head.
"Hi there, mate," Simon whispered, completely oblivious to anything else in the room. "I'm your pa. I've got you."
A soft knock on the door broke the silence. The curtain pulled back just an inch, and Price’s face appeared, flanked by Soap and Gaz, who were both peeking over the captain's shoulders with wide, eager grins.
"Is the coast clear?" Price asked quietly, though his eyes immediately locked onto the sight of Simon holding the baby.
"Come in," you smiled, waving them over. "Come meet the newest recruit." You laughed.
The boys practically tiptoed into the room, their usual boisterous energy replaced by a reverent, quiet awe. Soap was the first to lean over Simon’s shoulder, his eyes going wide as he took in the size of the baby.
"Jesus, LT, you didn't have a baby, you had a full-grown squad mate," Soap whispered in disbelief. "Look at the size of those mitts! He’s goin’ to be taller than me by next week."
"He's a big lad, alright," Price agreed, a proud, fatherly smile wrinkling the corners of his eyes as he patted Simon’s shoulder. "Beautiful, absolute spit and image of his old man. Well done, both of you."
"He's perfect, mate," Gaz said, grinning warmly at you. "Congratulations."
Simon didn't look up immediately, too transfixed by the way his son was now peacefully sleeping against him. But he reached out with his free hand, finding yours on the hospital bed and squeezing it tightly. His thumb rubbed over your knuckles.
Older! Nagi Seishiro is too lazy to thrust! ★ (NSFW) ﹙𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭﹚
The soft, rhythmic clicking of controller buttons was the only sound in the dimly lit bedroom, save for the frustrated huffs you’d been exhaling for the past 10 minutes.
As much as you love your boyfriend, you were cursing him deeply right now.
Currently, he was on top of you, his massive frame enveloping yours. You were slumped back against the headboard, and Nagi had lazily guided himself inside you minutes ago, hard as a rock, burying his length completely. But instead of the frantic, bruising pace you were oh so desperate for, he had simply groaned, let out a long sigh, and slumped forward. His chin rested heavily on your shoulder, his hands stretched past your head to grip his phone, and he just... stopped moving.
You thought it was hot at first, being used as his cock warmer and skewered on his length without being able to do anything. But it got frustrating real quick.
"Nagi..." you whined, your hands coming up to grip his broad, bare shoulders. The feeling of him filling you completely, hot and thick, was incredible—but the absolute lack of motion was driving you insane. "Please… Move."
"Mm... don’t wanna," Nagi murmured, his voice a low, gravelly vibration against your neck that sent a traitorous shiver down your spine. "Boss fight. If I let go, I'll die. Just hold still.”
"I don't wanna hold still!" You tilted your hips, trying to force a friction that would bring you closer to the edge, but Nagi’s weight and a subtle, commanding press of his thighs locked you in place.
"Don't squirm," he sighed, his thumbs flying across the screen. "You're tight. If you move like that, I'm gonna mess up my combos."
"Then let me go on top!" you begged, your voice dropping to a needy whisper. You were melting from the inside out, completely stretched open by him, the passive heat of his body cooking you alive. You squeezed your inner muscles around him, a desperate last bid for attention.
Nagi let out a sharp, ragged breath, his fingers freezing on his phone for a fraction of a second before he recovered. He buried his face deeper into the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent. "Ah... babe that's cheating. Don't do that."
"Then move," you whimpered, tears of frustration pricking the corners of your eyes. "Please, Seishiro. I need you to move. Just a little bit."
"So demanding," he muttered, completely unfazed by your begging. He liked the feeling of you being desperate for him; it was troublesome to move, but knowing he could make you sound like this just by existing inside you appealed to some sick nature he had inside of him. "Almost done. Just five more minutes."
"I can't wait five minutes!"
To emphasize your point, you squeezed again, arching your back slightly. Nagi groaned aloud, a deep, guttural sound that made your core throb. The tip of his nose brushed against your pulse point.
"You're being really needy today," Nagi said, his tone dropping into a rare pitch he usually reserved for the field. "But I'm not dropping this match. Be a good girl and just take it."
He didn't thrust, but he did something worse: he shifted his weight, pressing his pelvis firmly against yours so that his thick base ground right against your clitoris, before locking himself in place again. The agonizingly slow, heavy pressure made a loud sob escape your lips.
"Ah, there," Nagi murmured, pleased with himself as the game's victory fanfare finally echoed from the speakers. He didn't even look at the scoreboard. He tossed the controller onto the mattress, his large hands immediately coming down to grip your hips with a bruising hold.
His eyes, usually dull and sleepy, were dark and blazing as he looked down at you.
"You did a good job waiting," Nagi whispered, a lazy, smirk tugging at his lips as he finally withdrew halfway, before plunging back in with a sudden, deep thrust that made your vision go white. "My turn to play with you now."
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The manager of the Egyptian Relief Committee in Gaza, Mohamed al-Wahidi, was assassinated by an IOF air strike this afternoon in Gaza City. So far today, at least 7 martyrs have ascended from these attacks in the Gaza Strip.
The Egyptian Relief Committee in Gaza provides humanitarian aid and on-the-ground support to the Palestinians of Gaza. Al-Wahidi was one of the first humanitarian organization directors to implement a plan to clear the rubble in Gaza, ensuring that families could at least partially move around the Strip on cleared roads.
Under Al-Wahidi's leadership, the Committee had been setting up public screenings of World Cup matches for displaced families. Al-Wahidi was killed just an hour before the Egypt-Argentina game began.
FIFA and other global institutions are not expected to make a statement. (caption via ig/: palestinianyouthmovement)
Karasu Tabito spills the beans that he has a girlfriend! a.k.a. you! ★ ﹙𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭﹚
You could consider yourself the happiest girl in the world right now. You were snug in bed, your belly full of all the exquisite cuisine Shibuya had to offer, and most importantly… you had your boyfriend (mostly) all to yourself for two weeks after not having seen him since he vanished past the gates of Blue Lock.
Said boyfriend currently had his face shoved directly into your stomach, snoring away like a dead man. You would have let him sleep, but the sudden, aggressive pinging of your phone—and the absurdity of the reason why—made you change your mind.
“Tabito,” you whispered, running your fingers through his hair.
“…”
“Baby,” you whined, giving his shoulder a gentle nudge.
“Yeah, babe,” he groaned, shuffling his face upward and burying it right into your chest, making you giggle at the ticklish friction of his ridiculous, spiky hair.
“Do you know an account named… ‘nowyouseeme_otoya’?” You pursed your lips, staring down at your screen. “I recognize him from the U-20 game. The one you were talking to on the field. He keeps sliding into my DMs.”
Karasu lazily shifted, shoving his face deeper into your cleavage as he tried to take a sleepy peek at your phone.
“Agh… wait, lemme look,” he grumbled, twisting and turning against your chest to get a better line of sight on the screen. He only stopped when you playfully pinched his cheeks to hold him still.
“What’s he texting you? I’m meeting up with the gang tomorrow, so I’ll beat him up for you.” He blinked slowly, his eyes adjusting to the harsh light of the screen as you navigated to your requests.
“Here, look.” You dimmed the brightness so it wouldn’t blind him and began gently scratching his scalp with your left hand.
“Mmm… love when you do that,” he moaned, melting into your touch for a brief second before snapping back to reality.
“Hey, focus.”
“Yes ma’am. Jeez god forbid a guy misses his girl.”
You kissed the top of his head in response.
“‘Are you a defender? Because I’ve been trying to get past your security all day. 😎’” Karasu read aloud, letting out a physical groan at the secondhand embarrassment. “I need to get that dude some help, this has to be some sort of humiliation ritual I don’t know about.”
You laughed, scrolling down. “Wait, there’s more. He sent me this the other night.”
“God, do I even wanna see it?”
“Yeah, you do.”
You flashed the phone closer to his face.
“‘Hey, quick question. Do you think this green hair goes better with the home kit or my new Travis Scotts? Need an expert opinion. Hairs natural btw.’” If Karasu could throw up from cringe right now, he absolutely would have.
“Babe, you gotta block the guy. I know he’s my homeboy, but shit, this is bad.” He winced, aggressively grabbing the sides of your phone to press the buttons. “Screenshot that. Send it to me right now. I’m putting him on blast in the group chat. Yuki and Reo are gonna have a field day with this.”
“Should I really?” You sighed, tracing a line down his arm. “Isn’t he your friend? I don’t want to leave a bad impression.”
Karasu placed his hands on either side of your body, pushing himself up into a half-plank. He looked down at you, his eyes softening as he littered your chest with warm, lazy kisses, slowly migrating his way up your neck toward your lips.
“C’mon, he’s not gonna think that. He probably saw your post about the match and wanted to see if he could get his foot in the door. I literally told him my girl would be there to watch, but his single brain cell definitely didn’t believe me.”
“Let him know I’m happily taken tomorrow, yeah?”
“Course, baby. Now c’mere… it's been too long since I had you like this.”
—
The next afternoon, amidst the flashing lights and deafening noise of a busy Shibuya arcade, the group finally managed to locate Nagi, who was half-asleep but still managed to find the arcade before them. With the mission a success, they decided to stay and mess around.
“Yo, Eita,” Karasu pestered, hovering right over Otoya’s shoulder. “You’ve been sliding in my girl’s DMs. You know that, right?”
Otoya didn’t even flinch. He just shrugged his shoulders, keeping his eyes glued to the claw machine currently gripping a plushie man with a football for a head.
“Check out my ‘flow’,” Otoya said with deadpan seriousness.
Right on cue, Bachira and Aoishi pressed their faces obnoxiously against the glass, their breath fogging up the view.
“You got this!” they both cheered, their voices muffled by the machine.
“STOP SHAKING THE GLASS, YOU MORONS!” Karasu berated them, grabbing them by their collars to pull them back.
The claw shook violently from the impact, dropping the football-headed plushie right before the prize chute.
"Ah," Otoya deadpanned, staring blankly at the glass. "My flow was disrupted by the negative aura of a single man. Cruel."
"Your 'flow' was already dead, you clown!" Karasu snapped, crossing his arms and towering over him. "Did you hear a word I just said? Stop dodging the question. You've been sending my girl your garbage pick up lines."
The arcade went dead silent for a solid few seconds before Chigiri paused his game of Punish Nagi: Darts Edition, turning around slowly. "Wait. Back up. Your what?"
"My girl," Karasu repeated, raising an eyebrow like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
"Karasu has a girlfriend?!" Isagi blinked, clearly bewildered, looking between Karasu and Otoya as if expecting a hidden camera crew to jump out. "Like... a real one? An actual human girl who willingly spends time with him?"
"Hey! What's that supposed to mean, Isagi?!"
Reo immediately scoffed, crossing his arms with a dramatic sigh. "I can’t believe it. You didn’t even say a single word? Definitely not BON."
"Extremely stingy," Yukimiya chimed in, adjusting his glasses with a disappointed shake of his head. "A gentleman shares these milestones with his compatriots. Keeping her a secret? That’s low awareness, Karasu."
"Nagi, look," Bachira grinned, shaking Nagi’s shoulder aggressively. "The crow found a sparkling object and kept it all to himself!"
Nagi, who was currently leaning his entire body weight against a Taiko no Tatsujin drum machine, didn't even look up from his phone. "What a hassle... Is she going to feed him? If she feeds him, maybe he’ll stop yelling so much. Loud crow."
"I’m not stingy, you mediocre lot! I told Otoya at the U-20 match, but his half cell brain was too busy thinking about chicks to process it!" Karasu pointed an accusing finger at the green-haired boy.
Otoya finally turned around from the failed claw machine, a lazy, mischievous smirk spreading across his face. He pulled out his phone, his thumbs flying across the screen. "Oh, wait. That girl who posted the stadium vlog? The one who finally viewed my story last night?"
Otoya tapped a few times, then held his screen up, turning it around for the entire group to see. It was your Instagram profile.
"Hold on, let me see," Chigiri muttered, stepping closer. The moment his eyes scanned your feed, his jaw dropped slightly. "Wait... she’s actually really pretty. Karasu, how did you do it?"
“I just do princess.” Karasu scoffed.
"Let me look!" Bachira shoved his face right next to Chigiri's, his eyes going wide. "Whoa! She looks so fun! Look at her smile! Karasu, she looks way too happy for a gloomy bird like you!"
Reo leaned over Otoya’s shoulder, squinting at the screen, and honestly looked a little offended. "Okay, first of all, she’s clearly out of your league. Look at this picture of her at the cafe."
"She’s really pretty..." Isagi murmured, rubbing the back of his neck, genuinely impressed. "And she was actually at the U-20 game supporting you? Man... that’s awesome."
Otoya sighed heavily, sliding his phone back into his pocket. "I know, right? I hit her up with my best lines. Basically an act of public service. I was brightening her day."
“You didn’t brighten up anything.” Karasu spat back.
The entire group was officially glazing you, nodding in collective agreement that you were too good for the sharp-tongued analyst standing before them.
Karasu stood there, letting them finish their little symphony of compliments. He didn't even look mad. In fact, a slow, and smug, shit-eating grin spread across his face. He hooked his thumbs into his pockets, leaning back and looking down his nose at all of them.
"Are ya done?" Karasu smirked, his Kansai dialect dripping with arrogance. "Finished admiring? Because honestly, all I'm hearing is a bunch of mediocre, single talentless hacks crying from the bench."
"What did you say?!" Reo snapped.
"You heard me," Karasu chuckled, practically vibrating with pride. "You lot can call me stingy all you want, but the reality is just that my taste is as elite off the pitch as my scanning is on it. Of course she's cute. She's my girl.”
He stepped up right into Otoya's space, flicking the boy's green fringe. "And as for you, 'Ninja Boy'—stop using your Gemini AI on a girl who sees a real man every single night. It’s getting tragic."
“Man, guys always switch up after getting cuffed.” Otoya huffed, pushing Karasu away.
"How trashy." Nagi mumbled from the floor, finally looking up.
"Incredibly trashy!" Isagi agreed, though he was still half-smiling.
"A true villain," Bachira laughed, jumping onto Karasu’s back and wrapping his arms around his neck. "Introduce us, Karasu!"
"Get off me!" Karasu swatted at him, though the smug grin never left his face. "No way in hell am I letting you weirdos anywhere near her. Come on, we're leaving. I've gotta text my girl and tell her that Otoya’s officially a nationwide laughingstock."
NOTE: #babysfirstcommission! Thank you to the lovely person who commissioned this. Ik I put my listing up as 1.5k words and you can pay to add more but since this is the first one evah I had to double it + I got carried away and had too much fun lol. I hope you love it as much as I did writing it!
The camera flashes were blinding, reflecting off the shiny hardwood floor of the gymnasium.
You stood at the end of the court, the captain’s band tight around your arm, a heavy gold medal gleaming against your jersey.
You smoothed your kit and swiped the white towel over your neck. Trying to at least look presentable for the camera.
"And we are here with the tournament MVP!" the sports reporter announced, shoving a microphone towards you as the cameraman angled for a close-up. "An incredible performance today! You were just… absolutely unmatched out there. But your journey hasn't been a straight line, has it? Rumor says that early in your high school career, you suffered an injury so severe that doctors weren't sure you'd ever play at this level again."
The reporter leaned in, her eyes wide, you're not sure if it was because of genuine interest or just for another good scoop. "As one of the best players in the nation right now, looking back... was there a moment where you had doubted yourself? Or a moment where you thought your dream was over? And how on earth did you overcome it?"
You blinked, the roar of the crowd suddenly fading into a distant hum. Your hand instinctively went down to your knee, feeling nothing but the faint cushion of your kneepad. The scar underneath the fabric started feeling warm.
You gave a light chuckle, a soft smile tugged at the corners of your lips.
"Yeah uh," you said softly into the microphone, your eyes drifting away from the camera and up toward the stands, searching the crowd until you spotted a very familiar shock of bright pink hair waving wildly in the front row. "There was a time when I thought I was done for good. It did happen and you know, I fell into a really bad place. I mean… I thought my worst nightmare had come true, and I didn't think I'd ever have the strength to stand on a court again, let alone go to Nationals."
You took a deep breath, the memories flooding back with clarity.
—
The gym had never felt so loud, and at the same time so completely empty.
You could still hear the echo of it—that awful, sickening *crack* in your knee right before you hit the hardwood.
One moment you were soaring, meeting the ball at the apex of your jump, ready to send it streaming down your line of vision. The next, gravity fucking you up.
The doctor’s office a day later had been suffocating. The old man that smelled too much like cigarettes used big, clinical words like *anterior cruciate ligament* and *reconstruction*, but all you heard was the subtext: *You’re an idiot, and you’re done playing. For a long, long time. Maybe forever.*
Now, you sat on your bed, staring blankly at the trophies and the volleyball resting in the corner of your room. It looked like a museum attraction. A relic of a past life, it might as well be collecting dust now.
The rest of the world was moving on. Your teammates were still practicing, their sneakers squeaking on the court, their laughter echoing through the gym after school. But you? You were trapped in a body that felt like a broken cage.
A deep, heavy grayness had settled over your chest, making it hard to breathe, hard to care, and even harder to do anything but stare at the wall.
You could feel that familiar stinging sensation coming up into your nose and migrating to your eyes.
Suddenly, your bedroom window rattled making you flinch. It was an aggressive, rhythmic thumping, followed by a loud, muffled shout.
"Hey! Open up before I kick the glass in!"
You didn't even have to look to know who it was. Ryusei Shidou.
To literally anyone else, Shidou was a local natural disaster. He was the terrifying demon on the soccer team who spoke in very inappropriate metaphors, picked fights for the thrill of it, and drove the teachers (and you) to the brink of insanity. People avoided him like the actual plague. They thought he was a freak, a loose cannon, and way too much to handle.
But, as corny as it sounded, they didn’t know him like you did. They don’t know about the scrawny, hyperactive kid who had climbed up a tree to rescue your stuck volleyball ten years ago, only to fall out of it backward, landing flat on his face, laughing hysterically with the ball clutched to his chest. You ended up having to nurse his scratches. You’ve basically been inseparable ever since.
With a heavy sigh, you dragged yourself across the bed, your bulky knee brace clicking awkwardly with every movement. You unlocked the window and pushed it open.
Shidou practically exploded into your room, smelling of sweat and the crisp evening air. He was still wearing his school uniform, though the shirt was completely unbuttoned, exposing his tanned chest, and his tie was nowhere to be found.
"Man, you took forever!" he complained, tossing a plastic convenience store bag onto your desk. He swung his legs over the sill and dropped into your room so fluidly it made you a little envious.
Darn his freakish flexibility.
Then, his eyes dropped to your leg.
The manic energy in his face didn't vanish, but you could tell he was going to say something. He never was the one to follow the suggestion of ‘think before you talk’. The sharp, jagged edges of his usual expression softened into something else.
"How's the leg feeling, champ?" he asked, throwing himself onto the floor right at your feet, leaning his back against your bed.
"It's fine," you lied softly, wincing as you crawled back under your blankets. "Just... hurts."
"Liar," Shidou snorted, leaning his head back against your mattress so he could look up at you upside down. His vibrant, violet eyes locked onto yours. "You look like a deflated balloon. Where’s that look you get when you’re about to spike a ball into some poor loser’s face? I don't like you like this. It’s lame and it’s so not like my queen."
"Then leave," you muttered, pulling the blanket up to your chin, turning your face away from him. "Go back to football. Go score a goal or fight someone."
You half expected him to snap back, to get annoyed and storm out. Your Shidou didn't do 'sad.' He didn't do 'quiet.'
Instead, the room went still. The only sound was the distant hum of the streets outside your house.
Then, you felt the mattress dip. He crawled up onto the bed, moving as gentle as Shidou could, and slid under the covers right next to you.
"Get out, Ryusei," you whispered, your voice cracking. "I'm not in the mood."
"No way," he said, his voice dropping an octave, losing its usual mocking edge. He reached out, his large, calloused hand grabbing your shoulder and firmly, but gently, rolling you over so you were forced to look at him. "You think you can just shut down and not talk to me? We’ve been a team since we were brats. You think I'm gonna let you drown in your own head?"
Seeing the rare concern in his eyes might’ve been the breaking point. The dam you had built up over the past week—the brave face you wore for your parents, the polite 'I'm doing okay!' texts you sent your teammates—shattered completely.
A sob tore from your throat, violent and ugly.
"It's over, Ryusei," you wept, hiding your face in your hands as the tears finally poured out. "The doctor said... he said even after all the rehab, I might not be able to jump like I used to. I won't be the same. Volleyball was the only thing I was good at. It’s all I wanted to do. Now I’m just... I’m nothing. I’m stuck here while everyone else gets to play."
The thought of never feeling that perfect contact of the ball against your palms, of never hearing the roar of the crowd, it made you feel fucked up.
Shidou didn't say *'it'll be fine.'* He didn't offer empty platitudes because he knew, better than anyone, what sports meant. To Shidou, playing football was like breathing; it was his 'explosion.' He knew that losing your sport wasn't just an injury—it was like losing a limb, hell, all of your limbs, a piece of your soul.
Instead of talking, he reached out and hauled you into his chest, wrapping his strong arms completely around you. He pulled you flush against him, burying his face in your hair. He held you so tightly it almost hurt, an anchor in the middle of your emotional turmoil.
"Don’t go crazy on me now, and don’t be a dumbass. You're not nothing, got that?" he said into your hair, his voice vibrating against you. "Don't you ever say that stupid shit again, or I'll actually kick your ass.”
You turned around and wept into his open shirt, your tears wetting his collarbone, your fingers gripping the fabric of his uniform like a lifeline. Shidou held you, one of his hands coming up to cup the back of your head, his long fingers gently untangling the knots in your hair. He rocked you slightly, a rhythmic, soothing motion that contrasted wildly with his usual nature.
"Let it out," he murmured, his breath warm against your ear. "Explode if you gotta. Do it until you can't breathe. But don't think you're gonna be like this forever. You're just... on an intermission! And I'm staying right here until the curtains go up again, yeah?"
—
For the next few weeks, the dark cloud didn't magically disappear, but Shidou made sure it couldn't completely swallow you.
He became a constant, looming fixture in your life, even more than before. Which was impressive.
The rest of the school watched in slight bewilderment as the Ryusei Shidou—the guy who got suspended for getting into a fist fight with an opposing player and left them with a broken nose, and a split lip—patiently carrying your school bag every single day, walking at a snail's pace down the hallways to match your slow, limping gait.
If anyone happens to stare too long at your brace or whisper, Shidou would eye them down and flash a fanged grin, his eyes wild, making them scramble away.
"Ryusei, you're scaring the freshmen," you mumbled one afternoon as you sat on the bench by the school courtyard, watching him rifle through the bag he had brought.
"How’re they gonna learn how it goes ‘round here?" he replied cheerfully, pulling out a container of homemade pudding. He’d practically threatened his own mom to teach him how to make it because you had mentioned offhand that you missed sweet things.
He sat down next to you, scooped up a big spoonful, and shoved it right in front of your face. "Open up. Say *ahh~*."
"I can feed myself, I'm injured, not paralyzed. Jeez." you flushed, your cheeks burning as a few students walked past.
"Shut up and eat it, or I'll force-feed you," he grinned, his fangs peeking out.
You rolled your eyes but complied, taking the bite. It was surprisingly delicious—sweet, and smooth. "Woah, this is really good. You actually didn't poison it. Y’know if football doesn’t work out you could just do this."
"Right?!" Shidou beamed, his entire face lighting up with that childlike, manic joy that always made your heart do a stupid little flip. "I'm a genius~"
But the best part about Shidou wasn't just the sweets or the protection. It was the fact that he refused to let you give up on your body.
Every evening, he would come over to your house. He would pull your desk chair over, sit you down, and carefully help you through your physical therapy exercises. When your muscles burned and you wanted to cry from the frustration of not being able to do a simple straight-leg raise, Shidou would be right there on the floor with you.
"Five more! Come on!" he’d yell, acting like a crazed personal trainer. "Show that knee who's boss, I know you got more in you. You were moving so quick earlier tryna hit me for those chips."
"You idiot, they were mine! Fuck… this hurts…" you whined slightly, tears pricking your eyes.
"I know babe. Pain is just proof that your body’s fighting to explode again!" He grabbed your ankle, his touch suddenly very gentle, helping guide your leg through the final repetitions. "Good. Perfect. Look at that. You got it down."
When you finished, exhausted and trembling, he would lift you up effortlessly and carry you back to bed. He'd wrap your knee in an ice pack, prop it up on pillows, and then crawl right next to you, pulling you into his side. Then he’d continue to talk your ears off about any mundane thing that happened to him.
It almost made you feel like you could find some semblance of peace despite everything.
—
Months passed, and you could maybe feel the suffocating depression slowly begin to lift, replaced by stubborn determination. You couldn't jump yet, and you couldn't play in tournaments, but you were walking without a limp, and you could jog. You were getting your life back.
One Saturday evening, Shidou dragged you out to the deserted park near your house. The sun was setting, painting the sky in brilliant shades of purple, pink, and yellow.
He was holding a brand-new volleyball.
"What are we doing here, Ryusei?" you asked, leaning against a bench.
Shidou spun the ball on his finger, a small smile on his face—the kind of smile he only ever showed you. "You've been doing your boring rehab exercises for months. It's time for a real test.” He whined. “I’m not gonna make you do any jumping, or crazy running. But just... feel the ball okay."
He tossed the ball lightly from hand to hand, then stepped back, tossing it high into the air toward you.
Instinct took over and your feet planted firmly on the ground. You brought your forearms together, creating a platform. As the ball came down, you absorbed the impact, passing it smoothly back to him.
*Smack.*
The sound echoed through the quiet park. It was clean, and oh so missed.
Shidou caught the ball, his eyes wide and glittering with an intense light. "Yeah, you feel that?! You still got it~" He sung.
You stared at your hands. They were slightly red from the impact. A wild, bubbly feeling burst in your chest—the first real spark of joy you had felt about volleyball in what felt like an eternity. Proof that you were still you.
Shidou dropped the ball, letting it bounce away into the grass. In three large strides, he crossed the distance between you and grabbed your face in his hands. His thumbs gently wiped away the tear that slipped down your cheek. His face was inches from yours. "I told you didn’t I?" he whispered. You’ve never heard him this quiet. His forehead now came to rest gently against yours. "You're a miracle worker. Besides, you should know better than to doubt me, I’m your number one fan after all.”
You let out a watery laugh, wrapping your hands around his wrists, holding him close. "You're so dumb, Ryusei."
"And you love it," he grinned, his lips brushing against yours in a short but sweet kiss that tasted like the summer air. God you could punch him right about now. Knowing him he’ll probably like it so you refrain.
—
"...So, to answer your question," you said, bringing your focus back to the flashbulbs and the microphone. "Whenever I doubted myself, he was there to set me straight.” The reporter looked visibly moved, her hand over her heart. "Wow... that’s incredible. A truly incredible bond. I hear that Blue Lock is heating up right now, is he here today to watch you qualify for nationals?"
You smiled, looking right back up to the stands.
Up in the front row, Shidou was currently standing on top of his seat, completely ignoring the security guards yelling at him to get down. He had a massive, fanged grin stretched across his face, his eyes closed from his smile. You could see his jacket being tugged down by another boy with blond hair and grey ends, with an obscene cowlick that looked equally as excited, maybe even more.
Shidou cupped his hands around his mouth and screamed obscenities over the roar of the stadium. Something along the lines of, “THAT’S MY GIRL! YOU’RE THE SHIT! FUCK ‘EM UP!”
You could see the surrounding crowd shifted away from the pair in slight alarm, completely baffled by his explosive energy, but you just let out a loud, breathless laugh.
"Yeah," you told the reporter, your heart swelling to the point of bursting as you waved back up at him. "He's right there. He hasn't missed a single game. But that means I have to watch his match next time." You laughed.
—
Igarashi slammed his locker shut, looking around the room with a deep frown. “Does anyone know where that blond antenna freak went? Couldn’t find him this morning.”
Karasu, who was lazily tying his cleats on the bench, didn't even look up as he answered. “He went out, took Charles with him.”
"Ok… to where?" Igarashi asked, rubbing the back of his neck. It was weird enough that Shidou had managed to sneak out of the facility, but taking the French prodigy with him made it ten times more suspicious.
"Some volleyball game," Karasu shrugged, leaning back. "He was saying something about it being his girlfriend’s game."
Igarashi blinked once, then twice. “Wait what. Girlfriend? You're pulling my leg right?”
“Nah man,” Karasu snorted, a smirk playing on his lips. "He was serious. Said she was the number-one player in the country and he can’t miss it or his ‘cells would degenerate’ or whatever crazy crap he always says."
"Dude, someone call him!" Raichi yelled, veins piping up on his forehead.
"No way, you do it," Karasu countered instantly, holding his hands up defensively. "Remember the last time we tried to take his phone when he was on that call..."
The memory flashed vividly in their minds: Shidou, sitting in the corner of the lounge, talking to someone on his phone. He was ignored by the rest of the room until Igaguri tried to prank him (it was a dare). The events that had followed, resulted in a cracked wall and a very traumatized monk.
"Shit, you're right," Igarashi muttered, shivering and quickly backing away from the idea.
Meanwhile, miles away in the roaring Tokyo stadium, Charles was currently holding a box of tissues and a giant, sparkly pink banner, looking less excited than Shidou but nonetheless still smiling, while Shidou stood atop his seat, screaming at the top of his lungs for his girl on the court.
NOTE: #babysfirstcommission! Thank you to the lovely person who commissioned this. Ik I put my listing up as 1.5k words and you can pay to add more but since this is the first one evah I had to double it + I got carried away and had too much fun lol. I hope you love it as much as I did writing it!
The camera flashes were blinding, reflecting off the shiny hardwood floor of the gymnasium.
You stood at the end of the court, the captain’s band tight around your arm, a heavy gold medal gleaming against your jersey.
You smoothed your kit and swiped the white towel over your neck. Trying to at least look presentable for the camera.
"And we are here with the tournament MVP!" the sports reporter announced, shoving a microphone towards you as the cameraman angled for a close-up. "An incredible performance today! You were just… absolutely unmatched out there. But your journey hasn't been a straight line, has it? Rumor says that early in your high school career, you suffered an injury so severe that doctors weren't sure you'd ever play at this level again."
The reporter leaned in, her eyes wide, you're not sure if it was because of genuine interest or just for another good scoop. "As one of the best players in the nation right now, looking back... was there a moment where you had doubted yourself? Or a moment where you thought your dream was over? And how on earth did you overcome it?"
You blinked, the roar of the crowd suddenly fading into a distant hum. Your hand instinctively went down to your knee, feeling nothing but the faint cushion of your kneepad. The scar underneath the fabric started feeling warm.
You gave a light chuckle, a soft smile tugged at the corners of your lips.
"Yeah uh," you said softly into the microphone, your eyes drifting away from the camera and up toward the stands, searching the crowd until you spotted a very familiar shock of bright pink hair waving wildly in the front row. "There was a time when I thought I was done for good. It did happen and you know, I fell into a really bad place. I mean… I thought my worst nightmare had come true, and I didn't think I'd ever have the strength to stand on a court again, let alone go to Nationals."
You took a deep breath, the memories flooding back with clarity.
—
The gym had never felt so loud, and at the same time so completely empty.
You could still hear the echo of it—that awful, sickening *crack* in your knee right before you hit the hardwood.
One moment you were soaring, meeting the ball at the apex of your jump, ready to send it streaming down your line of vision. The next, gravity fucking you up.
The doctor’s office a day later had been suffocating. The old man that smelled too much like cigarettes used big, clinical words like *anterior cruciate ligament* and *reconstruction*, but all you heard was the subtext: *You’re an idiot, and you’re done playing. For a long, long time. Maybe forever.*
Now, you sat on your bed, staring blankly at the trophies and the volleyball resting in the corner of your room. It looked like a museum attraction. A relic of a past life, it might as well be collecting dust now.
The rest of the world was moving on. Your teammates were still practicing, their sneakers squeaking on the court, their laughter echoing through the gym after school. But you? You were trapped in a body that felt like a broken cage.
A deep, heavy grayness had settled over your chest, making it hard to breathe, hard to care, and even harder to do anything but stare at the wall.
You could feel that familiar stinging sensation coming up into your nose and migrating to your eyes.
Suddenly, your bedroom window rattled making you flinch. It was an aggressive, rhythmic thumping, followed by a loud, muffled shout.
"Hey! Open up before I kick the glass in!"
You didn't even have to look to know who it was. Ryusei Shidou.
To literally anyone else, Shidou was a local natural disaster. He was the terrifying demon on the soccer team who spoke in very inappropriate metaphors, picked fights for the thrill of it, and drove the teachers (and you) to the brink of insanity. People avoided him like the actual plague. They thought he was a freak, a loose cannon, and way too much to handle.
But, as corny as it sounded, they didn’t know him like you did. They don’t know about the scrawny, hyperactive kid who had climbed up a tree to rescue your stuck volleyball ten years ago, only to fall out of it backward, landing flat on his face, laughing hysterically with the ball clutched to his chest. You ended up having to nurse his scratches. You’ve basically been inseparable ever since.
With a heavy sigh, you dragged yourself across the bed, your bulky knee brace clicking awkwardly with every movement. You unlocked the window and pushed it open.
Shidou practically exploded into your room, smelling of sweat and the crisp evening air. He was still wearing his school uniform, though the shirt was completely unbuttoned, exposing his tanned chest, and his tie was nowhere to be found.
"Man, you took forever!" he complained, tossing a plastic convenience store bag onto your desk. He swung his legs over the sill and dropped into your room so fluidly it made you a little envious.
Darn his freakish flexibility.
Then, his eyes dropped to your leg.
The manic energy in his face didn't vanish, but you could tell he was going to say something. He never was the one to follow the suggestion of ‘think before you talk’. The sharp, jagged edges of his usual expression softened into something else.
"How's the leg feeling, champ?" he asked, throwing himself onto the floor right at your feet, leaning his back against your bed.
"It's fine," you lied softly, wincing as you crawled back under your blankets. "Just... hurts."
"Liar," Shidou snorted, leaning his head back against your mattress so he could look up at you upside down. His vibrant, violet eyes locked onto yours. "You look like a deflated balloon. Where’s that look you get when you’re about to spike a ball into some poor loser’s face? I don't like you like this. It’s lame and it’s so not like my queen."
"Then leave," you muttered, pulling the blanket up to your chin, turning your face away from him. "Go back to football. Go score a goal or fight someone."
You half expected him to snap back, to get annoyed and storm out. Your Shidou didn't do 'sad.' He didn't do 'quiet.'
Instead, the room went still. The only sound was the distant hum of the streets outside your house.
Then, you felt the mattress dip. He crawled up onto the bed, moving as gentle as Shidou could, and slid under the covers right next to you.
"Get out, Ryusei," you whispered, your voice cracking. "I'm not in the mood."
"No way," he said, his voice dropping an octave, losing its usual mocking edge. He reached out, his large, calloused hand grabbing your shoulder and firmly, but gently, rolling you over so you were forced to look at him. "You think you can just shut down and not talk to me? We’ve been a team since we were brats. You think I'm gonna let you drown in your own head?"
Seeing the rare concern in his eyes might’ve been the breaking point. The dam you had built up over the past week—the brave face you wore for your parents, the polite 'I'm doing okay!' texts you sent your teammates—shattered completely.
A sob tore from your throat, violent and ugly.
"It's over, Ryusei," you wept, hiding your face in your hands as the tears finally poured out. "The doctor said... he said even after all the rehab, I might not be able to jump like I used to. I won't be the same. Volleyball was the only thing I was good at. It’s all I wanted to do. Now I’m just... I’m nothing. I’m stuck here while everyone else gets to play."
The thought of never feeling that perfect contact of the ball against your palms, of never hearing the roar of the crowd, it made you feel fucked up.
Shidou didn't say *'it'll be fine.'* He didn't offer empty platitudes because he knew, better than anyone, what sports meant. To Shidou, playing football was like breathing; it was his 'explosion.' He knew that losing your sport wasn't just an injury—it was like losing a limb, hell, all of your limbs, a piece of your soul.
Instead of talking, he reached out and hauled you into his chest, wrapping his strong arms completely around you. He pulled you flush against him, burying his face in your hair. He held you so tightly it almost hurt, an anchor in the middle of your emotional turmoil.
"Don’t go crazy on me now, and don’t be a dumbass. You're not nothing, got that?" he said into your hair, his voice vibrating against you. "Don't you ever say that stupid shit again, or I'll actually kick your ass.”
You turned around and wept into his open shirt, your tears wetting his collarbone, your fingers gripping the fabric of his uniform like a lifeline. Shidou held you, one of his hands coming up to cup the back of your head, his long fingers gently untangling the knots in your hair. He rocked you slightly, a rhythmic, soothing motion that contrasted wildly with his usual nature.
"Let it out," he murmured, his breath warm against your ear. "Explode if you gotta. Do it until you can't breathe. But don't think you're gonna be like this forever. You're just... on an intermission! And I'm staying right here until the curtains go up again, yeah?"
—
For the next few weeks, the dark cloud didn't magically disappear, but Shidou made sure it couldn't completely swallow you.
He became a constant, looming fixture in your life, even more than before. Which was impressive.
The rest of the school watched in slight bewilderment as the Ryusei Shidou—the guy who got suspended for getting into a fist fight with an opposing player and left them with a broken nose, and a split lip—patiently carrying your school bag every single day, walking at a snail's pace down the hallways to match your slow, limping gait.
If anyone happens to stare too long at your brace or whisper, Shidou would eye them down and flash a fanged grin, his eyes wild, making them scramble away.
"Ryusei, you're scaring the freshmen," you mumbled one afternoon as you sat on the bench by the school courtyard, watching him rifle through the bag he had brought.
"How’re they gonna learn how it goes ‘round here?" he replied cheerfully, pulling out a container of homemade pudding. He’d practically threatened his own mom to teach him how to make it because you had mentioned offhand that you missed sweet things.
He sat down next to you, scooped up a big spoonful, and shoved it right in front of your face. "Open up. Say *ahh~*."
"I can feed myself, I'm injured, not paralyzed. Jeez." you flushed, your cheeks burning as a few students walked past.
"Shut up and eat it, or I'll force-feed you," he grinned, his fangs peeking out.
You rolled your eyes but complied, taking the bite. It was surprisingly delicious—sweet, and smooth. "Woah, this is really good. You actually didn't poison it. Y’know if football doesn’t work out you could just do this."
"Right?!" Shidou beamed, his entire face lighting up with that childlike, manic joy that always made your heart do a stupid little flip. "I'm a genius~"
But the best part about Shidou wasn't just the sweets or the protection. It was the fact that he refused to let you give up on your body.
Every evening, he would come over to your house. He would pull your desk chair over, sit you down, and carefully help you through your physical therapy exercises. When your muscles burned and you wanted to cry from the frustration of not being able to do a simple straight-leg raise, Shidou would be right there on the floor with you.
"Five more! Come on!" he’d yell, acting like a crazed personal trainer. "Show that knee who's boss, I know you got more in you. You were moving so quick earlier tryna hit me for those chips."
"You idiot, they were mine! Fuck… this hurts…" you whined slightly, tears pricking your eyes.
"I know babe. Pain is just proof that your body’s fighting to explode again!" He grabbed your ankle, his touch suddenly very gentle, helping guide your leg through the final repetitions. "Good. Perfect. Look at that. You got it down."
When you finished, exhausted and trembling, he would lift you up effortlessly and carry you back to bed. He'd wrap your knee in an ice pack, prop it up on pillows, and then crawl right next to you, pulling you into his side. Then he’d continue to talk your ears off about any mundane thing that happened to him.
It almost made you feel like you could find some semblance of peace despite everything.
—
Months passed, and you could maybe feel the suffocating depression slowly begin to lift, replaced by stubborn determination. You couldn't jump yet, and you couldn't play in tournaments, but you were walking without a limp, and you could jog. You were getting your life back.
One Saturday evening, Shidou dragged you out to the deserted park near your house. The sun was setting, painting the sky in brilliant shades of purple, pink, and yellow.
He was holding a brand-new volleyball.
"What are we doing here, Ryusei?" you asked, leaning against a bench.
Shidou spun the ball on his finger, a small smile on his face—the kind of smile he only ever showed you. "You've been doing your boring rehab exercises for months. It's time for a real test.” He whined. “I’m not gonna make you do any jumping, or crazy running. But just... feel the ball okay."
He tossed the ball lightly from hand to hand, then stepped back, tossing it high into the air toward you.
Instinct took over and your feet planted firmly on the ground. You brought your forearms together, creating a platform. As the ball came down, you absorbed the impact, passing it smoothly back to him.
*Smack.*
The sound echoed through the quiet park. It was clean, and oh so missed.
Shidou caught the ball, his eyes wide and glittering with an intense light. "Yeah, you feel that?! You still got it~" He sung.
You stared at your hands. They were slightly red from the impact. A wild, bubbly feeling burst in your chest—the first real spark of joy you had felt about volleyball in what felt like an eternity. Proof that you were still you.
Shidou dropped the ball, letting it bounce away into the grass. In three large strides, he crossed the distance between you and grabbed your face in his hands. His thumbs gently wiped away the tear that slipped down your cheek. His face was inches from yours. "I told you didn’t I?" he whispered. You’ve never heard him this quiet. His forehead now came to rest gently against yours. "You're a miracle worker. Besides, you should know better than to doubt me, I’m your number one fan after all.”
You let out a watery laugh, wrapping your hands around his wrists, holding him close. "You're so dumb, Ryusei."
"And you love it," he grinned, his lips brushing against yours in a short but sweet kiss that tasted like the summer air. God you could punch him right about now. Knowing him he’ll probably like it so you refrain.
—
"...So, to answer your question," you said, bringing your focus back to the flashbulbs and the microphone. "Whenever I doubted myself, he was there to set me straight.” The reporter looked visibly moved, her hand over her heart. "Wow... that’s incredible. A truly incredible bond. I hear that Blue Lock is heating up right now, is he here today to watch you qualify for nationals?"
You smiled, looking right back up to the stands.
Up in the front row, Shidou was currently standing on top of his seat, completely ignoring the security guards yelling at him to get down. He had a massive, fanged grin stretched across his face, his eyes closed from his smile. You could see his jacket being tugged down by another boy with blond hair and grey ends, with an obscene cowlick that looked equally as excited, maybe even more.
Shidou cupped his hands around his mouth and screamed obscenities over the roar of the stadium. Something along the lines of, “THAT’S MY GIRL! YOU’RE THE SHIT! FUCK ‘EM UP!”
You could see the surrounding crowd shifted away from the pair in slight alarm, completely baffled by his explosive energy, but you just let out a loud, breathless laugh.
"Yeah," you told the reporter, your heart swelling to the point of bursting as you waved back up at him. "He's right there. He hasn't missed a single game. But that means I have to watch his match next time." You laughed.
—
Igarashi slammed his locker shut, looking around the room with a deep frown. “Does anyone know where that blond antenna freak went? Couldn’t find him this morning.”
Karasu, who was lazily tying his cleats on the bench, didn't even look up as he answered. “He went out, took Charles with him.”
"Ok… to where?" Igarashi asked, rubbing the back of his neck. It was weird enough that Shidou had managed to sneak out of the facility, but taking the French prodigy with him made it ten times more suspicious.
"Some volleyball game," Karasu shrugged, leaning back. "He was saying something about it being his girlfriend’s game."
Igarashi blinked once, then twice. “Wait what. Girlfriend? You're pulling my leg right?”
“Nah man,” Karasu snorted, a smirk playing on his lips. "He was serious. Said she was the number-one player in the country and he can’t miss it or his ‘cells would degenerate’ or whatever crazy crap he always says."
"Dude, someone call him!" Raichi yelled, veins piping up on his forehead.
"No way, you do it," Karasu countered instantly, holding his hands up defensively. "Remember the last time we tried to take his phone when he was on that call..."
The memory flashed vividly in their minds: Shidou, sitting in the corner of the lounge, talking to someone on his phone. He was ignored by the rest of the room until Igaguri tried to prank him (it was a dare). The events that had followed, resulted in a cracked wall and a very traumatized monk.
"Shit, you're right," Igarashi muttered, shivering and quickly backing away from the idea.
Meanwhile, miles away in the roaring Tokyo stadium, Charles was currently holding a box of tissues and a giant, sparkly pink banner, looking less excited than Shidou but nonetheless still smiling, while Shidou stood atop his seat, screaming at the top of his lungs for his girl on the court.
being apart for so long had already begun taking its toll— the seven hours time-difference, missed calls, and replies that only grew shorter & shorter whenever sae was buried deep in training. but it snowballed fast, and weeks of frustration finally spilled out all at once.
“… you didn’t even bother replying to any of my texts yesterday, sae!” you snapped, pacing back and forth across your bedroom with your phone pressed tightly to your ear.
“i told you. i was busy with training.” he replied flatly.
“you always use that as an excuse!”
“cause it’s the truth.”
“so you couldn’t spare thirty seconds to send me a text?” you shot back, frustration bleeding through every word.
a tired sigh came through the speaker. “… not everything revolves around texting you every hour.”
the words left his mouth harsher than he intended.
“… got it.”
“you know that’s not what i meant.” he sighed, exhaling sharply.
“then what exactly… did you mean, sae?” you demanded, your voice trembling despite how badly you wanted it to sound firm. “because lately it feels like i’m constantly trying to squeeze myself into whatever tiny space you have left for me.”
“don’t start, please.”
“don’t… start?” you scoffed, a humorless laugh slipping out. “i’m your girlfriend. i shouldn’t have to beg for your attention.”
“and i shouldn’t have to justify every second of my day to you.”
for a moment, all you could hear was the faint static of the call between you. it stretched on long enough for your anger to start turning into something heavier.
“maybe… it’s better if we stop pretending this is working,” you whispered, your throat tightening around every word.
sae’s sharp reply came instantly. “don’t say that.”
“… why not?” you snapped. “when was the last time we had a conversation that didn’t end like this?”
“that’s because you keep pushing.”
“no, it’s because you’re impossible to talk to!”
“maybe because nothing i say is ever enough for you.”
for a beat, neither of you said anything. then came the final straw. “fine,” you breathed, the word coming out shakier than you wanted. “… maybe soccer is the only thing you actually care about. you know what? i’m done.”
before he could respond, you ended the call.
the screen went dark instantly, your tear-streaked reflection staring back at you through the blackened glass.
for the first time since the argument started, your apartment fell completely silent. your chest felt tight. your eyes burned from crying because some part of you already missed him. and despite how angry you still were, guilt had already begun creeping in around the edges.
but right now, the resentment that had been building for weeks was still fresh, still sitting heavy in your chest. then in a fit of anger and exhaustion, you’d decided to block him everywhere— imessage, whatsapp, instagram, tiktok, even his email too. you didn’t want to hear his voice, see his name pop up on your screen, or read another dry reply that made you feel like an inconvenience.
you just needed silence and a moment of clarity for yourself.
—
on the other side of the world, sae stared at his phone screen in disbelief.
his messages weren’t delivering. his calls went straight to voicemail. when he opened instagram, your account no longer existed in his following or followers. the last message he sent you sat on ‘not delivered.’
he tried once more, then again, each attempt ending the same way. still nothing.
“… fuck,” he muttered, jaw clenched so tight it ached.
he was in his hotel room after his evening training, hair still damp from the shower, exhaustion from the day mixing with rising irritation from whatever that transpired between you two.
sae rarely lost his cool. but right now, sitting on the edge of the bed with his phone gripped tightly in his hand; he was definitely furious. sure, the two of you had argued before, but this time you had intentionally shut him out. he knew he’d said things he shouldn’t have. he knew the distance had been wearing thin on both of you. but the thought that you’d actually block him— or cut him off completely made him feel more helpless than ever.
after one last failed call, he threw his phone onto the mattress with a sharp exhale, dragging a hand down his face.
“stubborn woman…” he hissed under his breath, teal-eyes sharp with irritation. “you really think blocking me is going to fix anything?”
he leaned back against the headboard, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the phone lying uselessly in front of him. a small part of him wanted to book the first flight back to japan without thinking twice, while the rational part of him knew you’d only resent him for ignoring the space you so clearly needed.
but the longer he sat there, unable to reach you; the heavier the unease settled in his chest. because for the first time in a long time… he couldn’t get through to you.
and he absolutely hated it.
⨳ 𝓷𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: errr ending it here because i might wanna do a pt 2
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Older! Nagi Seishiro is too lazy to thrust! ★ (NSFW) ﹙𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭﹚
The soft, rhythmic clicking of controller buttons was the only sound in the dimly lit bedroom, save for the frustrated huffs you’d been exhaling for the past 10 minutes.
As much as you love your boyfriend, you were cursing him deeply right now.
Currently, he was on top of you, his massive frame enveloping yours. You were slumped back against the headboard, and Nagi had lazily guided himself inside you minutes ago, hard as a rock, burying his length completely. But instead of the frantic, bruising pace you were oh so desperate for, he had simply groaned, let out a long sigh, and slumped forward. His chin rested heavily on your shoulder, his hands stretched past your head to grip his phone, and he just... stopped moving.
You thought it was hot at first, being used as his cock warmer and skewered on his length without being able to do anything. But it got frustrating real quick.
"Nagi..." you whined, your hands coming up to grip his broad, bare shoulders. The feeling of him filling you completely, hot and thick, was incredible—but the absolute lack of motion was driving you insane. "Please… Move."
"Mm... don’t wanna," Nagi murmured, his voice a low, gravelly vibration against your neck that sent a traitorous shiver down your spine. "Boss fight. If I let go, I'll die. Just hold still.”
"I don't wanna hold still!" You tilted your hips, trying to force a friction that would bring you closer to the edge, but Nagi’s weight and a subtle, commanding press of his thighs locked you in place.
"Don't squirm," he sighed, his thumbs flying across the screen. "You're tight. If you move like that, I'm gonna mess up my combos."
"Then let me go on top!" you begged, your voice dropping to a needy whisper. You were melting from the inside out, completely stretched open by him, the passive heat of his body cooking you alive. You squeezed your inner muscles around him, a desperate last bid for attention.
Nagi let out a sharp, ragged breath, his fingers freezing on his phone for a fraction of a second before he recovered. He buried his face deeper into the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent. "Ah... babe that's cheating. Don't do that."
"Then move," you whimpered, tears of frustration pricking the corners of your eyes. "Please, Seishiro. I need you to move. Just a little bit."
"So demanding," he muttered, completely unfazed by your begging. He liked the feeling of you being desperate for him; it was troublesome to move, but knowing he could make you sound like this just by existing inside you appealed to some sick nature he had inside of him. "Almost done. Just five more minutes."
"I can't wait five minutes!"
To emphasize your point, you squeezed again, arching your back slightly. Nagi groaned aloud, a deep, guttural sound that made your core throb. The tip of his nose brushed against your pulse point.
"You're being really needy today," Nagi said, his tone dropping into a rare pitch he usually reserved for the field. "But I'm not dropping this match. Be a good girl and just take it."
He didn't thrust, but he did something worse: he shifted his weight, pressing his pelvis firmly against yours so that his thick base ground right against your clitoris, before locking himself in place again. The agonizingly slow, heavy pressure made a loud sob escape your lips.
"Ah, there," Nagi murmured, pleased with himself as the game's victory fanfare finally echoed from the speakers. He didn't even look at the scoreboard. He tossed the controller onto the mattress, his large hands immediately coming down to grip your hips with a bruising hold.
His eyes, usually dull and sleepy, were dark and blazing as he looked down at you.
"You did a good job waiting," Nagi whispered, a lazy, smirk tugging at his lips as he finally withdrew halfway, before plunging back in with a sudden, deep thrust that made your vision go white. "My turn to play with you now."
hello, how are you? ^_^ i really like your hybrid au fics in general and i loved the last one you posted as well! the boys deserved that punishment, let bunny reader do her work!!!! anyway, what i wanted to ask was what kind of hybrids do you think the rest of the top 6 would be? just curious :) thank you!!
Blue Lock’s Top 6 as Hybrids
NOTE: I’m glad you’re enjoying it so far love! And yeah the boys deserve to get blitzed for not leaving the reader alone lol. Here’s what I think the top six would be in this au…
MAIN STORY
1. Rin Itoshi being a black panther makes perfect sense to me because he’s completely obsessed with being a solitary and he has that whole ‘teamwork makes me sick’ ideology lol. He doesn't need a pack, and he def doesn't do teamwork unless he forces people into the roles he wants them to be in. His tail always gives him away because it reflects his emotions, and when he’s annoyed it’s whipping around violently (which is always).
I like to think that Rin actually hates how loud his purr is. If you happen to walk past him when he's focused or pleased with a play, he’s doing it involuntary right through his chest. He’ll literally bite his own lip to force the purr to stop because he fs finds it embarrassing.
2. We all know Shidou’s soccer is just him being turned on, and its kinda all just unadulterated biological chaos that doesn't fit into normal human logic, Ego just gave up and classified him as a Komodo dragon or dragon esk. He’s got a heavy, pale-scaled reptile tail, sharp claws, and weird pinkish hair tufts that act like sensory feelers to help him sense exactly where the goal (and you) are. Dragons are hoarding, chaotic creatures driven by pure impulse, which describes Shidou very well.
Shidou has a bizarrely high body temperature because of his ‘dragon’ DNA. On chilly nights he will purposely use his massive size to try and scoop you up like a heat-source plushie. He doesn't even care about getting blitzed by the collar anymore he’s bragged to Sae over text that the electric shocks "tickle nicely" and give him a "mega rush." Aka he gets a boner…
3. I’m sorry but I couldn’t help but make my boy Karasu a crow lol. He’s the ultimate bully on the pitch, always picking apart his opponent's worst weaknesses, so making him a clever crow was a no-brainer. He has glossy black wings tucked tight against his back and sharp talon-like nails. Crows are famous for being incredibly smart, a little bit wicked, and big fans of teasing things just to see how they react.
I like to think Karasu uses his crow wings just to be annoying. If you're trying to read a data tablet near him, he’ll lazily extend one black wing to completely block your line of sight, forcing you to look at him instead. He loves making a low, clicking sound with his tongue that mimics his animal species. It makes him sound more desperate if anything.
4. Otoya’s whole weapon is his ninja ah stealth, meaning he can literally vanish from a defender's line of sight in a blink. Naturally, he’s gotta be an owl hybrid (ik ik Rin is all about owls but I think he’s too big cat coded). He has soft, multi-toned feathers tipping his hair and expressive eyes that can see perfectly in the pitch black. Owls are famous for having completely silent flight feathers, meaning Otoya moves around the facility without making a single sound. Which he often abuses and takes it out on you but he’ll regret it later on bc he’ll get blitzed tf up.
Because owls can rotate their heads to ridiculous angles, Otoya has a habit of slouching over a couch and turning his head almost entirely sideways just to track you walking across the room. He also likes to "nest." You’ll occasionally find your favorite staff blankets missing from the breakroom, only to discover he’s used them to build a literal nest in the corner of the training room. (Karasu takes it down just to spite him)
5. Poster pretty boy Yukimiya with his model like looks, and his "Emperor Eye" vision, makes me think that he’s the undisputed king of the skies, the Golden Eagle. He has beautiful, broad golden-brown wings. Most eagles have very sharp eyes but because of his eye disease it’s impacted him quite a bit and he doesn’t see as well as other hybrids. Eagles are noble and elegant, which fits Yuki's gentlemanly facade, but they are also brutal apex predators when they spot their target.
He’ll occasionally use the Blue Lock swimming pool to work out or for recreational activities. He currently holds the record for the dive bomb with the least splash between the Blue Lock boys, with Otoya in close second.
6. Nagi is a white lion, they are incredibly lazy and spend up to 20 hours a day doing absolutely nothing lol. He has massive, fluffy white lion ears that usually flop down because he’s too tired to perk them up, and a long tail with a white tuft at the end. His genius trapping ability is basically a big cat's natural reflex to pin down a ball—or in this case a bunny.
Nagi treats you exactly like how a giant cat treats a catnip toy. He doesn't have the bloodthirsty hunting drive that Rin or Shidou have; instead, he just has a massive "trap and hold" instinct. If you get within a three-foot radius of him, he will lazily roll over, wrap all four of his long limbs around your waist, and bury his face right into your rabbit ears, going entirely limp so you’re forced to squash down and carry his dead weight until Reo comes to pry him off.
