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sometimes i get sad about the fact that the fandom is so wrapped up in made-up drama with no basis in reality and discourse about fanon that there is almost NO conversation about the ACTUAL political parts of the pitt. so much criticism and no actual discussion of the pitt’s points about ice, about misdiagnosis of women and poc, about the fucked up insurance systems in the us, about deportations, about child abuse, about mental health, about suicide, about addiction, about federal funding cuts towards programs that benefit people of color, LIKE. you wanna talk about the pitt’s politics but instead of talking about ANY of that you wanna make shit up instead oh okay
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a/n: posting this before the world cup final spain vs. argentina that’s in less than 10 hours because i’m petty like that.
synopsis: how they break the soccer internet. it's the world cup final and they're going against a team that is clearly "cheating" (in the sense that the FIFA president is highly favoring them and ensuring they have the easy route to climb to the top and make it to finals). everyone is favoring and predicting that said team will win the world cup, but when they're tied and have to go overtime into additional time, the blue lock boys end up scoring the last goal and shocking EVERYBODY.
the entire tournament had been suspicious from the start because the opposing nation somehow kept receiving favorable officiating, questionable penalty calls, softer opponents in the knockout bracket, and enough referee protection that fans were already making "FIFA's favorite child" compilations before the final even kicked off, so by the time japan faced them, literally nobody outside of japan believed they had a chance, with pundits smiling politely while predicting a comfortable 3-1 loss as if isagi and the rest of blue lock were simply invited to witness history instead of making it.
what nobody accounted for was how terrifying isagi becomes when everyone has already accepted defeat for him. every single questionable whistle only sharpened his focus. every biased decision became another piece of information to process. another variable. another pattern. another weakness.
by the 120th minute, while everyone else on the field looked physically broken, isagi's eyes somehow looked even clearer than they had at kickoff, scanning every inch of grass like he was solving the final move of a puzzle that had been building for two hours.
then it happens. additional time. one last attack. the opposing defenders are desperately trying to waste time because penalties would favor them after everything that happened. isagi suddenly abandons the obvious passing lane, cuts into a space that genuinely does not exist until he creates it himself, and buries the winner so perfectly into the bottom corner that the stadium goes completely silent before absolutely exploding.
the camera catches the FIFA president standing up halfway through what was obviously supposed to become the championship celebration for the other side... only to slowly sit back down as japan's bench floods the pitch.
the internet absolutely loses its mind because isagi doesn't celebrate by screaming in anyone's face. he simply points toward the scoreboard, looks directly at the opposing captain who had been smiling all game, and says, "looks official now."
that single sentence becomes one of the coldest sports edits in history.
every football account posts the exact same caption: "they gave them every advantage except the better striker."
itoshi rin
rin had spent the entire week refusing interviews because every single reporter kept asking the exact same insulting question: "do you really believe japan can beat them?" as if belief alone would somehow compensate for the mountain they were climbing, and after the tenth variation of that question, he simply stared into the camera and replied, "you'll see."
twitter spends days making fun of him. they stop laughing very quickly.
the officiating becomes so blatantly one-sided that even commentators from completely neutral countries begin awkwardly questioning decisions live on television, and rin... genuinely seems happier because every unfair call just gives him another reason to destroy somebody.
with seconds remaining, he absolutely cooks the defender everyone had been calling "the greatest defender in the world." not once. not twice. but THREE consecutive feints so disrespectful that the poor man literally falls to one knee trying to recover before rin calmly slots the ball across the goal for the winner.
he doesn't even celebrate. he just turns around, looks directly at the opposing bench, and shrugs. then walks away while his teammates are losing their minds behind him.
fans immediately compare it to someone dropping the hardest diss track imaginable before leaving the studio without waiting for a response.
his post-match interview somehow becomes even more disrespectful.
the interviewer asks, "did winning feel satisfying?"
"no.”
"why not?”
"they weren't as difficult as people said."
the internet combusts.
rival fans call him arrogant. everyone else calls him correct. he earns more respect than ever because of this night.
itoshi sae
sae spends the entire tournament looking almost... amused.
every headline insists the final is already decided because "football politics" have spoken, and while everyone else gets angry, sae simply keeps training exactly the same way he always does because he has never cared about public opinion. if anything, he looks almost bored by the constant media narrative, like he's waiting for reality to catch up to what he already knows.
99% of midfielders would've forced something spectacular during the final attack. sae doesn't. he understands that the most humiliating thing you can do to a team convinced they're destined to win is dismantle them with perfect football.
in the final minute, every defender expects him to shoot. he doesn't.
instead, he threads the single greatest assist of the tournament between four defenders with a pass so absurdly precise that replays make people question whether the ball curved around legs on purpose.
isagi finishes it. japan wins.
commentators actually start laughing during the replay because nobody watching can believe the pass was real.
after lifting the trophy, a reporter nervously asks whether the difficult officiating affected the team.
sae glances toward the other side. "apparently not."
that's it. he plays professional and refrains from rants, complaints, and accusations.
football edits pair that quote with tuff audios for YEARS.
nagi seishiro
nagi had looked almost sleepy throughout the tournament, which only fueled endless criticism online about how "lazy" he looked compared to the passionate players around him, with entire podcasts questioning whether he even cared enough to play in a world cup final.
reo, meanwhile, knows exactly what that expression means. it means nagi has already seen the answer.
in additional time, the ball gets launched toward him from nearly 40 meters away. everyone expects him to bring it down. instead… first touch. second touch. and bicycle kick GOAL.
genuinely one of the greatest goals ever scored in football history.
nobody celebrates right away because the entire stadium needs three full seconds to process what just happened. then absolute pandemonium.
the clip reaches 100 million views before the medal ceremony even begins.
when reporters ask him afterward whether he planned the goal… he scratches his neck.
"eh... kinda looked fun. so i went for it.”
football fans worldwide simultaneously develop hypertension. every comment section is identical: "HE DID WHAT BECAUSE IT LOOKED FUN???"
that goal becomes the default answer anytime somebody asks, "what's the greatest world cup goal ever?"
mikage reo
reo takes the entire tournament personally because he can see exactly how manipulated the narrative has become, watching television panels practically handing the trophy to the other team before the final is even played, and every smug prediction only hardens his resolve to prove that no amount of money, politics, or favoritism can manufacture the chemistry blue lock forged through years of clawing their way to the top.
throughout the match, he's absolutely everywhere, recovering loose balls that looked impossible to save, tracking back until his lungs burn, throwing himself into challenges without hesitation, refusing to let unfair decisions become excuses, because if they're going to steal something from japan, they'll have to pry it from his hands first.
the winning play begins with him. he wins possession against two players. shrugs off another challenge. escapes relentless pressure with a sequence of touches so smooth it looks rehearsed. then fires the perfect forward pass that slices open the defense and starts the move that wins japan the world cup.
everyone praises the goal. players praise reo. analysts spend weeks pointing out that without his interception, none of it happens.
after the trophy ceremony, cameras catch the opposing players arguing with officials while japan celebrates together in the background.
reo notices, smiles, then says just loudly enough for nearby microphones to catch: "guess shortcuts don't teach you how to win finals."
the quote trends in every language imaginable.
every sports edit ends the same way: the scoreboard frozen on the screen, japan lifting the world cup, and one caption fading in – "you can rig the road. you can't rig greatness."
bachira meguru
bachira had been smiling through the entire tournament, which somehow annoyed rival fans even more because while everyone else was busy arguing about the officiating, conspiracy theories, and suspicious brackets, he just kept saying things like, "it's okay! we'll just score more!" with the biggest grin imaginable, earning thousands of quote tweets calling him naive... only for that optimism to age like the finest wine known to mankind.
the final becomes unbelievably physical because the opposing team realizes they can't keep up with japan's technical ability, so they start hacking people down every chance they get, and bachira ends up getting fouled over and over again with barely any whistles. every time he gets shoved to the ground, he simply dusts himself off, giggles, and says, "again?" like he's inviting them to try harder.
in the dying moments of additional time, he receives the ball surrounded by four defenders, and the entire stadium assumes the attack is dead until he starts dancing through them with the kind of street football that makes grown professionals look like traffic cones, leaving one defender spinning in the wrong direction before slipping the most disrespectfully perfect assist across the box for japan's winning goal.
he immediately starts laughing before the ball even crosses the line because he already knows it's over.
after the match, a reporter asks if he ever doubted japan could win.
"huh? why would i?" he blinks innocently. "they're just people."
football twitter collectively screams because he accidentally reduced the most hyped-up national team on earth to "just people."
edits of him skipping away from four defeated defenders get paired with circus music, samba music, dramatic orchestra – everything. no matter the soundtrack, it somehow works.
shidou ryusei
every single sports analyst spends the week before the final saying the same thing: "shidou's temper will cost japan the world cup." because surely, against a team getting every favorable call imaginable, he'd lose his head.
instead… he smiles the entire match. and that scares everyone even more.
the opposing defenders spend 120 minutes trying to provoke him, talking trash in three different languages, yanking his shirt, stepping on his heels, celebrating every questionable decision directly in his face… and shidou just keeps grinning.
"c'mon. keep going. make the winning goal feel hotter."
additional time. cross into the box. shidou launches himself into the air so violently that it genuinely looks like gravity gave up trying to stop him.
BOOM. the header nearly tears through the net.
there’s absolute silence at first. then the loudest roar in world cup history.
rather than celebrating immediately, shidou walks toward the defender who'd spent the entire game talking trash, pats him on the shoulder, and says, "aw... that's all?"
that clip gets 17 million likes in under 24 hours.
interviewers desperately try getting him to criticize the officiating afterward.
"i have nothing."
"really?"
"if they're gonna cheat..." he breaks into a wide grin. "they should've cheated harder."
the internet declares psychological warfare has reached previously undiscovered levels.
karasu tabito
karasu had been quietly collecting receipts all tournament long. every prediction, every disrespectful headline, every clip of pundits saying japan only reached the final "by luck." he has them all saved. because if there's one thing karasu loves… it's talking after he already proved himself right.
during the match, he becomes an absolute menace in midfield, constantly stealing possession from the opposing team's biggest stars before sarcastically thanking them.
"’preciate it."
"thanks again.”
"that's mine now."
by additional time, their midfield is mentally exhausted because every time they think they've escaped him, karasu somehow appears again like an unpaid tax collector.
the winning sequence starts because he strips the opposing captain of possession so cleanly that commentators initially think the captain simply misplaced the ball. replay says otherwise. karasu absolutely robbed him.
after the trophy ceremony, he posts exactly one tweet: "thought y'all said we weren't makin’ it past the quarterfinals?"
attached underneath? 27 different screenshots of old predictions. the ratio is biblical.
football fans begin calling him "the CEO of keeping receipts."
kaiser michael
kaiser had spent the week before the final listening to the nonstop praise for the opposing team with the most unimpressed expression imaginable, occasionally glancing at the television before muttering, "they're celebrating before winning?" as if he genuinely couldn't understand why everyone was acting like the trophy had already been awarded.
by kickoff, the atmosphere is almost theatrical. every camera seems determined to capture the other team's coronation, every graphic is centered around their stars, and even neutral broadcasts spend more time discussing how history will remember them than acknowledging the eleven players wearing germany's colors.
kaiser absolutely despises that. in his mind, football has one universal rule: earn it.
the match becomes uglier with every passing minute. questionable fouls. suspicious stoppage time. decisions that somehow always seem to favor the same side.
kaiser never argues. he just plays colder.
then with the final attack unfolding, three defenders collapse toward ness, completely forgetting that leaving michael kaiser alone is essentially signing your own obituary.
he makes the most devastating off-ball run imaginable, dragging half the defensive line out of position before casually flicking the ball back with the outside of his boot.
goal. world cup won.
commentators spend the next week replaying that run because without it, the goal never happens.
after lifting the trophy, a journalist asks whether justice had been served.
kaiser tilts his head. "justice? i simply dislike poorly written endings."
every football edit immediately uses that quote over trending audios.
rival fans hate admitting it. but they admit it anyway: “that's the hardest thing anyone's ever said after winning a world cup."
ness alexis
nobody expects ness to become one of the tournament's biggest heroes because every headline is focused on the goalscorers, the captains, and the superstars, but anyone actually watching football can see he's quietly putting on an absolute midfield masterclass, covering impossible amounts of ground, breaking passing lanes before attacks even develop, and refusing to let the chaos of the officiating distract him from doing the dirty work that rarely makes highlight reels.
the opposing team underestimates him all match long, assuming he's merely there to support everyone else. huge mistake.
in the 119th minute, they attempt one final counterattack that would've almost certainly won them the world cup. ness reads it before anyone else.
he flies across the pitch, intercepts the pass with a perfectly timed tackle that somehow wins the ball so cleanly the referee can't invent a foul, immediately gets back to his feet, and launches the counterattack that ends with germany scoring the winner less than 20 seconds later.
social media goes absolutely feral over the replay because his interception is the reason the winning goal even exists. people start calling it "the tackle that saved football."
during the celebrations, cameras catch him laughing so hard he nearly drops his medal because he can hear the opposing bench still arguing with officials while germany is literally dancing with the trophy.
afterward, someone asks him what was going through his mind before making that tackle.
"hm… well… if nobody else was going to stop them… i figured i should."
it's such an unexpectedly simple answer that even rival supporters can't bring themselves to dislike him.
within hours, edits begin circulating that alternate between his last-ditch tackle and the final whistle, ending with one caption across the screen: "you can't buy destiny. you have to defend it."
chigiri hyoma
by the time japan reaches the world cup final, every scouting report has the exact same sentence highlighted in bold: "do not let chigiri run in behind." easier said than done. the opposing team spends the entire match double-marking him, occasionally even triple-marking him, and whenever they can't catch him legally... they simply drag him down because they know there's a decent chance the referee won't call it anyway.
every foul only makes the crowd angrier because even casual viewers can tell what they're doing. clips of defenders grabbing fistfuls of his jersey start circulating before halftime with captions like, "bro is competing in the 100-meter hurdles against people who forgot they're playing football."
then comes the final attack – additional time. everyone is exhausted. except chigiri. no one knows how, after 120 minutes, he still has another gear.
the moment reo wins possession, chigiri is already gone. one explosive touch. another. the defenders panic because they've been warned about this all week, but tired legs don't listen to scouting reports.
he leaves the entire backline chasing shadows before cutting the ball perfectly across the box for the winning goal.
the replay from the overhead camera becomes legendary because it genuinely looks like someone fast-forwarded only him while everyone else stayed at normal speed.
afterward, a reporter asks whether he felt sorry for the defenders.
he responds with: "they looked tired. but i wasn't."
every sprint comparison video for the next decade uses that run as the benchmark.
barou shoei
the media absolutely adores the opposing team's captain before the final, constantly calling him "the king of world football," "the inevitable champion," and every other dramatic title imaginable.
barou hears all of it. barou takes it personally. because as far as he's concerned… there’s only one king.
the match turns into a battlefield, with defenders throwing everything they have at him, practically wrestling him every time he enters the penalty area because they know they can't beat him physically. he just keeps bulldozing through them.
70 minutes in. 85. 100. he's still charging straight at them like a freight train.
then in the dying seconds, japan launches one last attack. the opposing center-back steps up confidently.
barou simply shoulders him out of the way so cleanly that the defender looks like he bounced off a brick wall. he doesn't even glance back. he receives the pass and smashes the ball into the roof of the net with enough force that photographers behind the goal visibly flinch.
he celebrates by walking directly toward the section filled with opposing fans. folds his arms. raises one eyebrow. says absolutely nothing. the silence is somehow louder than japan’s screaming.
post-match interview? "they called him king… but they crowned the wrong one."
football edits with that quote become legally classified as weapons.
yukimiya kenyu
yukimiya spends the entire tournament playing with a smile that almost looks too calm for the occasion, even as every questionable call goes against japan and every television graphic keeps insisting the other team is "fated" to lift the trophy.
people mistake that calmness for passiveness. they learn very quickly that confidence doesn't always have to be loud.
throughout the final, he keeps attacking the opposing fullback over and over again, patiently studying every tiny movement until he understands exactly how they defend under pressure.
additional time arrives, meaning one chance. one duel.
yukimiya sizes him up… then absolutely ruins the poor man's evening. step-over. body feint. elastico. ouuu shiii cut inside.
the defender commits to the wrong direction so hard he nearly slides into his own teammate. social media instantly begins calling it "the ankle collection."
yukimiya calmly slips the ball into the middle, where japan finishes the winner.
instead of running around wildly, he simply closes his eyes for a second, exhales, and smiles toward the sky like he's savoring the moment after years of fighting for it.
afterward, reporters ask him if he ever felt overwhelmed by the pressure.
"pressure?" yukimiya smiles. "that's what makes moments beautiful."
fans immediately start making aesthetic edits with that quote over slow-motion clips of his dribble.
kiyora jin
nobody outside of blue lock really understands kiyora before the tournament. commentators describe him as "unpredictable," analysts struggle to define his playstyle, and opposing defenders confidently assume they'll figure him out after a few minutes.
they don't. why? trying to predict kiyora is like trying to predict which direction a freestyle dancer is about to spin.
his balance is unreal. his footwork somehow looks choreographed and completely improvised at the same time.
by the final, defenders are visibly hesitant to step toward him because every challenge ends with them facing the wrong direction.
additional time. tied match. kiyora receives the ball near the corner with three defenders collapsing on him. commentators immediately assume he's going to recycle possession and wait for support.
instead… he starts moving. one spin. quick heel drag. reverse roulette. another pivot. his hips fake one direction while the ball disappears the other way.
one defender literally stumbles into his own teammate. another plants his foot so awkwardly trying to recover that he nearly falls over.
the crowd starts screaming before the pass even happens because they know they've just witnessed something ridiculous.
kiyora glides past the last defender, casually rolls the ball into open space, and japan buries the winner.
the clip becomes known online as "the world cup ankle massacre."
hashtags like #justicefortheiracl and #kiyorafoundtheweakbutton trend for days because every replay somehow makes the defenders look even more lost than the previous one.
when a reporter asks if he meant to embarrass so many players on one move, kiyora just blinks. "they kept standing where i wanted to go. so i made them move."
football twitter immediately declares that the man breakdanced his way to a world cup.
from then on, every time a defender gets sent the wrong way anywhere in professional football, the replies are flooded with the exact same phrase: "bro got kiyora'd."
loki julian
from the very beginning of the tournament, france keeps getting asked the most ridiculous questions imaginable because every journalist seems far more interested in discussing the other team's "destiny" than the actual football being played. every press conference becomes some variation of, "how do you prepare for a team that's clearly meant to win?" and loki just sits there wondering why everyone is acting like the world cup trophy has already been engraved.
the semifinal finally arrives, and every french player immediately realizes they're not just playing 11 men – no, they're playing against an entire narrative. obvious fouls go uncalled, perfectly clean tackles somehow become yellow cards, and every marginal offside seems to magically favor the opposition. even the commentators begin nervously saying things like, "well... that's certainly a decision."
by extra time, the score is still tied because france simply refuses to die.
then the final attack begins. one defender overcommits. loki is gone. there is genuinely no catching him.
he accelerates so violently that slow-motion replays somehow still can't capture how quickly he separates from the backline, collects the through ball without breaking stride, rounds the keeper with one effortless touch, and buries the winner into an empty net.
the stadium goes dead silent. every television graphic prepared to celebrate the "inevitable champions" suddenly becomes useless.
loki doesn't sprint toward the corner flag. he turns around, looks straight at the referee for half a second, and then points at the scoreboard.
"that one counted."
the clip becomes one of the coldest world cup moments ever because everyone knows exactly what he means without him having to say another word.
iglesias bunny
spain spends the entire knockout stage listening to people explain why the heavily favored team is supposedly "simply on another level," despite half the football world already questioning how many fortunate decisions they've received to even reach this point. bunny gets especially irritated because every time someone points out the officiating, they're immediately dismissed as "coping."
his response? "then we'll give them something they can't whistle away."
90 minutes of football later, bunny has been kicked, shoved, and dragged to the ground more times than anyone can count, and somehow he's the one receiving lectures from the referee.
by the 119th minute, everyone assumes penalties are inevitable. bunny has other plans tho.
he receives the ball near the touchline with two defenders closing him down. one step-over. another. a sudden drag-back.
the first defender slips. the second bites on the fake so hard he nearly collides with his own captain.
bunny cuts inside and curls an absolutely disgusting shot into the top corner from outside the box. no keeper on earth is saving it. absolute bedlam.
during the celebration, he runs toward the cameras, cups one hand behind his ear, and grins.
"still the better team?"
football twitter immediately starts calling it "the most expensive receipt ever collected.”
after lifting the trophy, reporters ask whether all the controversial decisions frustrated him.
"a little."
"so you answered with that goal?"
"it's louder."
every edit of the goal ends with that quote.
hugo vivian
hugo is smiling before kickoff. the man loves impossible matches. if the entire world already thinks france is supposed to lose... good. it makes proving everyone wrong even more fun.
unfortunately, the match quickly becomes exactly what everyone feared. every shoulder-to-shoulder challenge somehow goes against france, obvious dives earn free kicks, and every time the favored side complains, the whistle somehow follows.
hugo spends half the game throwing his hands into the air in frustration. yet, he still manages to laugh through it because if he doesn't laugh, he'll lose his mind.
120th minute. france wins possession. hugo charges forward. defenders close him down.
instead of forcing a shot, he straight up embarrasses the nearest defender with a string of ridiculously quick feints that leave the poor guy spinning the wrong direction.
"whoop. zip. see ya."
he slips the perfect pass across the goal. loki finishes it. france wins the world cup.
hugo doesn't even realize the broadcast microphones are still following him as he sprints across the pitch screaming, "BOOM!” "THAT'S FOOTBALL, BABY!" "PACK IT UUUUP!"
the celebration instantly becomes a meme because every replay perfectly syncs his sound effects with the winning sequence.
post-match, a reporter cautiously asks whether he thought the officiating made the victory sweeter.
hugo grins so hard his medal nearly falls off. "they had the whistles. we had the football… boom."
from then on, french fans start replying "boom." under every match-winning goal like it's a national tradition now.
you show up to one of his matches wearing his name across your back. he is completely normal about it. obviously.
── .✦
Isagi Yoichi.
Isagi notices you before he means to.
It happens somewhere in the middle of the first half, when the ball has been pushed out of bounds and the game pauses for barely a few seconds.
His eyes move automatically.
The field. His teammates. The opposing formation.
The stands.
You.
For a moment, you almost blend into the sea of people dressed in blue and white. Then someone beside you says something and you turn to answer them, giving Isagi a perfect view of your back.
His name is written across your shoulders.
ISAGI.
His number underneath it.
Yoichi freezes.
Not enough for anyone watching to notice, probably, but enough that his entire thought process falls apart for one incredibly embarrassing second.
You're wearing his jersey.
His jersey.
You've come to his matches before. You've cheered for him, hugged him afterward, listened to him ramble endlessly about plays and goals until he realizes it's nearly two in the morning.
But this feels different.
There is something about seeing his name on you that makes his chest tighten painfully.
Then you turn back toward the field.
Your eyes find him.
And you smile.
It's immediate, bright and impossibly warm, and Isagi has to look away because his face is suddenly burning.
“Isagi.” He blinks. One of his teammates is staring at him.
“The throw-in?”
“Right.”
Right.
Football.
He is playing football.
Isagi forces himself back into the match...
Mostly.
Because every time he scores, every time he manages to create an opening, he finds himself glancing toward your section.
And you're always there.
Standing when everyone else stands. Clapping. Shouting his name even though he can barely hear you from the field.
It shouldn't matter this much.
It does.
After the match, you barely make it a few steps down the VIP hallway before someone wraps their arms around you from behind.
You yelp.
“Yoichi!”
“Sorry.”
He doesn't sound sorry.
He's showered already, his hair still slightly damp, but his body is warm against your back as he presses his face into the side of your neck.
“You scared me.”
“Sorry” he repeats. Still no actual regret.
You laugh softly and turn in his arms.
His hands settle naturally at your waist.
“You played really well.”
“Thanks.”
Isagi is looking at you strangely.
You tilt your head.
“What?”
His eyes drop.
Your jersey.
“Oh.”
You glance down at yourself.
“This?”
His ears turn pink again.
“You didn't tell me you bought one.”
“I wanted to surprise you.”
“It worked.”
You smile.
“I noticed.”
Isagi groans quietly.
“Was it that obvious?”
“To me? Definitely.”
“That makes it worse.”
You laugh, reaching up to push a few damp strands of hair away from his forehead.
His expression softens immediately.
“I like watching you play,” you tell him. “And I wanted to support you properly.”
“You always support me properly.”
“I know.”
Your fingers brush his cheek.
“But I wanted everyone else to know who I was cheering for too.”
Isagi stares at you.
You barely get the chance to wonder whether you've embarrassed him again before he's pulling you into his chest.
“Yoichi?”
“Give me a second.”
You smile against his shirt.
His arms tighten.
“You can't say things like that right after a match,” he mumbles.
“Why?”
“My heart's already working hard enough.”
You laugh, and Isagi presses a small kiss to the top of your head.
He is quiet for a moment.
Then, very softly, he says:
“Wear it again next time?”
You look up. He's trying to sound casual.
It's terrible.
You smile anyway.
“Of course.”
The look on his face makes the jersey completely worth it.
── .✦
Itoshi Sae
Sae notices everything. You know this. He has an irritating ability to pick apart the smallest changes in your appearance without ever making it obvious that he's paying attention.
New earrings. A different perfume. The fact that you've started stealing his shampoo whenever you stay over.
So when you arrive at the stadium wearing his jersey, you know there's no chance he won't see it.
The real question is whether he'll react.
For the majority of the first half, you think you've miscalculated. Sae doesn't look toward you once.
He moves across the pitch with the same disinterested expression he always wears, like every other player is merely another mildly inconvenient obstacle between him and victory.
Then the game pauses. Sae lifts his head. His eyes move across the stands... and then they stop.
Directly on you.
You smile. Slowly, deliberately, you open your jacket a little more.
His jersey underneath.
Sae's jersey.
His eyes narrow and you almost laugh.
Then the whistle blows and he turns away.
That's it.
No smile. No visible embarrassment.
You aren't surprised.
Still, you spend the rest of the match wondering whether he liked it.
The answer arrives after the game.
You are standing near one of the restricted hallways, scrolling through your phone, when a familiar hand takes it from you.
“Hey—”
You look up.
Sae.
“You're done?”
He doesn't answer.
Instead, his eyes move down your body.
You follow his glance at your shirt.
“So you did notice.”
“I noticed.”
“And?”
“And what?”
You stare at him. Sae stares back.
“You're impossible.”
You reach for your phone. He lifts it away.
“Sae.”
“Turn around.”
“What?”
“Turn. Around.”
You narrow your eyes.
“Why?”
He looks almost bored.
“Do you always ask this many questions?”
“Only when my boyfriend starts giving me suspicious instructions.”
For the briefest moment, something amused flickers in his eyes. You turn anyway. There is silence behind you. Then Sae's fingers brush the fabric between your shoulder blades.
Right over his name.
The touch is so light you almost miss it.
You don't turn. His hand stays there.
“It's too big,” he says.
You smile.
“It's supposed to be.”
“No.”
His fingers move to your waist, gathering some of the fabric.
“It's definitely too big.”
“Are you complaining?”
Sae is quiet.
Then his arm slides around your waist and he pulls you backward against him. Your breath catches. His mouth is near your ear.
“No.”
The answer is so simple that warmth immediately spreads through your chest.
You turn your head slightly.
“So you like it?”
“You look fine.”
“Sae.”
“You look good.”
“Sae.”
He sighs. You grin.
“Fine, you look gorgeous," he finally says.
“Was that so difficult?”
“Yes.”
You laugh. Sae's hold on you tightens slightly. Then he lowers his head and presses a slow kiss beneath your ear. Your smile falters.
“Sae.”
“Hm?”
“That was unfair.”
His mouth brushes your skin again.
“You wanted a reaction.”
You can practically hear the smugness in his voice.
“I wanted you to say you liked the shirt.”
“I did.”
“You're horrible.”
Sae finally lets you turn around. His hand stays on your waist. You reach up, smoothing your thumb over his cheek.
“You really played well today.”
“I know.”
You roll your eyes.
Sae catches your wrist before you can lower your hand. His lips press briefly against your palm. The gesture is so unexpectedly gentle that you become completely still.
His eyes remain on yours.
“Wear it again.”
You smile softly.
“Only because you asked so nicely.”
“I didn't.”
“I know.”
This time, when Sae kisses you, you can feel the faint curve of his smile against your mouth.
── .✦
Itoshi Rin.
You know Rin has seen you. Mostly because he has been actively refusing to look toward your side of the stadium for the past thirty minutes.
It started when you arrived.
You'd barely found your seat when Rin's eyes moved toward the stands. He saw you. Saw the dark jersey. Saw his name across your chest and...
Immediately looked away.
You smiled.
Then Rin plays like someone had deeply and personally offended him. By halftime, you are beginning to suspect the jersey may have triggered some kind of psychological crisis. He scores twice but doesn't celebrate.
He looks toward you once after the second goal. Just once.
You blow him a kiss.
Rin nearly walks into one of his own teammates.
You spend the rest of the match feeling incredibly pleased with yourself. Afterward, however, Rin avoids you. You wait near the players' exit.
Nothing.
So you send him a message.
where are you?
Three minutes pass.
busy.
You stare at the reply on the screen.
rin...
Nothing.
itoshi rin...
The typing bubble appears. Disappears. Appears again.
Finally, you see the reply:
stop.
You laugh.
Ten minutes later, Rin walks out of the hallway.
His hair is still damp from his shower and there's a bag thrown over one shoulder. He stops when he sees you.
You smile sweetly.
“Hi.”
Rin looks at your shirt. Then your face.
“You're annoying.”
“I haven't done anything.”
“You know what you did.” You glance down.
“The jersey?” His jaw tightens. Your smile grows.
“Did you like it?”
“No.”
“Rin.”
“No.”
You step closer. He doesn't move away.
“You looked at me after your second goal.”
“I was looking at the crowd.”
“You almost tripped when I blew you a kiss.”
“I didn't trip...”
“Almost.”
Rin clicks his tongue. You are close enough now to reach for him. Your fingers lightly catch the sleeve of his jacket. His eyes immediately drop to the movement.
“I wanted to wear your jersey,” you say, quieter now. The teasing disappears from your voice.
Rin looks at you.
“I thought you'd like seeing me support you.”
His expression changes. Barely. But you know him. You see the way the tension leaves his shoulders. The way his eyes soften even though he would probably rather die than admit it.
“You already support me,” he says.
“I know.”
“Then you don't have to do stupid things.”
You smile.
“But I wanted to.”
Rin says nothing.
Your hand slides down from his sleeve until your fingers brush his. For a second, he doesn't react.
Then he takes your hand.
His grip is firm.
Warm.
“You really didn't like it?” you ask.
Rin looks away.
You wait.
His thumb moves once over your knuckles.
“…I didn't say that.” Your heart melts.
“Oh.”
“Don't.”
“I didn't say anything.”
“You're smiling.”
“I can't smile?”
“Not like that.”
You laugh softly.
Rin pulls you closer by your joined hands. You bump gently into his chest. Before you can tease him again, he lowers his head. His forehead rests against yours. The gesture is quiet.
Private.
So Rin.
“I saw you immediately,” he admits. Your smile becomes softer.
“I know.”
“Shut up.”
You squeeze his hand.
“I'm proud of you.”
Rin's eyes close. You kiss the corner of his mouth. For once, he doesn't complain.
Instead, his free hand settles against the back of your neck and pulls you back when you try to move away.
The second kiss lasts much longer.
When you finally separate, Rin looks at your jersey again.
His name.
His number.
You.
His expression turns slightly red.
“Don't wear anyone else's.”
You blink.
Then you grin.
“Rin, are you jealous of hypothetical jerseys?”
“Shut up.”
“That's so cute.”
“I'm leaving.”
Yet he doesn't let go of your hand.
── .✦
Nagi Seishiro.
The first person to notice is Reo.
Of course it is.
Nagi is standing on the field, lazily stretching one leg behind him, when Reo suddenly nudges his shoulder.
“Nagi.”
“Hm?”
Reo nods toward the stands. Nagi follows his gaze.
You are sitting a few rows from the front. His jersey is draped over your body, much too large, the sleeves nearly reaching your elbows.
Nagi stops stretching.
“Oh.”
Reo looks at him. Then at you. Then back at him.
“That's it?”
Nagi doesn't answer. You catch him looking, so you immediately smile and lift both hands in an excited little wave.
Nagi blinks.
You point toward your jersey.
Then toward him.
His chest feels strange. Not bad. Just warm. Heavy.
Troublesome.
Reo watches him stare.
“You like it.”
“Yeah.”
“You could at least smile at them.”
Nagi looks at him.
“I did.”
“No, you didn't.”
Nagi looks back toward you. You are still smiling. He lifts one hand. A tiny wave.
Your expression brightens so dramatically that Nagi feels the strange warmth again.
“Huh,” he murmurs.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
The game starts. Nagi thinks about your jersey four separate times during the first half. It is incredibly distracting.
After the match, you find him sitting alone on a bench in one of the stadium hallways.
His head is tilted back against the wall.
“Seishiro?” One eye opens. “There you are.”
“You were looking for me?”
“Mm.” You walk closer.
“You could've texted me, my phone's in my bag.”
“And your bag is?” Nagi lazily points beside him.
You stare. He stares back.
“You're hopeless.”
“Too tired.”
You laugh and step between his knees. Nagi's hands immediately find your waist, he presses his face against your stomach.
You blink.
“Hello to you too.”
“Hi.” His voice is muffled against the jersey. Your fingers move into his hair and he visibly relaxes.
“You played really well today.”
“Mm.”
“That goal in the second half was incredible.”
“Mm.” You smile.
“Are you listening?”
“Yeah.”
“What did I say?”
“You think I'm incredible.” You lightly pull his hair, Nagi makes a quiet sound of complaint.
“That is not what I said.”
“Close enough.” His fingers curl into the fabric around your waist, then he lifts his head. His eyes settle on your shirt.
“My jersey.”
“Very observant.”
“You bought it.”
“I did.”
“Why?” You stare at him.
“Because you're my boyfriend?” Nagi blinks slowly.
“So?” You laugh.
“So I wanted to wear your name.” He becomes quiet. You tilt your head.
“Seishiro?” His hands slide around you completely. Then, without warning, he pulls you closer and buries his face against you again. You almost lose your balance.
“Hey!”
“Don't say things like that.” You look down at him.
His ears are pink.
Your heart nearly bursts.
“Oh my god.”
“Don't.”
“Are you embarrassed?”
“No.”
“You are!"
Nagi groans.
You laugh and gently scratch your nails over his scalp. His arms tighten.
“You look cute,” he mutters. Your teasing stops. “In my jersey.”
“Oh.”
“Really cute.”
You feel your own face warm. Nagi looks up at you again. For once, his gaze is completely focused.
“You should wear it more.”
“To matches?”
“At my place.” You raise an eyebrow. Nagi's expression remains innocent.
Mostly.
“Why?”
He rests his chin against your stomach.
“Like seeing my name on you.”
The honesty of it makes your chest ache. You lean down and kiss him. Nagi immediately pulls you closer, one hand moving up your back.
When you separate, he follows your lips for another tiny kiss.
Then another.
“You're suddenly very energetic,” you whisper.
“Mm.”
His eyes close again.
“Worth the effort.”
── .✦
Barou Shoei.
Barou sees you before the match starts. You know because his eyes move toward your seat during warm-ups and immediately narrow.
You smile. He looks away. Then looks back.
Your jacket is open, his jersey is underneath.
BAROU.
You give him a tiny wave. Barou's expression becomes unreadable. One of his teammates says something to him. Barou snaps at him.
You cover your mouth, laughing.
Then, the match begins.
Barou is unbearable, he scores and looks directly toward you.
He scores again and looks directly toward you.
The third time, you are almost certain he adjusts the front of his jersey on purpose before walking back to position.
The man is showing off.
And you love him desperately.
After the match, Barou comes toward you with a towel around his neck.
“You.”
You smile.
“Me.”
“What are you wearing?” You look down.
“Clothes.” Barou glares and you laugh. “Your jersey.”
“I can see that.”
“Then why did you ask?”
“You didn't tell me you were buying one.”
“I wanted to surprise you.” Barou clicks his tongue and you step closer.
“Did it work?”
“No.”
“Shouei.”
“No.”
“You looked at me every time you scored.”
“I was checking the scoreboard.”
“The scoreboard is on the opposite side.” Barou becomes silent but your smile turns unbearably smug.
“King.”
“Don't.”
“Were you showing off for me?”
“No.”
“You scored a hat-trick.”
“I would've done that anyway.”
“Obviously.” Barou looks almost suspicious.
You smooth your hand over his chest.
“I know you're amazing.” His expression softens.
You smile.
“I just like when you look for me after you score.”
Barou stares down at you, his large hand settles over yours.
“You noticed that?”
“Every time.” He looks away.
You could cry from how endearing he is.
Instead, you gently tug on the towel around his neck, bringing him slightly closer.
“I wore your jersey because I'm proud of you.”
Barou looks back at you.
“And because I love you.”
His eyes widen. Just a little.
You smile.
“What?”
“You can't just say that here.”
“Why?”
“There are people around.”
“So?”
“So—”
Barou stops.
You wait.
His face is red.
Your heart squeezes painfully.
“You're cute.”
“Don't call me cute.”
“You're very cute.”
Barou grabs your waist. You squeak when he pulls you against him.
“Say it again.”
You blink.
“Cute?”
His glare becomes murderous.
You burst out laughing.
“Okay, okay.”
Your hands settle against his shoulders. You look into his eyes.
“I love you.”
Barou's grip tightens.
His expression turns serious.
“I love you too.”
Your smile softens.
Then he kisses you.
It's surprisingly gentle. Slow.
His thumb moves once over your waist as though he's smoothing the fabric of his own jersey beneath his hand. When he pulls away, his eyes fall toward the shirt again.
“Next time, tell me before you buy something.” You sigh.
“Shouei—”
“I'll get you one.”
“I already have one.”
“Not like this.”
“What does that mean?” Barou lifts his chin.
“One of mine.” You stare.
“You mean an actual jersey you've worn?”
“Yeah.” Your lips part, but before you can say anything, Barou continues. “You're the only one fit to reign by my side.”
Your heart stops.
Barou seems to realize exactly how romantic that sounds.
His expression darkens immediately.
“Don't make that face.”
“What face?”
“That one.” You hug him.
Barou complains, the faintest hint of red creeping into his cheeks.
But he still wraps his arms around you.
── .✦
Shidou Ryusei.
Shidou sees you instantly. There is no subtlety involved. His eyes scan the crowd before the match, find you, and immediately drop to your jersey. Then he grins.
You know you're in trouble.
“Ryusei,” you whisper to yourself.
Shidou points at you.
Actually points.
Several people nearby turn. You slowly cover your face with both hands.
From the field, Shidou laughs.
You can see it.
The match has not even started and you already regret everything.
Mostly.
Then Shidou scores. The stadium erupts.
You jump from your seat, shouting his name with everyone else.
Shidou turns toward your section. His eyes find you. He grabs the front of his own jersey.
Then points at yours.
You feel your entire face burn.
The people beside you start screaming louder.
“I'm going to kill him,” you mutter. You're smiling too much to sound convincing.
After the match, Shidou practically crashes into you.
“There they are!”
“Don't yell!”
“My gorgeous little fan.”
“Ryusei.” His arms wrap around your waist. He lifts you.
You yelp.
“Put me down!”
“No.”
“Ryusei!” He spins once.
You are laughing by the time your feet touch the ground again. Shidou keeps his arms around you. His grin softens when he looks down.
“You really wore it.” Your smile becomes smaller.
“Yeah.”
“My name and everything.”
“That's generally how jerseys work.” Shidou ignores you.
His fingers trace the lettering across your chest.
The touch is innocent, surprisingly careful.
You watch his face.
“You like it?”
“Baby...” He looks at you like you've asked the stupidest question imaginable. “I almost exploded on the field.”
You laugh.
“I noticed.”
“You looked so fucking cute.”
“Thank you.”
“Standing there, screaming for me.”
“I was not screaming.”
“You were.”
“You couldn't hear me.”
“I felt it spiritually.”
You snort.
Shidou laughs.
Then he suddenly pulls you closer. His forehead bumps against yours. The playful energy fades slightly.
“You came.” Your expression softens.
“Of course I came.”
“I know.” His thumb moves over your waist.
“But you came with me all over you.” You blink.
“Your jersey.” You correct him, a faint flush warming your cheeks.
“Same thing.”
“Ryusei.” His grin returns. You push lightly against his chest. Shidou catches your wrist.
Then he kisses your palm. The gesture surprises you.
“You really happy?” you ask. His eyes move back to yours.
“Yeah.” Simple. Honest.
Your heart warms.
Shidou bends down and kisses you.
Unlike the kiss to your palm, this one isn't gentle.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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If you don’t like how your writing is going, but you’re still in the drafting stage, it’s perfectly fine to write it bad. In fact, I encourage it!
Finish off what you had planned and let it be your wildest, wackiest draft yet. If you’re gonna get rid of it anyway, why not have fun with it while it lasts? And maybe while you’re at it, you’ll unintentionally come up with something that can be useful later on, even if you don’t keep it in its current form
I did this with one of the biggest scenes in my book so that I wouldn’t lose momentum in my writing. I don’t think I’ll end up keeping anything from it, but I’m glad I didn’t break my stride and got to add in all the cringe and weird stuff I wanted while I was at it
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
