“c’mon, schatz, show me,” you mumble, sitting on the edge of the bed.
kaiser stood right in front of you, close enough to smell the lingering laundry detergent of his shirt. he looked down at you, his eyes heavy-lidded and wary.
“s’pathetic,” he mumbled softly. so soft — you were barely able to pick up his words.
you slowly reached a hand to tug lightly on the hem of his shirt; a signal. “no it’s not.”
kaiser grumbled to himself, beginning to reluctantly peel his shirt off and over his head. breath by breath, more of his skin became exposed to you. his core flexed tightly upon feeling your breath billowing onto him.
purple. red. blue.
dappled along the terrain of his lower waist were blotches of bruises — strikingly visible against the blank ridges of his abdomen.
his breath hitched as he watched you, getting self-conscious at how your eyes lingered on the bruises.
his shirt was bundled tightly in his fist, as if he was prepared to put it back on. his chest heaved, his heart stuttering with every passing moment.
a brush of your fingertips along his bruises immediately made him whimper. you watched as his body was shuddering — tensing and flexing the more you grazed the path of his speckled bruises.
“j—just keep . . . touching them,” kaiser stuttered, his voice still ever-so quiet.
to affirm himself, his hand wrapped around your wrist, taking over your autonomy to create his own pathing of your fingertips along his coarse body.
“they’re beautiful, schatzi,” you whisper.
kaiser groaned, letting his head fall back as your touch became more probing and blatant. the pressure of your hand against his aching bruises made a sensation of discomfort rattle along his body — but he wanted it.
he wanted it.
he just wanted the feel of your hands against what hurt him so bad.
and he wanted to hear you call it all beautiful.
so, he spoke, timid and unsure; “say it again.”
your breathing hitched slightly, but you knew what that grogginess in his voice meant.
“they’re beautiful,” you repeated, more purposeful this time.
his lips trembled. “mhm. . . beautiful.”
— ⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢
a//n made this in like 3 mins i have to get ready for work now BYE and i luv kaiser its why he was my first thought this morning
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the only ball that matters ft. multiple blue lock men
・❥・sfw but a lil suggestive ;) no average person could win a 1v1 vs these football stars... luckily you're not average and got a few tricks up your sleeve
ft. sae, kaiser, bunny, shidou
sae itoshi
the first thing he does when you suggest a 1v1 is look at you like you've said something mildly offensive.
not mean. just. that specific sae look, the one where his teal eyes go flat and his mouth does almost nothing and somehow the combination communicates you can't be serious more efficiently than words ever could.
"you'll lose in thirty seconds," he says.
"so what," you say back. "i want to try."
he considers this. then he places the ball on the grass between you and takes two steps back and that's that, apparently. no warm-up. no instruction. just sae, looking bored, waiting.
you last longer than thirty seconds. you last maybe forty-five, which feels like an achievement until you realise he was genuinely going slow. the way he moves is so controlled, no wasted motion, the ball always exactly where he intends it. you lunge for it twice and he sidesteps both times with this infuriating economy of movement. not even looking at your feet, just looking at your eyes, reading you before you know you've decided anything.
you're starting to sweat. he's not.
and that's when you get the idea.
it's a terrible idea. you know it's a terrible idea. but he's standing close now, having let you herd him slightly toward the edge of the makeshift boundary, you're breathing hard and he's waiting for your next move with that same flat patience and something in you decides that if you can't beat him with your feet you'll try something else entirely.
you close the distance between you in one step.
he doesn't move back. sae would never back down (from you at least), he doesn't flinch, just watches you come with those calm calculating eyes. and you go up on your toes and kiss him. quick. one second, maybe less. just enough to be real.
his breath stills.
you break away, spin, and kick the ball.
it rolls about three metres before sae's foot stops it from behind without him even seeming to move properly. and when you turn around he's standing there with the ball under his boot and his expression has shifted into something you cannot read, something between annoyed and not-annoyed, and there's a faint colour at the top of his cheekbones that has absolutely nothing to do with exertion.
"that's a foul," he says.
"there's no referee."
silence. he looks at you. really looks, the kind of look that doesn't miss anything.
"again," he says quietly. and it is absolutely not clear whether he means the 1v1 or the kiss.
probably both.
michael kaiser
kaiser makes everything into a performance. even this.
he'd agreed to practice with you because you'd asked and because somewhere underneath all the theatre of him he's secretly twiling his little rat tail, he likes being the one someone turns to when they're trying to get better. he'd never say that. but he'd said yes, hadn't he.
he's been talking the entire time. not rudely, actually. he's surprisingly good at explaining things when he wants to be, precise in the way that people who've thought deeply about their craft can be and you've learned more in the last twenty minutes than in any amount of watching from the sidelines.
the problem is he's also been absolutely insufferable about how easily he takes the ball from you.
"see, that's the error," he says, for the fourth time, having just dispossessed you so smoothly it felt choreographed. "you commit before you're certain. i can read you before you move. you telegraph everything."
"right," you say, pushing your hair back. "yes. very helpful."
he grins. it's the kind of grin that knows it's beautiful and has long since stopped pretending otherwise. his light blue eyes catch the afternoon light and his blond hair with its blue-streaked ends shifts in the breeze and god, he is genuinely annoying.
"want to go again?" he asks. sweetly. infuriatingly.
"i want to win at least once before i die," you say, "and i'm starting to feel creative about my methods."
that gets an eyebrow raise. "oh?"
you reset. the ball between you. and this time when you move toward it you don't look at your feet or his feet or the ball. you look at him. his eyes. and you step in close, faster than he expects, and you press your mouth against his.
it's the slightest thing. barely a breath of contact.
but kaiser. kaiser makes a sound. low and startled and immediately suppressed. and in that half-second of him being genuinely, actually caught off-guard you duck sideways and get your foot to the ball and push it forward.
you make it four steps.
then his arm hooks around your waist from behind and he pulls you back against him and you feel him laughing, actually laughing, his chest moving against your back, his chin near your temple.
"you," he says, voice warm and amused and something else underneath, "are cheating."
"i learned from watching you," you tell him.
his arm doesn't move. the ball sits four steps away, unclaimed by either of you.
"clever," he murmurs, still close and the word has nothing to do with football anymore.
bunny iglesias
bunny doesn't take football seriously enough to make you feel bad about losing. that is, strangely, the most disarming thing about him.
he'd found a patch of grass near the hotel, nowhere special and he'd just started doing things with the ball and then looked at you with those big red eyes and tilted his head slightly as if to say well? and somehow you were just. playing. no formal start. no scorekeeping.
he moves like water, which sounds like a cliché but watching him you can't think of anything else, it's the only honest description. no angles, no hard stops. just continuous motion, the ball following him like it's attached by invisible string. when he jumps, even casually, even just stepping over the ball as it rolls, there's a half-second where gravity seems to forget about him.
you've been chasing that ball for twenty minutes.
"you're fast," he offers, conversationally. he's not being patronising. it sounds like he means it, which is somehow worse.
"you're faster," you pant.
he hums. glances at you with that soft, slightly elsewhere expression he always has. "you're trying to think your way through it," he says. "football isn't really a thinking sport. it's a feeling sport."
"is there a difference?"
"yes," he says simply.
and then he passes you the ball. gently. you stop it, look up at him. he's just standing there in the afternoon light with his lavender hair and his scarred face and that gentle perpetual half-smile, hands in his pockets, not in a defensive stance at all.
"go on," he says.
you approach. careful. he watches with those red eyes, not moving, and something about being watched that calmly makes you nervous in a way that fast opponents don't. you fake left. he doesn't bite. you step over the ball, try to cut inside. he shifts one foot, just one, positioning himself without urgency.
and then you stop. and you lean in. and you press a soft, quick kiss to the corner of his mouth.
he goes very still.
you move for the ball.
and he lets you have it. just. lets you take it and run, and you make it all the way to the makeshift goal before you look back and he's still standing where you left him, not turned around, touching the corner of his mouth with two fingers. when he does look up his expression is complicated in a way that you can't name. something between surprised and something older and quieter.
"that was kind," he says finally. like kind is a word he doesn't encounter very often and isn't entirely sure what to do with.
"did it work?" you ask.
"…yes," he admits. and he looks at you for a moment longer, and something about the quality of his attention has shifted, like he's seeing you properly now, which maybe he wasn't before. "it worked."
ryusei shidou
the thing about shidou is that he is already a problem before you even touch the ball.
he hadn't so much agreed to a 1v1 as simply started one, appearing beside you on the pitch and flicking the ball from your feet before you'd finished the sentence, already grinning that sharp-toothed grin of his, those cat-slit pink eyes bright with amusement.
"try and take it back," he says.
"that's not how you ask someone to practice," you tell him.
"don't care," he says cheerfully.
and that's shidou for you. entirely self-contained. no preamble. no rules. he moves with this aggressive erratic energy that's somehow also efficient, his body occupying space in ways that shouldn't work, dribbling sideways and backward and diagonal. you lunge for the ball twice and his hip checks you aside both times without him even looking at you, like you're furniture he's navigating around.
"you're not even trying," he says. not unkindly. just factually, a bit bored, which is somehow the worse insult.
"i'm absolutely trying," you say.
"try harder then." he juggles the ball once, catches it on his knee, grins at you. "i'll even let you get close."
let you. you want to kick him.
and then a genuis idea strikes.
you approach again. he bounces slightly on his heels, ball at his feet, watching you with those luminous pink eyes all lit up and ready. you get close. properly close. close enough that he tilts his head slightly, reading you, something flickering in his expression that might be interest.
and you take his face in your hands and you kiss him. not quick and tactical. actually kiss him. one full, deliberate second of mouth-to-mouth contact.
he makes an absolutely unhinged noise.
it's not a bad noise. it's the noise of someone who has been genuinely, comprehensively short-circuited. you feel his hands come up automatically, grip your arms, not pushing you away, just. gripping. and you spin out of it, break contact and kick the ball as hard as you can toward the opposite end.
when you turn back he's standing there and his face is. not composed. his chest is rising a bit faster and his cat eyes are dark and his grin has gone sideways into something less playful and more focused, like a switch has been thrown somewhere.
"that was dirty," he says. and his voice has dropped a register.
"you told me to try harder."
his tongue touches his lower lip. briefly. "do it again and i'm not letting you take the ball."
a beat. he tilts his head.
"i'm not letting you take the ball anyway," he adds. "but there are other things i'd let you take."
and you point at him and say "football," very firmly, because you know exactly where this is going and he laughs, loudly, and the ball sits forgotten between you and neither of you go for it immediately, and his eyes on you are still that switched-on shade of too-bright and too-warm.
he'll let the game go, just for a moment.
just for this.
an: not even gonna lie fluff is really fun to write i might be cooked. anyways thank for the req <3
dating micheal kaiser means never looking at price tags anymore.
not because he tells you not to, because somehow, before you can even glance at one, he’s already buying it.
“mihya,” you sigh as he casually hands his black card to the cashier, “i literally said i was just looking.”
“and i literally decided you should have it, schatz”
you stare at him, he stares back like that explanation made perfect sense.
unfortunately for you, to him, it does.
dating kaiser means existing beside somebody who treats money like an afterthought. designer clothes tossed over chairs, expensive watches forgotten on counters, five-star reservations made an hour beforehand because “normal restaurants are boring.”
it’s absurd. and somehow, so is he.
“you spoil me too much,” you mutter as the cashier walks away.
kaiser looks genuinely confused. “that’s the point of being rich.”
you snort despite yourself. god, he’s impossible.
the worst part is that he’s annoyingly pretty while saying stupid things too. leaning lazily against the counter in dark clothes that probably cost more than your rent, blue hair slightly messy, expensive rings glinting beneath the store lights.
he notices you staring immediately, a slow grin spreads across his face. “see somethin’ you like?”
you roll your eyes instantly. “you’re insufferable.”
“but hot.”
“…unfortunately.”
his grin widens.
────୨ৎ
dating kaiser also means attention.
constant attention, not just from media or fans, but from him. because once he decides you’re his favorite person, he becomes overwhelming about it.
a hand on your waist constantly, pulling you into his lap during conversations, buying you jewelry just because it reminded him of your eyes.
it should annoy you more than it does. instead, you find yourself wearing the necklace he bought three weeks ago almost every day.
and he notices, of course he notices.
────୨ৎ
“pretty,” he murmurs later that night, fingers brushing against the chain resting against your throat.
you glance up from the couch. “the necklace?”
his eyes meet yours slowly. “you.”
your chest tightens slightly. damn him.
because this is the problem with kaiser. everybody sees the arrogance first, the ego, the flirting, the expensive gifts and smug smiles.
but you, you see the quieter things too.
like how he memorized your coffee order after hearing it once, how he automatically reaches for your hand in crowded places, how he buys expensive things not because he thinks you need them, but because giving you things makes him happy.
“you’re thinkin’ too hard again,” he says suddenly.
you blink. “what?”
he pats his lap lazily. “c’mere.”
you narrow your eyes. “you’re already sitting right beside me.”
“and yet,” he says dramatically, spreading his arms slightly, “you’re still not close enough.”
you laugh quietly despite yourself before shifting toward him. immediately, his arms wrap around your waist, pulling you fully against his chest like he’s been waiting for it.
clingy, ridiculously clingy.
“there,” he hums softly, chin resting against your shoulder now. “better.”
you settle against him naturally, feeling his fingers trace absent patterns against your hip through your clothes. for a moment, neither of you say anything. the city lights outside reflect softly against the apartment windows, painting the room gold and blue.
quiet, comfortable. then-
“do you know what i like most about you?” kaiser asks suddenly.
you glance back slightly. “what?”
he’s quiet for a second, which immediately catches your attention, because your man is rarely quiet.
“…you don’t care,” he says finally.
“about?”
“this.” one of his hands gestures vaguely around the massive penthouse apartment. “the money. the fame. any of it.”
your expression softens slightly. “michael-”
“everybody else does,” he interrupts quietly. “they look at me and see what i can give them first.”
his grip around your waist tightens slightly. “you just see me.”
your heart aches a little at how honest he sounds, because underneath all the arrogance, underneath the luxury and teasing and ego, sometimes kaiser still looks strangely lonely.
you turn slightly in his arms, lifting a hand to brush your fingers through his hair gently. immediately, his eyes flutter for half a second.
soft.
“well,” you murmur quietly, “you make it pretty hard not to.”
he stares at you for a moment, then suddenly buries his face dramatically into your neck.
“…don’t say sweet things when i’m trying to stay emotionally stable.”
you burst out laughing, and just like that, the moment breaks. classic kaiser, still holding you impossibly close the entire time.
a/n : bleh. tysm for reading and other than that theres nothing more to add !!
Besides the occasional sound of a car passing by or of the crickets chirping into the night sky, barely any noise can be heard from the world outside. Any other person would probably be in deep slumber by now, but Kaiser can’t bring himself to go to bed despite all the exhaustion coursing through his body.
His sleep was rudely interrupted by the cries of his 4 month son echoing from the baby monitor installed in your shared bedroom. He has always been a light-sleeper, so on the first whine he was already up and walking towards the nursery as fast as possible to shush the infant, while trying his best not to wake you in the process, because he knows you are more worn out than he is. Between late night feedings and diaper changes, there was no time left for relaxation for the two of you. Especially for you, as the baby seems to be more attached to you and wants to be in your arms 24/7 — Your son is growing to be very high maintenance it seems, guess he gets it from his father.
Even after attending to his son’s needs and watching the infant fall asleep in his arms, Michael didn’t not put him back in the crib and trudge back to bed.
Instead, he sat on the armchair adjacent to it while holding the sleeping baby in his arms and just gazed upon him. Watching how his chest raised up and down as he snored like he’s the one who pays the bills and how his cute face looked under the moonlight and the light coming from the blue night light plugged next to the chair.
Michael is still in disbelief that this is his life now. He never pictured this exact scenario in his life before.
All he ever thought about since day one was himself, because no one else ever did. He put all his focus on football and success, believing this would be his path to true enlightenment, and for a good while it was, but being loved by you gave him a sense of fulfillment that was different than scoring the 300th goal of his career or being awarded with his first ballon d’Or at the age of 24.
And you loved him enough to actually stay with him even when he’s hard to grasp and an enigma to others. You loved him enough to give him something he never had before — a family.
Michael is not going to lie. When you first told him that you were expecting, he was petrified and even hoped for a split second that he was just hallucinating, but now that he’s here, that initial doubt has faded away.
His son makes a gurgling sound that takes him away from the tangent his brain went to and brings back the focus to the present moment.
It’s funny how even at 4 months only you can already see Michael's features on his son. He really stole his whole face…who would have thought that something so pure and angelic could look like Michael Kaiser of all people? How a man who’s so flawed like him managed to create a thing so perfect like this is something Michael has yet to understand…
“Michael?” His eyes turn to the door at the sound of your groggy voice, “What are you doing?
“He was crying,” He says, adjusting the baby in his arms. “I came to check on him. Now, why are you awake?”
“...You weren’t there anymore. So I couldn’t sleep.” It’s amusing how even after years together, you still crave his presence as if you’re still in the honeymoon phase of your relationship. “Are you coming back to bed now?”
“I am,” his gaze shifts back to your son. “But I want him to sleep in our room tonight. You know, in case he cries again.”
You smiled. “I’m fine with that. C’mon, let' s go. I’m about to pass out here.”
“Yeah, you look rough.”
“You don’t look much better y’know that, right?”
“Yeah, whatever. Let’s just go.”
And then the three of you leave together, ready to take advantage of the few hours of peace and quiet you’ll have before your son wakes up again.
Yeah, raising a child is not the easiest task nor something he ever thought he’d be doing ever, but now, Michael thinks he can never go back to how things were before you and your son were in his life.
fluff. dating him was easy, until he found out you support the enemy. sometimes true love is complicated.
characters may be ooc , but nothing to worry about
ITOSHI SAE
It’s a peaceful afternoon in Madrid, or rather, it was before Sae stirred in his sleep, blinking slowly as his fingers reached out instinctively, expecting to feel the soft warmth of your skin, the weight of your body wrapped around him from your usual post-lunch nap routine.
But there was nothing, just an empty space on the bed. Grumbling under his breath, his brows furrowed as he pushed himself up on one elbow, and he didn’t need to see himself in the mirror to know how messy his hair probably looked.
“Where the hell did you go?” Muttering to no one but himself, voice still hoarse with sleep, eyes still half-lidded, and then like a curse upon his soul, a sound echoed faintly from the living room.
The anthem.
Not just any anthem, the one that was banned from this household. It was a particular, pride-swollen orchestral swell that only belonged to the bane of his existence.
Sae stared at the doorway, unimpressed, perhaps annoyed from the way he woke up and had to sacrifice his hearing. Rubbing his face, he got up and padded into the hallway, silent as a ghost, the kind that haunts with judgment and witty remarks. And there you were, sitting pretty on the couch, blanket around your legs, eyes glued to the TV, and probably smiling more than you should, because you are a traitor who allowed yourself to watch an FC Barcha match.
You were so enthralled you didn’t even notice the tall figure looming behind you, didn’t feel the silent anger that lurked behind you.
Click. The TV screen went black.
You shrieked. “WHAT THE HELL—LAVINHO WAS ABOUT TO SCORE!”
His deadpan voice followed. “I’m taking your TV remote privileges.”
Whipping your head around and there he stood: hair messy, shirtless in grey sweats, arms crossed over his chest like he was judging all your life choices at once, because let's be real, he was. Teal eyes full of betrayal, pain, and minutes taken from his afternoon nap.
“You were supposed to be asleep...”
“I would’ve stayed asleep if my girlfriend didn’t ditch our nap to commit crimes against humanity.”
You huffed, slightly offended because you did nothing wrong. “Sae, it’s just a match.” He stepped closer, now sitting next to you. “It’s Barcha. And you’re in my living room, in my house, rooting for them.”
“Don’t be so sensitive.” You rolled your eyes dramatically, tugging the blanket closer because suddenly it’s so chilly here, and wonder why, probably not from your boyfriend who plays for Re Al.
“I’m not sensitive,” he said coldly, trying his absolute best not to throw some insult at his rival team. “I just play for the better team.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re lucky I didn’t use your Barcha jersey to wipe the floor.”
“Oh my god,” you gasped, hands going to cover your mouth. “No, you didn't.”
He didn’t deny it; instead, he leaned down, capturing your lips in a slow, smug kiss that made your heart stutter and your irritation melt. When he pulled back, he looked somehow satisfied, not to the fullest, but that should do.
“Next time you leave my arms for them, I’ll make you wear white for a week.”
“White is boring.”
“I’m boring now?”
“Emotionally, yes.”
He kissed you again just to shut you up. So it happened that he fell asleep on the sofa, and you’d watch the rest of the match on your phone, with the volume off. Sae didn’t need to know, but he already knew by the way your fingers stopped caressing his hair.
MICHAEL KAISER
You came home with two bags of groceries, earbuds in, humming some song as you slipped into the kitchen. The apartment was quiet, which is not that unusual, but not normal either. The smell of Kaiser’s cologne lingered, as he was probably in his room, reviewing footage, hating on his teammates, or doing shirtless yoga, who knows.
Halfway through stacking cold drinks in the fridge, it’s when you felt it, the presence that sought nothing but control … or your kisses, because you were gone for so long, a whole fifteen minutes to go to the store and buy food so you won’t end up hungry.
Turning to see him leaning against the doorframe, shirtless, smug, tattoo on full display, arms crossed, that usual glint in his blue eyes that screamed I know something you don’t.
“What do you want for dinner tonight?” you said casually, focusing again on arranging things until you were completely done.
“Oh, whatever you make, liebe,” he replied, observing you like a hawk, and you were the little mouse who didn’t know it was going to be struck with its doom. “By the way… I was looking for my hoodie earlier.”
“Yeah?” You raised a brow, because really very useful information, life saving, and no, it's not because you keep borrowing his clothes (stealing them).
“Yeah. Ended up finding something else instead.”
You've never been caught doing anything wrong, but he... that pathetic, arrogant, and super hot boyfriend of yours will always be able to break through your lack of defence and strike when you least expect it.
“I must ask… since when do we collect BVB Dortmund jerseys in my apartment? Especially ones signed by Lewandowski from 2012?” he asked, voice honeyed with sarcasm. “A true crime scene, if you ask me.”
“You were snooping through my side?” Blinking, averting your gaze from his because you don’t want to look him in the eyes.
“It accidentally opened when I was grabbing something,” he said, stepping closer, making a little no space for you to escape. “Adeyemi? Reus? Meine Engel… you got a whole BVB museum in there.”
You turned away, pretending to care deeply about the onion in your hands. Kaiser wasn’t done. Oh no, he was just starting.
“So…” he drawled, touching the blue rose on his neck, on purpose. “Thoughts on the Bundesliga season so far? Bastard Munchen’s been solid, especially that one match… four-nil against Dortmund. I heard their tears tasted amazing.”
Grabbing the nearest object, which was a plastic measuring cup, and threw it at his chest. He dodged, chuckling at your awful attempts to defend yourself from the truth that hurts so much.
“Oh, touchy subject?” he teased, now having the nerve to smirk at you with that shit-eating grin. “Fine!” you snapped. “I’ve supported Dortmund since I was twelve. My dad used to take me to games before I even knew your name, so yeah, I do still love the team.”
He's glad he got a response, but he didn't expect it exactly this way. “So you’re saying you love them more than me?”
“I’m saying football existed before you strutted into my life with your rockstar ego.” His mouth fell open in mock betrayal. “Excuse me? You’re living in Munich, sleeping in my bed, and you’re secretly cheering when Dortmund scores against us?”
“I’m not secretly cheering, I’m respectfully celebrating while you are not here to judge me.”
“Oh, respectfully? Liebling, you’re one step away from painting your face yellow.”
You glared, ready to open the fridge and pour the ice-cold drinks on him, but there were better ways to “You’re sleeping on the couch tonight.”
“What?! You’re banning me from my own bed?” He might act like an emperor who has all the control and power, but he's actually a pretty princess, and it's hilarious to watch him when the game turns against him.
“You’re calling me a traitor over some merch. You can enjoy your dinner with a side of regret.”
Kaiser opened his mouth, closed it, and then smirked. If that’s how you want to play, so be it.
Next time “Der Klassiker” rolled around, he scored a hat-trick, pulled off his shirt, held it to the crowd, and guess who got a brand new KAISER 10 jersey in place of that yellow nonsense that night? Personalized, with a little note: For my favorite traitor.
BUNNY IGLESIAS
It wasn’t unusual for a footballer to have someone in the stands cheering him on. Wives, girlfriends, families… stadiums were full of them. What was unusual, surprising even, was when the said girlfriend, the love of his life, the woman who made his empty apartment feel like a home, turned out to be something she was not.
Bunny didn’t notice right away, not during the match, not during the interview, not even during the long, silent car ride home. But when he stepped out of the shower that night, towel hanging low on his hips, damp curls tousled over his forehead, he knew something was off.
You weren’t giving him your usual soft smile, praises, or attention. You weren’t curled up waiting to review his goals like you always did. Instead, you were sitting on the bed, glued to your phone, not even sparing him a glance.
Man of the Match and not even a kiss? So he did what any wronged man in a towel would do: he walked over, leaned down, and snatched your phone straight out of your hand.
“Bunny—!” you yelped, scrambling up after him. He held it up high, out of reach. “Mmm, let’s see what stole the attention of my princess,” he murmured, voice smooth, and mildly amused with that familiar, detached tone like he was watching a slow-motion car crash.
You leapt to grab it, but he took a step back. “Not fair,” you muttered. “Why are you so damn tall?”
But he wasn’t listening. Not really. He scrolled, and his brows lifted slightly. "Clothes... new series arrivals… Re Al funny moments… Re Al match highlights…” The air grew quiet. “Re Al this. Re Al that. Oh—Itoshi Sae, too? That’s a name.”
Deathly silence. Your boyfriend looked at you, then at the phone, and back at you.
He wasn’t angry, not at all, but his eyes held the disappointment, like he'd stumbled into a memory that didn’t belong to him. A memory you hid from him, and he understands why. That melancholy undercurrent to his voice came back when he said, “This is worse than cheating.”
He turned your phone off, set it aside gently, and sat on the edge of the bed, towel barely clinging to his hips. “All this time, I thought you were shaking during El Clásico because you were happy for me.”
You turned out to be a Re Al fan, not a casual one either. No. You were the walking archive of team stats and league positions, quoting matches from 2014 and arguing formation choices like your life depended on it. A nerdy fan, and apparently, a pretty traitor.
“But I am happy for you, and I will always love you more than anything in this world!”
Bunny blinked slowly, thinking whether he should believe you or not, even if you proved your love for him every second. “I remember you screamed when Kroos scored last year.”
You sighed because you hate it when he does this; you don’t know if he is serious or just messing with you for fun. “Baby…” He ran a hand through his hair, the faintest bitter smile forming. “You know, I don’t even care that much about this sport half the time. But you support them. ”
“It’s not like that,” you tried to explain, now playing with your hands as you feel his gaze on you. “I’ve supported Re Al since I was a kid. It’s my entire childhood.”
He nodded once, “So what does that make me, the villain who kidnapped the princess from the white knights?”
“No,” you whispered, now holding both of his hands in yours. “You’re the dragon who gatekeeps me from escaping.” He laughed under his breath, not cold or joyful, just incredibly soft and loving.
“It’s kind of poetic, don’t you think?” he said finally, and the smile you adored so much reappeared on his face. “Wearing my Barcha jersey on your back, while there’s another team in your heart. You are a very bad bunny~”
“So you’re not mad?” leaning closer, trying to tease him or get a reaction out of him, because was he hotter when he was half naked? Yes, yes, he was.
“I’ll live,” he said, brushing your cheek with his fingers. “But next time you’re watching match highlights, at least pretend to be distracted by me.” It was your turn to smile as you pressed your lips to his. “Only if you don’t score again next weekend.”
He smirked. “Oh, I will score, just for you and especially if Sae’s playing.” Yeah, he is still the menace you love.
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❝ TAKE MY BREATH AWAY! — various! blue lock x reader
summary : you post a photo of yourself and end up getting some.. well unsolicited freakily supportive comments. how does your bf react?
featuring .. isagi yoichi , itoshi rin , itoshi sae , michael kaiser
cw/tw: no warnings! alot of freaky comments because you're fyne shyt so scroll if you arent comfortable with things like that! vaguely, very vaguely connected to my other smau but you dont need to read it to understand
→ isagi yoichi
→ itoshi rin
→ itoshi sae
→ michael kaiser
a/n : ANYTHING but writign the next chapter bro im crine uni done took my motivation, also every post has lyrics as the captions, so here are the songs in that order if you like!
It was a late evening, the air cool as you walked side by side down the streets
The city noise faded into a dull hum, leaving just the sound of your footsteps and the quiet space between the two of you
You’d been together long enough that it just made sense. Your mug sat right next to his on his kitchen counter, and half of your clothes had slowly taken over his closet.
It wasn’t something you had really planned out, it just happened naturally, day by day
Without a word, Michael reached out and steered you by the elbow, pulling you into a narrow alley between two old brick buildings
He stepped close, backing you gently against the rough brick wall. His hands slid up to grip your shoulders, his fingers tightening just a bit
For a guy who always had a smart, arrogant remark ready for everything, he suddenly looked lost for words
His jaw tightened as he avoided your eyes, staring down for a second like he hated how exposed he felt right now
That rare, heavy vulnerability was clear on his face, and he despised every second of it
“Stay with me” he mumbled, his voice dropping low as he finally forced himself to look back up at you
He gave your shoulder a small squeeze “Not just because..well, you practically live there anyway”
He hesitated for a bit as he forced the words out “But I want you there, I like having you around”
You stared at him, a soft smile pulling at corner of your lips, caught totally off guard by the rare honesty “Michael… are you asking me to move in?”
The second the words and your smile were out, he blinked, a flash of panic crossing his face before his pretty smirk you knew so well crept right back onto his lips
“Don’t flatter yourself schatz” he scoffed, shaking his head with an exaggerated sigh “It’s just basic logic, half of your wardrobe is already taking over my room anyway”
“Right. Basic logic” you laughed softly, raising an eyebrow at him
“Exactly” he said, leaning in just a fraction closer, his thumb tracing slow circles against your arm “Besides, we both know you couldn’t stay away from me even if you tried”
Even with his teasing, his eyes softened just a bit when you smiled and nodded
He quickly looked away, clearing his throat before offering you a hand with a smug tilt of his chin
“Come on” he muttered “Let’s go pack your stuff up before you change your mind”
ılıılı your kid pushing michael kaiser's face away trying to kiss you
request by: @sweetcrunchygrapes (i love this ask sm)
after winning the game, you walk onto the field with your toddler in your arms, holding kaiser’s hand. he’s beaming, adrenaline still pumping from the match, but completely focused on you both.
when the kiss cam appears, his usual confident grin falters for a moment, it’s public, and he knows everyone’s watching, but he leans in toward you anyway.
your toddler immediately reaches out and pushes michael’s face away, squealing or giggling. michael freezes, a mix of amusement and mock frustration: “hey! that’s my wife!”
he tries several times to sneak a kiss, but your child keeps blocking him, laughing gleefully. kaiser’s jaw tightens, but he can’t help smiling at the chaos.
eventually, he distracts the toddler with a playful toss of their little hat or a funny face, redirecting their attention just long enough.
as soon as the toddler looks away, he leans in and plants a firm, victorious kiss on your lips. he’s triumphant in the way only kaiser can be, confident, athletic, but full of warmth.
he laughs into the kiss afterwards, whispering: “took a little strategy, but i finally won.” you laugh too, happy at how seriously he treats even playful moments.
kaiser keeps one hand around your waist and the other holding your toddler, seamlessly blending his protective, loving, and fatherly traits all at once.
afterward, he smirks at your child: “see, you can’t stop true love. daddy always gets the kiss eventually.” the toddler giggles, clearly enjoying the attention just as much.
later, off the field, he playfully carries both of you, your toddler in his arms, you clinging to him, joking: “next time, you two better not gang up on me. i need at least one victory per day!” always charming, confident, and loving in his own way.
