#meguru

bachira meguru x afab!reader

warnings. artist!reader, school friends-to-lovers, mutual pining, U-20 arc mention, very very affectionate bachira, pure fluff ♡

word count. ~4.7k

meguru has always filled your afternoons with stories about his monster, while your sketchbooks slowly become crowded with drawings of it. it takes one unforgettable match—and one very public declaration—for you to realize that he has been hopelessly in love with his favorite artist all along.

── .✦

Bachira Meguru first appears in the art room with grass stains on his socks, mud drying along one cheek, and absolutely no intention of leaving.

You notice him only after the door swings shut behind him. By then, he has already wandered halfway across the room, humming beneath his breath as he examines the paintings propped against the walls with the unrestrained curiosity of someone browsing a gallery he has no business entering.

Football practice ended nearly twenty minutes ago. You had watched the other players leave through the classroom window, their voices fading toward the school gates while you stayed behind with your sketchbook spread across one of the tables. The art club does not meet on Fridays, which is precisely why you chose today to work in peace.

Apparently, peace has made other plans.

“You’re not in the art club,” you say.

The boy turns toward you.

His hair is still damp with sweat, dark strands sticking in every direction around a face lit by two bright golden eyes. Instead of looking embarrassed about being caught somewhere he does not belong, he smiles as though you have just invited him inside.

“You noticed.”

“You’re wearing football boots.”

He looks down at his feet, apparently surprised to find them there.

“Oh. Right.”

Mud flakes onto the clean floor when he wiggles his toes.

You stare at the mess.

He follows your gaze, then lifts his head with a sheepish grin that lasts approximately half a second before becoming cheerful again.

“I’ll clean it.”

“With what?” Bachira glances around the room, spots a paintbrush drying inside a jar, and reaches for it. “Not with that.”

His hand stops.

You point toward the cupboard at the back of the classroom. “There are cleaning cloths inside.”

“Got it.”

He retrieves one, crouches beside the scattered dirt, and spends the next minute pushing it into a larger, considerably more noticeable mess.

You watch in silence until he looks up.

“Better?”

“No.”

“Hehe, worth a try.”

There is no defensiveness in his voice, only an amused acceptance of his own failure. You sigh, set your pencil aside, and take the cloth from him before he can create a permanent tribute to the football club across the art-room floor.

Bachira remains crouched beside you while you clean, his elbows resting on his knees and his face much too close to your shoulder.

“What are you drawing?”

You glance toward your abandoned sketchbook. “Nothing.”

“That doesn’t look like nothing.”

“It isn’t finished.”

“So it’s unfinished nothing.”

You turn your head and find him smiling at you from only a few inches away.

Most people would move.

Bachira merely tilts his head, studying your face with the same open curiosity he gave the paintings.

“You’re funny,” he decides.

“You destroyed the floor.”

“And you saved it. We make a good team.”

“We have known each other for three minutes.”

“Long enough to recognize talent.”

You cannot tell whether he means your cleaning ability or the unfinished drawing, and judging by the delighted curve of his mouth, neither can he.

Once the floor has been restored to something resembling its original condition, you return to your seat, assuming he will finally leave.

Instead, Bachira pulls out the chair beside you, turns it around, and sits with his arms folded over the backrest.

You stare at him.

He smiles.

“Shouldn’t you go home?”

“Probably.”

“You’re not going to?”

“Probably not.”

“Why?”

His gaze moves toward your sketchbook. “I want to see what the nothing becomes.”

That should have been the first warning.

After that afternoon, Bachira begins appearing in the art room so frequently that you stop asking why he is there.

He comes after practice with his hair damp and his uniform worn carelessly beneath his tracksuit jacket. Sometimes he brings food from the vending machine and drops half of it beside your elbow without asking whether you want any. Other times he arrives empty-handed but full of stories, talking enough for both of you while you draw.

He tells you about impossible dribbles he almost managed, goals he intends to score, teammates who never pass when they should, and a creature that lives somewhere inside him.

The monster enters the conversation as casually as everything else.

“It told me to go left,” he explains one afternoon, stretched across three chairs while spinning a pencil between his fingers. “So I went right first, because the defender thought I’d go left, and then I went left anyway.”

You pause midway through shading the sleeve of a portrait.

“The monster told you?”

“Mm-hm.”

“What monster?”

Bachira stops spinning the pencil.

For the first time since you met him, uncertainty flickers through his expression—not fear exactly, but the hesitation of someone accustomed to being laughed at before he has finished explaining.

You lower your pencil.

He watches you for another moment before tapping two fingers lightly against his temple.

“The one in here.”

Your gaze follows the gesture.

“What does it look like?”

Bachira blinks.

The question seems to surprise him more than disbelief would have.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know what your own monster looks like?”

“I know what it feels like.” He sits upright, abandoning his pencil on the table as excitement gradually replaces his hesitation. “It’s fast, and loud, and it gets really happy when somebody does something amazing. Sometimes it pulls me toward the goal, and sometimes it laughs when people think they’ve trapped me.”

You turn to a clean page in your sketchbook.

Bachira’s eyes immediately brighten.

“What are you doing?”

“Finding out what it looks like.”

The first monster you draw has crooked horns, four narrow arms, and a grin filled with more teeth than any reasonable creature should possess. Its legs twist around a tiny football while a long tail curves through the edge of the page.

Bachira watches the entire process with his chin resting on your shoulder.

He does not understand the concept of personal space. You learned this within the first week of knowing him, when he began greeting you by throwing himself over the back of your chair and draping both arms around your shoulders. He has only grown more affectionate since then, until his weight leaning against you feels as familiar as the pencil between your fingers.

You finish the final line and hold the sketchbook away from both of you.

Bachira studies the creature.

Then he gasps.

“He’s ugly.”

You turn toward him. “You described a monster.”

“He can be a monster and still be handsome.”

“Those things are not mutually exclusive.”

“Exactly. Give him better hair.”

“Your monster has hair?”

“He does now.”

With a sigh, you add a wild black fringe between its horns.

Bachira beams. “There. Now he looks like me.”

“That was not my intention.”

“It’s okay. Not everyone can capture my beauty on the first try.”

You jab the blunt end of the pencil into his side. He folds dramatically over your shoulder, laughing so loudly that the sound echoes through the empty classroom.

The next day, you find the drawing missing from your sketchbook.

You confront him during lunch.

Bachira is sitting backward on a bench near the football field, one leg swinging idly while he eats bread from the school cafeteria. He lights up the moment he sees you approaching, lifting his free hand in an enthusiastic wave as though you have been separated for months rather than one morning.

“My artist!”

“You stole my drawing.”

His wave slows.

“What drawing?”

“The monster.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You are using it as a bookmark.”

Bachira looks down at the folded piece of paper protruding from his textbook.

“Oh. That monster.”

You hold out your hand.

He presses the book protectively against his chest.

“No.”

“Meguru.”

“He’s mine.”

“I drew him.”

“For me.”

“I was experimenting.”

“And the experiment was successful. Congratulations.”

Despite yourself, you begin to smile.

Bachira notices immediately. He always does.

His grin widens as he pats the empty place beside him, and when you sit, he leans close enough for your shoulders to press together.

“You can draw another one,” he suggests.

“I could.”

“For me.”

“You already stole the first.”

“Then you should draw enough that I don’t have to steal them.”

This becomes your routine.

Whenever you are together, monsters begin appearing in the margins.

You draw them at lunch, during study periods, and beneath the dates written at the top of your notes. Some have enormous wings and tiny feet. Others have one eye, six eyes, no eyes at all. One wears football boots and a crown because Bachira spends an entire afternoon insisting that his monster deserves accessories.

He keeps every version.

The little scraps you hand him disappear into his pockets, his schoolbooks, and the front compartment of his football bag. He tapes one above his bed and wedges another inside his locker. When you catch him folding a particularly small monster into the tongue of his cleat, you stare at him in disbelief.

“What are you doing?”

“Bringing him to practice.”

“You already bring the actual monster to practice.”

“This one is cuter.”

“You told me the one inside you was handsome.”

“He is. But this one was drawn by you.”

He says it as though that explains everything.

Perhaps, to Meguru, it does.

His own drawings begin appearing beside yours not long after.

They are terrible.

The first is a vaguely human shape with long hair, two uneven eyes, and hands large enough to belong to a goalkeeper. He draws it beside one of your monsters while you are distracted by a teacher and proudly reveals it once class ends.

“Who is that?”

“You.”

“Why do I have claws?”

“So you can protect the monster.”

“Why is my head square?”

“I ran out of room.”

“You had the entire page.”

Bachira examines his work.

“Maybe you’re wearing a helmet.”

“I am going to erase it.”

He throws himself across your notebook before you can reach for the eraser.

“No! He’ll be lonely.”

“He?”

“The monster.”

“You drew me five times larger than him.”

“You need enough space to hug him.”

Your hand stills.

Bachira lifts his face from the page and smiles at you, bright and guileless, apparently unaware of what the simple sentence does to your heart.

Then he opens his arms.

“Like this.”

Before you can respond, he pulls you against him.

Bachira hugs with his entire body. His arms lock around your shoulders, his cheek presses into your hair, and his weight tips the two of you sideways until you nearly fall from the bench. You catch yourself against his chest while he laughs, entirely pleased with the chaos he has created.

“See?” he says. “Perfect amount of space.”

“You are crushing me.”

“That means it’s working.”

“What is working?”

“The hug.”

You push weakly against him, but he only tightens his hold.

“Meguru.”

“Mm?”

“Let go.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I like you.”

He says things like that constantly.

That is the problem.

Bachira tells you he likes your hands because they always smell faintly of graphite. He likes the crease between your brows when you are concentrating, the way you chew the inside of your cheek when a drawing is not cooperating, and the tiny sound you make when he surprises you from behind.

He tells you that you are pretty when paint ends up on your face and prettier when you become flustered after he wipes it away with his thumb.

Sometimes, he simply tells you that he loves you.

“I love you,” he announces one morning after stealing your milk carton.

“You love my breakfast.”

“I can love two things.”

“You said the same thing about that beetle you found yesterday.”

“The beetle was really shiny.”

You pull the carton out of his hands. “How flattering.”

Bachira lets you reclaim it, then rests his chin against your shoulder and turns his face until his nose brushes your cheek.

“I love you more than the beetle.”

“How much more?”

“A lot.”

“Very specific.”

“I could make a chart.”

“You would draw one line and get distracted.”

“I’d ask you to draw it.”

Naturally affectionate, endlessly enthusiastic and completely incapable of embarrassment, Bachira makes it impossible to know where friendship ends and something else begins.

You are his closest friend—perhaps the only one he had before he began spending afternoons in the art room. That explains why he seeks you out between classes, why he falls asleep with his head in your lap while you sketch, why he hooks your fingers together beneath the lunch table without seeming to notice he has done it.

It must also explain why he beams whenever someone mistakes you for a couple.

You tell yourself that it does.

Otherwise, you might begin believing that every careless I love you means what you desperately want it to mean.

The Blue Lock invitation arrives halfway through the school year.

Bachira runs to the art room so quickly that he forgets to remove his outdoor shoes, scattering dirt over the floor for the first time since the day you met.

He does not notice.

The door slams open, and before you can turn around, two arms wrap themselves around your waist from behind. Bachira lifts you halfway out of your chair, laughing as your pencil rolls across the table.

“Meguru!”

“I got invited!”

“To what?”

“Football prison.”

You twist in his hold. “What?”

He finally lowers you, though his arms remain looped around your waist while he explains the letter in a breathless rush. Three hundred strikers. A chance to become the best in the world. No contact with the outside until he is eliminated or earns his place.

He is smiling, but you know him well enough to see the restless uncertainty beneath it. His fingers keep moving against your sides, tapping out an uneven rhythm as though part of him has already begun running toward something the rest cannot yet see.

“You’re going,” you say.

It is not a question.

Bachira’s smile softens.

“Yeah.”

The answer leaves something hollow inside your chest, but you push it aside. This is what he has always wanted, even before he knew its name: a place filled with players capable of chasing the same impossible football that lives inside him.

You turn toward your sketchbook.

“Wait here.”

“I’m already holding you.”

“You know what I mean.”

He loosens his grip enough for you to sit, then immediately pulls a chair beside yours and presses his knee against your thigh. While he talks about what he thinks the facility might look like—underground laboratories, electric fences, perhaps a moat—you draw.

This monster is different from the others.

It still has crooked horns and limbs that twist in impossible directions, but it is running now, its grin turned toward several distant figures waiting beyond the edge of the page.

Bachira becomes quiet when you hand it to him.

“You think I’ll find them?” he asks.

“The people who can keep up with you?”

He nods, tracing the distant silhouettes with one finger.

“I think they’re already waiting.”

For a while, he simply looks at the page.

Then he folds it with unusual care and tucks it into the inside pocket of his jacket, directly over his heart.

“You’ll watch me, right?”

“Meguru, I don’t even know whether Blue Lock is televised.”

“When it is.”

The certainty in his voice makes you smile.

“I’ll watch.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

He leans closer, gold eyes searching yours.

“Good.”

“Why?”

“Because I play better when my favorite artist is watching.”

Before you can answer, Bachira cups your face between both hands and presses a loud kiss against your forehead.

Then another to your cheek.

And another to the tip of your nose when you try to escape.

“Meguru!”

“You’re going to miss me.”

“You are making that considerably less likely.”

“You’ll miss this face.”

“I have drawn it enough times to remember.”

“That’s not the same.” He pushes his cheek against yours, smiling so widely that you can feel it. “Drawings can’t kiss you.”

Your breath catches.

Bachira either does not notice or chooses not to acknowledge it. He only hugs you tighter, burying his face in the curve of your neck.

“I’m going to miss you too,” he says, the words softer than everything that came before.

For once, you allow yourself to hold him just as tightly.

The first time you see him again, he is standing beneath the lights of a stadium.

The scale of it nearly overwhelms you.

Thousands of voices fill the stands, banners ripple above the crowd, and the field below appears impossibly bright against the evening sky. You sit with your sketchbook balanced on your knees, fingers curled around the pencil Bachira once stole and returned with bite marks along its painted surface.

He looks smaller from this distance.

Then the match begins, and somehow, he becomes the largest presence on the field.

At first, you try to draw him as you always have. You sketch the loose fall of his hair, the angle of his shoulders, the number on his back as he turns toward the ball. Yet the faster the game becomes, the more impossible it is to capture him.

Bachira does not move in clean lines.

He bends around them.

With the ball at his feet, his body slips into a rhythm that seems to belong only to him. Defenders close in, expecting to trap him, but every narrowing space appears to delight him. His steps quicken, his shoulders twist, and the smile that spreads across his face is the same one he wears whenever one of your monsters finally looks strange enough to please him.

Your pencil slows.

Then stops completely.

For years, you have tried to give shape to the creature he described. You imagined horns, tails, wings and teeth; you drew it curling through the margins of homework or racing beside him across scraps of paper.

None of the drawings were right.

The monster has no fixed shape.

It is the sudden turn of his foot when the obvious path disappears. It is the joy in his face when three players close around him and he decides that three are not enough. It stretches and changes with every touch, too alive to remain trapped inside any outline you could give it.

And when Bachira breaks through the U-20 defense, you finally see it.

Not literally—not in the way he claims to hear it—but with the strange certainty of an artist recognizing something she has spent years attempting to draw. It coils around him in your imagination, enormous and laughing, its limbs folding between defenders while its grin mirrors his own. Every time they try to close the path, he creates another.

The stadium erupts.

You rise without realizing it, sketchbook pressed tightly against your chest while Bachira tears open the formation that had seemed impenetrable only seconds before. The play continues beyond him, swallowed by the movement of the match, but you barely notice where the ball goes.

You are still staring at Meguru.

He has shown everyone what you have always known: the monster is not frightening.

It is joyous.

It is free.

And it is no longer alone.

Blue Lock moves around him like the figures you drew on the day he left. Isagi runs where Bachira expects him to be. Others chase the spaces he creates, following the impossible rhythm instead of asking him to slow down.

The realization fills your chest so suddenly that it almost hurts.

Meguru found them.

During the brief reset that follows, Bachira turns toward the stands.

He begins searching immediately.

His head moves from one section to the next, eyes narrowing against the distance while the other players catch their breath around him. You do not know how he could possibly find one person among thousands, but then his gaze reaches your section.

His entire face changes.

The fierce exhilaration of the play softens into something radiant and familiar, something that belongs not to the stadium but to quiet afternoons in the art room.

Bachira throws both hands into the air and waves.

People around you begin looking over their shoulders, trying to determine who has caught his attention, but you already know. You lift one hand, laughing as you wave back with your sketchbook still clutched beneath the other arm.

On the field, Isagi follows Bachira’s gaze.

“Who are you waving at?” he asks, breathless from the play.

Bachira points directly toward you.

“My artist!”

Isagi looks from him to the crowd. “Your what?”

“She draws my monster.”

The explanation does not appear to clarify anything.

“Is she your friend?”

Bachira turns toward him, visibly offended by the inadequacy of the word.

“She’s the girl I love.”

Isagi’s eyes widen. “Your girlfriend?”

“Not yet!”

Bachira answers so loudly and happily that several nearby players turn their heads. Before Isagi can recover, the referee calls them back into position, and Bachira runs away laughing.

You cannot hear any of it from the stands.

But you see Isagi stare after him in utter disbelief, and you know Meguru well enough to suspect he has said something outrageous.

You discover exactly what after the match.

Bachira finds you in one of the stadium corridors before you have fully decided where you are supposed to wait. He appears at the far end in his Blue Lock uniform, hair damp and skin still flushed from exertion.

The instant he sees you, he runs.

“Meguru, don’t—”

He crashes into you anyway.

Both arms wrap around your waist, lifting you from the ground as momentum carries the two of you several steps backward. You clutch his shoulders, half laughing and half scolding while he spins you once in the middle of the corridor.

“You came!”

“I promised.”

“I knew you would.”

“Then why are you acting surprised?”

“I’m excited!”

“You’re also sweaty.”

“I’m always sweaty after football.”

“That does not improve the situation.”

Bachira lowers you but refuses to let go, keeping his arms locked around your waist while he beams at you from close enough that the tips of your noses nearly touch.

“You saw him, right?”

Not 'Did you see me?'

Not 'Did you see the play?'

You understand immediately.

Your expression softens. “I saw him.”

Bachira’s smile widens until it seems impossible for his face to contain it.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“What did he look like?”

Instead of answering, you loosen one arm from around his shoulders and open your sketchbook.

The drawing is unfinished.

Frantic pencil lines cover the page, layered over one another where your hand had failed to keep pace with what you were seeing. The creature surrounding Bachira has no clear edges, only crooked limbs and a vast, delighted grin changing shape as it pushes through the defenders. Other figures run beside it, rough outlines moving in the same direction.

Bachira goes unusually still.

“I couldn’t draw him properly,” you admit. “He kept changing.”

His fingers close carefully around the edges of the sketchbook.

“That means you really saw him.”

There is no teasing in his voice now. He studies the picture with an attentiveness that makes you forget the noise echoing through the distant stadium halls.

His thumb moves over the figures running beside the monster.

“He isn’t alone anymore,” he says.

“Neither are you.”

Bachira lifts his head.

For a moment, the boundless joy in his expression quiets into something tender enough to make your chest ache. He has found players who understand the part of him that belongs to the field, people capable of answering the strange music only he seemed to hear.

Yet he looks at you as though you are still the most extraordinary thing he discovered.

Then his eyes return to the drawing.

A tiny figure sits among the rough lines of the audience, pencil in hand. The monster’s face is turned toward her rather than the goal.

Bachira taps the figure.

“That’s you.”

“It might be.”

“He’s looking at you.”

“Maybe he enjoys art.”

“No.” His gaze lifts to yours, bright and certain. “He was looking for you.”

Your heartbeat stumbles.

“So was I,” he adds.

You stare at him for a second too long before remembering what one of the Blue Lock staff members told you while directing you through the stadium.

“Apparently, you told Isagi you loved me.”

Bachira brightens. “Yeah.”

“In the middle of the match.”

“He asked.”

“He asked who I was.”

“Same thing.”

“It really isn’t.”

Bachira shrugs, entirely untroubled. “He understands now.”

“Does he?”

“Probably not. Isagi thinks too much.”

You close the sketchbook, partly because your hands need something to do.

“You also told him I wasn’t your girlfriend.”

“I did.”

The easy confirmation makes your expression fall before you can stop it.

Bachira notices immediately.

His eyes widen.

“Not yet,” he adds quickly, squeezing your waist. “That part was important.”

You look at him.

“Not yet?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Meguru, you cannot tell people I’m the girl you love and then add not yet as though there is a plan I haven’t been informed about.”

“There is a plan.”

“Of course there is.”

“Step one was telling you I love you.”

“You tell me that constantly.”

“I know. I’m very good at step one.”

“You once told a beetle you loved it.”

“It was shiny.”

“That is not helping you.”

Bachira laughs, but his hands slide from your waist to yours, threading your graphite-stained fingers between his own.

“I don’t love the beetle like this.”

Your breath catches.

His thumbs move gently over your knuckles, all the usual restless energy in him settling into the small points where your skin touches.

“Like what?” you ask.

Bachira looks genuinely surprised that you need clarification.

“Like I want to kiss you whenever you bite your pencil. Like I kept every monster you ever drew me, even the one where you gave him tiny legs and he looked like a potato.”

“That one was an accident.”

“He was beautiful.”

“He was hideous.”

“I loved him.”

“You love everything.”

“Not like I love you.”

The words are still easy in his mouth, but there is nothing careless about the way he looks at you.

“I mean I missed you every day in Blue Lock,” he continues. “I mean whenever something amazing happened, I wanted to run to the art room and tell you, and then I remembered you weren’t there. I mean when I broke through today, the first thing I did was look for you because I wanted to know whether you finally saw him.”

Your throat tightens.

Bachira releases one of your hands and carefully pulls a tiny folded piece of paper from beneath his wristband. Its edges have softened from being unfolded and handled far too many times.

You recognize it immediately.

The monster you drew before he left for Blue Lock runs across the page toward a group of waiting figures.

“You brought that onto the field?”

“You came with me.” His smile turns smaller, but somehow brighter. “You always do.”

You have spent years drawing the parts of Meguru no one else seemed able to see, yet somehow you have failed to recognize the most obvious thing in front of you.

He loves you.

Not vaguely. Not carelessly. Not only because you are his best friend and the keeper of his monsters.

He loves you with the same fearless certainty he brings to football—with his whole body leaning toward the feeling before anyone else has even noticed the opening.

“I love you too,” you whisper.

Bachira’s eyes widen.

Then he explodes.

A joyful shout leaves him as he grabs you around the waist again, lifting you into another spinning hug while you laugh helplessly against his shoulder.

“I knew it!”

“You did not.”

“I did!”

“Then why do you look so surprised?”

“Knowing and hearing are different!”

He puts you down only to catch your face between his hands, pressing quick kisses everywhere he can reach—your forehead, your cheeks, the corner of your mouth when you turn your head.

“Meguru,” you protest through your laughter.

“You love me.”

“I just said that.”

“Say it again.”

“You are impossible.”

“That isn’t the same.”

You catch his wrists, though you make no real attempt to pull his hands away.

“I love you, Meguru.”

His expression softens instantly.

“Oh,” he says, as though the confession has struck him for the first time. “That sounds really nice.”

“You have made me say it twice.”

“Can you do it a third time?”

“No.”

“Later?”

“Maybe.”

“I’ll remind you.”

“I’m certain you will.”

Bachira studies you for a moment, his thumbs resting gently against your cheeks. Despite all his earlier confidence, a flicker of uncertainty appears in his eyes now that the moment is actually here.

“So,” he begins, “will my favorite artist be my girlfriend?”

You try not to smile too quickly.

“That was your plan?”

“It has steps.”

“Step one was telling me you loved me for several years.”

“Very successful.”

“And step two?”

“Asking you now.”

“You could have skipped to that sooner.”

“I got distracted.”

“By what?”

“You.”

The answer is so immediate that you laugh.

Bachira leans closer, nose brushing yours. “Is that a yes?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“Do I have to keep drawing monsters for you?”

“Every day.”

“That sounds like unpaid labor.”

“I’ll pay you in kisses.”

“You are making a very bold assumption.”

He gasps. “You don’t like kisses?”

“I haven’t received one yet.”

For the first time since you met him, Bachira Meguru appears completely speechless.

It lasts less than a second.

Then his grin returns, radiant and delighted.

“Oh.” His gaze drops toward your mouth. “I can fix that.”

The first kiss lands slightly off-center because he is smiling too much. His lips catch the corner of yours before he pulls back, laughing softly at himself, and for once, you are the one who reaches first.

Your fingers curl into the front of his uniform as you bring him closer.

The second kiss is gentler.

Bachira’s hands slide from your cheeks to your waist, holding you as though affection has always belonged there. His mouth moves warmly against yours, still curved at the edges, and when you begin to pull away, he follows with one last soft kiss.

Then another.

“You said one,” you murmur.

“I’m paying in advance.”

“You do not know how many drawings I’ll make.”

“Better keep going, then.”

His nose brushes yours, and the laughter between you softens into something tender.

Later, you sit together on the stadium floor with your backs against the corridor wall, waiting until someone comes to retrieve him. Your sketchbook rests across your knees while Bachira presses close beside you, one arm looped around your waist and his chin balanced on your shoulder.

You draw the monster again.

This time, it is smaller, curled comfortably around a football with its eyes closed. Beside it sits a girl with a pencil tucked behind her ear.

Bachira watches in contented silence until you finish.

Then he steals the pencil.

“Meguru.”

“My turn.”

“You are going to ruin it.”

“I’ve improved.”

He has not.

The version of you he draws beside the monster has uneven arms, square hair and feet facing in opposite directions. Bachira adds a crooked little heart between the two figures before proudly presenting the result.

“It’s us.”

“I can tell. That is why I’m concerned.”

He looks down at the drawing.

“I think you’re beautiful.”

“You gave me three fingers.”

“You don’t need the others.”

“What happened to them?”

“The monster ate them.”

“Why would he do that?”

“He was hungry.”

You cover your face with one hand, laughing despite yourself.

Bachira leans in and kisses your cheek.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll keep practicing.”

“Drawing?”

He presses another kiss closer to the corner of your mouth, his arm tightening around your waist.

“Being your boyfriend.”

From then on, whenever you draw Meguru’s monster, it is never alone.

Sometimes other players run beside it, chasing the same impossible path. Sometimes it curls around a small figure holding a pencil, its enormous grin softened into something content.

And sometimes, when Meguru steals your sketchbook, he adds the figure himself—crooked, disproportionate and always close enough for their hands to touch.

He insists the drawings are perfect.

You insist he should leave the art to you.

Neither of you ever wins the argument.

But every time Bachira sees the monster waiting for him inside the margins, he smiles, kisses his favorite artist, and runs toward it anyway.

synopsis : they can’t find their jersey !

c/w : not proofread, rushed, gn but fem reader coded, kinda mean reader, probably ooc (esp Bachira’s), fluff and crack, includes Isagi, Bachira, Rin, Nagi, and Reo, lmk if I missed anything !

|Paralysed!Rin Headcannons

Perfectly fine!Rin who got an irreversible injury in a soccer match. He was admitted to the hospital almost immediately by his dearest girlfriend, you.

Paralysed!Rin who had to sit on a wheelchair because the doctor said so. Unfortunate, isn't it? It was hard to operate the wheelchair by himself, but at least he had you pushing him around!

Paralysed!Rin who you brought to the mall to go shopping for snacks. Leaving a paralysed person at home wasn't very nice, so you brought him.

Paralysed!Rin who you forgot about after you met your friend Meguru. You guys talked and laughed together, leaving a dumbfounded Rin behind.

Paralysed!Rin who tried to go home by himself after trying to call for you a few times. Not your fault Meguru was so easy to talk to!

Paralysed!Rin who knocked on the front door at midnight. You woke up groggily, completely forgetting about Rin as you padded towards the door.

Paralysed!Rin who glared at you the entire time and grumbled, "You left me behind..." You apologised over and over, trying to explain yourself.

Paralysed!Rin who you brought to a mountain top for cloud gazing as an apology. Rin always did liked peace after all.

Paralysed! Rin whose wheelchair (and him) rolled off the mountain when you forgot to hold onto the wheelchair. HEY! In your defence, you were taking a picture!

Paralysed!Rin who was admitted to the hospital again with a broken nose and a broken arm (maybe also a broken wheelchair). You pampered him the whole time he was there, though he was wrapped like a fucking mummy.

Paralysed!Rin who was released from the hospital weeks later with a new wheelchair and character development.

Paralysed!Rin who was traumatised by the experience of the crash AND the hospital.

Paralysed!Rin who breaks up with you. Or at least he tries to. How could he ever resist your adorable puppy eyes welling up with tears?

"M'sorrryyyy Rinnie... I didn't mean to almost kill youuu! At least you're alive, right?" You pouted with puppy eyes, staring up with him. He dragged his hand down his face, "Ugh... You're lucky I love you, idiot..."

Paralysed!Rin who loves you anyway.

Your kitchen was a mess

The white powder of the flour had seemed to get EVERYWHERE, your apron, your hair, his hair.

You and Meguru had decided to bake cookies, the inconvenience was that if you were to let this continue any longer there wouldn't be any dough left to bake.

"Stop that..! "

You gave him a nasty glare from the corner of your eye, to which he responded with a giggle, licking clean his fingers from the unfinished mix.

You feared leaving your boyfriend with the dough but then he would finish the chocolate chips.

You sighed, accepting that whatever you decided to do he would inevitably get his way.

"Hands on the air right now, you're now suspected of robbery! "

"Guilty as charged! " he exclaimed, enjoying the teasing banter.

You smiled fondly and dipped in to give him a quick chaste kiss but as you pulled away he just kept chasing your lips.

Just how GREEDY could your boyfriend be?

A/N: HIII jsyk, I accept requests! I only write fluffy and basically all basic criteria.