*ੈ✩‧₊˚ wearing his jersey to his match — part 2
blue lock boys x gn!reader
ft. bachira meguru, chigiri hyoma, mikage reo, kunigami rensuke, karasu tabito, oliver aiku, otoya eita, yukimiya kenyu
warnings. none, just fluff ♡
you show up to one of his matches wearing his name across your back. he is completely normal about it. obviously.
Meguru notices you before you have even found your seat.
You are still squeezing past a row of people with your jacket zipped all the way to your throat when his head turns toward your section of the stadium, as though some invisible thread has tugged his attention away from the warm-up. The second his eyes find you, his entire face brightens. He lifts both arms and waves with enough enthusiasm to make the supporters around you squeal, and you laugh as you wave back, pretending not to notice the curious way his gaze lingers on your clothes.
He knows you are hiding something.
That much is obvious from the suspicious pout he sends you before one of his teammates catches him by the shoulders and steers him back toward the center of the pitch. Meguru goes, but only after pointing two fingers at his own eyes and then at you.
You wait until the stadium announcer begins calling the starting lineup.
When his name echoes from the speakers, you stand with the rest of the crowd and finally pull your jacket open. The black-and-yellow jersey beneath it is slightly oversized, the sleeves reaching nearly to your elbows, and when you turn around, his surname stretches proudly across your shoulders.
For half a second, he simply stares. Then his mouth falls open and he grabs the arm of the teammate nearest to him, pointing toward you as if he has discovered something miraculous in the stands. His teammate laughs. Meguru does not seem to care. He presses both hands over his heart, staggers backward dramatically, and then forms the biggest heart he can above his head.
The cameras catch everything, but Meguru only beams wider when the crowd reacts.
Once the match begins, he plays like happiness has made him weightless, slipping between defenders with quick, instinctive touches. Whenever he reaches your side of the pitch, his eyes flick upward to make sure you are watching.
When he scores, he races straight toward your section.
His teammates chase after him, but Meguru reaches the barrier first. He pinches the front of his own jersey, points at your matching one, and then presses a loud kiss to his fingertips before sending it upward to you.
By the time the match ends, the clip is already spreading online.
You are waiting in the players’ corridor when a pair of arms wrap around your waist from behind. Meguru lifts you clean off the floor, laughing as he spins you once before setting you down.
“You wore me!” he exclaims.
He turns you around by the hips and smooths both hands over the name on your back, admiring it with such open delight that you cannot stop smiling.
“It looks so good,” he murmurs. “Can you wear it forever?”
“That might make washing it difficult.”
“I’ll buy you seven. One for every day.”
You laugh, but Meguru catches your face between his hands and peppers kisses over your cheeks until you are breathless.
“Every time I looked up, you were there with my name all over you,” he says, softer now. “I think that’s why my feet wouldn’t stop moving.”
“They never stop moving.”
His forehead rests against yours. The wild excitement in his eyes settles into something warm, something that belongs only to you.
“Next match,” he whispers, “I’ll score two.”
“Why two?” “One for you.” He kisses the tip of your nose. “And one for the jersey.”
Hyoma is halfway through tying his hair when he notices you.
The stadium is crowded and bright, full of waving flags and flashes from phones, but his gaze moves through it with startling precision. You are leaning against the railing near the front of your section, your coat folded over one arm despite the cool air, and the cyan jersey underneath is impossible to miss.
You had styled it carefully that morning, but the name across your back still makes it unmistakably his.
Hyoma’s fingers stop in his hair.
The elastic slips from his grasp and lands against his shoulder.
For a moment, he looks genuinely startled. Then the faintest blush reaches his cheeks, and he lowers his eyes as though fixing his ponytail suddenly requires every piece of his concentration. One of his teammates says something to him. Hyoma answers without looking away from you for long, the corner of his mouth betraying a smile he is clearly trying to hide.
You turn around so he can see the back properly.
He touches two fingers to his lips and then to the club crest on his chest. The gesture is small enough that most of the stadium misses it, but you feel it as clearly as if he had kissed you himself.
Once the match begins, Hyoma becomes impossible to look away from. However many times you have watched him run, the sight still catches beneath your ribs. Tonight, he seems even faster, and every time he tears down the wing near your section, his eyes flick upward to check that you are watching.
After leaving two defenders several meters behind, he glances at you with a quiet, knowing look.
Late in the second half, Hyoma receives the ball near the touchline and carries it forward in one beautiful, uninterrupted burst. The stadium rises before he even reaches the box. He cuts inside, shoots, and watches the ball curve beyond the goalkeeper’s reach.
His teammates surround him, but when he emerges from the celebration, he looks directly at you.
He runs a hand through his loosened hair, taps his jersey, and points toward yours.
Your heart does something embarrassing.
After the match, you find him outside the changing rooms with damp hair falling freely over his shoulders. He has changed into his tracksuit, but the flush from the game still warms his face. His eyes drop immediately to your outfit.
“You really wore it,” he says.
“I almost didn’t recover.”
You laugh. “You seemed perfectly fine.”
“That was because of me?”
Hyoma gives you a look, then reaches for the open edges of your coat and gently pulls them farther apart, taking in the jersey again from close up.
“You could have warned me,” he murmurs.
“That would have ruined the surprise.”
“It nearly ruined warm-up.”
His fingers slide to your waist, bunching the fabric slightly as he draws you closer. For all his composure on the field, there is a shyness in the way he studies his own name on you.
“It suits you,” he says at last.
The answer is so quiet that it takes a second to settle.
You smile and curl your arms around his neck. “Should I wear it again?”
Hyoma’s lips brush your cheek, then the corner of your mouth.
“Yes,” he whispers. “But next time, sit somewhere I can’t see you.”
“No.” His smile finally escapes. “I really don’t.”
The jersey you choose is not the newest one Reo gave you.
That one hangs neatly in your wardrobe, custom-fitted and embroidered with your initials because an ordinary replica had not been special enough for Reo.
Instead, you wear the oldest jersey in his closet.
The lettering has softened from years of washing, and one corner of the number has begun to peel away. Reo wore it during his first full professional season, when interviews still made him nervous and every match felt like another chance to prove that his success belonged to him rather than his family name.
You find it folded at the back of a drawer and know immediately that it is the one you want.
Reo recognizes it before he recognizes you.
He is jogging across the pitch during warm-ups when the familiar shade of red catches his eye. His pace slows. Then his gaze lifts to your face, drops to the jersey again, and stays there.
You stand and turn around.
For several seconds, Reo only stares at the faded number on your back. The polished smile he wears for cameras disappears, replaced by something gentler and almost disbelieving.
Then he taps his chest and points toward you.
He catches it with one hand and closes his fist over his heart, earning a loud reaction from the supporters nearby. You hide your face for a moment, but when you peek through your fingers, Reo is still smiling at you.
That smile follows him into the match.
He controls the midfield with effortless confidence, turning half-open spaces into opportunities before anyone else sees them. After assisting the first goal, he points toward your section.
Near the end of the second half, he shifts past a defender and sends the ball cleanly into the net.
He runs toward the corner flag, kisses his fingertips, and presses them over the badge on his chest. Then he points at the old jersey you are wearing.
The meaning feels private despite the thousands of people watching.
Afterward, Reo finds you in a quiet corridor reserved for players and their families. His medal rests against his chest, and his damp hair keeps falling into his eyes as he approaches.
“You went through my drawers,” he says.
“You gave me permission to borrow your clothes.”
“I thought you would choose one of the new ones.”
He turns you gently by the hips, smoothing his palm over the worn lettering on your back. His touch lingers on the peeling edge of the number.
You face him again. “Because this is the one you wore when you were still fighting to prove you belonged here.”
“You kept it even after everyone already knew,” you continue. “I like remembering the version of you who wanted this so badly.”
For once, he has no immediate answer.
His hands tighten at your waist, and his forehead lowers to yours. The medal trapped between your bodies presses coolly against the fabric.
“You can’t say things like that while wearing my name,” he murmurs.
“Because it makes me want to put it on everything you own.”
You laugh softly. “That sounds expensive.”
Reo smiles, but the tenderness remains in his eyes when he kisses you.
When he pulls away, he glances at the jersey once more. “You’re keeping this one.”
“I thought it was already yours.”
“Not anymore.” His thumb traces the faded number. “It looks more important on you.”
Rensuke gave you the jersey after his last home match.
He had handed it over with flushed cheeks and a gruff, “You said you wanted one,” as though it had not still been warm from his body. You washed it carefully and waited for the right moment to wear it.
You are standing near the barrier when the starting lineup is announced, the oversized fabric falling almost to mid-thigh. When Rensuke’s name booms through the stadium, you lift both arms and cheer, causing the jersey to rise slightly over your jeans.
The reaction is immediate.
Rensuke freezes in the middle of stepping into position. His gaze drops to the team badge on your chest, then lifts to your face, then drops again as if he needs to confirm he is seeing correctly. One of his teammates follows his stare and elbows him with a grin.
Color rushes across Rensuke’s cheeks all the way to his ears.
You press your fingers to your lips and send him a kiss.
He looks away so quickly that you burst out laughing.
For the first few minutes, he seems painfully aware of your presence, trying far too hard not to look toward your section. Then the embarrassment becomes determination.
Rensuke fights for every ball and drives forward with the fierce, uncompromising energy you have always loved in him.
When he finally scores, the shot hits the net with enough force to send it snapping backward.
Rensuke stands still for one breath before turning toward your section. He grips the front of his jersey over his heart and gives you one firm nod.
No dramatic kiss. No elaborate celebration. Just that steady look held across the distance between you.
Somehow, it feels more intimate than anything else could have.
After the match, he finds you near the players’ exit with his sports bag thrown over one shoulder. His face is no longer red, but his expression becomes suspiciously serious when he sees you are still wearing the jersey.
“That would have ruined the surprise.”
Rensuke glances away. “Everyone noticed.”
You smile. “Did you hate it?”
His head snaps back toward you. “No.”
The answer comes so forcefully that you have to bite your lip to keep from laughing.
“I’m not doing anything.”
“You’re about to call me cute.”
Rensuke mutters something under his breath and places both hands at your waist, pulling you against him before you can continue teasing. His fingers bunch the fabric slightly.
“You looked good,” he says.
He exhales, defeated, and lowers his forehead to yours. “You looked so good that I spent half the match trying not to look at you.”
Warmth spreads through your chest.
“Because you were watching.”
The confession is quiet, almost reluctant, but it lands more deeply because of it. You curl your fingers into the front of his tracksuit and kiss him before he can become embarrassed again.
Rensuke returns it slowly, one hand rising to cradle the back of your head.
When you separate, his thumb traces the number at your side.
“Wear it again,” he says.
“Is that an order, hero?”
Tabito notices details for a living.
He notices shifted weight, repeated passing lanes, and the smallest hesitation before someone moves. Very little escapes him on the pitch.
So you know there is no possibility of hiding the jersey from him.
The moment he steps onto the field, you stand near the railing and pull your jacket open with deliberate confidence. His name lies across your back, bold and unmistakable, while his number sits over your chest.
Tabito’s gaze lands on you within seconds.
Then a slow, wicked smile spreads across his face.
He says something to the teammate beside him without looking away from you. The other player follows his stare, spots the jersey, and laughs. Tabito only lifts one hand and curls two fingers toward himself, beckoning as though he expects you to climb over the barrier and walk onto the pitch.
He places a hand over his heart in exaggerated disappointment.
During the match, he makes a game of acknowledging you whenever play pauses—a raised brow after stealing possession, a smirk after misleading an opponent, a wink when his pass creates the first goal.
Every glance says the same thing: you knew exactly what you were doing.
His goal comes from outside the box. Tabito receives the ball, lets one defender close in, and then strikes just before the space disappears. The shot slips beyond the goalkeeper’s reach and hits the corner of the net.
He turns toward your section with his arms spread wide.
Then he points directly at you and mouths, “Pretty.”
You roll your eyes, but your face burns for the rest of the match.
He finds you beside the team bus afterward.
Tabito approaches without hurry, still carrying the relaxed confidence of someone who knows he has already won. He plants one hand against the side of the bus near your head, not quite trapping you, but close enough that his intentions are clear.
“Haven’t said anything yet.”
His eyes travel slowly over the jersey. “Can’t blame me for appreciating the view.”
“Nah.” Tabito catches the hem between two fingers. “Fabric doesn’t usually stroll into my match with my name written all over it.”
“You make it sound possessive.”
“Wasn’t complaining, was I?”
He turns you gently, palm settling at your hip as he studies the lettering on your back. His thumb moves over one of the letters with surprising care.
“Looks natural,” he decides.
You glance at him over your shoulder. “Your ego is unbearable.”
“And yet you’re advertising for me.”
You elbow him lightly, but Tabito catches your wrist and uses it to turn you back around. His teasing expression softens when he brings your knuckles to his lips.
“Seriously,” he murmurs, “you looked gorgeous.”
The sincerity catches you off guard.
Tabito notices that too, of course.
His smile deepens before he leans in and kisses you, slow and warm, one hand sliding around your waist. When your fingers curl into the front of his jacket, he makes a quiet, satisfied sound against your mouth.
“Wear it next time,” he says when he pulls away.
“Don’t play difficult now, sweetheart.”
“I thought you liked difficult.”
“I do.” His forehead brushes yours. “But I like my name on you more.”
Wearing Oliver’s jersey is a risk.
Not because he might dislike it. Quite the opposite.
Your boyfriend possesses neither shame nor restraint when presented with an opportunity to announce that you belong together, and the sight of his number on you is almost guaranteed to encourage him.
You consider keeping your coat buttoned for the entire match.
Unfortunately, the wind ruins that plan before you even reach your seat.
Oliver is standing near the sideline, half-listening to his coach, when the open edge of your coat lifts. His eyes drop to the jersey beneath it and then rise slowly to your face.
The grin that follows is pure trouble.
He nudges the teammate beside him and points openly toward you. Within seconds, half the team has looked in your direction. You glare and make a sharp motion across your throat.
When his name is announced, he turns toward your section and raises both arms, encouraging the crowd to become louder. Then he catches the collar of his own jersey and pulls it outward, displaying the number that matches yours.
The cameras follow his gaze.
Your face appears on the stadium screen.
You cover it with both hands while the people around you cheer. Oliver, completely delighted with himself, blows you an extravagant kiss.
He continues tormenting you throughout the match, winking after an important tackle and pointing toward your jersey when the opposing striker fails to get around him again.
Near the end, he scores from a corner.
His celebration consists of sprinting toward your side of the field, dropping dramatically to one knee, and pointing at you with both hands.
The commentators spend the remaining minutes wondering aloud whether they have just witnessed some kind of public proposal.
“You’re unbelievable,” you tell him when he finally reaches you after the match.
Oliver opens his arms. “There’s my good-luck charm.”
“You put me on the screen!”
“I don’t control the cameras.”
“You knew they would follow you.”
“Can you blame them?” His hands settle at your waist as he looks down at the jersey. “Beautiful woman wearing the captain’s number? That’s quality television.”
You push lightly at his chest, but he only pulls you closer.
“People thought you proposed.”
He laughs and bends to kiss your forehead. “Relax, sweetheart. When I propose, there won’t be any confusion.”
Your heart stumbles despite how casually he says it.
The teasing in his expression softens into something dangerously fond. He turns you within his arms and spreads one broad hand over the number on your back.
“God, I like this,” he murmurs.
“What?” He kisses the side of your neck, entirely unrepentant. “I’m a simple man.”
He spins you back around and captures your mouth before you can argue. The kiss is slow and confident, and Oliver seems completely unconcerned by the staff members passing nearby or the distant sound of his teammates calling for him.
When he releases you, his thumb brushes your lower lip.
“Keep wearing it,” he says.
He flashes the same smile that appeared on every stadium screen.
“I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”
“That I always have the prettiest supporter.”
You never see Eita notice the jersey.
During warm-ups, he looks toward your section only once, offering an easy smile and a casual wave before turning back to the pitch. His reaction is so ordinary that you assume the distance has hidden the name across your shoulders.
You are more disappointed than you want to admit.
You had expected at least a wink.
Eita remains infuriatingly composed throughout the first half. Even after slipping unnoticed between two defenders and scoring from an angle that should have been impossible, he celebrates with his teammates instead of searching the crowd for you.
It is unusual enough that suspicion begins to creep in.
During halftime, you send him a message.
The response arrives several minutes later.
The second half begins before he answers, leaving you to plot several creative punishments while he keeps appearing in spaces the opposing defense notices too late.
Only once does he give himself away.
After assisting another goal, Eita turns toward your side of the stadium and briefly drags his fingers across the name on the back of his own jersey.
The gesture is so quick that you almost miss it.
When the final whistle blows, you make your way toward the private corridor where the players’ families and partners are allowed to wait. You have barely stepped through the doorway when hands slide around your waist from behind.
You startle hard enough to make him laugh against your ear.
“And you’re easy to sneak up on.”
Eita presses a kiss beneath your jaw, arms remaining securely around your middle. You can feel the heat of him through the thin fabric.
“You ignored me,” you accuse.
“You checked the message.”
“Had to know what my pretty little fan wanted.”
You turn in his arms and find him wearing the most self-satisfied expression imaginable.
Eita tilts his head, gaze drifting over the jersey. He hooks one finger beneath the collar and draws you closer until your noses nearly touch.
“I wanted to know you liked it.”
“I liked it so much that the guys threatened to stop passing to me if I kept checking your section.”
Eita smiles because he notices.
“Besides,” he continues, turning you around by the hips, “I wanted to see it properly before I said anything.”
One hand travels upward, tracing the number on your back.
Eita catches the hem immediately. “Never said you could do that.”
You laugh as he buries his face against your neck, lips brushing the sensitive skin there.
“I love it.” His voice softens, losing some of its teasing edge. “You came all this way just to support me, wearing my name. Of course I love it.”
You turn in his hold and wrap your arms around his neck.
Eita kisses you before you can answer, slow enough to make the crowded corridor disappear. When he pulls away, he leaves one last kiss at the corner of your mouth.
“Next time, send me a picture before the match,” he says.
His familiar mischievous smile returns.
“So I can show everyone who my number-one fan is.”
Kenyu helped you choose the jersey.
He compared the designs, decided which color suited you best, and even suggested how to style it. He knows exactly which one you bought.
What he does not know is that you had his name added to the front.
It is small, stitched just above your heart in delicate lettering rather than printed boldly across the fabric. The alteration is subtle enough to remain hidden from the cameras, but personal enough that you have spent the entire morning wondering how he will react.
Kenyu first sees the back during warm-ups.
His face brightens instantly. He smiles and touches the number on his own jersey before pointing toward yours, his expression so openly affectionate that several people around you begin cooing.
At first, he does not understand what you are showing him. Then your fingers tap the embroidery above your heart.
Kenyu’s smile disappears.
Not because he dislikes it, but because the emotion crossing his face is too deep to fit inside one. For several seconds, he only looks at his name resting over your heart before lifting his gaze to you.
His hand rises to the same place on his own chest.
You press your palm over the embroidery.
The moment is quiet despite the thousands of voices surrounding you.
During the match, he plays beautifully, each graceful change in direction leaving defenders chasing a version of him that is already gone. When he curls the ball into the far corner, the stadium rises as one.
Kenyu looks toward you before anyone else reaches him.
He places his hand over his heart.
He does not need a larger celebration.
Afterward, you wait inside an empty lounge near the dressing rooms. Kenyu enters still wearing part of his kit, hair damp around his face and a towel draped over his shoulders.
He walks directly toward you.
Rather than answering, Kenyu reaches out and touches the embroidered name with his fingertips. His expression is almost reverent, as though you have given him something far more precious than a few carefully sewn letters.
“You put it here,” he murmurs.
“I thought it belonged there.”
The tenderness in them leaves you suddenly shy. “It might be a little cheesy.”
“No.” Kenyu’s hand slides from the jersey to cup your face. “It’s perfect.”
He kisses you gently, lingering as his other arm circles your waist. There is no urgency in it, only warmth and the quiet gratitude he has always expressed more easily through touch.
When he pulls back, his forehead remains against yours.
“I was going to ask whether we could take a picture together,” he says.
“We have hundreds of pictures together.”
Kenyu positions you in front of the mirror along the wall, standing behind you with one arm wrapped around your middle. The back of your jersey is visible in the reflection, while the smaller version of his name rests beneath your hand.
He takes the photograph with his phone.
You look at the screen afterward and smile. “For your lock screen?”
“For me.” Kenyu presses a kiss to your temple. “I don’t think I want to share this one.”
He sets the phone aside and turns you within his arms, gaze falling once more to the embroidery.
Then he kisses the place directly above it.
“My name looks beautiful on you,” he whispers. “But I think I love where you put it the most.”
@dr1diot hope you like it! :D
vaporwave
origamiaround
romaincrisis
areudirty
kianamaiart
germansingergirl
ellievsbear
