— summary; you thought you could handle hugo in bed. spoiler alert: YOU COULDN'T.
— notes; im back from the dead and y'all can thank this beautiful french man. im down so bad for him it's not even funny. reblogs are appreciated and pls donate to my Ko-Fi if you like my stuff!
❋ It's almost humiliating, really, how quickly everyone in the French U20 team notices that something is deeply, deeply wrong with you.
❋ Because normally, you'd be bouncing around the sidelines with way too much energy.
❋ But today?
❋ Today, you're walk into practice with the dead-eyed look of a soldier returning from war.
❋ Your movements are slow. Careful. Visibly painful.
❋ Stairs are now your mortal enemy.
❋ So is walking.
❋ And so is breathing.
❋ Meanwhile, beside you, Vivian Hugo looks completely normal.
❋ Same messy burgundy hair.
❋ Cool black eyes.
❋ Holding onto that stupid blank notebook of his.
❋ Which, in your opinion, is terribly unfair considering how worn out you look.
❋ And, as though to put a cherry on top of your ice cream cone of humiliation —
❋ The ENTIRE room goes pin-drop silent when you try to sit, slowly and carefully like an 89-year-old war veteran, and the most miserable, wounded sound leaves your lips as soon as your rear end makes contact with the hardwood bench.
❋ Oh.
❋ OH.
❋ Charles' eyes nearly pop out of his head; he's staring so hard.
❋ “OH MY GOD.”
❋ “Shut UP,” you hiss immediately, face burning.
❋ And he starts laughing, not even the polite kind of laughter that would be socially acceptable.
❋ He's practically hunched over at the waist, tears in his eyes, rolling on the floor laughing because your misery is apparently hilarious and so is the fact that Hugo apparently got laid last night.
❋ “NO, WAY, DID YOU AND —”
❋ And Hugo, calm and unflappable as ever, actually has the nerve to say, “Yes.”
❋ Why.
❋ You can only stare at him in horror as the room EXPLODES.
❋ One: That’s an insane answer.
❋ Two: He says it with absolutely no shame whatsoever while you’re silently praying for the ground to swallow you whole.
❋ You can almost feel the collective wave of sympathy emanating from the team, because now everyone and their mother knows why you’re moving like your bones are made of glass.
❋ The worst part is that you had been SO confident beforehand.
❋ You'd taken one look at this beautiful, 187cm midfielder and actually thought:
❋ How bad could it possibly be?
❋ The answer:
❋ Very.
❋ Because, apparently, Hugo does everything with absurd commitment.
❋ Football.
❋ Training.
❋ And apparently —
❋ That too.
❋ Which also brings you back to the present, and the consequences of your actions:
❋ Glaring absolute murder at Vivian Hugo while he calmly adjusts his gloves like he didn’t personally press you into the mattress twelve hours ago.
❋ “She said she could handle the physical exertion.”
❋ In the distance, someone chokes on water.
❋ “That was before I knew you were a monster, Hugo!”
❋ And that is when the screaming starts.
❋ And even Loki buries his face in his hands because this really wasn't how he pictured his morning going.
❋ “You are NEVER doing that again.”
❋ Hugo looks at you for exactly two seconds before calmly saying, “That statement is untrue."
❋ Charles makes a sound like a dying animal.
❋ And tragically . . .
❋ There's really nothing you can say to dispute him because you would absolutely let that man rail you again in a heartbeat.
You should know better that he can't help but miss you when you tease him like this.
He felt like he was slipping into a Flow state or something, his mind emptying, leaving his body to move by itself without him thinking. He’d never wanted you so badly before. He’d never felt so equally desperate and frustrated at the same time; this was a different desire than just wanting to win. Winning you wasn’t enough. It was like he had to devour you, or make you a part of him somehow; he had to have you, all to himself, forever.
READ
Part 1: Yoichi’s POV & Part 2: Reader’s POV & Part 3: Rin’s POV
— summary; drunk! you tries (and fails) to hit on a handsome guy at a fancy party.
— notes; reblogs are appreciated and pls donate to my Ko-Fi if you like my stuff!
You’ve been to so many of these galas, and each time, they never cease to amaze you with how boring they are.
Rich people.
Rich people pretending not to compare net worths.
Rich people talking about football while clearly never having touched a ball.
Rich people asking your parents questions.
Rich people asking you questions.
“Oh, how you’ve grown!”
“So, what university are you planning to attend?”
“A pretty thing such as yourself must surely have a boyfriend. Or a girlfriend.”
Your parents are thriving.
They're famous football consultants, the kind that clubs and managers pay through their noses to engage.
It’s like they’ve come home.
On the other hand, you are this close to throwing yourself into one of the fancy crystal centrepieces.
But because you are good and decent, you do not.
You do, however, find the champagne.
In your defence, you hadn’t meant to get drunk.
You only took a glass because you were bored.
Then another, because someone hands you one.
Then another, because apparently, the very nice waiters like to refill your drink every five seconds.
By glass three, you’re tolerating the event.
By glass four, everyone is suddenly hilarious.
By glass five, you’re pretty sure that you’re having the time of your life in this ballroom.
You’re halfway through glass six — or was it glass seven? — when you look up and see —
Him.
Tall.
Burgundy hair.
Long eyelashes.
Dark eyes.
Expensive suit.
The sort of face Renaissance painters would start brawling over.
Standing alone while reading.
Because apparently, even at parties, Vivian Hugo is doing Just Vivian Hugo things.
Reading.
What kind of psychopath reads at a party?
And not even a book with words.
It’s completely blank.
You immediately become fascinated.
You don't even know his name.
You only know that he's ridiculously attractive.
And French.
And French.
(This bears repeating.)
Which somehow makes him even more attractive to your alcohol-soaked brain.
A terrible development.
For Hugo, that is.
He isn’t particularly interested in events like these.
Too much pointless conversation.
Too many people pretending that status is more important than results.
But, unfortunately for him, France’s football federation expects their rising young talents to make public appearances before the U-20 World Cup.
He's standing in a quiet hallway, reading his blank book.
There are approximately eighty-seven attendees.
Investors.
Scouts.
Former players.
Opportunists.
Journalists.
Eighty-eight attendees when he sees you — marching towards him with all the determination of a heat-seeking missile.
Not gracefully.
Slightly unsteady.
Wobbling, really.
Eyes locked directly onto him.
Stopping directly in front of him.
Stare.
He stares back.
Silence.
More silence.
More staring.
For a very long time.
Then . . .
“You're really hot.”
Hugo blinks.
Once.
“Thank you.”
“No, like, really hot.”
“Understood.”
“Unfairly hot . . . Like — Like an angel on the walls of Versailles.”
(You literally stole this from an Olivia Rodrigo song.)
(It is not an original thought.)
(But drunk you thinks that you are a poet.)
(The second coming of William Shakespeare.)
“. . . Thank you.”
“Hic — Do you know . . . You are the prettiest?”
“Yes. Statistically, I have received numerous positive comments regarding my appearance before.”
“You’re so hot when you talk all smart like that . . .”
“. . . Thank you?”
". . . Use more big words on me. It turns me on."
". . ."
Hugo isn’t even flustered.
Not even after you’ve called him hot about ten times in the past minute.
He's just analyzing the situation.
Like you’re a particularly interesting opponent in a particularly tricky football match.
Drunk female.
No apparent malicious intent.
Currently attempting courtship.
Methodology ineffective.
Fascinating.
“I like your eyelashes.”
“Thank you.”
“I like your hair.”
“Thank you.”
“I like your face.”
“. . . Thank you."
“I think we should make out.”
“Why?”
“Because you're — hic! — hot.”
“Those two concepts do not appear to be directly related —”
"Shhhh, angel boy. Less talky, more smoochy.”
Hugo has spent his life around football prodigies, world-class athletes, and tactical geniuses.
Nothing could have prepared him for someone with all the confidence and bad decision-making of a drunk raccoon.
What is the protocol for this?
Answer: None.
There is none.
Apparently taking his silence as consent, you grab his tie.
And try to kiss him.
Hugo tries to lean backwards.
You try to go in again.
Again, he quickly steps back.
Unfortunately, you are drunk and determined, and your last brain cell has deserted you about five glasses of champagne ago.
Hugo is now proving to everyone in the room just why he’s considered part of the New Generation Eleven when he starts performing defensive footwork and evasive manoeuvres in dress shoes.
(He is extremely lucky Charles is not here. Charles would have been rolling on the floor laughing, seeing this.)
Finally, he places a gentle hand on your shoulder to stop your advances.
“I believe you've had too much champagne."
“. . . Eh.”
“. . . Therefore, this is unsuitable.”
“You know what else is unsuitable? How horny I —”
Thankfully, your parents discover you hanging off Hugo’s arm before a) the paparazzi can see this and have a field day or b) the French PR team sees this and decides to file a harassment lawsuit.
Whichever one comes first.
The next morning, sober, you will wake up, remember exactly what happened last night, and scream into the nearest pillow for 20 consecutive minutes.
Until your brain cell returns to comfort you with exactly one (1) beautiful thought.
You don’t know his name.
He doesn't know yours.
You’ll never see him again.
Problem solved.
Except no.
Not really.
Because two weeks later, your parents have negotiated yet another contract deal.
This time with France, for the duration of the U20 world cup.
You're dragged along.
And when you step into the conference room —
You see him.
The exact same burgundy hair.
The exact same eyelashes.
The exact same blank expression.
And that’s when your soul leaves your body.
Because Hugo recognizes you immediately.
Immediately.
With no hesitation.
And kills you on the spot where you stand when he opens his mouth and says, “Statistically speaking, meeting again was unlikely.”
“Please stop talking.”
“Interesting.”
“Stop.”
And that's the exact moment you realize you're going to be working with him.
— summary; you thought you could handle nagi in bed. spoiler alert: YOU COULDN'T.
— notes; reblogs are appreciated and pls donate to my Ko-Fi if you like my stuff!
❋ Everyone clocks it the second you walk into the training room with Nagi.
❋ Not because he’s acting any differently.
❋ He's still slouched over, posture terrible, casually unbothered, hands shoved in his pockets like he’d rather be in bed.
❋ Which is typical Nagi behaviour.
❋ Fine.
❋ The problem, therein, lies with you.
❋ You’re walking as though your bones are made of glass and your skin is made of paper.
❋ Exhaustion radiates from every pore.
❋ The dead-eyed stare of a traumatised soldier returning from war.
❋ And most tellingly -
❋ You stop to glare at Nagi every few moments, looking for all the world like a kicked puppy.
❋ (Ineffective. He is unbothered. Moisturised. Happy. In his lane. Focused. Flourishing.)
❋ Reo looks at you.
❋ Really looks.
❋ And almost drops his bottle.
❋ “. . . Oh my God.”
❋ Bachira perks up.
❋ “Hey, did you guys finally -”
❋ You flinch as though you’ve just been shot.
❋ Nagi just scratches the back of his head, and, without missing a beat, says, “Mmm. Yeah.”
❋ No shame.
❋ Just casual confirmation for all the Blue Lockers in a five-foot radius.
❋ And that’s when the room goes silent.
❋ DEAD SILENT.
❋ You would throw your clipboard at his face, except . . .
❋ It’s too far away, and you’d have to get up from the bench.
❋ And you . . .
❋ Literally can’t.
❋ Your legs haven’t recovered just yet.
❋ So you settle for glaring at Nagi. Again.
“Don’t say that in public!!”
“Why not? ‘S true . . .”
❋ And then, perhaps to add insult to injury, Nagi adds:
❋ “You said you could take it.”
❋ Somewhere in the distance, you hear someone choke on water.
❋ “. . .”
❋ You have no answer to that, because he’s technically right.
❋ You had been young.
❋ Cocky.
❋ Self-assured.
❋ And stupid.
❋ Because you’d taken one look at Nagi, at 190cm of a professional striker with absurd stamina and body control, and dared to think:
❋ Wow, Nagi's lazy and sleepy all the time. I can do this!
❋ Wrong.
❋ WRONG.
❋ Unfortunately for you, you’ve since learned that once he actually gets interested in something, he commits.
❋ You had to learn that the hard way.
❋ Several times.
❋ And that isn’t even the worst part.
❋ No.
❋ That would be how Nagi keeps wandering over to you in the middle of practice, all warm and clingy like an oversized cat.
❋ Arms looped around your waist.
❋ Fingers curling around your wrist.
❋ Resting his chin on your shoulder from behind while you’re trying to work.
❋ And -
❋ He keeps absentmindedly saying the filthiest things that make it painfully obvious to everyone in the vicinity just how thoroughly he’d managed to ruin your motor functions for 24-48 business hours.
“Did your hips stop hurting yet?”
“Are the bruises gone?”
“You were whining my name louder last night.”
“Wanna come over again later?”
❋ And every single time, the nearby Blue Lockers look like they just got flashbanged.
❋ Isagi especially suffers because he keeps accidentally overhearing things no man should ever have to hear.
❋ All he wants to do is focus on football, and suddenly he's hearing Nagi murmur:
❋ “You looked cute crying, though.”
❋ The poor guy can't catch a break.
❋ Even Rin looks disturbed.
❋ RIN.
❋ Which is saying a lot.
❋ And even though you're still mad at Nagi for temporarily ruining your ability to sit, stand, and bend over...
❋ Unfortunately . . .
❋ You’d absolutely let him fold you like his laundry again.
— summary; in which you thirst over your ex, sae, because he's always been unfairly attractive. set in the blue lock manager au.
— notes; please donate to my kofi if you like my work. and know that i am mentally smooching everyone who reblogs my stuff.
❋ Pause, stop. Rewind: You and Sae dated back in Spain when you were managing his team at Re Al, but things fell apart when your parents (and you, by extension), returned to Japan to help fund the Blue Lock program.
❋ Now fast-forward: You’re now the unofficial manager of Blue Lock, which means dealing with a bunch of noisy, smelly teenage boys and their chaotic brand of nonsense.
❋ It’s a week before the Blue Lock Eleven dukes it out with the U-20 team, and you’re alone in the empty monitor room (or so you think), pulling up profiles of the players and compiling detailed reports to give your boys an edge.
❋ You’ve been notified that Sae Itoshi’s the star player in this match, and you’re determined not to react when you see your exes’ name on the list. But that train of thought just about goes out the window when you pull up his updated stats and media photos.
❋ Shirtless training shots, candid pictures of him mid-game, and oh no, a magazine spread for Sports Illustrated?! His muscles, his stance, his glare — it all hits you at once, and you let out a moan.
❋ A real, good to honest MOAN.
“Wait. Hold on. How the hell did he get hotter?!”
“Oh God, oh God . . .”
“This is so UNFAIR!”
“Did he change his skincare routine?! He’s practically glowing in that picture . . .”
“His arms — Ugh, he could probably bench press me now. Not that I’d want him to . . . Okay, fine, I want him to."
“His butt. His butt! Did he always have — no, no, it wasn’t this nice before. It’s gotta be new. What, did he get a new workout routine? A new trainer? Is he squatting? HE’S GOTTA BE SQUATTING, I’M CALLING IT NOW."
“Oh my God, his thighs. His THIGHS! Those could crush a watermelon — and, like, my skull too, apparently. What the hell, Sae?!”
❋ Finally, after a particularly loud exclamation of, “Did he just know we’d see these pictures? Did he get hotter on purpose?! Curse you, Itoshi Sae!”, you hear the unmistakable sound of someone clearing their throat behind you.
❋ And Ego’s voice, dryer than the Sahara, cuts through the sudden silence. “Manager-chan . . . I’m still in the room. And I’m going to vomit.”
❋ Cue you almost falling out of your chair, because you had no idea that he was still in the room all this time, listening to your crazed ranting.
❋ “YOU LEFT! I thought you left!”
❋ “I wish I had.”
❋ You think that this is punishment enough, but apparently, Ego doesn’t share your sentiments. His glasses flash ominously as he continues, and all the while, you want the ground to swallow you whole.
“In the future, kindly keep your . . . Comments about Itoshi Sae to yourself. Unless you’d like me to forward your thoughts to him personally."
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me.”
— summary; in which you and sae meet again in japan after a messy breakup in spain. set in the blue lock manager au.
— notes; please donate to my kofi if you like my work. and know that i am mentally smooching everyone who reblogs my stuff.
❋ It’s not really something you like to broadcast, how you and Sae were close when you were in Spain with your parents for that brief, wonderful period of time. While he honed his skills with football, you would balance your studies while helping out at Re Al.
❋ Things had been so simple back then. Late-night walks in Madrid, your fingers intertwined with his. Sneaking kisses in quiet corners, away from prying eyes. Sharing popsicles and everything else. Sae was cold to the rest of the world, his softness reserved entirely for you.
❋ You were each other’s first everything — first kiss, first love, first heartbreak.
❋ Some part of you had to have known that this was only temporary, considering how often your parents travel for work. But it still comes as a shock to you when you parents abruptly decide to return to Japan to help fund the Blue Lock project.
❋ And Sae, so full of potential. Sae, whose career is finally taking off. You aren’t about to let him leave it behind; and Sae, too driven, too focused on his dreams, wasn’t about to throw it all away and return to Japan either. Not like this. Not for you.
❋ You hadn’t expected to see him at the airport to see you off. Sae’s expression was closed off, and it was like the two of you were strangers once again, the distance and silence already stretching endlessly between you. As if your relationship had never existed in the first place.
❋ The breakup was messy, yet silent. Both of you knew instinctively that this was the end. And just before Sae left without looking back, his final words to you were, “If you’re going, don’t expect me to wait.”
❋ The last image you have of him is his retreating figure, back rigid, leaving as the words die on your lips.
❋ And that was that.
❋ You’d returned to Japan with your parents to work as a manager at Blue Lock (Ego had agreed to take you in under the promise of free labour, apparently). Ego’s lectures aren’t fun, but you’re actually learning something under him and Anri when you’re not being driven insane by a group of rowdy, immature teenaged boys.
❋ You try really hard not to think about Sae. Even if the occasional headline reminds you of his burgeoning career in Europe. But the memory of him is a quiet ache in your chest that surfaces in random moments — when you see the colour teal, or hear a song he’d used to like.
❋ You’ve been to JFA headquarters only once or twice before, but it’s bustling with activity as always. Your purpose here is purely business; you’ll act as a secretary for Ego and Anri while they finalize plans for the U20 match with the top brass.
❋ You didn’t think that he’d be there.
❋ Right at that very moment.
❋ In that very room.
❋ Fate is cruel, sometimes.
❋ He looks . . . The same, yet somehow different all at once. His hair’s a little longer, his expression sharper, but those piercing green eyes haven’t changed at all, and the realisation makes your chest throb painfully all over again.
❋ You wonder how you appear to him, underneath your professional blazer and veneer of carefully controlled calm. Does he think you still look the same? Or does he think that you’ve changed, become a total stranger to him, much like how he is to you right now?
❋ His gaze is intense, scorching. You can feel it the second you enter the room, but you keep your head down and try to pay attention to the meeting. (The thought of having to present incomplete notes to Ego certainly does a marvellous job at helping you focus.)
❋ A breath of relief soughs out of you the moment the meeting ends. Quickly, you gather your things, following Ego and Anri out the door. You’re eager to avoid the lingering eyes of the association’s board members.
❋ And perhaps most of all: you’re eager to avoid unnecessary small talk with Sae.
❋ But you catch a final glimpse of him out the corner of your eye; Sae, still staring at you. His expression seemingly softer, almost hesitant. It’s almost as if he wants to call your name, to stop you from leaving, but something — Pride? Anger? — holds him back.
❋ The door to the meeting room clicks shut behind you with a cold finality, and this time, you’re the one leaving first.
— summary; he gives you a hairclip to match his tattoo ! set in the blue lock manager au.
— notes; BOOM BABY, GUESS WHO'S BACK !
❋ Even before Blue Lock, your parents have always been deeply involved in the world of professional football. Even when you were little, your weekends would be spent at gyms and stadiums, watching matches, and mingling with famous players and staff.
❋ Despite your young age, you’ve already been actively assisting your parents behind the scenes, taking on various roles like helping with administrative tasks, arranging transportation, and even fetching coffee for the coaching staff.
❋ The Bastard München football team is no stranger to you, considering their close connections to your parents. Over the years, you've seen players come and go, but one player stands out in particular ─ Michael Kaiser. Sure, he’s got a boatload of talent, but he really needs to work on that attitude of his.
❋ And, well. You’d thought he was hot for all of one second. Then he’d opened his damn mouth, and you’d been overcome with the urge to staple it shut.
❋ Your relationship with Kaiser is anything but pleasant. Kaiser's condescending attitude rubs you the wrong way, and Noel Noa and your parents often have to intervene before the two of you come to blows.
❋ You’re relieved when the football season in Germany comes to an end. This means returning home to Japan, and it means freedom from Kaiser's constant presence.
❋ As you're saying your goodbyes to the team, Kaiser approaches you with a small, delicate blue rose hairclip, mirroring the intricate blue rose tattoo stamped on his neck.
( “What is this.”
“It’s a gift, of course.”
“I can see that, I’m just wondering what the catch is. There’s always something up with you.”
“Just think of me when you wear it, won’t you?”
“Bold of you to assume I’m ever gonna wear it.” )
❋ At first, you’re taken aback by the unexpected gift. Your initial reaction is to reject it, given your tumultuous history with Kaiser. But in the end, you blow out a resigned sigh and accept his gift, unwilling to make a scene on your final day.
❋ And for all your complaints, you grudgingly have to admit that it is pretty. More than that, it’s actually useful in helping to keep your hair out of your face on particularly windy days.
❋ When Kaiser and the rest of Bastard München arrive at the Blue Lock facility for the Neo Egoist League, his smug grin is impossible to miss the moment he catches sight of that familiar bright blue glimmer in your hair. It's a moment of mortification on your part, but you absolutely refuse to let Kaiser see how much it bothers you.
( “I see you liked the gift.”
“. . .”
“What happened to you not wearing it, [ NAME ]?”
“Oh, shut up!” )
❋ Your only regret is how your complicated relationship with Kaiser now takes center stage amidst the Neo Egoist League. What with all the hidden cameras and the way that the Blue Lock players are staring at you, you’re fairly certain that you know what the gossip topic of the week will be.
— summary; in which nagi refuses to take of the ring you've given him, part 2 to this oneshot. set in the blue lock manager au.
— notes; please donate to my kofi if you like my content and and please commission me because im broke. kisses to everyone who reblogs.
❋ True to your word, you place an order for a pair of matching rings – something sleek, simple and understated. It’s nothing too fancy, just something to replace the cheap plastic one you’d previously given to Nagi.
❋ Nagi’s reaction is muted when you give it to him; he stares at the ring for a solid minute before sliding it on, mumbling, “. . . Cool. Thanks.”
❋ (Reo later tells you that in Nagi-speak, it’s basically code for: “I love it.”)
❋ Nagi becomes surprisingly attached to his new ring. He fidgets with it when he's bored, spins it on his finger when he’s thinking, and even admires how it sparkles whenever it catches the light. It’s a must-have now, and he never takes it off.
❋ And therein lies the problem.
❋ Rings are technically illegal to wear in football for safety reasons, but Nagi either doesn’t know that or just doesn’t care.
❋ One day, the eagle-eyed Chris Prince spots the forbidden accessory glinting in the sun, and practice immediately grinds to a halt. To his credit, Chris tries to handle the situation with his trademark charm and positivity. “Seishiro, what is that?”
❋ “It’s my ring. Why?” Nagi blinks lazily up at Chris.
❋ Cue Chris trying (and failing) to calmly explain FIFA regulations about jewellery. “It’s a safety hazard, Seishiro.”
❋ “Ehh? But why? It’s just a ring." Nagi drawls, obviously unimpressed with Chris’s rules.
❋ Chris, obviously aware of the cameras all trained upon him, struggles to maintain his signature megawatt smile. but the strain is so real. He’s practically vibrating with suppressed frustration. “It’s the rule!” His voice is an octave higher than usual, the veins on his temple almost popping, but his smile never falters.
❋ Taking pity on Chris, Reo beckons you over with a frantic wave of his hand. Nagi immediately perks up at the sight of you. “Oh, hey. Here,” he says, sliding the ring off his finger and onto yours without hesitation. “Hold onto it for me.”
❋ And then he trots back onto the field as though he hadn’t almost given Chris a stress-induced aneurysm.
❋ Chris stands frozen for a moment, his forced smile twitching dangerously. “It’s fine,” he mutters to himself under his breath, visibly trying to calm himself down before he returns to coaching, even though he looks moments away from tearing his perfect hair out. “It’s fine. He's just one player, Chris. Deep breaths.”
❋ The next day, Chris makes sure to hold a meeting about rules and regulations. The presentation includes a giant slide reading: NO RINGS ON THE FIELD.
