a/n: ty my babies for 1k, its been only a month andi have all of you, i literally love u guys sm. tysm for support!!! based on the votes & comments, i decided on him first but I'll try doing all of em<3
you're on your back, legs spread, bare against the sheets. vivian is between them, shoulders braced under your thighs, looking up at you.
"first time someone's done this to you?" he asks, voice low. his breath is already warm against your inner thigh.
you nod, a little lost already. everything feels too open, too exposed.
"okay." his hands settle on your hips, thumbs stroking slow circles. "just breathe okay?"
as you nod, he kisses the soft skin of your thigh first before going closer. when his mouth finally settles over you, the first press of his tongue is deliberate—flat, warm, tasting you in one long stroke from bottom to top.
your whole body jolts.
"a-ah..what—"
"easy," he murmurs against you. "just relax."
he does that thing again, slower this time. the wet heat of his mouth covers your clit, then slides lower, exploring. you're already slick with arousal and he makes a quiet sound of approval when he tastes it.
you try to speak, but the words scatter when he seals his mouth over your clit and sucks. he does it gently, your hips twitching up without permission. his hands hold you down, a disapproval sound escaping him.
after teasing for what felt like forever, he finally began. tongue circling your clit in slow, deliberate loops, then dipping lower to push inside you—shallow, tasting, learning what makes your breath hitch. every time you gasp or tense, he slows the pace or switches until he has you whining in pleasure.
"feel good?" he asks, lifting his head just enough to speak. you looked down at him, his chin is wet with your slick. you blushed at how shameless he was.
"yeah...its a lot. like..oh."
he cuts you off by dragging the flat of his tongue hard over your clit again. your thighs tremble around his head, a moan escaping you.
he focuses on your clit, sucking in a steady rhythm while one finger circles your entrance, not pushing in yet—just teasing, coating itself in how wet you are. when he finally slides that finger inside, your back arches off the bed, a whine slipping from you.
"vi..!"
"shhh..i've got you." his free hand squeezes your hip.
he curls his finger, searching until he finds the spot that makes your vision blur he stays there, rubbing in firm, steady strokes while his mouth works your clit without mercy. the dual sensation is overwhelming—wet heat and pressure and the low, constant sound of him eating you like he's starving for it drove you insane.
and just like that, you're gone. confused by how good it is, how your body keeps moving without your permission, how the pleasure keeps building in waves that don't stop. your hands find his hair, nails digging into his scalp until he winces, nibbling gently on your clit as payback.
"nghh..vi! more pleasse"
he obeys yours request and added a second finger, stretching you carefully, still licking and sucking like he has all the time in the world. your thighs shook around his head. every time you try to close them he just pushes them wider with his shoulders and keeps going.
"look at you," he murmurs, glancing up. "you're so responsive."
he grinned, leaning back down, his lips wrapping around your swollen clit again and sucks harder, fingers curling deep until the pressure finally snaps. your orgasm hits hard—confusing, full-body, almost too much. you cry out, hips jerking, thighs clamping around his head while he rides it out, tongue still working you through every pulse until you're trembling and oversensitive.
"t-too much!" you whined, tugging weakly against his hair as he still licked you through your orgasm. hugo finally eases up, licking his lips as he looked you with darkened eyes.
"did you like that, princess?"
you blinked, looking at him with a flush on your cheeks. "mhm.."
"good. now you're gonna learn how to give your boyfriend a blow job yeah?"
"o-okay.."
🏷: @rebuffedllama @steeldoll777 @wontyouever @mai-piess @valberryboos @bunnysxprincesa @toruii + @bloomflix @dearyisa (since u guys wanted him :p)
𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖ ☁︎ wearing his jersey ❨ new gen 11 x female reader ❩
vivian hugo
you had borrowed it without asking, though hugo probably knew the second he noticed it missing from his locker.
it was far too big on you, the sleeves hanging past your hands and the hem brushing against the middle of your thighs, making it look more like an oversized shirt than a football jersey.
it still carried the faint scent of fresh detergent mixed with the clean smell that always seemed to follow him after practice, and every time you caught it, you couldn't help but smile to yourself.
when hugo finally spotted you wearing it, he didn't stop walking or make a big deal out of it. his eyes lingered for only a second before quietly looking you over from head to toe, taking in how his last name stretched across your back and how you kept absentmindedly tugging the sleeves over your hands.
there wasn't any teasing, no dramatic reaction, just the smallest lift at the corner of his lips that disappeared almost as quickly as it came. somehow, that tiny expression meant more than any compliment he could have given.
he walked over as if nothing had happened, reaching up to smooth a wrinkle near your shoulder before gently pulling the collar straight. his hands were careful, almost automatic, making sure the jersey sat comfortably on you instead of awkwardly slipping to one side.
once he was finished, he gave your shoulder a light pat and quietly continued on his way, leaving you blinking after him until he paused a few steps later.
without turning around, he simply said, "keep it."
it wasn't because he didn't need another jersey. he had plenty. he just liked seeing you in something that belonged to him.
every time you wore it after that, whether you were waiting for him after training, curled up on the couch, or wandering around his apartment with the sleeves hiding your hands, hugo never said much. he'd only glance at you for a moment before his expression softened ever so slightly, a quiet kind of pride settling in his chest.
to everyone else, it was just his team jersey. to him, it looked exactly where it belonged.
michael kaiser
it had started as a problem you hadn't thought through very well.
laundry day had a habit of sneaking up on you, and by the time you finally dragged the overflowing basket into the washing machine, you realized every comfortable thing you owned was tumbling around inside with it. your pajamas, your favorite oversized hoodie, the shorts you always wore around the apartment—everything.
after searching every drawer twice in hopes you had forgotten something clean, you let out a quiet sigh before your eyes landed on the back of one of michael's jerseys hanging neatly in the closet.
it was the only thing left.
when you pulled it over your head, it swallowed you whole. the fabric slipped past your hips, the sleeves falling well beyond your wrists, and the neckline rested just enough against your collarbone that you kept tugging it back into place without thinking.
it smelled like him, faint traces of his cologne mixed with freshly washed cotton, and despite only meaning to wear it until your clothes finished drying, you found yourself curling up on the couch with a book, completely forgetting you were still wearing it.
michael came home much earlier than expected.
the sound of the front door opening made you glance up for only a second before returning to your page, assuming he'd head straight to the bedroom. instead, the apartment became strangely quiet.
when you finally looked over again, he was standing just inside the living room, one hand still resting on the strap of his bag as his blue eyes stayed fixed on you. for one rare moment, the usually confident striker looked completely caught off guard.
his jersey.
his name stretched across your shoulders, the oversized fabric making you look impossibly smaller than you already were, and somehow seeing something that represented him worn so casually by you made his chest tighten in a way he hadn't expected.
he had imagined it before—more than once, if he were being honest—but reality was somehow even better.
you immediately noticed where his attention was and looked down at yourself with an embarrassed laugh. "all my clothes are in the wash."
that was all the explanation he needed.
a grin slowly spread across his face, the kind that started off smug before melting into something much softer.
he crossed the room without another word, stopping right in front of you before gently tugging at the bottom of the jersey between his fingers as if he were admiring it. then he leaned down, pressing an affectionate kiss against your forehead before quietly mumbling that maybe laundry day should happen more often.
from then on, he'd "accidentally" leave one or two jerseys folded on your side of the closet.
he never admitted why, pretending they were simply easier to find there, but every time he walked through the apartment and caught you wearing one while making breakfast, folding clothes, or simply waiting for him to come home, he found himself smiling before he even realized it. no expensive outfit or designer dress ever managed to steal his attention the way his own jersey did.
seeing his name across your back felt oddly personal, almost possessive in the gentlest way, and if anyone asked where another one of his jerseys had disappeared to, he'd only shrug with a satisfied smile. everyone knew exactly where it had gone.
sae itoshi
the stadium was louder than anything you had ever experienced, thousands of voices crashing together every time the ball moved down the field, camera flashes lighting up the stands almost as often as the floodlights themselves.
you sat quietly among the crowd wearing sae's jersey, the oversized fabric slipping over your hands every time you pulled the sleeves down, his name resting across your shoulders where anyone paying enough attention could recognize it.
you hadn't thought much of it when you put it on that morning. it was comfortable, it smelled faintly like him after being washed, and it made you feel a little closer to him while he was out there.
sae noticed almost immediately.
he always scanned the stands before kickoff, never for long, never obviously, but enough to ground himself before the match began.
among thousands of faces, yours stood out without any effort.
maybe it was because he already knew exactly where you were sitting, or maybe it was because seeing his own jersey on you caught him completely off guard. for only a second, his usually unreadable expression softened, his eyes lingering just a little longer before he turned away to finish warming up as if nothing had happened.
to everyone else, it looked like another routine glance toward the crowd. to you, it was enough.
the match itself was exactly what everyone expected from itoshi sae. every touch was precise, every pass perfectly placed, every movement calm even under relentless pressure.
commentators praised his composure while the cameras constantly searched for his reactions, but they never found much. his face stayed as unreadable as ever, giving away nothing to the millions watching from home.
what they didn't catch was the brief moment after the final whistle.
as his teammates celebrated around him, sae's eyes drifted toward the stands again, finding you almost instantly. you were already smiling despite the distance between you, clapping harder than anyone around you, the sleeves of his jersey bouncing with every movement.
his shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly, and although his expression barely changed, the corner of his mouth lifted into the smallest smile before disappearing just as quickly. it lasted no more than a heartbeat, but for someone like sae, it was everything.
later, once the stadium had begun to empty and the noise had faded into the background, you waited near the players' exit where families and loved ones usually gathered. sae stepped through the doors still carrying the exhaustion of ninety minutes on his shoulders, his hair slightly damp and his jersey sticking to him after the match. his gaze found you immediately.
he didn't comment on the result. he didn't comment on the reporters still calling his name.
instead, he stopped in front of you, looked at the jersey you were wearing one more time, and quietly reached up to straighten the collar where it had folded inward. his fingers lingered for only a second before dropping back to his side.
"it suits you," he said simply.
coming from anyone else, they would've been ordinary words.
coming from sae, they felt like the highest compliment he could give.
he walked beside you toward the car afterward, his hand finding yours without thinking. every so often, he'd glance at you from the corner of his eye, catching sight of his name across your back whenever the wind shifted the fabric.
he never admitted it aloud, but something about seeing you wearing his jersey after one of his matches settled the exhaustion in his chest faster than any victory ever could. it reminded him that no matter how loud the stadium became or how many people filled the stands, the only person he ever looked for was already waiting for him.
julian loki
every summer, loki's club hosted a charity event for children from local communities, turning one of the training grounds into something that barely resembled a professional football facility.
inflatable games replaced practice equipment, small football clinics were held across every corner of the field, players signed shirts and boots for hours, and families filled the stands just to watch their favorite athletes interact with the kids away from the pressure of official matches. despite his busy schedule, loki never missed it.
no matter how exhausting the season had been, this was one event he always made time for.
you had volunteered weeks earlier after the club reached out for extra help. by the morning of the event, staff members hurried around trying to organize hundreds of guests, and one coordinator quickly handed you a folded jersey with your volunteer badge attached to it.
"we're out of the staff shirts," they apologized with an embarrassed smile. "the players donated some extras for the volunteers. hope that's okay."
you didn't think much of it until you unfolded it. and it was loki's.
his number was printed across the back, his name stretching neatly above it, and before you could even ask if they had another one, someone was already calling your name from across the field because another group of children had arrived.
with no time left to change into anything else, you slipped it over your clothes and hurried off to work.
for the next several hours, you barely had a second to yourself. one moment you were helping little kids lace up borrowed boots before their mini matches, the next you were kneeling beside a crying little girl who had scraped her knee after tripping over a football.
you tied balloons onto benches, passed out lunches, wiped melted ice cream from tiny faces, and clapped louder than anyone whenever a child proudly showed off a goal they had scored against one of the academy coaches.
somewhere between all the laughter and endless running around, you completely forgot whose jersey you were wearing.
loki noticed almost immediately.
he had just finished signing a stack of footballs when his eyes wandered across the crowd, searching for the next group of children waiting in line. instead, they landed on you.
his jersey hung loosely on your frame, the sleeves covering half your hands while you crouched down to help a little boy retie the ribbon on the medal he had just won. his last name was printed across your shoulders, easy to recognize even from where he stood.
he couldn't stop staring for a second.
one of his teammates followed his gaze before breaking into a knowing smile. "looks good on them."
loki only hummed quietly, but the small smile that appeared on his face answered enough.
later that afternoon, one of the photographers asked all the volunteers to gather for a group picture alongside the players. you almost slipped away, figuring you didn't belong in the front, but one of the staff members waved you over anyway.
before you could choose a spot near the end of the line, loki casually stepped beside you as though it had happened by chance.
the camera flashed several times while children crowded around the players, laughing and holding up signed footballs. every now and then, your shoulder brushed against his. neither of you moved away.
when the event finally came to an end and families slowly began leaving the grounds, you started helping fold tables and carry equipment back inside. only then did you remember the jersey.
you hurried over to loki with an apologetic smile, carefully holding it out toward him after changing back into your own shirt.
"thanks for letting me borrow it."
he looked at the folded jersey in your hands before looking back at you.
"i wasn't."
you blinked.
he let out the quietest laugh. "they never asked."
before you could apologize for wearing it all day, he gently pushed the jersey back toward you.
"keep it." you frowned. "are you sure?" he nodded without a second thought. "it made the day a little better."
it wasn't because it was expensive or because he had dozens of others waiting in his locker. it was because every time he had looked across the field that afternoon, he had found you smiling in something that carried his name while making hundreds of children laugh.
somehow, out of everything that happened during the charity event, that was the moment he knew he'd remember long after the season was over.
don lorenzo
lorenzo had a habit of disappearing after matches.
while the rest of the team lingered for interviews, celebrated with supporters, or spoke with reporters, he usually slipped away toward the tunnel the second his responsibilities were finished. everyone assumed he simply wanted to avoid the cameras, and for the most part, they were right.
except on the days you came. which those were different.
you had arrived later than expected after getting caught in traffic, only making it to the stadium a few minutes before kickoff. in your rush, you had forgotten the jacket you'd planned to bring, leaving you shivering every time the evening wind swept through the stands.
by halftime, one of the club staff noticed and quietly disappeared before returning with an apologetic smile.
"lorenzo asked if you'd wear this." they handed you his warm-up jersey. and it was still slightly warm.
you stared at it for a moment before pulling it over your clothes, immediately sinking into the oversized fabric. the sleeves covered your hands completely, the collar slipped comfortably around your neck, and the warmth left behind from when he had worn it hadn't completely disappeared yet.
it felt less like borrowing clothing and more like borrowing a piece of him.
you never realized the television cameras had noticed.
throughout the second half, they occasionally caught you celebrating from the stands, smiling whenever lorenzo made another impossible defensive stop.
before long, social media was flooded with screenshots of you wearing his jersey, fans already joking that he'd somehow managed to smile more during this match than he had all month.
when the game finally ended, you waited near the tunnel with everyone else. the second lorenzo stepped out, still laughing with a teammate, his eyes found you almost instantly.
he stopped walking. his grin somehow grew even wider. his golden grills brighting you.
without caring that half the stadium staff could still see him, he wandered straight over, tilted his head for a moment as if admiring his own jersey on you, then reached over and lightly tugged at one of the oversized sleeves.
"looks expensive."
you laughed, looking down at it. "i was told to give it back." he looked genuinely confused. "who told you that?"
"one of the staff." he snorted. "they don't make that decision."
before you could protest, he casually slung an arm over your shoulders and began leading you toward the parking lot as though the conversation had already ended.
"it's yours now." you blinked. "lorenzo, this is one of your match warm-ups."
"yeah."
"aren't those important?" he shrugged. "not anymore."
to everyone else, it probably looked like another one of lorenzo's impulsive decisions. but the equipment manager wasn't surprised in the slightest.
he'd watched lorenzo ask for that exact jersey before the match instead of wearing a newer one. he'd watched him quietly tell a staff member where you were sitting during halftime. he'd watched him pretend it was a spontaneous idea when, in reality, he'd planned the whole thing from the moment he noticed you'd forgotten something warm.
he just didn't want you to be cold. he'd never admit that part aloud, of course.
instead, every time he caught you wearing it afterward—whether you were making coffee in the morning, curled up on the sofa, or opening the front door for him after training—he'd flash that unmistakable golden grin before dramatically announcing that you were lucky to own something so valuable.
the truth was much simpler. which was he liked seeing his name beside yours.
and if that meant finding excuses to leave more jerseys in your closet, then somehow another one always seemed to go "missing" after every season.
bunny iglesias
the date had been circled on both of your calendars for weeks, which was exactly why everything seemed determined to go wrong the moment the day finally arrived.
the outfit you had spent nearly an hour putting together was ruined less than twenty minutes before bunny was supposed to pick you up after you accidentally knocked an entire glass of iced coffee across the front of it, leaving dark stains that no amount of cold water was going to fix in time.
with your bedroom looking like a disaster from searching through every drawer and hanger you owned, panic slowly started settling in as you realized nothing else felt right.
everything was either too formal, too casual, or still sitting in the washing machine from the night before. after another frustrated glance around your room, your eyes landed on the jersey bunny had quietly handed you after one of his matches a few weeks earlier, telling you to keep it because he thought it suited you more than it suited him.
it was folded neatly over the back of your chair, and without giving yourself enough time to overthink it, you slipped it over your head. the oversized fabric immediately swallowed your frame, the sleeves falling over your hands while the hem reached far enough that it looked more like an oversized dress than sportswear.
you paired it with shorts hidden underneath and a pair of sneakers, quietly hoping he wouldn't think you had forgotten how important tonight was.
when the door finally opened, you barely had enough confidence to look him in the eyes.
you were already halfway through apologizing before he had even stepped inside, explaining between nervous laughs that your original outfit had been ruined and that this had only been a last minute solution because you hadn't known what else to wear.
bunny, however, wasn't listening very closely anymore. the second he saw you standing there wearing his jersey, his thoughts seemed to disappear entirely. his name stretched across your chest, the familiar number resting against your thighs as the oversized sleeves hid your hands every time you nervously fidgeted with the fabric.
for someone who always seemed to have something playful to say, he became unusually quiet, simply taking in the sight for a few long seconds before the widest, most genuine smile slowly spread across his face. there wasn't even the smallest hint of disappointment that you hadn't worn something dressier.
if anything, he looked happier than he probably would've been if you had shown up wearing the outfit you'd originally planned.
he stepped closer without saying much, gently fixing the collar where it had folded inward before smoothing an imaginary wrinkle near your shoulder, the careful movement making it obvious he was trying to hide just how much he liked seeing you dressed in something that belonged to him.
the rest of the evening felt almost effortless after that. the two of you wandered through quiet streets filled with little cafés and brightly lit storefronts, stopping whenever something caught your attention, sharing desserts with two forks instead of ordering separate ones, laughing over silly souvenirs neither of you needed, and taking blurry photos together that neither of you planned on deleting.
every now and then, someone recognized bunny, politely asking for a quick picture before wishing him luck for the rest of the season.
almost every single person glanced toward you afterward, their eyes naturally drifting to the jersey you were wearing before soft smiles spread across their faces as if they had quietly pieced everything together themselves.
bunny always noticed it. he noticed the double takes, the knowing smiles, the way people looked between the two of you before continuing on with their day, and instead of looking embarrassed or brushing it off, there was a quiet sense of pride in the way he stood just a little closer to you afterward.
he never pointed it out, never teased you for wearing it, but every so often you'd catch him looking at you instead of whatever was in front of him, his expression softening each time he noticed the oversized sleeves slipping over your hands or the way you absentmindedly tugged at the hem whenever you grew shy.
by the time the date came to an end and he walked you back to your front door, the jersey no longer felt like the emergency outfit you'd thrown on in a panic.
somehow, it had become part of every memory the two of you had made that night.
it carried the faint scent of the café you'd visited, a tiny smear of powdered sugar from the pastry you'd shared, and the warmth of the evening air after hours spent walking side by side.
as you reached for the hem, ready to apologize once more and promise to wash it before giving it back, bunny gently stopped you before you could pull it over your head.
his hand rested lightly around your wrist for only a second before he quietly shook his head, his smile softer now than it had been all evening. he told you to keep wearing it for a little longer, saying it looked exactly where it belonged, and the look on his face made it obvious he meant every word.
he had dozens of jerseys tucked away at home from seasons, matches, and training sessions that fans would probably pay a fortune to own, yet none of them had ever looked as valuable to him as the one hanging loosely from your shoulders.
from that night forward, whenever he thought back to your first real date together, he never remembered the restaurant, the desserts, or even the conversations that made the hours disappear.
the first thing that always came to mind was opening your front door and finding you standing there wearing his jersey, looking embarrassed over something he secretly thought was perfect from the very beginning.
teddy knight
you had spent the afternoon at his apartment while he sorted through old match footage on his laptop, occasionally asking for your opinion even though you knew he had already made up his mind before pressing play.
eventually boredom settled in, and while he was distracted with football, you wandered into his room looking for something comfortable to throw on after changing out of your clothes.
hanging neatly inside his closet was one of his jerseys, freshly washed and still carrying the faint scent of fabric softener.
without giving it much thought, you slipped it over your head simply because it was comfortable, the oversized fit reaching your thighs while the sleeves swallowed your hands.
it wasn't meant to make a statement or get his attention. if anything, you completely forgot you were wearing it by the time you wandered back into the living room, grabbing a drink from the kitchen before curling up on the couch like nothing was different.
teddy, noticed immediately.
he looked up from his laptop after hearing you walk back into the room, and for a moment his brain completely abandoned whatever match he had been analyzing.
his eyes stayed on you far longer than either of you realized, quietly taking in the way his jersey looked hanging off your frame, his last name stretching across your shoulders whenever you turned around, and the absentminded way you kept pulling the sleeves over your fingertips while scrolling through your phone.
a slow smile spread across his face before he even realized he was smiling, and without saying a single word, he reached for his own phone resting beside him.
you were too distracted to notice until you heard the familiar shutter sound, making you immediately look up in confusion.
teddy simply lowered his phone with the most satisfied expression imaginable, clearly pleased with whatever picture he'd managed to take while you were sitting there completely unaware.
you immediately asked to see it, convinced he had caught you making some ridiculous face, but the second he turned the screen toward you, your complaints disappeared.
the photo was surprisingly simple. you were sitting sideways on the couch with one leg tucked underneath you, lazily holding your drink while sunlight from the apartment windows spilled across the room, making the oversized jersey stand out against everything else.
you hadn't been posing, smiling for the camera, or even looking at him. you had just been existing, comfortable enough to forget he was watching.
somehow, that made the picture feel even more special. before you could tell him not to, teddy was already typing something with one hand, uploading the photo to his story with no dramatic caption, no explanation, just a small white heart and your figure wearing his jersey.
within minutes his phone began buzzing nonstop as teammates, friends, and supporters flooded the post with reactions, all of them immediately recognizing whose jersey you were wearing. teddy only laughed quietly every time another notification appeared, completely unbothered by the attention.
you buried your face in the sleeves the moment you realized thousands of people had already seen the picture, insisting he could have at least warned you first, but every ounce of embarrassment disappeared the second you looked over and saw how genuinely happy he seemed.
there wasn't any hidden motive behind posting it or any attempt to show off. he simply thought you looked cute wearing something that belonged to him and wanted to share the moment exactly as it happened.
later that evening, after the notifications had finally started slowing down, you caught him looking back at the photo again instead of the comments underneath it.
he zoomed in just enough to admire the tiny details no one else would ever notice, the way the oversized sleeves covered your hands, the sleepy expression on your face, and how naturally his jersey seemed to belong on you.
long after the story disappeared the next day, the picture stayed safely saved in his favorites, becoming one of those photographs he found himself smiling at whenever he missed you, because out of every polished picture the two of you had ever taken together, his favorite would always be the one where you weren't trying at all.
shidou ryusei is surprisingly good when it comes to warding away creeps.
aside from the sheer fact that he’s an eyeliner-wearing, ombre-hair-having, 6-foot-something man, he’s also immune to embarrassment. the concept of shame is something he’s never learned, nor will he ever bother to.
“hey, sexy. you tryna get out of here or what?” a man approaches you at the bar as you order a drink, making you sigh.
you’re already thinking of all the ways you’d love to reject this random before shidou beats you to it.
“careful, man, her dog bites,” he says, sipping his drink.
the man huffs, “what fucking dog?”
“this one,” he says before barking loudly, chomping down on his teeth as he walks closer to the man, “ruff, ruff! ggrrr, woof woof!”
ugh, and does he have to do mimick those pawing gestures too? fucking furry.
he scoffs and chuckles as the man runs away in shame, then proceeds to look at you as if he were expecting validation.
you roll your eyes and cross your arms, “you’re so weird.”
“damn, i did all that and i didn’t even a “good boy” out of it?” he asks, palm finding its way to rest against your hip.
you cup his face and leave a peck on his cheek, “good job, puppy.”
A/n: Just me simping for these guys, and go check out the masterlist and enjoy!!
Featuring: Yoichi Isagi, Meguru Bachira, Rin Itoshi, Michael Kaiser and Sae Itoshi
YOICHI ISAGI
• Okay so, I know I will sound like a basic bitch but srs just how hot is that personality switch from off the field and on the field is??
• and I feel like that will be true for y'all too.
• bro will still shutter months in the relationship, but after a winning match he will kiss you so boldly in front of the camera that you will be the one shuttering.
• but it's due to adrenaline rush and will go back to the sweet guy and will be blushing seeing the footage of the kiss later lmao
• Other than that, he's just plain cute all the time. It's unfair how a man can be THAT cute and still hot at the same time.
• and what TRULY cemented with me was how he was looking in the rain in the 2nd ending song of s1
• I can get lost in those eyes frrr 😭
MEGURU BACHIRA
• my first impression of him was "aww he's adorable I bet he is one of those golden retriever types—" OMG HE KICKED KIRA SO HARD!!!
• Don't get me wrong, he still is the golden retriever. but like. a dangerous one at that. he can and WILL bite. I like that 🥰
• I can TOTALLY imagine him just randomly go from planting playful, sweet kisses all over your face to a rough makeout session in 2 seconds.
• if that's not hot i dunno what is
• then there's the way he's always ready for a fight. but then gets calm in 2 seconds, that's so mature guys!!! again I like that 🥰
• also anime specific, but in season 1 his arms just feel...different than others. Like a good kind of different. more lean maybe??? and he streched them out reaaaaaal good 😝
RIN ITOSHI
• first things first. The way he flips his hair. I could go on about how hot that is for days and still not be done.
• i can't tell you how MUCH I need him to do this hair flip again in the wc arc. you have no idea 💔
• Of course, there's the eyes. it doesn't help that they're my favorite colour, nor does the pretty, pretty eyelashes. rin really needs to stop taking those for granted damnit
• HIS THIGHS IN THAT WORKPUT SCENE OMGGG I WANNA GO ON AND ON BUT— alas, this post is pg nsfw version when???
• just know that if I am his gf, I will find ALL sorts of excuses to get on his lap/or just touch them— don't judge me you will too!!!
• And of course, his personality. It's a blessing. You know why? Because once he has those beautiful eyes set on you, Rin is too obsessed to even take a glance at others.
MICHAEL KAISER
• Again at the risk of sounding like basic bitch....THAT TATTOO AND THAT HAIR OMG I CANT EVEN—
• I am just so glad the tattoo with so much hidden meaning also just ended up looking hot as fuck 🥰 why yes I am shallow as fuck why do you ask??
• At same time, I mourn that tragic haircut like all the others. i mean it's not THAT bad, but it could have been soooo much better.
• like bro. I swear I took one look at the current look and thought "huh that's not so bad I dunno why people complain so much"
• THEN I SAW THE HAIR BEFORE THE HAIRCUT. Goddamn. Screw you Ness, screw you!
• His personality....could use a LOT of work though. But I don't think he is THAT bad.
• Yes yes, manipulating people and all but I have a feeling that if he truly cares about you, then he'll never be cruel intentionally. A little sadist, sure, but not enough to truly hurt.
SAE ITOSHI
• Honestly, for the longest time, I really couldn't appreciate Sae's character nor his personality lol
• Until Bunny's introduction and I read his interviews, that is. Like I dunno, in the interviews we finally got to know that being nonchalant...is just one of his personality traits? That he actually does FEEL amusement and anger and stuff
• I dunno how to explain it, but now, he seems the kind of guy who just says whatever the hell comes on his mind (or anything which is needed to be said) and like. how hot is that.
• Now, looking back, his interactions with others are kinda funny. Mostly funny except for with Rin's ofc 😭
• I know I'm a weirdo And other than that, the selfcare isdoes for his skin and health and stuff is really nice. Like I would LOVE to do my skincare routine with him.
• Then the fact his fav show is slice of life made my entire day. As someone who loves slice-of-life, stuff you watch with family kind of anime, I feel...validated lol
• Also even if you don't like 'em, you can't deny its the CUTEST thing abt him.
• Also I could think he will just randomly just say the most romantic, heart clutching words just because he thinks it and not out of flattery is just my God—
sae itoshi x female model!reader social media au. 18+ mdni. in light of a scandal you have no choice but to contact an old acquaintance to save your blossoming career as a model from imploding in on itself. sae is, as you can imagine, less than pleased by the idea of parading a fabricated relationship in front of masses of media outlets, but his own circumstances don’t leave him much of a choice.
cw: foul language, canontypical shidou behavior, mentions of body image issues and disordered eating, parental/family issues, eventual smut (will be tagged appropriately), written parts will be marked, tags will be added as i go along (if i miss anything let me know)
summary: Avoiding Vivian Hugo takes strategic planning and precise hall routes, all because his crimson hair triggers an instinctual, alarm-bell reaction tied to your toxic ex. But when Hugo directly confronts your avoidance tactics with quiet, unshakeable philosophical logic, your carefully built defenses begin to crumble.
word count: 4,622
warning(s): past relationship trauma, slowburn (idk if it can even be considered slowburn if it's only 4.6k words), high school au, (Name)'s friends are named Rose and Julie for plot reasons, ooc, reader denies their feelings, mild angst with a happy ending, lmk if I missed anything!
a/n: icl this is just 4.6k words of pure bullshit, I just keep adding on to scenes to the point it kinda drags on imo + it turned out more philosophical than I thought
It was irrational, absurd, and downright dumb—at least, that’s what you kept telling yourself as you navigated the crowded high school courtyard during lunch.
You were a rational, high-achieving student. You didn't make decisions based on superstitious nonsense or petty biases. Yet here you were, executing a strategic, multi-step detour around the central fountain just to avoid Vivian Hugo.
The reason was completely unfair to him, and you knew it. Hugo had the exact same sharp, angular jawline, the same tall, unbothered posture, and—most damaging of all—the exact same fiery red hair as your ex-boyfriend. Every time Hugo entered your field of vision, your brain hit a massive alarm bell, flooding you with a mix of leftover resentment and instinctual dread: Danger. Abort. Turn back.
The worst part was that you actually kind of liked him. Behind his quiet, solemn exterior, Hugo possessed an undeniable, magnetic grace. On the soccer field, he played like a grandmaster playing chess—observant, deliberate, and entirely unflappable. But your psychological scarring refused to cooperate. Avoiding him was the only logical defense mechanism left in your toolkit.
"If you hug those textbooks any tighter, you're going to squeeze the ink right off the pages," a voice teased as you finally slid into an empty seat at your regular courtyard table.
You snapped out of your hyper-vigilant trance, letting out a breath you didn't realize you were holding. Your two closest friends were already sitting across from you, munching on their lunches with infuriatingly smug expressions.
"I'm just reviewing my notes for AP Literature," you lied smoothly, adjusting your necktie and trying to look composed.
"Right, 'notes'," Rose scoffed, nudging her lunchbox aside. "You were doing that frantic, perimeter sweep again. Face it, you were scanning for Hugo. You have a massive, undeniable weakness for redheads. It’s a literal pattern with you."
"It is not a pattern," you hissed, feeling a sudden, burning flush creep up your neck. "My past... poor choices in middle school have zero bearing on my current life."
"Uh-huh. So if we lined up every guy-" "-And girl!" Julie cut Rose off, earning a scowl in return and a small "I was getting to that..."
"And girl you've ever found attractive, it wouldn't look like a walking crimson tide?"
"Drop it," you groaned, dropping your head into your hands. "Look, Hugo is... impressive. He’s brilliant on the field and obviously smart. But personally? I dislike him. I actually can't stand being around him."
It was a blatant, dirty lie. Deep down, a knot of guilt tightened in your stomach. But if claiming to dislike him kept your friends from pushing you toward him—and kept you safely away from that walking trigger of a hairstyle—you were willing to carry the secret to graduation.
"A lie spoken to quiet the mind rarely quiets the heart."
What the fuck.
A deep, calm, slightly accented voice broke through the chatter behind you.Your heart dropped straight into your stomach. You froze, every muscle in your body locking up as you slowly turned your head toward the end of the stone bench.
Standing there, holding an open hardcover book in one hand, was Vivian Hugo. His vibrant red hair fell loosely over his forehead, contrasting sharply with the immaculate, crisp fold of his school blazer. His long eyelashes framed his dark, piercing eyes completely devoid of anger or mockery. He simply stood there, composed and still, looking down at you like an observer contemplating a subtle shift in the cosmos.
Your friends took one look at his quiet, intimidating presence, exchanged a brief look of sheer panic, and stood up in unison.
"Oh, look at the time! We forgot we have to... clear our tardy passes with the office!" Julie stammered, grabbing the other’s wrist and practically sprinting away toward the main building, abandoning you completely.
Traitors. Utter traitors.
A heavy, quiet calm settled over the table. Hugo didn't rush. He pulled out the bench opposite you and sat down with effortless poise, placing his book gently onto the cool stone surface. The afternoon breeze rustled the pages slightly, revealing it to be blank. But his gaze remained fixed entirely on you—unhurried, heavy, and profound.
"Dislike," Hugo repeated softly, testing the word as if analyzing its weight. His voice was low, smooth, and entirely unbothered. "An interesting choice of words for someone who alters their walking route by precisely three minutes every single afternoon just to avoid crossing my path."
You swallowed hard, forcing your shoulders to drop and trying desperately to channel your inner composure. "Hugo! I didn't realize you were sitting behind us..."
"Clearly," he said, a faint, almost imperceptible curve touching the edge of his lips before disappearing back into his usual stoic mask. "Or perhaps you did know, and your subconscious dictated the script. People often claim they act out of free will, yet they spend their entire lives running down tracks that were laid out long before they were born."
'He's fucking crazy. What the hell did I even see in him? Definitely not his crazy good looks or his blunt and often charming attitude or the fact that he's sorta good with kids or that he sometimes slip out silly onomatopoeia's when he's on field... Oh just shut up!'
He leaned forward slightly, breaking your train of though as he rest his hands casually on the table. The proximity was intoxicating and terrifying all at once. Up close, the physical resemblance to your past was undeniable, but the energy Hugo radiated was entirely different. Where your ex was loud, chaotic, and volatile, Hugo was an anchor—steady, quiet, and deeply analytical.
"I don't hate you," you admitted softly, deciding that lying to a guy who spoke like a philosopher was a losing battle. You met his intense, calm gaze head-on. "I just... think it's better if we keep our distance."
Hugo blinked slowly, digesting your words without a single flicker of offense.
"Distance is an illusion of space," he murmured, his voice carrying a quiet authority that made the ambient noise of the courtyard fade into nothing. "You think you are running away from me because of what I represent to you. You see a shadow of something old, something broken, and you mistake the reflection for the reality."
You stiffened slightly, surprised by how accurately he had pierced through your defenses without even knowing the full story.
"You don't know anything about my past," you countered quietly.
"I don't need to know the details to recognize a pattern," Hugo replied, his tone entirely void of arrogance, offering it merely as a matter-of-fact observation. "You fight so hard to control the narrative, to keep yourself safe behind invisible walls. But fate doesn't respect walls, chérie. The universe has a strange way of placing the exact thing you are running from directly in your path until you learn to face it."
He slowly closed his book, the soft thud sounding like the finality of a gavel.
"I am not your past," Hugo said, his dark eyes locking onto yours with an absolute, unwavering certainty that made your pulse race. "And no matter how many detours you take through these hallways, our paths will continue to cross. It isn't a coincidence. It's destiny."
He stood up smoothly, adjusting his blazer, leaving you sitting there, entirely breathless.
"Enjoy your lunch," Hugo added quietly, giving you a slight, respectful nod before turning to walk away. "I'll see you tomorrow. You can try taking the east hallway if you like... but I'll be there, too."
You watched him walk away, restraining the urge to reach out for him. You gulp, feeling yourself get lightheaded. As nerve-wracking as the whole interaction was, you couldn't help but feel a bit giddy. You haven't felt that way ever since your last relationship. Or perhaps you did.
Perhaps you felt that way when you were around Hugo.
If you were unsure before, now you know—or rather, now you acknowledge (begrudgingly so) that you are irrevocably, undeniably and beyond doubt doomed.
The walk to your afternoon AP Literature class felt like moving through wet cement. Hugo’s words echoed in your ears with a strange, reverberating weight.
Distance is an illusion of space.
It was infuriatingly poetic. Most guys in high school, if accused of being disliked, would either get defensive, make a joke, or sulk. Hugo had simply disassembled your coping mechanism and handed it back to you with a quiet, undeniable truth attached.
By the time the final bell rang, signaling the end of the school day, you were exhausted. You took your time packing your bag, waiting for the hallways to clear out so you wouldn't risk another "accidental" encounter. You sling your backpack over your shoulder and stepped out into the quiet, sun-dappled corridor.
The air was still, save for the faint sound of distant chatter and the squeak of sneakers from the indoor gymnasium where the soccer team usually warmed up before heading to the fields.You took a deep breath, clutching the strap of your bag. 'Just make it to the main gate.'
"You're thirty minutes late leaving the building."
You nearly jumped out of your skin.
Standing by the exit doors, leaning lightly against the brick wall with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his school trousers, was Hugo.
Just your luck.
He had changed out of his blazer and tie, wearing only his crisp white collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing pale, lean forearms. His red hair caught the golden hour sunlight filtering through the glass doors, making him look almost ethereal—a stoic statue waiting out a storm.
"Are you following me?" you demanded, stopping dead in your tracks, your heart hammering against your ribs.
Hugo didn't move, though his gaze slowly shifted from the window to lock onto yours. "If a leaf falls from a tree and lands on the same riverbank every afternoon, is the river following the leaf? Or are they simply moving along the same current?"
You let out an exasperated sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. "Hugo, please. Stop speaking in riddles. I just want to go home."
"Then walk," he said quietly, pushing off the wall. He didn't close the distance between you; instead, he stepped toward the heavy glass doors and held one open, gesturing for you to pass. "I am not holding you hostage. I am merely walking in the same direction."
You hesitated, eyeing him suspiciously. But short of turning around and hiding in the library until dusk, you had no choice. You swallowed your pride and walked past him, carefully keeping a two-foot perimeter between your shoulders.
As you stepped out into the cool evening air, Hugo let the door swing shut behind him and fell into step alongside you. He matched your stride effortlessly, his posture relaxed, his dark eyes fixed on the horizon ahead.
For a few minutes, neither of you said a word. The silence wasn't tense, though—not on his end, at least. Hugo possessed a rare, heavy stillness that seemed to quiet the world around him.
"You're tense," Hugo observed quietly, breaking the silence without turning his head. "Your shoulders are drawn. Your pulse is visible in your throat. You look at me, and you see a ghost."
You stiffened, your boots clicking louder against the pavement. "I don't—""Do not lie to yourself," he interrupted gently, his voice smooth and unhurried. "It is an inefficient use of your mind. You look at the color of my hair, the shape of my face, and your mind resurrects a memory you haven't fully buried. You are reacting to a shadow from your yesterday, not the man standing beside you today."
You stopped walking. The raw accuracy of his words struck a chord so deep it made your throat feel tight. You turned to face him, your chest rising and falling heavily.
"And what if I am?" you blurted out, the frustration and embarrassment finally spilling over. "What if looking at you just reminds me of someone who hurt me? Someone who looked just like you, talked with the same confidence, and turned out to be a complete lie? Is it really that absurd that I want to keep my distance?"
Hugo stopped a few paces ahead. He turned around slowly, the golden light of the setting sun casting long shadows across the pavement.
There was no mockery in his expression. No pride, not even an ounce of hurt. Only an intense, unwavering stillness. He took two slow, deliberate steps toward you, stopping just outside your personal space—close enough that you could see the faint dark flecks in his eyes, but far enough that he wasn't crowding you.
"It is not absurd," Hugo said softly, his voice low and resonant. "It is human. You are trying to protect a heart that was once carelessly handled."
He tilted his head slightly, his red hair falling over his forehead.
"But consider this," Hugo continued, leaning in just an inch, his dark eyes locking onto yours with absolute sincerity. "A key and a piece of scrap metal may be made of the exact same iron. They may share the same weight, the same luster, the same color. Yet one is meant to destroy your peace, and the other is meant to unlock something entirely new."
Your breath caught in your chest. The sound of distant traffic faded away into static.
"I am not him," Hugo said, the words heavy with a quiet, undeniable certainty. "And no matter how many times your mind tries to project his face onto mine, destiny will prove otherwise. I did not enter your life to repeat a cycle. I am here to break it."
He stepped back, giving you air, his expression settling back into its calm, unreadable mask. If Hugo had the blessing to be yours, he's sure that he'd treat you better than whatever piece of trash managed to screw up the relationship. It was his destiny and he's sure that it was yours too. Now, it's only a matter of making you accept it.
"I'll walk you to the station," he said softly, turning back toward the street. "You don't have to talk to me. You don't even have to look at me. But I will be here."
You stood frozen on the sidewalk for three agonizing seconds before your legs reluctantly remembered how to function.He was infuriating. Beyond infuriating. How could someone sound so absurdly philosophical, so utterly sure of the universe's inner workings, and yet make your chest ache with a sudden, suffocating warmth?
Swallowing down the lump in your throat, you forced yourself to fall into step behind him. You kept a safe three feet of space between your shoulders, staring intently at the back of his crisp white shirt. The golden hour light caught the stray crimson strands of his hair, and for the first time all year, you didn't see your ex.
You just saw Vivian Hugo. A guy who apparently reads blank books, waits thirty minutes past school hours just to speak in metaphors about leaves and rivers, and holds a terrifyingly absolute conviction that the two of you were written in the stars.
"(Name), you're falling behind," Hugo said softly, not even bothering to turn around. "Is your mind heavy, or are your feet just slow?"
"My feet are fine," you muttered, hurrying up a few paces until you were walking beside him again. "I'm just trying to process the fact that I'm being escorted to the train station by a walking, talking philosophy textbook."
A tiny, almost microscopic twitch at the corner of his lips was his only reaction. "Philosophy is merely the art of naming what is already true. You call it a textbook; I call it reality."
'He's so performative it's almost cute—WHAT AM I THINKING?!'
"Right. And reality dictates that you have to follow me to my train?"
"I am not following you," Hugo corrected seamlessly, his hands remaining tucked loosely in his pockets. "We are simply two bodies traveling along converging vectors. To call it 'following' implies desperation. I am not desperate. I am patient. Time is on my side, after all."
You let out a breathy, dry laugh, shaking your head as you looked away. "You really don't lack confidence, do you?"
"Confidence implies uncertainty—a need to convince oneself of an outcome," he replied, his tone smooth, quiet, and completely unbothered. He slowed his pace slightly as you both approached the crosswalk, waiting for the pedestrian signal to change. "I do not need to convince myself of what is inevitable. The thread was tied the moment you looked at me and tried to run."
The light flashed green. Hugo didn't rush, taking long, measured strides across the painted lines."
You make it sound like I don't have a choice," you said, matching his pace, though your heart was doing erratic flips against your ribs. "What if I just keep running? What if I transfer schools? What if I take the bus instead of the train?"
Hugo paused just on the other side of the street, turning his head to look down at you. His dark eyes caught the fading sunlight, glowing with a quiet, profound intensity. "Chérie," he murmured, the French endearment slipping past his lips with such casual, effortless weight that it sent a shiver straight down your spine. "You can take the bus, the train, or a flight across the ocean. But a bird cannot outrun the sky. Whatever path you choose will simply lead you back to where you belong."
You stared at him, completely lost for words. Your brain hit an absolute dead end. A bird cannot outrun the sky? Who talks like this?!
And yet, as you looked at him standing there—so steady, so entirely unshakeable in his quiet devotion—the last lingering shadows of your past officially dissolved into dust. Your ex had been loud, fragile, and demanding. Hugo was an immovable force.
He didn't want to change you, or force you, or trick you. He was simply waiting for you to catch up to the future he had already envisioned.
The ambient hum of the train station echoed from down the street, signaling that your platform was only a block away.
"We're here," you said quietly, stopping near the entrance stairs that led down to the turnstiles.
Hugo stopped as well, turning to face you fully. The evening breeze rustled his crimson hair, framing his sharp, handsome face. He gave you a brief, respectful nod, stepping back to give you your space—a small, subtle gesture that proved he meant every word about respecting your boundaries.
"Until tomorrow," Hugo said softly.
"I'm taking the west hallway tomorrow morning," you blurted out before you could stop yourself, testing him. "The one by the chemistry labs."
The faintest, rarest trace of a genuine smile touched Hugo's lips—blink and you'd miss it, but it was undoubtedly there.
"Then I suppose I will suddenly have a sudden, urgent need to visit the chemistry wing," he replied smoothly, his tone laced with that calm, quiet certainty. "Have a safe ride home."
"Yeah... you too." He turned and began his slow, composed walk back down the street, leaving you standing at the top of the station stairs. Your fate was sealed. Hugo had you completely defeated, completely charmed, and utterly, irrevocably doomed.
The next morning, you actually took the west hallway.
You told yourself it was just to test if he was bluffing. You told yourself that an AP student like you was merely conducting a social experiment. But deep down—in the quiet, embarrassing corner of your brain—you knew the truth: you were looking for red hair. His red hair.
Sure enough, standing right outside Chemistry Lab B, leaning casually against a row of green lockers with a fresh textbook in hand, was Vivian Hugo.
The morning sunlight caught the crimson strands of his hair, casting a warm halo around him. When his dark, serene eyes met yours, he didn't grin, smugly wave, or strut over. He simply closed his book, gave you that quiet, respectful nod, and fell into step alongside you as if it were the most natural rhythm in the world.
"How punctual," Hugo observed softly, matching your stride down the hall. "The universe favors those who move in harmony with it."
"I am moving in harmony with my second-period class," you shot back, keeping your eyes dead ahead, though your pulse was already betraying you. "Not the universe."
"They are one and the same, chérie."
This became the pattern for the next two weeks.
Hugo didn't smother you. Somehow, he had gotten a hold on your phone number—likely the result of your two traitorous friends doing. But despite that, he didn't text you incessantly or make grand, embarrassing declarations in front of the whole school. Instead, he simply existed in your orbit with an unshakeable, gravitational persistence.
If you sat at a bench during free period, he would sit on the opposite end, quietly reading or analyzing match footage on his phone. If you dropped a highlighter in the library, his hand was already there, picking it up and handing it back with a low, unhurried "A temporary lapse in momentum."
He was infuriatingly consistent. And the worst part was that It was working. The shadow of your ex was completely gone, replaced entirely by this strange, stoic, overly poetic boy who treated you like a puzzle he had all the time in the world to solve.
"He came to us," Rose whispered aggressively across the cafeteria table on Friday, leaning so far forward her nose nearly dipped into her soup.
You paused, your spoon halfway to your mouth. "Who came to you?" You asked, even though you had an inkling on who they were talking about.
"Hugo!" Julie chimed in, practically vibrating with gossip. "Yesterday after school! He approached us near the track!"Your heart did a violent, unexpected somersault. You set your spoon down, trying to look unimpressed. "Why would Hugo talk to you two traitors?"
"Hey! We sprinted away from that bench for your benefit," Rose defended, pointing a chopstick at you. "And for the record, he didn't 'talk' to us. He held an entire diplomatic summit. He stood there, looking like a literal French statue, and asked us—in the most absurdly formal way possible—what your favorite things were."
You blinked. "He... what?"
"He asked," Julie mimicked, dropping her voice an octave and putting on a dramatic, serious face, "'I do not wish to breach her boundaries, yet I intend to make my presence a comfort rather than a trial. What brings genuine quiet to her mind?'"
Rose nodded frantically. "He literally spoke like a medieval knight trying to court a princess! We were terrified! We told him you like those iced matcha lattes from the cafe down the street and that you get stressed when your study flashcards get out of order."
You stared at your friends, completely speechless, a strange, prickling heat spreading all the way to the tips of your ears.
"You guys are absolute snitches," you muttered, burying your face in your hands.
"Hey, the man is dedicated!" Rose argued. "He’s way too handsome to be this sincere. You need to stop running. You're going to give yourself a shin splint from dodging destiny."
"You sounded just like Hugo!" "Yeah, well, maybe the words of that Hugo guy held some merit..."
"Girl, you don't gotta speak all fancy here! Did Hugo infect you with some disease?" Julie gasped, "or are you some kind of doppelganger?!"
You didn't have time to process their words before the final bell rang, releasing the school into the golden haze of a Friday afternoon.
You walked out to the courtyard, expecting to see him waiting by the exit as usual. But Hugo wasn't by the brick wall. He was sitting on the edge of the stone fountain in the center of the courtyard—the very fountain you had spent weeks strategically pathfinding around.
As you approached, he stood up. In his hand was a sweating plastic cup containing a light green drink, wrapped neatly in a napkin to catch the condensation.
He didn't say a word as you stopped in front of him. He simply extended his arm, offering the iced matcha latte.
You looked at the cup, then up into his dark, unwavering eyes. "Rose and Julie."
"They were informative," Hugo replied smoothly, his tone completely void of shame. "Though I suspect they exaggerated your fondness for matcha to secure one for themselves. I bought them two as compensation for their counsel."
A quiet, breathless laugh escaped your lips before you could stop it. You reached out and took the cup. The ice clinked softly against the plastic.
"You're unbelievable," you murmured, looking down at the drink. "You really don't give up, do you?"
"Giving up implies that the outcome is uncertain," Hugo said softly. He stepped half an inch closer, just enough that you could feel the steady, grounding warmth radiating from him. "I have told you before, chérie. Time is not our enemy. I am simply waiting for you to stop fighting a battle that ended long ago."
You bit the inside of your cheek, feeling the last remaining threads of your stubborn defense finally snap.
The fear of being hurt again, the ghost of your past, the silly prejudice against red hair—it all felt so small, so entirely irrelevant compared to the boy standing in front of you. Hugo hadn't forced his way past your walls; he had just stood outside them, patient and steady, until you realized you were the only one holding the gate shut.You took a slow sip of the matcha. It was perfect.
"You know," you said quietly, lowering the cup and finally looking him straight in the eyes without a single trace of avoidance, "for someone who claims to be guided by fate, you do a lot of manual labor to push it along."
For the first time since you met him, Hugo’s stoic mask completely broke.
A genuine, warm, utterly breathless smile spread across his face, crinkling the corners of his dark eyes and making him look strikingly, dangerously handsome.
"Destiny provides the canvas," Hugo murmured, his voice dropping into a soft, intimate register that sent a shiver down your spine. "It is up to us to paint the picture. Does this mean you are finally ready to stop taking the long way home?"
You sighed, a small, helpless smile tugging at your own lips as you shook your head.
"Yeah, Hugo," you admitted softly, feeling an overwhelming wave of relief wash over your chest. "I think I'm done running."
Hugo tilted his head, his crimson hair catching the last rays of the afternoon sun, his eyes shining with a quiet, triumphant light.
"Good," he said softly, extending his hand toward you, palm open, offering you the choice. And of course, like a fool—but we've already established that, haven't we?—you took his hand in yours.
Warmth flooded your sense as his fingers closed around yours. You realized that maybe being a fool was the only way to finally let yourself fall.
various x reader ; wc: 272 ; info: fluff, gn! reader ; notes: sorry this is so bootycheeks, gah. it was my bday the 22 so i decided to write smth but it took a long time since i had no motivation so this is me slowly getting out of writer's block ✶
“Happy birthday to you~”
You giggled at his tone-deaf high note before blowing out the candles.
“The music industry must be so lucky that you didn’t join ‘em, huh?”
“You know it, babe,” he winked.
“Well, time to cut the cake.”
“Look away.”
“Huh?”
He pointed behind you and repeated his words, “Look away, I have a surprise for you.”
Raising an eyebrow, you obliged and turned back. However, almost as soon as you did, he told you to look at him.
“That was fa—“
You turned when a big, fat piece of cake met your face and cut you off. Your mouth dropped at the audacity of his actions, a bit of chocolate getting into your mouth.
His giggling stopped when he saw the annoyed look on your face.
“Oh, babe, I’m—“
He wasn’t able to finish his words as he met the same fate as you, his entire face covered in mushy cake, and your hands already going back to scoop another piece of chocolatey goodness. He looked at you in shock before a mischevious look appeared on his face.
“Oh, it’s on!”
You both shrieked in laughter as cake began to fly across the room, getting on the furniture, walls and floor. You two were the main victims with hair, clothes, and skin getting covered in sweetness.
When there was no more cake, he pulled you close to him and whispered a small “Happy birthday to the most wonderful person I know” before pressing a kiss to your forehead.
You relished the sweet moment a bit before cutting the silence.
