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the devil you rival; ness, charles, sendou

blue lock: playmaker's choice | masterlist request by: can't remember if the person that requested it was anon or not (i think it wasn't anon), deleted the ask before checking so if you requested this ask pls lmk !! prompt: ness, charles, sendou + enemies to lovers a/n: feel free to read my series "all-star training" on wattpad, it's edited so the story flows nicer and there's also an extra five chapters not on tumblr of sae and reader's date

you can feel the stares before the ball even touches your foot.

bastard münchen’s training pitch hums with the precision of a machine-sharp passes, synchronized drills, every movement pre-calculated down to the breath. you step into that order like a spark landing in gunpowder.

the first touch is instinct. the second is art.

by the third, the field isn’t humming anymore, it’s watching.

you hear someone whistle, low and unimpressed.

“flashy,” a voice sings from your right. “but chaos doesn’t score goals here.”

alexis ness stands just a few paces away, expression painted in a polite smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. the mint-green streak in his hair gleams like a warning stripe.

you’ve seen him on screen, kaiser’s shadow, strategist, perfectionist. up close, he radiates the same unsettling calm as a scalpel laid neatly beside an open wound.

“guess we’ll see,” you reply, flicking the ball toward him. he traps it effortlessly, boots whispering over the grass. the grin he gives you is too sweet.

“careful,” he says. “i might start thinking you’re competing with me.”

“you’d lose sleep over that?”

“oh, i don’t sleep much anyway.”

the drill restarts before you can answer. you fall into the rhythm, but he shadows you like a phantom, intercepting passes, slipping into your lanes, dismantling every setup with surgical cruelty. each time you move, he’s already there.

and every time he steals the ball, he looks back at you, smug.

across the field, kaiser laughs, clapping ness on the shoulder after another perfect assist. “that’s my genius,” kaiser calls. “keep the tempo!”

the praise makes ness’s eyes flash. he glances at you, smile sharpening. you realize, in that instant, that he isn’t playing against you for fun. he’s defending something sacred.

by the time the whistle blows, sweat clings to your collar and the scoreboard shows your side down by two.

ness walks past, towel draped carelessly around his neck. “welcome to bastard münchen,” he murmurs. “try not to trip over your own hype.”

you tilt your head. “try not to choke on kaiser’s.”

for the first time, his smile falters, just a twitch, quick enough to hide. but you see it, and he knows you saw it.

the look he gives you after is the kind that doesn’t fade when you close your eyes: part warning, part intrigue.

he turns away, humming under his breath, and you swear the air itself tightens around him.

you’ve only been here an hour, and already alexis ness has decided you’re a problem.

he just doesn’t realize yet, you’ve decided the same about him.

♕♕♕

the next morning, the field feels different.

sharper. taut, like the string of a violin about to snap.

you’re stretching by the sideline when you notice ness already in position, eyes narrowed, scanning the players like a general calculating the first strike. his focus lands on you almost immediately. you catch the glance and smirk. he notices. good. let him notice.

the coach calls for drills, pairs assigned randomly. your fate is sealed: you and ness are partners.

the whistle blows, and chaos erupts.

you make a move, weaving through defenders, spinning past a tackle, only for ness to intercept your pass with a grin that’s just a little too sharp.

“you really think you can outmanoeuvre me?” he teases, voice low enough for only you to hear.

“i don’t think,” you fire back, spinning to dodge him. “i know.”

he lunges to cut you off, but you pivot at the last second, slipping past him. the ball slides just out of reach. he growls, chasing after you like a cat after a mouse. every step he takes is precise, yet there’s something almost wild in the way he moves when you push him this far.

“you’re… persistent,” he mutters, panting.

“you’re predictable,” you counter. and it’s true, he’s brilliant, but he relies on patterns. you exploit them effortlessly.

every pass, every manoeuvre, every snide remark becomes a game of one-upmanship. the other players fade into the background; it’s just you and him, locked in a dance neither of you is willing to yield.

after an hour, the drill ends, and you both lean over, hands on knees, breath ragged. you glance at him and catch a glimmer of something dangerous under his practiced composure.

ness wipes sweat from his brow, but his gaze doesn’t leave you. “you’re… different,” he admits, voice almost cautious.

“flattering,” you reply, chest heaving. “but careful. i bite.”

he smiles then, the one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and it makes your pulse skip. “good,” he says. “because i like a challenge.”

later, in the locker room, you can hear his voice trailing behind you as you pull off your gear. “kaiser notices everything,” he mutters to himself, almost unconsciously. “and i won’t let him notice you more than me.”

you pause mid-step, realizing just how seriously he’s taking you, not as a teammate, not as a rival, but as a threat.

and somewhere deep in your chest, a thrill ignites.

because ness isn’t just the enemy here.

he’s the only person who can push you this far.

and you’ve never met someone who challenges you like this.

♕♕♕

late afternoon, the field glows gold under the sinking sun. everyone else has left, exhausted from drills and scrimmages, but you and ness remain. somehow, neither of you can bring yourselves to stop.

he’s studying you. he watches your feet, your stance, your head tilt when you feint a pass. his chest tightens every time you beat him at a move he thought he had predicted.

“you’re… infuriating,” he mutters, voice low, as he blocks your shot yet again.

you smirk, brushing the sweat from your temple. “you like it.”

he freezes. “i don’t like anything that makes me lose control.”

but his pulse betrays him. his fingers tighten around the ball, knuckles white. the faint twitch of his jaw shows you’ve just seen past the mask, the arrogance, the perfectionist facade, the loyalty to kaiser, and into the fire beneath.

“you’re obsessed,” you tease, tilting your head. “admit it.”

his eyes widen, but the words tremble on the edge of his lips. “i… i just…”

you don’t let him finish. you don’t need to. you see it in the way he studies your every move, in the way he anticipates your feints before you make them, in the way his mind seems to spin faster when you’re near. the enemy has become a puzzle he can’t stop trying to solve.

he snaps a pass at you, perfectly measured, and you catch it with ease. “see?” you say, tossing it back. “you’re hooked.”

ness’s eyes flicker, something dangerous, something desperate, but he doesn’t deny it. he can’t. instead, he lunges into the next drill with renewed intensity, the gap between hate and admiration blurred almost beyond recognition.

after practice, you leave the field together, shoulders brushing as you walk toward the locker room. he walks a step closer than necessary. the silence stretches long enough that you notice the way his gaze flickers to you every time you shift.

finally, he mutters, almost under his breath, “you make it hard to focus. i… i’m not used to that.”

you glance at him, eyebrow raised. “not used to losing?”

“no,” he admits, voice low and raw. “not used to anyone… not needing me unlike kaiser.”

it hits you then: this is more than rivalry.

this is obsession.

he’s not trying to best you anymore. he’s trying to understand you, to anticipate you, to claim the only part of the game that feels like it’s slipping out of his hands: you.

and for some reason, you don’t pull away.

the cracks are showing.

and both of you are teetering on the edge of something dangerous.

♕♕♕

the gym is empty except for the two of you. the fluorescent lights hum overhead, stark and clinical, but it does nothing to dull the heat between you. it isn’t just the physical intensity of practice anymore, it’s the mental game, the constant dance of control and challenge that has become a ritual neither of you can break.

“you’re late,” he says, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, smirk curling at one corner of his mouth.

“traffic,” you reply smoothly, tossing your bag onto the bench. “wouldn’t want to make you feel overconfident before you lose again.”

he tilts his head, eyes narrowing, and that sharp glint returns. “ah, so the teasing continues,” he murmurs, stepping closer. each movement is measured, precise, but there’s a tension coiled in his shoulders, like he’s barely holding back a storm.

the first drill begins, and it’s a simple warm-up, but it becomes more than that instantly. each movement, each feint, is a challenge. you test him deliberately, a twist of the ankle here, a phantom pass there, and he adjusts instantly. he’s good, impossibly good, but every step is fueled by one thought: you.

“you think you can predict me?” you ask, smirking as you dodge past him, your shoulder brushing his.

he freezes for half a beat too long, then lunges, tackling you lightly, more roughhouse than malicious, but it’s enough to knock you off balance. his breath is ragged, his eyes burning.

“maybe i don’t have to predict you,” he says, voice low and dangerous. “maybe i just want to… keep up.”

your pulse hammers. keep up. the words sound innocent enough, but they aren’t. not with him. his usual control is gone, replaced with a raw, almost desperate need.

you catch the ball, smirk, and flick it past him in one motion, just out of reach.

“impressive,” he mutters, brushing past you to retrieve the ball, hands brushing yours. the contact is brief, almost accidental, but it leaves a shock in its wake.

later, during cooldown, you both sit on opposite benches. you’re tired, drenched in sweat, hair plastered to your face.

he rises, stalking past you, but not leaving. not yet. “i don’t like losing,” he says quietly, but there’s a tremor in his voice. “and yet… i can’t stop following you.”

your own lips twitch into a smirk, sensing the shift. “then maybe you like it too much to care.”

he stops mid-step, the words hitting him like a punch. his chest rises rapidly, eyes narrowing, jaw tightening. for once, he doesn’t have a witty comeback, doesn’t have a smirk, doesn’t have a mask. he just stands there, staring. studying.

“i-” he begins, then stops, frustration flickering across his face. “no. that’s… ridiculous. you’re ridiculous.”

“right back at you,” you tease, brushing a hand against your hair, deliberately leaving your shoulder exposed as you stretch.

the effect is instantaneous. he catches his breath. his hands clench briefly at his sides before he turns away, pacing the length of the gym like a predator, trying to reclaim the composure slipping from him.

you watch him, fascinated despite yourself. there’s a rhythm to it now, his obsession with you isn’t subtle. it’s every glance, every hesitation, every twitch of his jaw when you laugh at a successful move. he’s addicted. hooked. and you’re beginning to like it.

as you gather your bag, he’s close behind, voice dropping even lower, almost reverent:

“don’t ever… stop being this… challenging. i can’t- don’t make me stop.”

you pause, eyebrows raised. “you mean me, or the game?”

he steps right up, close enough that you feel the heat from him, the sharp tang of his cologne, the intensity of his stare.

“both.”

the air between you tightens. the gym, once empty and silent, suddenly feels charged, like electricity, like tension wound around every nerve. for the first time, you realize the war isn’t on the pitch anymore. it’s personal.

and you can’t wait to see how far it goes.

♕♕♕

the locker room is quiet, almost unnaturally so. the team has gone home, the hum of the fluorescent lights the only sound besides your own uneven breathing. you’d been alone for a few minutes, unpacking your bag, when you hear the sharp click of boots against the tile.

ness.

he’s leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, the usual smile is gone, replaced with something heavier.

“you’re impossible,” he growls, voice low. “do you know that?”

you smirk, leaning against your locker. “i get that a lot.”

“no,” he snaps, taking a step forward. “i can’t think straight. i can’t focus. i… i’m losing control, and it’s-” his hands twitch, like he wants to touch you, restraining the impulse.

you tilt your head, heart hammering. “because of me?”

his laugh is bitter, sharp, almost broken. “yes. because of you.”

the words hang in the air. he’s breathing hard, the tension in his shoulders rigid. there’s a beat of silence where the world shrinks to just the two of you, the weight of everything unspoken pressing between your chests.

“you’re obsessed,” you whisper, stepping closer. just enough to challenge him, just enough to provoke the storm behind his eyes.

“i-” he stops, jaw tight, then suddenly grabs your shoulder, spinning you toward him. his grip is firm, possessive, and your pulse leaps. “i don’t care!” he snaps. “i don’t care if i should hate you, or fear you, or keep my distance. you-” he pauses, swallowing hard. “you’re the only one who… makes me feel like this!”

your breath catches. “ness…”

“shut up!” his voice is raw, trembling with frustration and something else, something close to desperation. he leans down suddenly, and his lips crash against yours.

the first moment is shock. your body tenses. but then instinct takes over. you match him, letting the kiss twist and burn, harsh and desperate and alive. he tastes of adrenaline and faint mint, and every second makes the world outside vanish.

he pulls back just slightly, forehead resting against yours, breathing hard. his hands linger on your shoulders, trembling. “i… should hate you,” he mutters again, voice barely above a whisper. “i should0”

you lift a hand to his cheek. “then stop pretending you do.”

his eyes flicker, vulnerability slipping in between the usual arrogance. he swallows, voice low and broken. “i… can’t.”

a laugh slips from your lips, soft and incredulous. “then don’t. just… don’t.”

the tension melts into something heavier, warmer. every muscle in his body relaxes slightly, but his hold on you doesn’t waver. you realize he’s not letting go, not of the kiss, not of the moment, not of you.

“i didn’t mean… i wasn’t supposed to-” he mutters, trying to compose himself, but the words fail him. his forehead rests on yours again. “you make me… addicted.”

you smile softly, leaning into him. “good,” you whisper. “because i’m not going anywhere.”

he closes his eyes, letting out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “you’re… infuriating,” he mutters. but it’s not annoyance. it’s admiration, affection, and obsession wrapped into one.

and you realize, with a thrill and a pulse-quickening certainty, that the war is over. or maybe it’s just beginning, but this time, the battlefield is entirely yours.

♕♕♕

the next morning, the training field is quiet, mist curling over the grass like smoke. the team’s gone, leaving you and ness alone again, but this time, the energy between you isn’t purely competitive. it’s something different. something heavier, charged with the memory of last night.

you tie your cleats, keeping your gaze on him. he’s pacing near the goalposts, eyes scanning the field as if measuring it against something invisible. and yet, every few seconds, his attention flickers back to you.

“you’re early,” you remark, voice casual, though your chest tightens when he looks up and smirks.

“i don’t like waiting,” he says, and there’s that edge again, the edge that keeps you on your toes. “i don’t like losing… and i don’t like letting you get the drop on me.”

you laugh softly. “i think you’ve accepted that it’s impossible to beat me completely.”

his smirk falters for a heartbeat. then he tilts his head. “maybe… but that doesn’t mean i’m not going to try.”

you shake your head, smiling. “obsessed much?”

he strides over, close enough that your shoulders brush, and leans slightly, lowering his voice. “you have no idea.”

the tension coils again, but it’s warmer now, familiar. you notice the way he studies you with fascination. every movement you make is a puzzle he wants to solve, a challenge he’s unwilling to let go of.

“you’re still impossible,” he mutters, brushing a strand of hair from your face, thumb lingering just above your cheek. “do you even realize how dangerous you are?”

“dangerous?” you echo, smirking. “or irresistible?”

he freezes just a fraction, gaze darkening, and then finally, that sly, sharp grin returns, the one he wears when he’s about to push all the right buttons. “both,” he admits. “and i… don’t care. i’m not walking away.”

the world seems to shrink again, just the two of you, standing among the dew-soaked grass, breathing each other in. the war of words, the rivalry, the obsession, it’s all still there, but beneath it, something softer, something undeniably real, pulses like a heartbeat between you.

“you still see me as a threat?” you tease, leaning slightly into him.

he catches your hand, thumb brushing your pulse point, possessive and deliberate. “only to my sanity,” he murmurs, voice low, intimate. “the rest… you can keep challenging me forever.”

you grin, feeling the pull of his energy, the heat of his focus. “forever sounds good,” you whisper.

he leans in, cheek brushing yours, voice soft but firm. “then stay close. don’t let me forget how dangerous you are.”

the playful edge returns to his smirk, teasing, confident, but there’s an honesty there now that hadn’t been before. a promise hidden in every glance, every brush of fingers.

the field is quiet, the early mist curling around your feet. and as you glance up at him, you realize the game has changed forever. he’s hooked. not just on winning, not just on the game, but on you.

and somehow, you’re just as addicted to him.

he tilts his head, eyes glinting mischievously. “same time tomorrow?”

you laugh, tugging your hand from his briefly, knowing full well he’ll catch it again. “you’re on, nessy.”

and as the sun breaks fully over the horizon, the two of you step onto the pitch again, enemies, rivals, and something much more tethered together, tangled in obsession, and impossible to untangle.

charles chevalier wasn’t used to being ignored.

he wasn’t used to losing, either - but being ignored? that was worse.

the field gleamed under the morning light, trimmed to perfection, as if waiting to frame his brilliance. he’d walked in expecting the usual reaction: whispers, stares, the hush that followed when he entered a room.

but you didn’t look up.

while everyone else fell into murmurs of admiration, you were busy adjusting your boots, testing your balance, face set in calm concentration. not awe. not fear.

“chéri,” he called out, leaning lazily against the goalpost with that effortless grin that made people trip over themselves. “you might want to warm up properly. you’ll need it against me.”

you lifted your head, gaze steady, unimpressed. “oh? i thought we were training, not performing.”

the smirk faltered for a fraction of a second.

you were new. unfamiliar. rumour had it you’d been brought in as a challenge, someone whose unconventional playstyle would sharpen the team before the next match. he had laughed when he heard it.

but the first scrimmage proved him wrong.

from the moment the whistle blew, it was chaos, a clash of styles so sharp it almost sparked. he flowed, elegant, effortless, painting arcs with his passes. you disrupted, deconstructed, slicing through his rhythm like you’d studied every beat of his footwork.

he would fake left; you’d read it.

he’d aim high; you’d cut low.

you were unpredictable in a way that infuriated him.

and when you stole the ball right out from under his feet, actually took it, his entire body went still.

then you smiled. not the sweet, deferential kind he was used to. it was small. knowing. almost cruel.

“nice try,” you said.

nice try.

charles chevalier had been called many things. genius. visionary. god’s favourite son.

nice try had never been one of them.

he recovered quickly, masking the flicker of disbelief with a sharp laugh. “you have spirit, i’ll give you that,” he drawled, brushing imaginary dust off his sleeve. “but flair without finesse? that’s dangerous, mon ange.”

“maybe,” you said, stepping past him, “but at least it’s not boring.”

something in him twisted.

for the rest of the match, he played like a man possessed. not to win, to prove something. each feint sharper, each dribble faster, each glance toward you burning hotter. you met him move for move, like you’d been waiting for this fight your whole life.

when the whistle finally blew, the score was even.

no one else dared breathe too loudly. the air between you buzzed with heat, pride, and something that felt almost electric.

you offered him your hand. “good game.”

he stared at it, chest rising and falling, eyes narrowing as if he could decipher your motives through touch alone. then, with a slow, reluctant smile, he took it.

“good?” he echoed, his voice a low purr. “no, ma chère. it was magnificent.”

you laughed softly, letting go first. he hated that you did, that you were the one to decide when contact ended.

as you walked off the field, his gaze followed you, unwillingly anchored.

and god help him, he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

♕♕♕

it should have been easy to forget you.

you were just another player. another spark in his orbit.

that’s what charles told himself the next morning, lounging on the bench with his usual half-lidded confidence, earbuds in, one arm slung behind his head.

that’s what he told himself when you walked onto the pitch again, hair tied up, focused, not even glancing in his direction.

he didn’t like how much that stung.

“charles, you’re scowling,” someone from the team muttered, half-joking.

he smiled thinly, fixing his hair. “please. i don’t scowl. i smolder.”

but when you laughed at a joke someone else made near midfield, something ugly and hot twisted in his chest. he pushed himself off the bench and joined the scrimmage before he was even called in.

it wasn’t about you, he told himself. he just wanted to win.

except every time you got the ball, he was there.

every pass, every dribble, he was on you like gravity, orbiting your every move, taunting, teasing, desperate for control.

“careful,” he murmured as he intercepted a pass, close enough for you to hear the grin in his voice. “you’re making it far too easy.”

you stole it back two seconds later. effortlessly.

he froze, blinking, a short, incredulous laugh breaking out of him.

“you were saying?” you asked, your tone a mirror of his own.

and that was when it hit him: you weren’t mocking him for show. you didn’t need to. you meant it.

the realization unsettled him more than any loss could.

for the rest of the session, he couldn’t stop watching you. every movement was a contradiction to everything he believed, that control was power, that beauty was precision, that elegance meant dominance. you were chaos, and somehow it worked.

and it made him furious.

it made him alive.

after practice, he cornered you near the locker room door, his usual smirk back in place. “you’re very bold, you know,” he said, voice honey-slick. “challenging me like that in front of everyone.”

you raised an eyebrow. “i thought you liked the spotlight.”

he leaned in slightly, close enough that you could smell the faint trace of cologne and sweat. “i do. but i don’t like sharing it.”

you didn’t move back. “then play better.”

the words hit him square in the chest, not cruel, not mocking, just… honest. the kind of honesty he wasn’t used to. the kind that stripped away charm and performance, leaving only the raw nerve underneath.

for once, charles didn’t have a comeback.

he stepped aside, watching you leave, his heartbeat a wild, uneven rhythm.

he found himself thinking about it all evening, in the shower, over dinner, lying in bed staring at the ceiling. the way you moved, the way you spoke, the way you never once looked impressed.

by the next morning, he was at the field early.

earlier than anyone else.

when you arrived, he was already dribbling alone, the ball cutting crisp lines across the turf.

you tilted your head, curious. “didn’t think you liked mornings.”

he smiled without looking at you. “i don’t. but i like winning.”

and when he finally met your gaze, the air between you sparked like a challenge.

he wasn’t sure when it stopped being about the game.

only that he needed to see that look on your face again, the one that told him he wasn’t untouchable.

♕♕♕

it started with an announcement.

coach’s voice, sharp and cutting through the morning haze: “you, chevalier. you’re paired for the next rotation.”

the silence that followed was deafening.

someone in the back muttered, “this is gonna be fun.”

charles turned, his smile all polished grace. “you can’t be serious,” he said, perfectly cordial, the kind of tone that meant he was furious.

the coach’s expression didn’t waver. “i am. you two need to learn to play as a unit, not rivals.”

your smirk was infuriatingly calm. “guess we’re stuck with each other.”

“lucky me,”

except when the drills started, luck was the last thing either of you had.

the first twenty minutes were chaos.

you moved on instinct, fast and unpredictable; charles tried to choreograph everything, graceful but rigid. passes slipped. timing broke. the rest of the team watched like it was a soap opera, two stars colliding in slow motion.

“you’re rushing,” charles snapped after a botched play.

“you’re hesitating,” you shot back.

“i’m calculating.”

“you’re stalling.”

the air between you burned.

you both knew the other was right, and neither wanted to admit it.

but somewhere between the arguments and the frustration, something shifted.

he started watching you differently, not as a threat, but as rhythm.

the way you pivoted mid-pass. the way your energy pulled the field into motion. the way you seemed to anticipate him, even when he didn’t speak.

it was disarming. addictive.

“again,” you said, tossing the ball toward him. sweat gleamed down your temple; your grin was defiant, sharp. “unless you’re tired already, pretty boy.”

charles caught the ball, lips curving into a smirk that barely hid his pulse. “you really don’t know when to stop, do you?”

“not when i’m winning.”

and then it clicked.

the next play was fluid. natural. he moved where you moved, not ahead or behind. you didn’t need words, your instincts aligned like two halves of a mirror finally turning the same way. when the ball hit the net, the entire field went silent for half a heartbeat.

then, applause.

charles exhaled, breathless, a slow, astonished smile tugging at his lips. “mon dieu… we’re brilliant.”

you bumped his shoulder lightly. “told you you’d figure it out.”

he should’ve been irritated. you were teasing him, again.

but all he could think about was the way your laughter hit something deep in his chest, something he didn’t know was still alive.

when training ended, the coach clapped once. “that’s the energy we need. keep it.”

you gave a little wave, already walking off toward the locker room.

charles watched you go, feeling the strange, foreign ache of something he refused to name.

“don’t look so stunned,” you called over your shoulder. “you’ll get wrinkles.”

he chuckled softly, shaking his head. “you’re insufferable.”

“then it’s mutual,” you said, without turning.

but he stayed there a little longer, gaze lingering on the space you’d just left. the sweat cooling on his skin couldn’t hide the heat still burning in his chest.

♕♕♕

you were a blur across the field, fire and fury and focus wrapped into one. the sound of your laugh hit him harder than any goal.

when you clashed mid-play, shoulder to shoulder, charles felt the world tilt. “watch where you’re going,” you said, smirking.

“maybe i like getting in your way.”

it slipped out before he could stop himself, light, teasing, but far too honest.

you blinked, momentarily thrown, then laughed. “you’re insufferable, chevalier.”

“am i?” his grin was razor-edged, masking the rapid heartbeat under his ribs. “then why do you keep catching up to me?”

you rolled your eyes and jogged off, but he didn’t miss the faintest curl of your lips as you turned away.

♕♕♕

that night, charles couldn’t focus.

he watched replays of your matches, at first out of ‘analysis,’ but the truth was more embarrassing.

he watched to understand you.

the way you moved.

the stubborn spark in your eyes when you refused to yield.

the quiet moments in between, when your guard slipped just enough to show exhaustion, vulnerability, passion that burned brighter than reason.

you were chaos incarnate.

and charles had never wanted to be consumed so badly.

“ridiculous,” he muttered under his breath, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “...just a rival. just a player.”

but the word just sounded weak, hollow, and he hated it.

♕♕♕

the next day, when he arrived early to the field, something he never did, he found you there first. alone.

practicing.

over and over, until your movements blurred together, until even your breathing turned ragged.

charles lingered in the doorway, unseen, for a long moment.

when you finally noticed him, you straightened, wiping sweat from your brow. “chevalier? you stalking me now?”

he smiled faintly, walking closer. “i could ask you the same thing. you’re working harder than anyone else here.”

“some of us have to,” you said, half teasing, half serious. “not everyone’s naturally flawless.”

charles laughed softly. “flawless is boring.”

then, a pause.

“…you’re not boring.”

the silence that followed stretched, heavy but not uncomfortable.

you tilted your head, a grin tugging at your lips. “you’re terrible at compliments.”

“on the contrary,” he murmured, eyes locked on yours, “i think i’m being quite honest.”

you looked away first. he didn’t miss the quick rise and fall of your breath.

and as you turned back to resume practice, charles realized something terrifying:

he didn’t just want to win anymore.

he wanted you.

your drive, your laughter, your defiance.

the way you saw right through him, past the arrogance, past the polish, like he was something real.

and for the first time in his life, that was exactly what he wanted to be.

♕♕♕

it got worse during drills.

every time you played, he tracked you without thinking, every movement, every breath, every flicker of emotion. you were a storm on the field, unpredictable and untamed, and he couldn’t look away.

“focus, charles!” shidou barked once when charles missed a pass, something that never happened.

his jaw tightened. “i am focused.”

shidou raised a brow, smirking. “on the wrong person.”

that smug tone hit too close to the truth. charles forced himself to scoff, but it came out strained. “don’t be absurd.”

“right.” shidou turned away with a laugh. “keep telling yourself that.”

charles hated how easy it was for him to see through it.

because yes, it was absurd.

it was infuriating.

the more he tried to ignore you, the more his attention clawed back toward you, unbidden, like gravity itself had shifted.

you noticed, of course.

he wasn’t as subtle as he thought.

every time you turned, his gaze was already there, lingering just a second too long.

you started teasing him for it.

“careful, chevalier,” you’d say after beating him in a one-on-one. “people might think you like losing to me.”

he smirked back, mask perfectly in place. “you’ll have to win more than once for that to happen.”

but that night, lying in bed, it wasn’t the victory that replayed in his head, it was the sound of your voice, the sweat on your brow, the gleam of challenge in your eyes.

he couldn’t stop thinking about you.

♕♕♕

after everyone left, he found himself walking toward you before he even decided to.

you were sitting by the benches, lacing your shoes, still humming from the high of the game.

when you looked up, you smiled. “didn’t think the great chevalier would lose twice in one day.”

“enjoy it while it lasts,” he replied automatically, but the usual bite in his voice was gone.

you blinked, studying him. “you okay?”

he opened his mouth, to deflect, to tease, to say anything that wasn’t the truth. but instead, what came out was, “you make me better.”

the words stunned even him.

they hung in the air, trembling between confession and collapse.

you tilted your head, eyes softening. “that’s kind of the point, isn’t it? we push each other.”

charles looked away, jaw tight. “no. it’s… more than that.”

you didn’t press, and that almost broke him more.

because he wanted you to. he wanted you to see it, how his entire world had begun to orbit yours, how every breath on the field synced to your rhythm.

but pride kept him silent.

so instead, he laughed softly, bitterly. “you’ve ruined me, you know.”

you grinned, mistaking it for another joke. “good. you needed a challenge.”

charles smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

challenge.

that’s what he’d thought too.

“susprised you’re still here,” he said, voice echoing slightly.

you turned. “could ask you the same thing, chevalier.”

“charles,” he said. his tone was quiet. sharp, but softened. “when we’re off the field, call me charles.”

you raised a brow. “since when are we on a first-name basis?”

“since i decided i wanted to hear you say it.”

the words slipped out too easily. you blinked, caught off guard, and for once, he didn’t hide behind a smirk or deflection. he just looked at you, raw, unguarded.

“charles,” you repeated slowly, testing it.

something in his chest tightened at the sound.

he stepped closer. “do you ever think,” he began carefully, “that maybe… rivalry isn’t the right word for what we have?”

you laughed softly. “you mean the constant arguing? the competing? the trash talk?”

he tilted his head, smiling faintly. “that’s what makes it interesting.”

but his smile faded as his gaze lingered. “still, it feels… different with you. you challenge me. not just in play, in everything. no one’s ever done that before.”

you shrugged, trying to brush it off, but your voice was quieter now. “maybe you needed someone to.”

he huffed a soft laugh. “maybe i did.”

the silence that followed was almost tangible, the kind that thrums with too many unsaid things.

charles took another step forward. then another. until he was close enough that you could see the flicker of conflict in his eyes, pride wrestling with something deeper.

“you drive me insane,” he murmured. “every match, every look, every word. i think about you even when i don’t want to.”

your lips parted. “charles-”

he cut you off, voice dropping lower, almost a whisper. “do you have any idea what that feels like? to want to outplay someone so badly that you forget whether you want to beat them or be with them?”

you didn’t move. couldn’t.

because under all his arrogance and control, there it was, something real. something aching.

you smiled faintly. “i think i do.”

that broke him.

his hand came up before he could stop it, fingers brushing against your cheek, hesitant, reverent. “you shouldn’t,” he said, like it was a warning. “you’ll only make me worse.”

“then i guess we’ll be terrible together,” you whispered.

for the first time, charles laughed, really laughed. not the polished, charming kind he showed the world, but something unsteady and alive.

and then, without another word, he kissed you.

it wasn’t gentle. it was fierce, desperate, the culmination of every unspoken challenge and sleepless night. you met him halfway, matching his intensity until the lines between rivalry and affection blurred completely.

when he finally pulled away, breath ragged, he rested his forehead against yours.

“checkmate,” you whispered, teasing.

his grin was pure mischief. “don’t flatter yourself. i let you win.”

but when you laughed, soft and victorious, charles knew he’d lost long before this, the moment you stepped into his world and refused to be dazzled by it.

he’d never admit it aloud, of course.

but as your fingers intertwined with his, he didn’t have to.

because for once, losing didn’t feel like defeat.

it felt like freedom.

sendou shuto had seen your type before.

the kind of player who treated the pitch like a stage instead of a battlefield.

he watched from across the field as you darted through defenders like it was second nature, every movement sharp and fluid. the ball clung to your feet; your grin came easy, too easy. when your shot curved past the keeper and into the net, the room erupted in cheers.

sendou didn’t cheer.

he stood there, jaw tight, replaying your movements in his mind, every feint, every fake, every risk that could’ve gone wrong. “they got lucky,” he muttered under his breath. “one bad read and they’d have lost the ball.”

“jealous much?” aiku snorted nearby, stretching his arms lazily. “c’mon, sendou, you gotta admit it, that was clean.”

sendou didn’t respond. he just adjusted his wristband and turned away, hiding the irritation buzzing under his skin.

it wasn’t jealousy, not really.

it was the way you played like you didn’t care about control, like chaos itself bent to your will. and worse, it worked.

when ego’s voice crackled through the speaker, announcing the next training scrimmage, sendou straightened immediately. he scanned the names listed on the board, and froze.

his stomach dropped. “you’ve gotta be kidding me,” he whispered.

“problem?” came your voice behind him.

he turned to see you standing there, arms crossed, a knowing tilt to your lips. you’d clearly seen the list too.

“yeah,” he said bluntly. “i don’t play well with people who think football’s a circus act.”

you raised a brow. “and i don’t play well with people who think overthinking counts as strategy, fake ace.”

that earned you a sharp glare.

“guess we’re both out of luck, huh?” you added, brushing past him with a half-smirk.

sendou exhaled slowly through his nose, fighting the urge to say something he’d regret. the whistle blew, cutting through the air, the signal to take positions.

he jogged toward the pitch, every muscle wound tight. across from him, you spun the ball on your finger, grin still there.

when the match started, it was madness from the first second.

you darted forward without warning, your unpredictable footwork leaving even your own teammates scrambling to catch up. sendou hissed through his teeth and followed, intercepting when you overextended, passing when you refused to.

“ever heard of communication?” he snapped after the third misread.

“ever heard of trusting your partner?” you shot back, not even looking at him.

he growled, half in disbelief, half in frustration. trust you? when you don’t even follow a plan?

still, when you slipped between two defenders and flicked the ball his way clean, he caught it instinctively. for a split second, the world aligned. he struck, clean and powerful.

goal.

the whistle blew again.

you turned to him, smirking. “see? that wasn’t so hard.”

sendou scowled, refusing to let satisfaction creep onto his face. “don’t get used to it.”

you laughed, the sound bright and annoyingly infectious. “we’ll see about that, partner.”

he turned away, but the word stuck in his head longer than it should have.

partner.

the next whistle blew.

this time, he didn’t wait for you to move first.

♕♕♕

it didn’t take long for things to fall apart.

by the second day of training, everyone could tell sendou and you were oil and fire, dangerous when mixed, and impossible to separate.

by the fifth match, sendou was convinced this was punishment.

“hey,” he called one morning, balancing the ball on your foot as the team gathered. “you’re overanalysing breakfast now, or are you saving that chaotic energy for me?”

you didn’t even look up. “if i did, i’d probably figure out why you still think luck is a valid tactic instead of actual talent. and you call me lucky.”

sendou grimaced. “wow. you talk like someone who’s scared of not knowing what happens next.”

“i think you got us both mixed up there a bit,”

his expression faltered for half a second. just long enough for you to notice. then it returned. “nah.”

the whistle blew.

the game started exactly how he expected, you rushing forward, wild and fast, forcing him to clean up your openings. he shouted instructions, trying to sync with your movements, but you didn’t listen, or maybe you just didn’t care.

until halfway through.

you got cornered by two defenders near the sideline. for once, instead of forcing a shot, you looked up, straight at him.

“sendou!”

he was already moving before he realized it. you passed, a sharp curve of instinct and precision, and he met it with a clean strike.

goal.

he froze for half a second, chest heaving, realizing the rhythm that had just happened between you wasn’t coincidence. it was real.

when he turned to you, you were already jogging toward him, grin lazy and triumphant. “see? you trust me a little now.”

“i didn’t say that,” he muttered, grabbing the ball and turning away, but his heartbeat betrayed him, loud and uneven. “it was supposed to be me scoring that goal.”

the next goal came easier. and the next. and the next.

♕♕♕

sendou told himself it was nothing.

that the way he kept glancing at you during practice was just habit. that the way his heart kicked up every time you made an impossible play was just adrenaline.

but it wasn’t.

something had changed after that scrimmage. the unspoken rhythm you’d fallen into… it wouldn’t leave his head. he’d try to focus on drills, only for flashes of your grin, your movement, your voice calling his name to crash through his concentration like a wave.

you were annoying, but it was a kind of annoying that made sense to him now.

and that realization bothered him more than anything.

“sendou.” you stepped beside him. “you okay, woman-lover?”

“fine.”

“liar,” you said simply. “you’re thinking again. it’s weird.”

he shot you a glare. “you think i don’t know how to concentrate?”

“i think,” you said, eyes glinting, “you forget that instinct’s a kind of focus too.”

before he could answer, the ball was already rolling. you darted ahead, weaving past the defenders in one swift motion. he should’ve been annoyed. he was annoyed.

and yet… he followed.

every pass, every fake, every pivot, you were there, and so was he. like pieces of a song finally finding their rhythm.

you didn’t speak. you didn’t need to.

he shook his head, but he couldn’t help the grin that slipped out this time.

later, when training ended and the rest of the players left, he found himself lingering. watching you juggle the ball absentmindedly under the fading sun, sweat glinting against your skin. there was something about that image, how tireless you were, how alive you seemed in the game, that struck him harder than he wanted to admit.

“still here?” you asked, spinning the ball one last time before catching it.

he hesitated. “just… thinking.”

“about what?”

“…how you do it,” he said quietly. “how you play like you’re never afraid of losing.”

you blinked at him, surprised. then, softer than he’d ever heard you, you said, “because i already lost once.”

he looked at you, brow furrowing.

you smiled faintly. “i lost the part of me that played for others. now i only play for myself, for the joy of it. that’s why i don’t care if it looks reckless. it’s real.”

for a moment, neither of you spoke. the honesty in your words hit him deeper than any of your sharp retorts ever had.

sendou looked away, jaw tightening, as if hiding something. “…you’re annoying,” he muttered again, but his tone had softened.

you grinned. “and you’re bad at saying thank you.”

that earned a quiet huff of laughter from him, something you’d only see when he was out trying to impress a girl who walked passed him.

as you walked off the pitch, sendou found himself watching the faint sway of your steps, the rhythm of your movement burned into his mind.

for the first time since meeting you, his irritation didn’t come from anger.

it came from something dangerously close to admiration.

♕♕♕

the next scrimmage should’ve gone smoothly.

on paper, it was a simple setup: a mock match between your unit and another blue lock team. you and sendou had been partners for weeks now, and though you still bickered, your plays had started to sync, his calculated precision balancing your instinctive chaos.

but today… something was off.

sendou was pushing harder than usual, sharper, quieter. the rest of the team felt it too, like a string pulled too tight.

“guess the fake ace can’t keep up anymore,” one of the opposing players, reo, said with a grin. “even with his little partner bailing him out every time.”

you stiffened beside him.

sendou’s fingers curled around the hem of his sleeve, knuckles pale. “say that again!”

reo shrugged. “hey, it’s just the truth!”

you moved before he could finish.

“watch your mouth,” you said sharply, stepping between them. your tone wasn’t loud, but it sliced through the air like a blade. “if you think sendou needs bailing out, you clearly haven’t been paying attention.”

reo blinked, taken aback.

you didn’t stop there. “he’s the only reason half our formations work. he sees things before they happen. you think that’s weakness? that’s what makes him better than most of you.”

the field went quiet.

sendou stared at you, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and something dangerously close to awe. you weren’t defending him out of pity. you meant it.

when the silence stretched, you turned to him, meeting his stunned gaze. “you done proving yourself to people who’ll never get it?” you asked softly.

he didn’t answer.

you tilted your head, offering a faint smile. “good. then play like you want to. not like you’re trying to be perfect.”

then you turned and walked back to your position, leaving him standing there, every word echoing in his chest.

the next whistle blew.

this time, he didn’t think.

he moved.

the rhythm between you reignited instantly. every pass was sharper, every look exchanged electric. you were his chaos, and he was your anchor, and together you tore through the field like something unstoppable.

by the time the whistle blew again, you’d won… overwhelmingly.

the rest of the players scattered off the pitch, but you and sendou stayed behind. the adrenaline buzzed in the air, mingling with the faint glow of sunset.

he walked toward you, a small grin on his face. “damn. didn’t know i had that in me.”

you looked up at him, unfazed. “yeah, i did.”

“how?”

“well you’re here for a reason right?”

he stared at you for a long moment, something in his chest unravelling slowly.

“i… guess so,” he muttered finally.

you grinned, brushing past him lightly. “don’t worry fake ace. soon you’ll earn the title of ‘real ace’.”

for the first time, he didn’t glare or say a comeback. he just laughed.

and as you walked ahead, the last traces of pride that kept him distant finally started to crack.

because somewhere between rivalry and teamwork, sendou realized something terrifyingly simple:

you weren’t just someone who challenged him.

you were someone who understood him.

♕♕♕

the next match was everything the nel had promised, brutal, fast, and merciless.

sendou had faced tough games before, but this one was different. every mistake, every hesitation, felt magnified under the weight of expectation. and for once, it wasn’t just his pride on the line. it was yours, too.

you were everywhere on the field, fluid, unpredictable, lighting up the space around you. every time you called his name, it cut through the noise like a thread keeping him grounded.

“sendou! left!”

he followed instinctively. the pass met him perfectly, and for a heartbeat, he saw the shot, clean, open, winnable.

but his foot hesitated.

just a fraction of a second, a flicker of doubt, and the ball was gone.

the other team snatched it and countered.

by the time the whistle blew, you were two goals behind.

sendou stood there, breathing hard, sweat stinging his eyes, a bitter taste in his mouth. one mistake. one hesitation. that was all it took to unravel everything.

he felt you approach before he heard you. your voice was low, steady. “hey.”

“don’t,” he muttered, wiping his face with the back of his hand. “i messed it up.”

you tilted your head. “you hesitated.”

he stiffened. “yeah, i-”

“you always do that when you start thinking you’ll fail,” you said gently.

that hit him harder than he expected. he looked at you, startled.

“sendou,” you said, taking a step closer, “what is up with you? outside, you’re easygoing and somewhat alright to talk to. but when it comes to football now you’re hesitating?”

he opened his mouth to argue, but the words caught somewhere in his throat. because the truth was, you were right.

the whistle blew for the second half.

“come on,” you said, voice softer now. “let’s try again.”

he nodded once.

when the match resumed, something inside him shifted. the fear didn’t vanish, but it didn’t control him anymore. because when he looked up, he saw you, running, calling, trusting him completely, and suddenly, he wanted to be worthy of that faith.

every touch felt different now. every pass between you carried a spark of something real.

and then, it happened.

the ball cut across the field, bouncing toward him through a narrow gap. he met it cleanly, not with hesitation, but with fire. the kind of strike that came from instinct, from belief, from you.

goal.

the sound that erupted after was deafening, but all he could hear was your laugh, bright and breathless. you sprinted toward him, throwing your hands up in victory, and before he could stop himself, he was laughing too.

you collided near the goalpost, his hands catching your shoulders to steady you. for a second, neither of you said anything. the world just… stilled.

your eyes searched his face. “that’s the sendou i know.”

his breath hitched. “…yeah?”

“yeah,” you said, smiling.

something in his chest gave way.

he didn’t even realize how close you were until he did, close enough to feel your breath, to see the warmth in your eyes. his heart raced for reasons that had nothing to do with the game.

“…you really are annoying,” he said softly, voice trembling at the edges.

you grinned. “you keep saying that, but i think it’s just your way of saying you like me.”

he huffed a laugh, the sound quiet but genuine. “maybe,” he admitted, barely audible. “maybe i do.”

the whistle blew again, breaking the moment.

you stepped back with a wink. “then don’t fall behind, partner.”

he watched you jog ahead, a helpless smile tugging at his lips.

because for the first time in a long, long while, sendou wasn’t playing to prove anything.

for the joy.

for the fire.

for you.

♕♕♕

the locker room after the match was quieter than usual.

sendou sat on the bench, elbows on his knees, staring down at his shoes. his heart was still racing, but not from exhaustion. it was from the replay, your voice cutting through the noise, the way your eyes lit up when he scored.

he’d told himself he didn’t care what you thought.

he’d told himself you were just a rival.

he’d told himself a lot of things that weren’t true.

you came in a few minutes later, still in your gear, hair a mess, a water bottle dangling loosely from your hand. “you good?”

sendou didn’t look up at first. “you were right.”

“oh?”

he exhaled slowly. “about everything.”

a small smile tugged at your lips. “i know. i am quite amazing”

he shot you a dry, unimpressed look, but it softened when he caught your grin. “don’t get used to it.”

you sat beside him, close enough for your shoulders to brush. the hum of post-match chatter filled the space, laughter, the spray of showers.

“still think i’m annoying?” you asked quietly.

he hesitated, then said, “yeah.”

you turned to glare at him, but before you could say anything, he added, almost too low to hear, “but… i guess i don’t mind it anymore.”

something in your chest twisted.

you smiled faintly, nudging his arm. “careful, that almost sounded like a compliment.”

he looked down at his hands, and for once, there was no armour in his expression. just the smallest hint of a smile. “because it was.”

when you stood to leave, he caught your wrist without thinking. his hand lingered for a moment. something wordless passing between you.

“…do you…” he said quietly, “wanna go on a date with me?”

you blinked. “haha, sure.”

he let out a grin, “really?! awesome.”

“text me a time and place,”

he released your wrist, gaze following you as you left the room.

when the door clicked shut, he leaned back, letting out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. his reflection stared back at him from the locker’s metal surface, eyes softer, steadier.

for the first time in a long time, sendou saw himself becoming better.

and maybe, just maybe, he had you to thank for that.

outside, he could hear your laughter echoing down the hall.

a small smile pulled at his mouth.

“annoying,” he murmured again, but this time, it sounded like a promise.

#sendou fluff

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