Work Text:
On first glance, no one notices him. He's the same as everyone else, a mob in the backdrop of a crowd, faceless. You don't see him, phasing him out of the way like a fingerprint smudge on the side of your glasses, forgetting that it was ever there. He was muted, the absence of danger, and in a prison-like place with serious, menacing guys, it was easy to chuck him into the category of short-lived has-beens, only a match away from dropping out.
Yet every confrontation endures, every match becomes inexhaustibly dire, that he lingers on the edge of their minds long after he's gone. It's a stable, persisting echo of progress, heavy with what he leaves them with.
It only grows, more and more savage the longer he's there, the mesh of emotions, exhilarating on the thought of defeating him. First, second, third selection. Everyone's eyes are drawn to him as soon as they register his presence, mild and sweet, yet uncanny in that unassuming way. It's only half real; on the pitch, that siren-like ego calls out to them, and they forget all about disregarding him.
It's confusing, and daunting, this itching appetite. He triggers that strange, uncertain, alien part of the brain that terrifies at the unknown, yet recklessly seeks to find its eyes. The thought ghosts chills up and down their backs—those frightening, alluring eyes on them.
They can't run from it faster than they can run after a ball. Isagi Yoichi is magnetic, swinging their internal compass haywire until every needle is pointed to the center of the universe—and then, it's a battle to escape the shadow-base of the podium to not be discarded as trash.
Regardless of how it began, these days, they only had one goal.
Isagi Yoichi.
You can't suppress desires for too long. At some point, they'll break out of their chains, and leap down the throat of the one coveted by all—regardless of the rules they've all set in place.
That's how they have him; behind the backs of everyone else, stealing chances, pretending to ignore the fierce thrill of teasing Isagi out of his mind enough to give himself to them.
He's always blushing these days, fidgeting in place, his glances shy and short, his mouth zipped shut whenever a set of hands brush his nape, his shoulders, his waist. He doesn't make the first move, no, he leaves that to them, waiting in place for the most daring of the day to impress him.
Normally, that was a feat in itself, but most of them have uncovered a secret, a power over Isagi.
"That was a good shot."
"You did really well during training."
"I'm impressed by you, Isagi."
"Good boy."
Isagi Yoichi was terribly weak against praise.
In some ways, it humanizes him, takes him out of that terrible, divine light, a far away star dancing closer, yet it's almost worse as well, once Isagi starts to burn.
"Do you like that?"
"Yes," Isagi cries, arching into the large, cupped hands holding him. "Want it," he shivers, and there's an undercurrent of demand, of arrogance. Touch me more. Praise me more.
Isagi is warm and catlike, affectionately tipsy, shaped into a quivering mass that flushes wherever he's loved on. Just as he reaches for them, they can't help but give him anything he wants so long as they can touch his skin. He doesn't fight them, not like they expected—he melts. Self-satisfied with pleasure, he lets it steal him away, dumbing that big brain into a single, foggy thread of moaning requests.
"What to do you say, beautiful?"
"Please," he whimpers, eager, his body a shifting, colored canvas of reverence, aching to be ruined more, "Please fuck me."
Whatever balance of power is almost always upset. Isagi, when he skims the line of untouchable fantasy and tangible reality, who in their right minds can deny the compulsion to worship?
They land on the hard, liberating answer of not fucking me.
Isagi is bent to their desires, verbal praises lifting him out of the overthinking drive he makes a habit to indulge in and down their cocks to sob on. There's tears in the corner of his lashes as he gasps and shakes, pulling back with weak knees and thin wrists, only to be tugged back in with ruthless precision. He loses his words to the bliss, his voice to the mouths on his. He's speared open like a gap for a goal, edged into a new height that has him drowning under the weight of bodies bigger than him.
They kiss him everywhere, sucking new bruises, hickies, as Isagi scores lines down their spines. They're flies to honey, moths to a flame. He is beautiful and ethereal, and they're stuck wanting to devour him whole, not a scrap left for anyone else that'll come after.
It's an open attraction, kneeling at the altar of his orbit; they all want him more than words can convey.
"Do you want a reward?"
"Keep going, you can take it."
"You feel so good."
"Look at me, Yoichi."
He's putty, whining into the crook of their neck, another body behind him, feeling up his plump, perky ass and giving it a squeeze. Inside him, a cock drags hot and stiff, hitting that spot that makes him delirious. His eyes roll to the back of his head, hair plastered in sweat, held up like a doll as he's used to their content. Isagi is tight, a teasing, wet vice that clings to them. When Isagi pants, open mouthed, his voice pitching into a high whine, most of them have to keep themselves from cumming on the spot. Isagi is beautiful. They can't get enough.
There are cameras all over the facility, but there are places where only the most seasoned can fold into to have some fun. There are closets, empty, half-finished rooms, and private corridors with no soul. Those are the in-between places the outer stratums favors, the closest they can take Isagi in. Isagi Yoichi's own stratum favors the quiet, private rooms, shoving him head first into a soft, one-person bed, entitled to more than the farthest reaches of Blue Lock.
Maybe that's why he's always covered in marks. Light, fleeting, harsh, bruising, each patch of skin is ghosted with the name of whichever club member got to him first. The only thing they have in common is who they leave em on, a past reminder of the stratum wide pool.
It's the perfect match to light up the competative streak they all possess; who can bring Isagi the most pleasure?
It's the final thought that drives them to go rougher, tease him better, kiss him breathless. Isagi, shaking like a leaf, soft like a moldable toy, cries out. "Please! Wanna cum! Feels too good, ah!"
They never last, and they always give in without a second thought.
Isagi trashes, nails to claws, moaning into their ear, his body open and hot as he draws them deeper to hit that one spot with wild abandon. When he orgasms, they watch him with barely withheld fascination. His clutch is inescapable, holding onto them like a lover, his head thrown back, his neck elegantly displayed for another bite, another claim. He breathes their name in a weak, fucked out voice, and their infatuation rears back, dangerously close to becoming territorial.
In the aftermath, he glows, but like any star, he falls back into the sky. Isagi's eyes, cloudy and half-lidded, sharpen again. When he gets up, he throws them a smile, a coy, burdensome tease.
Until the next time.
They snap at it like a bone, powerless to the promise of tasting him again.
The light he exudes is inescapable. They'll worship him, again and again, if only to feel themselves closing in to the top, where there can only be one.