𝑩𝑳𝑶𝑶𝑫 𝑳𝑼𝑺𝑻 | YANDERE VAMPIRES

𝒕𝒘𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒚 𝒇𝒐𝒖𝒓 | winners

THE DAY ROLLED LAZILY TOWARDS ITS PEAK;

golden sunlight pouring over the towering bleachers, the sprawling field stretching endlessly beneath a sky too blue to feel real. The air shimmered with heat and energy; the smell of grass and sweat mixing with the sugary scent of festival food carried on the wind.

After the mandatory games, students were allowed to wander, spectate, and settle wherever they liked. However there was one game which no student wanted to miss. The Big game.

Y/N and her friends claimed seats near the bottom rows of the school's massive stone bleachers, close enough to the field that they could hear the players breathing. The entire school seemed to hum with excitement; students bubbling with anticipation, snacks in hand, voices loud with gossip and house chants.

The annual Final Event.

The last, grandest spectacle of the entire school fair.

And this year...it was a football match.

But not just any match.

A full-contact, magically-enhanced game—one that blurred the line between raw physical power and the sharp edge of strategy—where vampires and humans were forced to fight for the same goal or against it.

Y/N moved down the crowded steps of the bleachers with her friends, their chatter loud in her ears as they searched for an empty space. Julia dragged her by the wrist, practically vibrating with excitement.

"Here here—front row!"

They slipped into a space right along the bottom row, so close to the edge of the field that if one of the players tumbled out of bounds, they'd land at their feet.

Y/N leaned forward instinctively, squinting against the sun as the two teams began to line up across the field—the roar of students rumbling all around them, wave after wave of shouts and chants rolling over the stands. The energy was electric—bottled tension barely contained within enchanted barriers humming faintly around the pitch.

Then out walked the first team, the four of them spread out like they owned the damn world—sleek uniforms, dark against sun-baked grass, expressions carved from stone and fire.

Calixto turned his wrist idly, black gloves flexing as if already itching to strike — his sharp grin flashing like a challenge thrown carelessly to the wind.

Silas stood beside him—loose-limbed and polished as ever—his cold gaze cutting across the field like a blade, fixing his headband and already calculating every movement before the game even began.

Adrian rolled his shoulders back, muscles shifting beneath the tight stretch of his jersey; and the slight crack of his neck loud enough to make girls squeak behind Y/N. And of course Azul, the quietest storm of them all—standing still, impossibly still, like the eye of a hurricane. His icy blue gaze didn't wander.