❋ synopsis — bllk boys (isagi, barou, nagi, sae) when you drunk text them !
── .* ain't nobody safe when i'm a little bit drunk !
જ⁀* isagi yoichi
boyfriend! isagi who is always worried about you
You: yoichiiiiiiiii
You: i miss uuuuuu 😭
You: did u kno ur my soccer boy 😌⚽️💙
You: also the waiter looked like rin but uglier 😭😭😭😭
You can almost hear his sigh through the screen before his reply pops up seconds later.
Ichiiiiii ⚽️💙 : Are you with your friends? Did you eat?
Ichiiiiii ⚽️💙: Send me your location. I’ll come get you.
You: noooooo im fine 🥹
Ichiiiiii ⚽️💙 : Location please baby
Ten minutes later, headlights pull up in front of the bar. You’re still mid-rant about the “ugly Rin,” and when you stumble into his car, he just shakes his head with that exasperated smile.
“Next time,” he mutters, buckling your seatbelt for you, “you text me before you get drunk.”
more under the cut!
જ⁀* barou shoei
exboyfriend! barou who will answer you every. single. time
You: barouuuuu 😭 why do u still look so good in ur posts it’s annoying
You: like stop being hot im tryna get over u 🙄
You: also i still have ur hoodie btw. smells like u.
He replies faster than you’d like to admit.
King 😻: Then stop wearing it.
You: then stop posting ur stupid jawline 😭😭😭
King 😻: You’re drunk again, huh?
You: maybe. do u miss me tho 😏
He doesn’t respond for a while, and you think he’s done with you — until your phone lights up again.
King 😻: You know I always answer, don’t start this.
King 😻: Go home, idiot.
You grin at your screen, heart twisting.
He always says he won’t reply next time.
He always does.
જ⁀* nagi seishiro
boyfriend!nagi who ignored your texts at first bc he’s gaming and when he finally checks his phone, you’re already asleep
You: sei 😭😭😭
You: i just saw a cat and it reminded me of u bc lazy and cute 🐈
You: do u think cats play video games?
You: SEI ANSWER MEEE 😭😭😭
Nagi doesn’t even look away from the screen.
He’s mid-match, totally locked in. It’s only when Reo yells something about “Dude, your phone’s blowing up” that he finally checks.
sei baby 💤 : srry i was gaming. u okay?
sei baby 💤: baby?
sei baby 💤: u there?
sei baby 💤: send me a pic so i know u didn’t fall asleep in the bathroom again.
No reply. He groans, tossing the controller aside and grabbing his keys.
When he finds you later, passed out on the couch, your phone still in hand, he just sighs. Relief hidden beneath the fondness.
“You’re such a pain,” he mumbles, pulling a blanket over you.
જ⁀* sae itoshi
boyfriend!sae who knows you’re drunk before you even text him
Before you even hit send, he knows.
Maybe it’s the time, maybe it’s instinct.
Your name flashes on his screen, and he exhales through his nose — already imagining your flushed face, the way you giggle when you shouldn’t.
You: saeeee 😭 i only had like 2 shots i swearrrr
You: u love me rightttt 🥹
You: cuz i love u lots n lots like big ocean love 🌊💙
He takes his time typing. You can almost picture his unimpressed face, the way his thumb hovers before he finally sends:
Amor 🤌: You’re drunk.
You: am not!!!
Amor 🤌: Am I picking you up, or are you going to embarrass yourself further?
You: mean 😭😭😭
You: okay come get me 🥹
When you see him waiting by the car, arms crossed, expression unreadable, you can’t help but grin. He opens the door for you without a word, and you lean your head on his shoulder.
“See?” you mumble. “You do love me.”
His voice is quiet, but you hear it. “Unfortunately.”
tags: childhood friends! established relationship! just a cute little ficlet
one moment you were taking a walk with bachira at the park, taking full advantage of his short break from blue lock, and the next, you found yourself sitting on the swingset at the playground you used to play at when you were both kids.
you watch as bachira laughs as he soars through the air, a smile growing on your face. he comes to a gradual stop next you, his eyes full of glee, but softening a little when he looks at you.
“not gonna join me? you were the one who always asked to go on the swings. you were a real whiner about it too”
you sputter a little. “that’s because you never wanted to play anything but soccer!”
he laughs again, finding joy in your reaction. “why would I? soccer’s so fun!”
you huffed slightly, “nevermind”
bachira grins, leaning over to steal a kiss.
“it was cute then, and still is now”
you gasped.
“i knew you were doing it on purpose!”
a/n: i hope you enjoyed! <3
as always, reblogs and shares are appreciated! i hope you all stay safe! and just in case nobody told you they loved you today, i love you! you are enough! <3
writing belongs to me! please do not feed to ai, plagiarize, repost, or translate on here or any other sites!
a/n: all the stir lately over twst bc of the anime got me back on the twst grind im so excited. but im also miserable bc i've had twst since i was in high school and IM STILL ON BOOK 6 I HATE IT HERE i refuse to use the ticket thingies im doing this to myself i know
anyways, have some ace content <3
ෆ always teases you, but when you’re sad, he makes corny and dumb jokes to try and make you smile
ෆ magic tricks!! you have your own personal magician, but be wary! the candy you were saving in your pocket for later might just suddenly disappear…
ෆ tries to dedicate shots to you during basketball practice (that he makes you watch) but 8/10 times is stopped and blocked by floyd who thinks it’s funny
-> he grumbles about you laughing about it later and you ask why he makes you stick around if he’ll just be a grouch about it, but isn’t willing to admit that he wants to be the one to walk you back to ramshackle everyday
ෆ complains and grumbles if you get sick, but actually takes good care of you
-> takes the time to ask trey about soup and other foods that will be easy on your stomach
-> also sticks grim with deuce so you don’t have to worry
-> stays in bed with you, back against your headboard, one hand scrolling on his phone, the other gently rubbing your back as you sleep tucked into his side
ෆ shares his clothes! grumbles when you take his go to red hoodie, but doesn’t try to take it back
ෆ sends stupid twisted wonderland memes that you don’t understand at like 2 am
ෆ when coming over to “study,” he always “forgets” his books so you’ll have to share yours
ෆ steals all your nice pens so you tattle to riddle who banishes him to paint roses for two hours
ෆ sets up picnic dates in the rose garden after getting permission from trey
-> but the first time you had one, you both got scolded by riddle after being too loud and making a mess after starting a small food fight
ෆ is more or less broke, but does gift you things every now and then
-> nothing too fancy or too serious (yet) just little trinkets or snacks
-> your favorite from him so far is a simple cord bracelet with an ace of hearts charm
-> if he wants to splurge on you a bit for an anniversary or your birthday and other things like that, he borrows money from deuce and the other first years, sometimes cater too
-> the first years have a hard time saying no to him knowing it’s for you, but at least they get a bit of kick out of embarrassing ace for it
ෆ helps fix your hair, whether it’s short or long
-> for someone who tends to be more laid back, he does take it seriously
-> he’s careful when brushing/combing your hair, making sure he does it properly
-> if you’re someone who wears hair clips or other hair accessories, count on being gifted ones that have red hearts on them or cherries
ෆ definitely strikes me as the type of guy who’ll pass little notes to you in class (especially after getting called out for talking so many times) and doodle and chat back and forth with you on your notes
ෆ not super lovey dovey but always keeps you close to him! has to always have contact with you somehow…for example!
-> an arm loosely around your shoulders or your waist
-> sitting next to you as close as possible, shoulder to shoulder with your thighs touching too
-> playing with your hand during lunch while talking to everyone else
ෆ thinks he’s all that but will fold if you cry
-> again, usually a laid back guy and more often than not, can be a bit of a jerk, but he is capable of being serious and being sincere, especially when it comes to you
a/n: i hope you enjoyed! might do some more later hehe <3
as always, reblogs and shares are appreciated! i hope you all stay safe! and just in case nobody told you they loved you today, i love you! you are enough! <3
writing belongs to me! please do not feed to ai, plagiarize, repost, or translate on here or any other sites!
✩ a/n — wrote this on a whim and idk if it makes sense :)
✩ word count — 5.3k
✩ content — isagi yoichi x reader, pregant! reader (okay i'll stop with the pregnancy stuff ik yall are tired of it), emotionally distant! isagi, soccers literally devoured him i fear, angst, fluff, isagi still plays with BM, all characters are 18+ (22 in this fic), established relationship, not proofread
✩ synopsis — Soccer has become Isagi Yoichi's number one. You weren't even sure you were a close second anymore.
── .✦ you owe me a debt, you stole him from me.
You always loved airports at night.
Maybe it was the glow of terminal lights against the glass, how everything blurred when rain kissed the windows, how strangers moved in slow choreography—some chasing arrivals, some dragging the weight of goodbyes.
It felt poetic. Like life paused in limbo.
You liked that space between here and there.
The last time you stood at a gate like this, you were eighteen and crying into the fabric of his old high school track jacket.
It still smelled like the detergent his mother used—floral and cheap and comforting.
His hair had been a little too long, curling awkwardly around his ears, and he was so nervous he kept squeezing your hand like he was trying to memorize it.
You’d whispered, “Don’t forget me,” into his collar.
And he’d pulled back just enough to look at you—wide-eyed, overwhelmed, the kind of serious only Yoichi could be.
“I couldn’t if I tried,” he promised. You kissed him like you believed him.
That was the night soccer took him away once again.
And now, four years later, you stood beside him again in another terminal halfway across the world, married, older, quieter.
His hand was no longer in yours.
It hovered beside you, clenched around his phone, thumb tapping mindlessly as the screen replayed the last match. Again and again.
You glanced at the image. You recognized it instantly—his team had lost.
You could tell by the way he blinked slower than usual. The way his jaw clicked every now and then, like he was chewing his own frustration.
You didn’t speak. You’d learned not to on days like this.
When you landed, he didn’t offer to carry your bag. He didn’t even notice you struggled with the heavy zipper as you adjusted the handle.
It wasn’t on purpose. That was the cruelest part.
None of it ever was.
You moved across the world for him. Left your family, your hometown, your college friends. All of it, without regret.
That was your choice.
But loving someone like Yoichi came with unspoken terms.
You’d grown to understand that every time he stepped onto the pitch, he gave a piece of himself away.
The problem was…he never brought all of himself back.
The apartment in Germany was too quiet for a game day.
Muted walls, blinds drawn halfway, city lights bleeding through in dim gold slivers. The couch had a permanent dip on his side now, molded by long nights of post-game reflection.
You always sat on the other end. Close enough to be near him. Far enough not to interrupt.
You cooked anyway. You weren’t sure why anymore.
Maybe because he needed routine. Or maybe because you did. Maybe it was one of the only things you could control.
The timer on the rice cooker dinged softly. You stirred the soup twice clockwise, the way his mom taught you, and poured it into the bowl with a practiced hand.
Your fingers moved on autopilot, mind elsewhere—on the way he hadn’t said a full sentence to you since yesterday, on the two lines that had appeared on the pregnancy test this morning, on the ache in your chest that didn’t seem to go away lately.
You placed the tray on the table. He was already seated, eyes locked on the TV.
He’d changed into his sweatpants and that faded FC Bastard München hoodie—the one you used to steal to sleep in before it stopped smelling like him and started smelling like his stress.
“Dinner,” you said gently, the word slipping out like a question.
He didn’t respond. Not because he was upset. Because he was watching. Studying. Dissecting every angle of his mistake.
You could hear the commentator's voice describing the play in German, but Yoichi didn’t need words. He already knew what he did wrong.
He was reliving it. Frame by frame. Thought by thought.
You sat across from him and ate in silence.
When you were eighteen, he would’ve teased you for using too much soy sauce.
He would’ve touched your ankle under the table.
He would’ve told you his dumb post-match jokes in that awkward way of his, hoping to make you laugh even when he lost.
Now, he barely remembered you were there.
You kept your eyes on your food. The chopsticks shook slightly in your hand. Not from fear. From restraint.
You weren’t afraid of him. Not Yoichi. Never.
But you were afraid of this... version of him.
The one who had slowly, unrelentingly, replaced the boy you loved.
He hadn’t always been like this.
Back in high school, he used to skip his cooldown jog to walk you home.
He carried your books in his soccer bag and bought you taiyaki after every match.
He used to call you at 1 AM just to say, "I can't sleep if I don't hear your voice."
He kissed you like he had time.
Like he didn’t know the world was coming for him, teeth bared, ready to chew him up and spit him back out as a star.
Now, he kissed you in fragments—when he was euphoric from victory or desperate after a loss.
He kissed you like he was trying to remember something he used to be.
There were good days. Of course, there were.
When he scored, when his team won, when the crowd chanted his name and he walked off the field beaming—you saw him again.
The boy you married. He'd hold you in the locker room hallway, sweaty and breathless, whispering, “Did you see that?” like you weren’t watching every second of him with your whole heart.
He'd bury his face in your neck that night, voice cracking as he thanked you for waiting. For believing. For being here.
Those days, you let yourself forget.
But wins were getting fewer now. The game was changing. So was he.
And now, he lost more than he won.
Which meant you lost him more often than not.
He didn’t eat much that night. Just picked at the food while the replay looped again. When it ended, the room went still.
He leaned back and exhaled, frustrated.
“I should’ve passed earlier.”
His voice was hoarse. You could tell he hadn’t spoken in hours.
You nodded, gentle. “Maybe. But you’re still him, you know?”
He looked at you. Really looked.
For the first time all day, you saw him behind his eyes. Your husband.
Not the striker. Not the man the world expected him to be. Just Yoichi.
He reached across the table and took your hand. His touch was warm and grounding.
His thumb brushed over your knuckles like he was apologizing for forgetting how to be tender.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I know I haven’t been…”
“You don’t have to say it,” you replied. “I know.”
You did. You always had.
But it still stung to know love didn’t always protect you from being invisible.
Later, when he was asleep beside you, one arm slung across your waist and his head buried against your shoulder, you stared up at the ceiling and pressed a hand to your stomach.
Eight weeks. That tiny baby was already growing.
Already real. Already yours.
And you didn’t know how to tell him.
Because this man—the one who fell asleep still frowning even in his dreams—he wasn’t ready to hear it.
You could wait. You always waited. Through every loss, every silence, every ache.
So maybe you’d wait just a little longer.
Maybe after the next win, you thought. Maybe then you’ll tell him.
The morning of his next match, you woke to the familiar rustle of his pre-game routine.
The clink of his water bottle against the counter.
The zip of his duffel.
The quiet hum of him pacing the living room while reviewing formations in his head. Y
ou lay there in bed, unmoving, listening to him breathe like you used to when you were kids sharing late-night calls and falling asleep mid-conversation.
He always moved differently on game days — like he was already sprinting, even when standing still. Like the world couldn’t keep up with the storm inside him.
You rolled onto your back, your hand automatically brushing over your stomach.
Eight weeks and three days. Still just a secret between you and the slow, turning universe.
You had a plan this time.
If he won, you'd tell him.
You met him at the stadium entrance, as always. He jogged up to the gate, earbuds in, face focused but softer when he saw you.
“Morning,” he said, barely out of breath.
You held out his good luck charm — a braided bracelet you'd made in high school, black and navy.
It was frayed now, but he still tied it to his water bottle every match.
“You forgot,” you said, gently scolding.
His expression flickered—guilt, then affection. “Didn’t forget. Just wanted to see you hold it again.”
He kissed your cheek. Quick. Thoughtless. Rushed.
But it was something.
You watched him walk into the stadium, duffel slung over his shoulder, shoulders squared. You watched until the last trace of him disappeared into the tunnel.
And you whispered to yourself, Please win.
The match wasn’t perfect. But he played with fire in his veins. And this time — this time — it worked.
He scored.
One clean, brilliant strike. Just outside the box. You saw it leave his foot and knew before the net even rippled.
The crowd screamed. His name echoed, thick and powerful, like a storm had broken over the field.
He stood there, fists clenched, head tilted back toward the sky.
And for one beautiful second, he looked like the boy who used to practice free kicks in the park with you after school, sweaty and sunburned and beaming.
He won.
And for once, he smiled like it meant everything.
That night, you cooked again — something heavier. Celebration food.
You even played the playlist he made you once during your first year in Germany, the one with old Japanese love songs and soft instrumental tracks.
You set the table with two candles, flickering gently in the low light. The whole apartment smelled like home — miso and garlic and sweet soy.
When he walked in, it felt like he brought a different kind of energy with him. Lighter. Looser.
“You did it,” you said, trying not to sound too breathless. “That goal was—Yoichi, it was beautiful.”
He leaned against the kitchen doorframe, still wearing his team hoodie and sweat-slick hair.
“It felt good,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck like he always did when he was happy but didn’t know how to say it.
You crossed the space between you and wrapped your arms around his waist.
And this time, he held you back.
Tight.
He smelled like grass and victory and warmth. You wanted to stay there forever.
He kissed your temple. “Thank you for always being here.”
You didn’t speak for a moment. Just breathed against his chest.
Now, you told yourself. Tell him now.
You pulled back enough to look at him.
Your hand hovered over your stomach — your body ready to speak even before your mouth could catch up.
“Yoichi,” you whispered. “I have to tell you something.”
His eyes searched yours. The room felt heavy with possibility.
“I—”
But then he moved.
Still smiling, still gentle, but already reaching for his phone.
“Sorry—just real quick. They uploaded the post-match footage already. I wanna review the press angle of the goal.”
And just like that, the moment passed.
He didn’t mean to interrupt. He didn’t realize.
But the look in your eyes dimmed. Your hand dropped back to your side.
You watched him walk over to the couch, already immersed in another game, another analysis, another version of himself.
Dinner was warm. The candles flickered. Your plate was full.
But you ate alone again.
Later that night, he curled around you in bed like nothing had changed.
And maybe it hadn’t.
He whispered something sleepy into your shoulder. “Did good today, right?”
“You did amazing,” you said, lips brushing his knuckles as you held his hand against your stomach. You wanted to say it again — to try.
But he was already asleep.
And your voice caught in your throat like it wasn’t ready to fight the silence a second time.
You didn’t cry. Not really.
You just lay there, eyes open, thinking of how long it had been since he looked at you and really saw you. Not as someone who supported him. Not as his anchor or his comfort.
But as his person.
The girl he fell in love with in the empty gym after school.
The one he used to text poetry to, shy and anonymous.
The one he swore he’d never forget.
You turned your head and whispered into the dark, “I miss you.”
Yoichi stirred slightly, tightening his hold around your waist.
But he didn’t wake.
There was something strange about the days before a game.
He always moved through them like a shadow — present, but only in shape. You would speak to him in the morning and realize hours later he never answered.
You’d make dinner, and he’d eat on autopilot.
You’d sit beside him on the couch, trying to rest your head against his shoulder, only for him to lean forward and scroll through clips on his phone instead.
It wasn’t unkind. Just…empty.
And you were getting used to being second to the game. You’d started counting things in silences — like the number of days it had been since he asked you how you were.
Or the number of times you’d caught him glancing at his phone during your conversations.
You weren’t bitter. Just tired.
Pregnancy had been a lonely experience so far.
The quiet kind of lonely, where even though you lived in the same apartment and shared the same bed, it felt like you were always reaching for someone just a few steps ahead.
You wanted to believe he’d be excited. That maybe if you could just get the timing right, he’d stop the world long enough to really hear you.
So you waited again.
One more game.
He played poorly. You saw it from the first fifteen minutes.
His body was off. His passes weren’t connecting. He was late to the press. You could see it in his face — every step weighed down with frustration.
Every mistake making him spiral tighter into himself.
And then they lost.
Badly.
You watched the scoreboard blink red.
You watched him walk off the field with his head down, ignoring his teammates, jaw locked tight.
The post-game press didn’t call for him. He was too keyed up to speak clearly anyway.
You knew he’d just want to go home.
So that’s what you did.
The silence in the car was unbearable.
You sat beside him, hands clasped over your stomach, while he gripped the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping him together.
The streetlights passed over his face in quick intervals — light, shadow, light — but he didn’t say a word.
Not even a sigh.
When you reached your building, he parked and got out without waiting for you.
Didn’t open the door. Didn’t glance back.
Just went ahead and disappeared into the elevator.
You followed him upstairs with a quiet, mounting ache in your chest.
He didn’t take off his shoes when he came in. He dropped his duffel at the door and headed straight to the living room.
The TV was already on. The game was queued up.
You stood in the hallway, watching him fast forward to the 42nd minute.
You hadn’t even taken off your coat.
“Yoichi,” you said softly, stepping forward. “Hey, can we just—”
“Leave me alone.”
It was sharp. Immediate. Not yelled, not cruel — but final.
You froze.
Something in you broke.
“God,” you whispered, voice suddenly rising, chest aching. “If you can’t take the losses, why don’t you quit, huh?”
He turned to look at you for the first time all evening — stunned.
Caught off guard.
You didn’t stop.
“Do you think I like walking on eggshells every time your team loses? Do you think I enjoy watching you become a stranger after every mistake?”
His eyes narrowed, the same look he got when someone fouled him hard and the ref didn’t call it.
You kept going.
“You don’t talk. You don’t touch me. You come home and shut me out like I’m the enemy, like I’m the one who missed the pass—”
“I need to focus—”
“I need you,” you snapped.
And then it came.
The words spilled out before you could stop them.
“If you act like this… how are you supposed to be a dad?”
The silence that followed was thunderous.
He just stared at you.
And you stared back.
No rewind button. No replay. No edits.
You felt your throat go dry. Your eyes stung. But you didn’t cry.
Not this time.
He sat down slowly on the edge of the couch, as if the strength left his body all at once.
“...What did you say?”
You didn’t move.
“I’m pregnant,” you said, the words solid, heavy, trembling. “Ten weeks.”
Still, he said nothing.
You stepped forward, voice lower now. Sadder.
“I wanted to tell you. I kept waiting for the right moment. After a win. After a smile. After something that felt like… you were still in this with me.”
His hands dropped to his lap. Fingers clenched together. His breathing was uneven.
“I didn’t want it to be like this,” you whispered. “I didn’t want the first time you heard it to be in the middle of a fight.”
He looked up slowly, his expression unreadable.
“Why didn’t you just tell me sooner?”
You shook your head. “Because you’ve been gone. You come home every night, but you’re still gone. I thought if I waited long enough, maybe you’d come back.”
That night, you slept in the spare room. Not because he told you to. Not because he raised his voice.
But because when he finally stood and walked past you, heading for the bathroom, he didn’t touch you. Didn’t say a single word.
You sat on the edge of the bed in the cold dark, your hands on your belly, and whispered, “I’m sorry,” even though you didn’t know who it was meant for.
You were so tired of being the one who waited.
The next morning.
You woke up to the sound of the front door closing.
He was already gone.
No note. No text. No promise to come back.
Just you and the sound of the heating kicking on. The silence stretched long, unforgiving, across the whole apartment.
You didn’t eat breakfast.
You just sat at the table, turning your wedding ring around your finger, wondering if he’d even worn his today.
You remembered the first time he told you he loved you.
It was after a loss.
He missed the penalty that would’ve sent them to nationals. He was quiet, more than usual.
Everyone else had gone home, but you stayed, pacing the field alone until you found him sitting against the fence, knees to his chest.
You sat beside him without saying a word. Let the silence hold you both.
After a long pause, he said, “I’m not good enough.”
You shook your head. “Not true.”
He turned, eyes glossy, voice raw. “But you still love me anyway?”
You smiled through the ache. “Yeah. I always will.”
He kissed you, trembling, teeth knocking against yours. And he said, “Then I think I’m gonna be okay.”
You looked down at your stomach now.
Ten weeks. And counting.
You wanted that boy back. The one who found hope in your love.
But right now… you didn’t know if he remembered how.
The silence in the apartment was almost reverent, like even the walls were mourning the words that had been said.
You hadn’t meant to say them—not like that.
Not in a scream, not with your hands trembling at your sides and your throat burning from the effort it took to say what had lived at the back of your heart for weeks now.
But Isagi hadn’t even flinched when you said it.
He just stood there in the living room after the match—shoulders slumped, hair still damp from the shower, his duffel bag half-unzipped at his feet—and said nothing.
He didn't fight back. Didn’t apologize. Didn’t cry.
He just said, “I said leave me alone.”
And so you did.
You packed a bag the next day.
You couldn’t even remember what you brought with you, only that the quiet of the hallway outside your front door felt louder than anything he’d said in the past two weeks.
You didn’t slam the door. You didn’t text him after. There wasn’t a dramatic exit. Just silence.
You stayed with a friend the first night.
Then two.
Then it was five.
No messages from him.
Not even a read receipt.
And you hated how your phone still lit up in your hand every time the screen buzzed—even if it was just your bank or a weather alert.
You hated the way your chest clenched when you saw a soccer related headline in your feed, and even more the way your eyes scanned every photo, every blurry zoom-in shot of the match, hoping for a glimpse of his face.
You saw him on a sports interview two days later. He looked tired. His smile was forced.
When the reporter asked about the loss, his jaw twitched.
They asked him if anything had changed in his routine.
He said no.
Isagi didn’t change anything in the apartment.
Your slippers still sat by the door, your toothbrush was still tucked beside his, your half-read book was still on the nightstand, your cardigan still draped over the kitchen chair. He didn’t move any of it.
But he didn’t touch it either.
He walked around your presence like it was a ghost—afraid to disturb it, and too stubborn to let himself miss you.
He didn’t sleep well.
The bed was too cold. Too quiet.
His dreams always hovered on the edge of something—your voice, your warmth, the way you used to curl into his side with a sigh that made the world feel small and safe.
Now it all felt vast and hollow.
And that night—three days after you left—he stood in the doorway of what would’ve been the baby’s room.
The same one you painted together.
The same one where you’d sat on the floor with catalogues, talking names and middle names and whose nose you hoped they’d inherit.
He stared at the room in silence, eyes glassy.
Then he shut the door.
Meanwhile, You…
You couldn’t stop thinking about the way he looked when you said it.
The line that echoed, again and again.
"If you act like this… how are you supposed to be a dad?"
You didn’t even cry that first night away from him. You just laid in bed, your friend asleep in the other room, and stared at the ceiling with guilt blooming in your chest like a second heartbeat.
Because you didn’t mean it like that.
You weren’t trying to say he wouldn’t be a good father.
You were trying to say—he couldn’t shut down. Not with you. Not with a child.
You wanted him to fight for more than just the game.
You wanted him to fight for you.
Day Five
It was raining.
Of course it was raining.
You’d left work late, shoes soaked from stepping in a deep puddle, and your umbrella had snapped back in the wind, rendering it useless.
The walk home was wet and cold and miserable—and when you finally reached the door to the apartment you weren’t even staying in, you saw him.
Isagi.
Sitting on the steps like a drenched ghost.
Hood pulled over his head. Face downcast. Knees to his chest.
You froze under the awning, staring at him.
He didn’t look up right away. Not until you stepped closer and whispered, “What are you doing here?”
He slowly raised his head.
His eyes were glassy, rimmed red. He looked exhausted.
“…I didn’t know where else to go.”
You swallowed the lump in your throat.
The rain dripped from his sleeves. His fingers twitched once, like he wanted to reach for you, but wasn’t sure if he should.
“Yoichi,” you breathed, “you shouldn’t be out here. You’re soaked—”
“I deserve it.”
It came out rough. Hoarse.
And then finally—his voice cracked.
“I deserved every word you said.”
You didn’t speak.
He wiped at his face with his sleeve like it could undo the past week. “I didn’t know how to handle it. The loss. The pressure. I—I kept thinking if I could just make it work, if I could just keep winning, I could fix everything. I thought I could carry it all. I thought I had to.”
You took a step closer.
He looked up at you like a drowning man clinging to a piece of driftwood.
“I didn’t mean to push you away,” he said, his voice barely above the rain. “I didn’t mean to make you feel alone. I was scared. And I took it out on you.”
Your throat closed up.
“I still want this,” he whispered. “You. Our family. I want it so badly it hurts.”
Silence fell again.
And then, softly—
“I don’t know how to be a dad yet. But I want to learn.”
You knelt beside him, rain soaking into your jeans, and reached out to cup his face in your hands.
His skin was cold, wet from more than just the storm.
He leaned into your touch like it was the first warmth he’d felt in days.
“You could’ve just said you were scared,” you whispered. “You don’t have to be perfect, Yoichi. You just have to be here.”
“I’m here,” he said, voice cracking. “I’m here now.”
And for the first time in days, you believed him.
The apartment was quiet again, but not the kind of silence that crushed your chest the way it had before.
Not like the nights he’d shut himself in the spare room, not like when you'd lie in bed staring at the ceiling, wondering if love was enough to weather a storm like him.
This time, it was peaceful.
You were curled up on the couch, legs tucked under a throw blanket, the soft echo of your baby’s heartbeat still thudding in your ears from the appointment earlier.
You’d gone alone to many of the appointments. Been so used to being alone.
Except this time…he showed up.
Isagi Yoichi had missed three matches. The news had said “minor injury,” but everyone knew he’d played through worse.
A sprain, a sore knee, even a bruised rib once.
He never let it sideline him.
But this time—he chose to sit out.
He walked into that exam room timidly, like a guest in a stranger’s house, his hands tucked into the sleeves of his hoodie.
His eyes flicked nervously from the walls to the monitor to you. Then to your belly. Then away.
You hadn’t spoken much since the fight.
Just a few words here and there.
Texts about groceries. A quiet nod in passing.
You weren’t sure what it meant—if he was retreating again or simply trying not to mess it up more than he already had.
The doctor greeted you both kindly.
She placed the gel on your stomach with gloved fingers and angled the wand over the curve of your belly.
You flinched slightly at the cold, but your eyes remained on the screen.
And then, there it was.
A grainy silhouette, a heartbeat strong and steady, fluttering across the screen like a drum.
Isagi froze beside you.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there, his gaze fixated on the monitor, his lips parted like he was trying to speak but couldn’t quite breathe.
His hand slowly, slowly reached out and wrapped around your wrist, holding on as if anchoring himself.
“…That’s… ours?” His voice broke. Completely cracked down the middle.
The doctor smiled kindly. “That’s your baby, Mr. Isagi. Looks healthy.”
“Do we… do we know—?”
“No sir, not for another few weeks,” she chuckled gently. “But everything’s progressing right on schedule.”
Isagi didn’t respond. His hand tightened around your wrist just slightly, his shoulders shaking.
And then—he cried.
You’d seen him angry. You’d seen him gutted from losses, curled over himself with rage and shame.
But you had never seen this.
Not tears of failure.
Not tears of frustration.
These were quiet.
These were soft, genuine tears falling down his face as he watched the smallest proof that he still had time to be someone good.
To be someone better. To be a father.
When you left the clinic, he insisted on holding the ultrasound photo, cradling it with a strange reverence you hadn’t seen in months.
He even smiled—just a little—while walking with you to the car.
That was when the flash went off.
The moment the light burst across your face, your gut dropped. Then came the sound of snapping shutters.
At least five photographers, you guessed, hiding behind parked cars.
"Isagi! Isagi! Is it true you’re going to be a father?!"
"Who's she to you? Is this your wife?!"
You turned your face away on instinct, but Isagi didn’t flinch. He didn’t shove past or let you walk alone.
Instead, he looked at you with this sort of soft question in his eyes—asking permission—and when you didn’t say no, he leaned in and kissed you. Right there on the sidewalk.
His hand around your waist, the ultrasound photo held up beside your joined faces.
And twenty minutes later, the internet exploded.
Rumors. Speculation. Headlines.
Your inbox filled up with friends asking if it was true, if you were really having a baby, if he really walked away from three games just to be with you.
He didn't wait to control the narrative.
Instead, he posted the picture himself.
📸 @ isagi_yoichi
the rumors are true.
The comments poured in instantly.
Some were cruel, but most were warm. Supportive. Overwhelming, even.
You saw your name trending, saw pictures of you from high school being shared and reposted.
You didn’t expect the news to spread like this. But strangely—you weren’t afraid.
Because for once, he wasn’t hiding.
Later that night, you sat at the kitchen table together in that same apartment where it had all started—the laughter, the fights, the cold walls and broken promises.
He reached across the table and held your hand.
“I know I hurt you,” he said softly. “I’ve been hurting you for a long time.”
You swallowed, your fingers lacing with his slowly.
“I thought I had to be perfect. Or else I’d lose everything. But I ended up pushing you away every time I failed… I was trying to protect you from the worst parts of me.”
“But Yoichi… I didn’t need perfect,” you said. “I just needed you to stay.”
He nodded, eyes glossy but steady. “I’m going to leave it all on the field from now on. My anger, my frustration, my self-hate. I won’t bring that home to you anymore. I won’t punish you because I couldn’t win.”
You squeezed his hand. “You’re not just a player. You’re going to be a dad.”
His eyes softened. “I want to be the kind of father they’ll be proud of. And I want to be a partner you can count on.”
He paused, then added, “I talked to my coach. I told him I’m not playing unless I’m ready. Not just physically, but here too.” He pointed to his head, then his chest. “I need to be whole—for all of us.”
The weeks that followed weren’t perfect. But they were better.
You cooked dinner together again. He came to every appointment. He fell asleep once with your head on his chest and his hand resting on your stomach, murmuring promises into the dark.
When he returned to the field, he scored—but didn’t watch the replays.
He walked straight past the film room and into the car where you waited for him, and drove home humming to the playlist you'd made together long ago.
The storm hadn’t passed completely. There were still bad nights, off days, hard conversations.
a/n: please don’t come for me after you read this. i’m just the messenger. blame the feelings, not the writer. 🕊️
synopsis: in which isagi yoichi fell in love with someone else, and you helped him. because loving him meant staying, even if it meant guiding him into someone else's arms.
the call was already running past midnight,
isagi’s voice had softened, now slurred by sleep, his words curling at the edges with exhaustion. his eyes were half-lidded on the screen, blinking slower with every passing second.
the overhead light in his room cast a soft golden hue over his features, bathing the curve of his cheekbones, his messy hair, the slope of his nose. he looked peaceful. vulnerable, even. hair tousled, lips parted like he was mid-dream.
you should’ve hung up by now. you should’ve let him rest. it wasn’t like he asked you to stay.
but you didn’t hang up.
instead, you watched him, your thumb grazing your screen, like the motion could somehow keep the moment alive a little longer.
“still there?” he murmured, his voice no more than a whisper now.
you nodded instinctively, then remembered he couldn’t see you. “yeah,” you said softly. “still here.”
he smiled faintly, the kind of smile that never reached his eyes but felt like it mattered anyway. “you’re always here.”
it was a throwaway line. something said in the haze of exhaustion and comfort. but it stuck to you like a thorn under the skin, subtle and aching.
you wanted to say, of course i’m here. i’ve always been here. but you didn’t.
instead, you whispered, “sleep. i’ll keep you on, just in case.”
he didn’t argue. he never did. within minutes, his breathing slowed into that quiet, rhythmic rise and fall you knew too well.
you stayed. just like always.
you met isagi in the early days, before blue lock swallowed him whole and before the stadiums began to roar his name. back then, he was just yoichi. ambitious, unsure, and a little too polite for his own good.
you were paired for a group project neither of you cared about. it was awkward at first. he was soft-spoken, always trying to keep things fair, and you didn’t know how to talk to someone who looked at the world like it was a problem he could solve.
but he made you laugh, genuinely, and unexpectedly. and slowly, you made him open up.
one afternoon working at the library turned into coffee at a dingy café. coffee turned into more late-night calls. one day became two, then ten, then months of uncounted hours shared between football rants and quiet silences.
he talked about dreams like they were real, like he was already chasing them with everything he had.
you listened.
always listening. like his words were sacred. like his voice was the only one that mattered.
you watched him climb. watched the way the world started to notice him, the way his shoulders grew broader under the weight of his own potential. you cheered for him from the sidelines, biting down your fears, swallowing every inch of doubt just so he wouldn’t have to.
and somewhere along the way, you fell in love.
it was quiet. slow. a steady ache that made a home in your chest.
but you never told him.
what was the point?
you didn’t want to ruin the friendship—didn’t want to risk the one thing you had.
and maybe, deep down, you were hoping he’d say it first.
the shift didn’t happen in a thunderclap. it came like a soft wind, like a curtain slowly pulling back.
at first, it was a name you didn’t recognize.
airi.
he said it during a call, offhanded, while sipping from a convenience store bottle of iced tea.
“she made fun of my tie,” he chuckled, holding the bottle to his lips. “said it looked like a high schooler’s.”
you laughed along. “was she wrong?”
“i mean… maybe not.” he grinned, cheeks slightly flushed. “god, you know, she’s funny. laughs at everything too. and her smile’s… i don’t know, it just kind of sticks with you. it’s nice.”
he said it so casually. like it wasn’t something that would echo in your head for days.
you froze, just for a second. a beat too long. but you smiled, too. of course you did. that was what you were good at, smiling when it hurt.
you wondered if he ever noticed the way your smile always came a little slower when he talked about her.
he never did.
after that, her name began to slip into conversations more and more.
“she recommended this ramen place. said their tonkotsu’s insane.”
“she texted me this stupid meme and i actually laughed out loud.”
“she told me i should grow my hair out. think i’d look good?”
you said yes.
you always said yes.
even when it started to feel like each ‘yes’ was carving a little more of you away.
it was past eleven when the message came. his name flashed across your screen, your heart leaping even before you saw the words:
yoichi: i want to confess. but i’m freaking out. can i… try it out with you? like practice? idk
you stared at it. the little bubble. the blinking cursor. the heartbeat in your ears.
every instinct you had screamed no.
but your fingers moved on their own:
you: sure. call me.
the screen lit up within seconds. he looked nervous, eyes wide, hair a mess, like he’d been pacing before dialing.
“okay,” he exhaled, fingers raking through his hair. “just pretend to be her, yeah?”
you nodded before you could think. bit your lip so hard you swore it’d bruise.
“hi, yoichi,” you whispered.
it felt wrong coming out of your mouth. like a version of a dream where you were playing someone else’s part.
he laughed nervously, shifting in his seat. “man, this is dumb, huh? practicing like this.”
“no, it’s not,” you said. “it’s sweet. you care enough to want to get it right.”
“yeah, i guess,” he murmured. “i just… i don’t want to mess this up.”
you wanted to tell him he wouldn’t. that he never could. that any girl would be lucky to have him.
you wanted to tell him you were already in pieces just sitting here, pretending.
he didn’t give you the chance.
“i think…” his voice faltered. then steadied, like he was gathering courage. “i think i started falling for you when you teased me about my shooting form.”
your breath caught.
you remembered that day, how your words were playful, teasing. how he’d laughed, rubbed the back of his neck, eyes sparkling in that soft, bashful way of his. you hadn’t known it mattered to him.
and yet, it didn’t matter for the reason you hoped.
“i was frustrated that day,” he said. “i didn’t want to hear criticism. but you didn’t sugarcoat it. you said i was too rigid. that i wasn’t trusting myself. and i remember thinking… she sees right through me. even when i’m trying to pretend i’m okay.”
you swallowed hard, throat thick.
“you’re always honest,” he said, voice growing quieter, more thoughtful. “and not in a mean way. you’re just… real. you don’t let me spiral. you pull me back. i don’t even think you notice how often you save me.”
your eyes stung.
“you believe in me when i can’t,” he said, and it shattered something inside you. “and i don’t even know when that started meaning so much to me. but it does. you matter. so much.”
say her name, you wanted to scream. say her name so i can stop pretending.
but he didn’t. he kept going. and it was worse this way, because he was looking right at you, and still, it wasn’t you he saw.
“i think about you more than i should,” he confessed. “like when something funny happens, you’re the first person i want to tell. or when i’m nervous. or when something good happens and i want to celebrate. it’s always you.”
you clutched the edge of your desk, your knuckles white.
why can’t i be that person too? why can’t it be me you want to tell things to—when i’ve always been here, knowing you better than anyone?
“i don’t want to keep it in anymore,” he said. “so… i like you. i really like you. would you… want to go out sometime?”
you froze.
you listened to him, staring at his hopeful eyes, his smile, the way he tilted his head slightly like he was already picturing a future.
not with you.
with her.
and yet he was practicing on you. like you were just… warm-up. rehearsal.
you smiled. somehow.
“i’d say yes,” you replied, barely above a whisper.
his face lit up, eyes going wide. “seriously?”
you nodded. “she’d be lucky to hear it like that.”
he laughed, rubbing his nape. “god, you’re just saying that.”
“i’m not,” you said. “you sound perfect.”
he looked genuinely relieved. “i really needed this. i was going crazy overthinking it. but saying it out loud helped. and, like… if you think i’ll be okay, i feel better.”
“of course you’ll be okay,” you said, the words slicing your tongue as you let them go. “you always are.”
he smiled at you, so soft, so boyish. “god, what would i do without you?”
you nearly broke.
you nearly screamed that he’d never needed you. that he only ever came to you when he needed comfort, clarity, support, but never love. never the kind you gave without asking for anything in return.
you wanted to say: fall in love with me instead. just once. just look at me and see me.
but you didn’t.
because you knew it wasn’t your place.
because this wasn’t your love story.
he sent her the message right after.
you stayed on the call, watching the small green dot next to his name blink steadily. the typing bubble appeared. disappeared. appeared again.
and then, finally:
i’d love to.
that was it.
three words. just that.
his whole face lit up.
“she said yes,” he whispered, breathless, eyes glowing with something so painfully soft that it shattered whatever was left of you.
you smiled. because what else could you do?
“told you she would.”
he beamed. that rare, unguarded smile that made everything inside you ache.
“i’m really lucky, aren’t i?”
you nodded, swallowing back everything that screamed inside your chest. “yeah,” you said. “you are.”
but it burned.
not because she said yes.
but because that was all she said.
“i’d love to.” that was all it took.
you bit down hard on your tongue.
because if it had been you—if it had been you—you would’ve said everything. you would’ve told him that he wasn’t just someone you liked. he was the only constant in your storm. the voice that pulled you back from the edge every night. the dream you never let yourself have too loudly.
you would’ve said,
i love you.
i love you in the way i laughed at your jokes even when they weren’t funny, in the way i watched your matches like they were sacred, holding my breath with every kick, praying the world would see you like i always did.
i love you in the nights i stayed on call until the sun came up, fighting sleep just to hear your breathing slow into something peaceful.
i love you in the silence, in the waiting, in the ache.
in every moment you chose someone else and i smiled anyway.
in every word i swallowed just to keep what little we had.
in every dream i buried because it didn’t fit into yours.
i love you in the way i never said it, because i was afraid.
afraid it would ruin what we had.
afraid you’d pull away.
afraid you’d never feel the same.
but most of all, i loved you in the hope that maybe you’d see it first.
that maybe, just maybe, you’d choose me without needing to be told.
i love you in quiet offerings, in unsent messages, in every second i stayed just to hear you breathe.
i love you in the spaces where you’ll never look, and in all the ways you’ll never see.
and still, you never had to ask.
because i was already yours—even when you were never mine.
all she gave him was a line. neat. effortless. three little words that got her everything.
and you?
you gave him your heart, your time, your pieces, and all you got to say was yeah, you are.
you could’ve given him the world.
but he never asked you for it.
he was already giving his to someone else.
the call ended not long after. he promised to tell you everything tomorrow. you told him goodnight, then sat in the dark, unmoving, unblinking.
the silence around you felt like a scream no one could hear.
your phone lit up again:
yoichi: thank you. i couldn’t have done it without you. ur the best. fr.
you didn’t reply.
you just stared at the screen until it dimmed and faded to black. and still, you sat there, in the quiet ruins of something that was never yours. the role you played was over now; the best friend, the practice run, the warm-up act.
the one who helped him fall in love, just not with you.
you were all he’d ever needed. never what he wanted. and god, wasn’t that the most painful kind of almost?
you remembered the nights you stayed on call with him until morning, when your eyes ached for sleep, but you stayed anyway, just to hear the soft rhythm of his breathing. the way his voice would drop, quiet and warm, when it was just the two of you and the world had stilled.
you remembered dropping everything when he fell sick, racing across the city with medicine and soup, sitting by his side as he shivered and tried to make you laugh through chattering teeth.
you remembered his parents, the way they welcomed you into their home like you belonged there, his mother once taking your hand and saying, “thank you for taking care of our boy.”
you thought those things meant something. maybe they did. just not in the way you'd hoped.
because in the end, it only took one girl. one name that wasn’t yours. she didn’t know how he liked his coffee. she hadn’t heard his voice crack from exhaustion at 3 a.m., or seen the way he curled into himself when he felt like a failure. she hadn’t been there in the beginning, hadn’t listened to the earliest versions of his dreams before they were beautiful.
but she didn’t have to.
she was the one he wanted.
and the worst part was knowing it wasn’t her fault. she hadn’t done anything cruel. she hadn’t stolen anything that was ever truly promised to you. she just appeared, and he chose her. simple as that.
you couldn’t hate her for it. not really.
she was simply the ending he was always meant to have.
and you…
you were just the girl who got him there.
the one who made it easier for him to love someone else.
oh, you were my everything.
i'm just your second best.
and still, you clung to the scraps, because even borrowed affection felt real when it was his.
because part of you believed before— foolishly and desperately—that maybe he’d look back.
on the field, isagi is sharp-edged and brash, driven by instinct and obsession. he’s loud when it matters and throwing himself into plays with everything he’s got. he doesn’t stop to soothe or sugarcoat; he speaks to win. but off the field, that fire cools into warmth: his words gentle, careful, like he's learning how to love you out loud one honest sentence at a time.
you’re curled up on the couch when he speaks, his voice soft like it’s only meant for you.
“you know you’re everything to me, right?”
you look up from your book, caught off guard by the sincerity in his eyes.
“even when you’re tired, even when you feel small… i still see how big your heart is,” he says, brushing your hair behind your ear. “i don’t say it enough, but i really, really admire you.”
your breath hitches, and he smiles gently.
“i love how you care so deeply. i love how you always try, even when you’re scared. you’re incredible, and you don’t have to change a single thing.”
he kisses your forehead, lingering there like he’s trying to leave the words behind.
“you’re the best part of my day,” he whispers, pulling you into his arms like you’re the safest place he knows.
hiori yo – acts of service
on the field, hiori is quick and quiet, all clean passes and calm precision. he doesn't hesitate or wait; he simply moves where he's needed and makes things work without being asked. off the field, that same instinct becomes something softer: he listens closely, notices the little things, and shows love through every quiet effort to make your day easier.
you wake to the smell of something sweet drifting into your room, and when you shuffle into the kitchen, hiori’s already there with flour on his cheeks and a proud little smile.
“mornin,” he says shyly. “made ya some breakfast. and tea. and… yer favorite, too.”
you blink at the sight of the perfectly set table, and your heart squeezes.
“you didn’t have to,” you whisper.
“i know,” he replies, walking over to gently tuck a blanket over your shoulders. “but i wanted to. ya’ve been workin’ so hard lately, and i just… i wanna look after ya, same way you always do for me.”
you watch as he stirs the tea and places it in front of you with both hands.
“ya mean the world to me,” he adds, gaze dropping just a little. “so let me show ya. even if it’s just like this.”
and somehow, everything he does feels like the softest kind of love.
mikage reo – gift giving
on the field, reo is ambitious and unrelenting, always pushing forward like he has something to prove; not just to others, but to himself. he plays to win, to shine, to create something worth chasing. but off the field, that same intensity turns thoughtful: he gives you little things without expecting anything back, because to him, love is about making you feel special in the quietest, most personal ways.
reo hands you the box with this gentle smile, eyes sparkling with excitement like a kid sharing his favorite secret.
“open it,” he says, bouncing slightly where he stands.
inside is a delicate necklace with tiny charms, each one so personal it nearly brings tears to your eyes.
“i remembered everything you told me. the night you talked about your grandma’s favorite flower, the stars you said you wished you could catch, the little shell from our beach trip…”
you glance up at him, lips parted, and he gives you a sheepish little grin.
“i just wanted you to have something to wear that reminded you of all the softest pieces of yourself.”
you don’t know what to say, but he gently cups your cheek, brushing his thumb across your skin.
“you deserve things that shine,” he whispers. “and i’ll keep finding them for you. always.”
bachira meguru – quality time
on the field, bachira is wild and unpredictable, weaving through players like he's chasing something only he can see. he moves fast, laughs louder, and never stays in one place for too long. off the field, though, he slows down for you, happy to sit beside you in quiet moments and just enjoy your company like time itself doesn’t matter.
“stay like this with me,” bachira murmurs, his voice muffled as he tucks his head beneath your chin, arms around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll float away.
you’re curled up on the floor in a blanket cocoon, soft music playing in the background and fairy lights casting a gentle glow.
“we don’t have to talk,” he says, drawing lazy circles on your arm. “just being near you is enough.”
his words melt into the moment, warm and slow, like honey in tea.
you run your fingers through his messy hair, and he hums like a purring cat.
“this is my favorite thing,” he whispers. “just you, me, and the quietness.”
he looks up at you, eyes sleepy and golden.
“it’s like… when you’re here, the world stops spinning so fast. and for once, i don’t feel like i have to chase anything.”
you press your forehead to his, and he giggles.
“promise you’ll keep wasting time with me?” he says playfully, but his smile is soft, hopeful.
you nod. “forever.”
nagi seishiro – physical touch
on the field, nagi moves like everything is effortless, barely putting in more energy than needed while still making the impossible look easy. he seems distant, half-asleep, like nothing really touches him. but off the field, when it’s just you, he’s quietly clingy: always reaching for your hand, leaning into your warmth, and showing love through every gentle, sleepy touch.
nagi doesn’t ask—he just drapes himself over you like you’re the only place he ever wants to be.
“you’re squishing me,” you mumble, half-laughing.
he hums, nuzzling into your neck. “comfy though.”
his arms are heavy around your waist, his legs tangled with yours. you can feel every slow breath he takes, grounding him.
“when you’re close, it’s easier to breathe,” he says, barely above a whisper. “like… nothing else matters.”
his fingers glide over your arm, gentle, aimless, like he’s memorizing the shape of you.
“you feel like home,” he mumbles, and his voice sounds almost sleepy. “you’re soft. warm. safe.”
you run your hand through his hair, and he sighs so contentedly you swear he melts into you a little more.
“don’t move yet,” he says. “five more minutes. or forever. either’s good.”
he holds on tighter, like letting go isn’t even an option.
“i like loving you like this,” he adds. “close enough to know you’re real.”
I also drew my boys with the new merch design!! I'm in love with those uniforms and the fact that Sakura is touching his hat because he doesn't like to wear that stuff 🥹 so I imagined Suo and Nirei comforting him ♡
a/n: kept on seeing cute couple photo booth pics on pinterest so if i have to suffer so do you <3 | also! all reference pics are fem bc that's what saved on my pinterest but no gender is specified here :)
isagi yoichi
he’s the one who spots it and asks if you want to go
sweet as always and more than happy to do it with you
thinks you’re cute when you lead him there hand in hand
the two of you spend 5 minutes going through pinterest looking for cute poses to copy
each pic is perfect and no retakes are needed, nails every inspo
10000/10 literally the cutest couple photos ever
you’re tempted to go again but you push that thought aside for now since the event is gonna start right about now
when the 2 photostrips develops you look at him with a cheeky grin
“you’re so boyfriend coded babe”
he gets sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck with pink cheeks
but he recovers quickly and kisses one of your own
“only for you”
your smile softens
“let’s come back to take some more later”
“of course!”
bachira meguru
doesn’t even tell you where he’s going and drags you by the wrist, a grin on his face
the next thing you know you’re squished in with him in the booth and he’s already selecting all the settings
the first picture is normal, the two of you close together with you leaning on him a bit
then bachira starts making goofy faces and the screen captures the pic with you mid laughter
it’s a bit shaky but it’s very you two
the next one you join him in making a silly face at the camera and then for the final one, it’s you two making a silly face at each other
you can’t help but laugh once the picture summary comes up, but regardless, you ask if he’d like to retake anything
he only grins and steals a kiss
he laughs when you get a bit red and pokes your cheek
what a little shit
“nah, don’t need to, they’re perfect”
nagi seishiro
(okay these ones are from my camera roll from playing love and deepspace LOL)
doesn’t react when you start tugging him to go somewhere
it’s routine now really, you pull and he follows
it’s less of a hassle that way
complains a bit when he has to get inside the booth because he’s just so tall
“do we have to? can’t we just…take pictures on your phone?”
you ignore his complaints to mess around with the settings and he watches you quietly
he cooperates for the most part, his face mostly indifferent but he indulges you
he throws up a lazy peace sign for one, holds you close, lets you cling to him, yk just casual boyfriend things
in the last pic you notice how he’s staring at you instead of the camera and you feel your heart warm up just a bit more
he yawns when you both exit the booth and he stares at his copy of a pics before slipping it into his pocket for safe keeping
keeps you extra close for the rest of the night
“...i guess it was worth the hassle”
mikage reo
this man is on it
had a whole ass pinterest board of cute couple photobooth inspo pics all ready waiting for the day you both stumbled across a photo booth
you teased him for it which made him sputter
“im trying to be romantic here!”
in the end you both agreed on doing the poses from IU’s “Love wins all” MV with Taehyung since you both were pretty dressed up for the event
literally couple goals reo was so proud
literally took the two photostrips and held them up with the smuggest look on his face
“i think someone owes me an apology”
you roll your eyes, but it’s playful because the pictures did look really good after all and you had fun too
it’s hard not to have fun when your boyfriend is the mikage reo after all
you press a kiss to his cheek after murmuring a soft thank you
his smile softens and he pulls you close by your waist
“of course, anything for you”
itoshi rin
says no but finds himself in the booth anyways
rin wonders how this became his life and he looks at you picking out all the settings and then he remembers why
tbh is just there when the actual taking pictures part is happening
you’re the one doing all the work and he’s like a grumpy cat
a cute one, but grumpy nonetheless
but despite all that, he lets you do whatever, pulling him close to you by the neck, squishing his cheeks, anything you please
but for the last one, in the last 5 seconds of the countdown he goes, “hey”
obviously you look at him and you squeak when his lips meet yours and then the countdown is over and the pic is taken
when he pulls away and sees your red face, a small smirk makes its way onto his face and he simply gets out of the booth to wait for you outside
not too long later, when you recover from that little stunt of his and walking away together, you tease him about wanting to kiss you
he tchs and looks away but does nothing when you hang onto his arm
“...you’re annoying”
“whatever you say rin rin!”
“never say that again”
itoshi sae
sae didn’t really have a reason to be here, not really but he was there at the blue lock event anyways
the only thing making it bearable was that he was allowed a plus one
if he had to suffer, at least you’d be there too
although he probably could’ve told you about it a bit sooner and time to prepare
you were a little annoyed obviously, but you seemed fine and he thought that was that
no it was not
your little way of getting some sort of vengeance was dragging him into the photobooth
sae deadpans bc why did a blue lock event even have this anyways
“fine, just once”
and for half of them, he’s looking at you instead of the camera
you keep both copies in your purse for safe keeping but when you get home later, can’t find the other one and ask him about it, he tries to gaslight you into thinking you only printed one copy and just being clumsy by remembering wrong
you see right through it anyways and have the biggest shit eating grin on your face
“itoshi sae you have the other copy don’t you?”
“...i don’t”
“sae”
he’s lucky he’s pretty
chigiri hyoma
is totally down
but takes like 5 minutes fixing his hair using the mirror attached to the side of the booth
“hyoma your hair is literally already styled because of the event”
“don’t rush me”
you don’t use any reference pictures and just go with the flow but they turn out really good anyways
your boyfriend seems to think so too and doesn’t let you leave and instead selects all the settings to go again
“looks like someone is excited”
“shut up, the countdown started again”
chigiri is just naturally photogenic so you can’t help but stare at all the pictures after they’re printed, but you also look back and forth between them and him
you’re not being subtle so he takes the chance to teasing you but you manage to turn it around
“i was just thinking that you look better in person”
“wha–”
you stick out your tongue at him playfully and with faint red cheeks, he sighs but it’s fond
the photo booth at this event kickstarted your shared new photo booth pic collection together
a/n: lowkey had this sitting in my drafts for a few days...it was completed but yall finding pictures was hard (i know looking at pictures on pinterest inspired this was but it was still hard) and formatting is sucky too but BAH i hope yall liked this anyways <3
as always, reblogs and shares are appreciated! i hope you all stay safe! and just in case nobody told you they loved you today, i love you! you are enough! <3
writing belongs to me! please do not plagiarize, repost, or translate on here or any other sites!
