isagi likes to complicate things. it’s a habit that benefits him like during games. most of the times, unfortunately, it’s unnecessary. he likes to search for the exact reason why you didn’t bother sending an emoji in your last text, (there was a pretty butterfly at the window that looked so distracting) or specifically now, how he’s absolutely awestruck by your skincare routine.
“isagi,” you mumble while you rub circles into your cheeks. you’d giggle more if it didn’t mean that the bitter solution of your face wash might make it into your mouth. “you’re staring.”
“can you blame me?” he has to ask while sidling up behind you. you can’t. it’s his first time sleeping over and the domesticity has you feeling giddy.
he offered to take out the trash, kissed you on the lips flavored like homemade dinner right before he left, and rubbed elbows as you washed dishes and he dried them.
unsurprisingly, isagi fits into your everyday life seamlessly. you wouldn’t mind if the gaps between seeing each other lessened or if you had less space in your drawers to make room for his.
but right now, isagi is staring as you wash your face before bed. he’d gotten through his routine in a quarter the time you get through yours but isagi keeps his post at your side, gratefully taking every moment in with wide eyes.
“i can’t believe you let me see you like this.” he marvels at your reflection as if the real you, the one he holds, is too precious to look at straight in the eye.
“like what? ugly?”
his distaste makes itself known before his words do. “what? no.”
isagi pinches you by the hip with a cutely scrunched expression until it falls into demise by your tickled laughter. “don’t say things like that. it makes me upset.”
“like what then, isagi?”
it amuses you how easily he falls under a spell. with just a flourish of his name across your tongue and a heavy blink of your eyelids, he’s stunned into a stupor, once again marveling at his luck.
“hmm?” you pinch his nose with a creamed hand. he shakes his head, and though you’re teasing, he speaks softly still.
“pretty.”
you have to snort out a laugh that’s quite the opposite of his description.
“like you. like all of you.”
you’re about to tease him for being so articulate but his arms circle tighter around you as he digs his face deeply into your neck. small kisses speckle your nape, so softly it’s feels just like the brush of his lips. it feels revenant, akin to peasant worshipping a goddess.
then isagi bites right into the solid meat of your shoulder blade and with your screech, you meet his eyes in your reflections. possessiveness colors his eyes and his arms circle tighter on you. one across your abdomen and gripping your hip, the other around around your chest and soothing the skin on your shoulder.
“the you that’s just for me. the one that’s all mine.”
and though he worships you as if you were a goddess, you forget that it is he who holds true power.
the first time isagi thinks about marriage, he’s seated at your dinner table.
you’re in the kitchen, back facing him as you flip over whatever is sizzling in the pan. he’s only been over a handful of times and there’s a soccer game playing in your living room, loud enough to be heard through the apartment.
he sits there, fidgeting and unsure of what to do with himself after you’d gently thrown him out of the kitchen when he offered to help but only continuously got in the way.
“watch the game,” you urge him but isagi can’t bring himself to. he’d feel guilty leaving you alone even if he’s hardly helpful. and… there’s something about it.
there’s something about the way you have an apron tied to your waist and well-loved fuzzy slippers on your feet. how he hums to a commercial that plays in between the game and how you mindlessly sway to it. how he sits at the dinner table with socked feet and a happy heart, patiently waiting to share a meal with you.
and isagi realizes it all. from table to kitchen, this must have been his father’s point of view every night as he was growing up. baby isagi would watch soccer with a ball wrapped in his arms, his mom was at the stove, and his father sat where he is now, at the table, hungry, but very well fed with love.
love? is that what it is? surely, his parents love each other, and with him recreating a childhood memory in different shoes, did he find it himself too?
is this a view he could have for the rest of life?
your cooking. your back. your little dances. you?
and just like that, he’s thinking of marriage. because as his childhood plays out, the future reels in front of him.
the ring shopping, the getting down on one knee, the hug that ends in a twirl. the wedding, the teary profession of vows, the rest of his life.
cw: mdni; thighriding; mirror (sort of?) sex; aged up isagi; fem reader; isagi’s thigh kink if you squint
a/n: this is what i meant by thoughts and prayers. he makes me so sick.
isagi’s a freak on the field and a gentleman off. it’s the most fascinating dichotomy you’ve seen.
he’s quick to insult during a game, and even quicker to meet any demand you may have. holds the door open, pulls out your seat. he walks on the outer edge of the sidewalk and leaves you good morning and good night texts. isagi is textbook definition of a gentleman that even your friends can do nothing but agree.
yet, the longer you date isagi, you can’t help but wonder. what does that mean behind closed doors? is he a freak in the sheets or is he a gentleman in bed?
you find out months into dating. he’s patient like the proper man he is. and god. you should have known. you really, really should have known.
isagi’s not just a freak, not just a gentleman. of course, isagi is a devastating combination of both.
it’s your first time together so he takes his time. your body is mapped out carefully by both hand and mind. he begins with a kiss at the crest of your nape. his hands start at your shoulder, placating you with an everyday sensation you’re used to. you’re not ready for what comes after. a slow descent into the madness called bliss.
isagi seats himself on a chair in front of the mirror, still handsomely dressed from your date prior. he’s already made a mess of your clothes. they speckle a breadcrumb trail from the front door to his bed.
and, with the most adoring and patient eyes, he looks up at you while patting his left thigh.
you spread yourself over his thick leg, open and bare for him and the mirror. isagi doesn’t force you to look if you don’t want to. the reflection is solely for him, for a 360 vision of you.
isagi’s attention, his eyes and hands and lips and thigh, it makes you feel so much with him doing so little. you can’t help but squirm. your back curves into a c as the movement pulls out a moan as the fabric of his pants rub against your core.
in an instant, isagi stops. he presses you closer to him and the warm pulse of his cock becomes apparent at the base of your spine.
“again.”
when you take too long to respond, isagi’s hands find themselves on your waist. he holds you firmly against his thigh and proceeds to rock you forward and back only once. it’s jilting, so abrupt that the sensations pass you before you can even name them. pain? pleasure? it’s all beginning to feel the same.
being handled by him like this makes you feel like a puppet strung around by his whim.
“again. keep going until you can’t anymore.*
you wordlessly obey. hips move by his command alone, dragging your lower lips over and over the ridges of his thigh until your legs burn, until you cum right under his watchful eye.
isagi’s hands find their place back on your hips. he steadies as you slacken against him with a panting breath from the high you’ve just achieved. isagi hums happily, all too pleased to kiss your shoulder that’s dotted with sweat.
when you finally have the energy to open your eyes, you find that his gaze so enraptured by your reflection. he notices you looking at him, and immediately, isagi smiles sweetly. the action is accompanied with a soft kiss to your cheek and his hands begin their roaming once more.
they go up your sides and smoothen the gooseflesh that have made themselves home in your skin. his deliberate movements are such a contrast from your recent frantic ones. quickly, you feel yourself building up. warmth swells right below the surface of your skin.
his fingertips trail back down, passing the squished rise of your ass and all the way to your thighs.
isagi groans right into your ear, eyes drooping but gaze never dropping. as if he refuses to miss a single second of this.
he grabs onto whatever he can reach to pull you closer to him.
“fuck. look at you. i’m going to make you feel so good.” it’s a promise that sounds so close to a threat.
the sentence forces out a full body shiver. and even though you’re falling apart right in his lap, isagi still has the proper manners to ask.
isagi’s talking about penalties and spot kicks and whatever else soccer terms you’ve never heard before and are now suddenly part of your vocabulary. and you’re just sitting there. you’re just sitting there, you know?
your head is held in the palm of your hands, heavy with the thought of isagi and the way he laughs at jokes you’re not confident enough to tell but do anyways if it means he’ll gift you with a smile, or how he somehow always finds you in the crowd, surprises you with a bear hug from behind and immediately presses into your neck. it’s full of soccer vocabulary that you’ve started memorizing like you’re back in college for midterm. you’d draw your names together in the margins of your notebook if you were.
and he just looks so pretty. there’s a beam of light that crosses perfectly over his shoulder and outlines the cut of his cheek. you can’t help but swoon at the way his eyes light at his storytelling, or how, even with his eyes distracted by a dried sauce you’d failed to wipe off your kitchen counter, his fingers still trail their way to you.
he talks about what he loves, of a job he’s so passionate about he’s bound himself to its future by contract. and as he does, he also reaches for you. the clean nail of his index finger makes figure eights atop your granite countertop. it circles twice, makes a u-turn back to himself, and as if he just can’t help it, makes his way to you.
the feeling hits you through the nose. it’s like passing a trash can but not smelling it until fifteen steps later. the scent had always been there, but it’s only strong enough for you to realize now. now your whole body is consumed by it. it travels up leaving you heady and down your arms and legs, your body heavy.
“i love you.”
that’s it. that’s what’s in the air.
isagi’s eyes snap up, half a word still trapped behind his lips. you realize you haven’t been listening. you had droned out his voice into a noise, because in all reality, you’d never cared about soccer. isagi, though, makes you want to so it could be just one more thing the two of you share.
“i hate soccer.” the way isagi’s face twists makes you overcompensate. “not hate. not hate!” you say again when he can’t wipe off his stupefied expression. “i just don’t like it.”
you can tell he’s trying his hardest to school his face. he’s bad at that and it’s one of the things you like especially about him.
“oh.”
“but i love you.”
he inhales a quiet breath. it looks so similar to the kinds he takes before those split decisions he makes on the field, but there’s this contrary part of you that thinks it’s wishful thinking.
isagi has never made you feel like you should doubt yourself, even with how new this relationship is. but isagi is also isagi. you’re not the only one who wants a piece of him.
“what did you say?” you can’t help but laugh at the way he can’t keep a straight face. isagi rushes a hand to cover his mouth, but it’s too late. he’s basically said all that you’ve wanted to hear.
“i hate soccer?”
isagi laughs, “ahh. you really did say that.”
“but i also said i love you, too.”
he laughs again. that’s his first reaction, to giggle like a boy being presented a gift. he has to add another hand to hide his cheeks.
“man, you said that too.”
“are you going to say it back?” he has. you can feel it in your gut. there’s a budding light that’s spilling from you and it won’t hurt if he doesn’t. but if he does.
Content: stylist reader x aged up professional athlete Isagi Yoichi; fluff; unestablished relationship
Summary: Isagi’s nervous. Is it because he’s a new client or is it because of something else?
A/n: I have no words other than I love him
A Chopin compilation plays from an outdated speaker in the corner of the dress room. You like having it in the background because it relaxes you and it keeps your clients still. No words, not modern, doesn’t really coerce the body to jive, it usually makes the work easier. Isagi, though, is completely statuesque.
You don’t even think he’s breathing with the lack of rise or fall of his abdomen when you wrapped your tape measure around his waist. The tension in his muscles, taut and tight beneath your fingertips, diffuses into the room and steeps itself in the garment.
His nervousness brings upon yours, though you try to hide it by focusing on the cuff of his pants leg as you measure his inseam. You notice that he has a tendency to do that. He might be a first time client for you, but it sure is definitely not the first time you’ve seen his face.
Isagi had changed the face of football in Japan to his, bringing on forth a whole country of avid supporters. He has a gravity so heavy that it’s impossible not to be pulled in. Of course, you are no better.
Frustrated with the way you can’t get a proper measurement from how he makes your hands tremble, you look up at him, “breathe, Isagi.”
His expression is shy with just the perfect hint of embarrassment. Pink blooms at his cheeks and truly, you never expected him to be like this. You smile, but again, keep that to yourself in case it makes him even more nervous by lowering your head and going back to work.
“You said not to move,” he tries to explain after the words find their way to his throat. The pin you place between your lips hides your amusement as you fold the ends of his pants.
“Yeth, but u c’n—“ you pull the pin from your mouth, “you can still breathe.”
As you say this, you trace a line from his ankle and shin right below the cuff of the leg, and pin the two fabrics together. Isagi, once more, holds his breath as if he’s about to jump into cold water.
“Breathe,” and because he looks so anxious, so unfamiliar from what you’re used to, you grip his leg.
A thumb at his inner ankle and the rest of your fingers on the other, your hands drag through the warmth of his bare skin and you squeeze just one time. Kind of like a hug but in the most bizarre of places. Like a hug meant for strangers? For a stylist and a client? It’s weird, but you want a way to absorb his feelings for once, for you to be the influence in a space he usually dominates.
“Please?”
Finally, he’s able to release the shakiest breath. You stand halfway up, afraid he’s withheld oxygen for too long that he’s lost consciousness, but Isagi’s hands find your forearms.
He’s so quick with it. It shouldn’t surprise you with the way he disappears and reappears on the field, but to witness his otherworldliness in person is something else.
Isagi seems paradoxical in that sense and that in of itself is the clearest definition of him. He’s everything you expect him to be, and everything you expect he’s not.
“Sorry,” he immediately backs away after releasing his hands, upright and palms out to show innocence. “I thought you were falling.”
Looking into Isagi’s eyes, the blues that are the perfect shade of vivid for TV screens and cameras, you really think you might be.
You shake your head, “no, I just. I just wanted to get a closer look.”
“Oh.” He looks at you like he can hear your thoughts, the words that are unsaid. When he realizes he’s actually been staring, he quickly turns away.
You take your time. It’s common to spend a little longer with new clients. You’re starting from scratch, a new canvas to visualize, and with Isagi, you make sure to savor it.
He’s built exactly like an athlete with an absolutely unfair hip to waist ratio. His top and bottom are slightly disproportionate, a thickness in his legs that marketing enjoys capitalizing on. Isagi’s face is candid, the muscles there are well loved, making his skin tight and ever so slightly boyish.
It’s all about Isagi’s eyes though. They tell stories and see the future, at least when it’s soccer involved. And for some reason, he can’t quite keep his gaze on you.
It’s disappointing. You almost want to say please one more time, just to give him a reason to glance your way.
That'd be unprofessional, wouldn’t it? And you are working with a professional athlete, debuting for the first time on a red carpet.
So you only take one step forward, the same amount of steps Isagi had taken back, and pull at the excess material of his dress shirt.
“We’ll just need to cinch the waist for a slimmer fit and I think you should be good. Would you mind wearing your jacket?”
He nods and robotically turns around. His eyes train themselves onto the floor as he passes each arm through the sleeve and when he’s done, he stands there awkwardly before you. Shoulders pinched and he’s clearly uncomfortable. You can tell he’s far more confident in grass stained jerseys.
You laugh to yourself and take another half step so you can button the jacket for him. He keeps his eyes pointed at your chest, though you think it must be harmless, just a spot where he doesn’t have to bear the brunt of your attention. After patting his shoulders down, you step back and tsk.
“Isagi, you have to wear the suit, not let it wear you.”
He lifts his arms and look at them as if they were stupid, “what does that even mean?”
“Stand there like you know you’re hot.” His eyes widen and you continue, “I mean, look at you. Your proportions are insane.”
“Really?”
You nod and all he can do is chuckle out his gratitude.
“You have to be confident,” you explain. “Just like how you are on the field.”
At this, he can’t help but match your gaze. Excitement greets you and here you go again, succumbing to the whirlpool that is Isagi Yoichi.
“You don’t think I’ve seen your games? You’re a sight to watch, Isagi. When I found out you wanted me to be your stylist, how could I say no?”
“Ahh, man.” The athlete knocks his head back, a hand to his face as he heaves a deep sigh. You think it’s irritation he’s hiding, but then when he removes his hand, you realize it's actually fluster. He’s red, but he’s also. Smiling.
“What?”
“Now I really have to ask you," he says cryptically, eyes still up to the ceiling.
“What do you mean?”
“A stylist is.” He pauses to find his words. Presses his lips together once just to let out a quiet pop, “you’re meant to make me look good, right? That’s your job?”
You’re not sure yet what to feel, leaving yourself at confused but also cautiously offended.
“Yeah.”
“Go with me then?” You’re disarmed by how charming he looks all of a sudden. How his shoulders hunch into a shrug and confidence tramples over his nervousness, eyes holding yours. “You make me feel confident which means that you make me look good. And,” He shrugs one more time, “and because I want you to come.”
You’re finding a pattern here, because really, with Isagi, how could you possibly say no?
tw major character has a terminal illness; angst; i've only watched up to ep 4 of bllk but i couldn't write this for my favorite set of brothers so... sorry this is a burden the itoshis have to bear ig
Sae passes you wordlessly after he exits his office. He turns on the sink to start washing the dishes. It's not an abnormal occurrence so you're nowhere near disheartened. All it takes is a slip of your arms around his snug waist, a press of your lips along the line of his spine, and immediately, he'll give you the attention you're silently asking for.
Communication is simple like that; quiet, because words are so easily misconstrued. Lips can do more than speak. They can indent reassurances onto the back of your hand, stamp promises at your collarbones, blow warnings at the shell of your ear.
So you slide your hands around Sae's body, starting low so you can grip the bones of his hips and slide your hands up to clasp your them around his sternum.
"Who were you talking to?" you ask as you drag your lips across the ridges of his frame.
"My mom."
You pull back. It's not what he says, but what he doesn't. You feel it instantly in your palms, clenching the the ball of black, taut and tight, like a scribbled out void, a site where a pen has dragged lines in abandon and never lifted from paper.
His stance maintains rigidity in an artificial sense of self discipline. He adds soap to the sponge and starts scrubbing despite your arms limiting his movements.
The water keeps running.
You turn your head and when you look up, Sae is crying. Silent tears slips from the well of his lower lashes. They fall down the fat of his cheeks, run down the bridge of his nose and descend into the sink of dirty dishes and running water.
He has to close his eyes when you try and meet his gaze, a vulnerability he's willing to share but not willing to face.
"Sae," you try and say softly. You make a move to turn off the faucet but he ignores you and turns it back on, continuing to blindly wash the dishes.
When he opens up, you're not surprised. There's only one person that can elicit such a reaction from him.
"My brother," Sae tosses a sudsy fork to the other side of the sink. The clangor is sharp like the sound of someone's heart break. He moves forward onto the cup you'd used to water the plants. "he's sick. My mom called from the airport in America. He had to get treatment there but they're on their way back to Japan."
"I'll start looking up flights--"
He shakes his head to stop your train of thought, "the treatment didn't take. It didn't go well."
"We have to go. That means we have to--" he remains deceptively calm in your hold like the eerie ring of silence that follows an explosion. "We have to. It's the right--"
"He doesn't want me there."
Your hand falls from his back. Sae stares at the running water. He's done washing dishes but the water is still running.
"He didn't even want me to know."
You look at him helpless, "so what do we do?"
"Dishes." Sae shrugs. "Laundry. Practice. Whatever I can do."
Then with wet hands and wet cheeks, Sae holds himself against you and buries his face into the safety of your neck.
He doesn't say anything but you finally understand.
cw: gone girl inspired; reader has perfect teeth and is referred to as wife; unreliable narrator
you’re beautiful, idyllic, a picturesque vision of a wife.
isagi looks up at the mantle from his seat in the couch. it’s well loved and morphed to the shape of his ass that he needs to arch his back uncomfortably as he does so.
the blown up image is barely edited. nature has treated you well. just as headlines have said, it’s like the gods handled you with extra care with your pristine smile, white and ruler straight. evolution even is no match for you with every single one of your wisdom teeth still intact.
isagi recalls meeting you outside a cafe in only casual clothes with no idea that anyone would be able to recognize him. you’d congratulated him on his most recent goal, touched his elbow when he rubbed the back of his neck in embarrassment, and then offered to grab him a quick coffee. how could isagi turn you down? so the rest is a history.
a spontaneous encounter that only years down the line, you admit you had carefully devised. but you were so smart, so endearing, saying i was just such a fan, yoichi! you would have never noticed me in a crowd and though you may be (most certainly because you always are) right, isagi would like to think his eyes can always find you. the two of you, he believes and so does the rest of the world, are meant to be.
it’s unnerving how perfect the two of you are that isagi cannot help his thoughts from wandering. how are you real? how are you his? when you smile at him, he wants to unhinge your jaw to inspect your maw tooth by tooth.
how is it that your enamel has not eroded with the acid you spit at him? are these the molars that chew on his ego until it’s whittled down to mush?
he wonders how much blood you’d lose, if iron stains ivory, if he were to pull them out one by one. you don’t scream enough and isagi would love the chance to hear it more often.
“isagi yoichi.” said man’s spine swivels. it’s only then does he realize that his back has gone stiff from its position. he shuffles in his spot from the couch. only now that he’s fully present, does he realize his breath is loud. “answer the question.”
he doesn’t need to fake the quiver in his voice. glancing to your newly married visage, a coldness travels past his body.
“my wife. the last i heard from her was the morning… i was upstairs still in bed when i heard her scream.”
cw: angst; reader’s favored scent is anything but lavender; a little glimpse of us by joji situation going on over here
Not everyone is lucky enough to say they have an attentive boyfriend. You pity the less fortunate, the ones who don’t have a partner like yours.
Your Isagi, the one who takes great care in his decisions with you always at the forefront of his mind. Your Isagi, the one dubbed the anniversary guy because unlike most other boyfriends, he remembers every milestone and birthday. Though there might not be a celebration for every single one, he never fails to gaze at you a little longer in those mornings. Counting his blessings just a little more carefully in case it all slips away.
You’d never think to. He treats you so well, saturates your phone with honey-lacquered texts every time he sees something that reminds him of you that your girl friends cannot help but grapple the weight of your personal device in their own hands so that just once, they may feel as auspicious as you.
There’s good morning texts and voice memos from the days he travels off to a different country where even just a puddle of water in your general shape aches his heart in missing you. There’s pictures of food he thinks you’d like and of cats that made him smile so he’s hoping that its effects work on you too. He finds love in everything, a life in your design.
So of course his laughter spurs on yours while the two of you are seated on the floor of his walk-in closet in an attempt to do some spring cleaning. Isagi tugs on the tops of your socked toes for attention while you sneak in some more of his unfashionable choices into the ‘toss’ pile.
You try to hum as innocently as possible but he’s too busy to notice. He dances adorably in his seat with hips moving side to side so that he can scooch his way closer to you. Legs curl past your knee, his leg hairs tickling affection into your skin, and wrap around your waist. With the muscles he’s built over the course of his career, he makes the final efforts to pull you flush against him, a delighted peck to go with it.
“Remember this? When we got matching ones?” Isagi asks.
The fanny pack in his hands is an atrocious tie-dye with stitching of a once novel year that you now consider tacky. He opens up all the zippers. A few loose coins fall out, receipts whose ink has faded over time, and stray mints probably offered the same time the receipts were.
You take it from him to inspect it a little closer. There’s no way you’d willingly buy it but you’re known to bend to Isagi’s whims on occasion
“No, but remind me.”
He looks at you, cheeks plumped with joy, in playful offense. “I can’t believe you forgot.”
“That’s why I have you.”
He’s always so cute like this, with eyes that blink innocently at whatever stray compliment you throw at him. It’s like he can never acclimate to your affection as if he were always on the fringes of falling in love.
“We went on a road trip. I think over summer. Do you remember yet?”
“No, I don’t,” you pinch his calf, “just tell me!”
“Okay, okay. I think you were bored.”
“Sounds about right.”
He digs a heel into your back to scold you but it only presses you two closer, close enough for another sweet kiss.
“So we rented a car and went out for a drive.” Isagi’s gaze falls on you in hopes that you remember. You just hum for him to continue. “And I think you got hungry so we stopped by this highway diner that had a gift shop in it. Remember how big it was? They had an old Pacman machine in there and a statue of a bear. When we saw these, we had to buy them because of how goofy they were.”
There’s a small bit of disappointment when your excitement cannot match his. He clicks his tongue behind his teeth when you shake your head.
“I really can’t believe you forgot. I remember how cute you looked.” Isagi moves to pinch your cheek affectionately, “so sleepy and excited. And you were wearing that scent that smelled like…”
His breath hitches, a choked sound as if he were inhaling the memory itself and when his eyes look to you, there’s horror across his face. There’s no need to be afraid because you smile at him, the picture definition of bittersweet.
“Like lavender?” you finish for him.
He gulps. Eyes wide and after hesitating for far too long, he answers with a nod.
Of course you know that scent. Isagi’s apartment smelled like it the first time you came and all the days before.
He finds love in everything. You forget it’s just not you.
“Yeah,” you pat his knee and hand him the fanny pack, “I remember now.”
