“GOD, I’M SO FUCKING IN LOVE WITH YOU.”
3k words -> the bracelet you make isagi ends up becoming his most prized possession, and his lucky charm. afab! reader
miss @yaakultt my dearly beloved several snack runs have been run since i promised to type this up for you many a moons ago but now i’m goddamn here to deliver 😤😤 hope you enjoyed your boba!! now come get your soft (and occasional still feral! 👀) isagi <33
cw: mostly fluff, but sassy isagi does make an appearance. slight suggestive themes. cursing. this is barely proofread we die like men. also the way this was supposed to be short and sweet nah clearly i’m incapable of doing that 💀💀
there’s a hitch to his voice, as if he needs to push the words through a mesh strainer in his throat - but he prevails, gaze bouncing between your face and the colourful bracelet in your outstretched palms. the cobalt of his eyes glisten with so many stars you’re convinced they sucked in the night sky whole.
under his unrelenting focus, the corners of your lip quirk up into a nervous grin on their own accord. the memories of your amateur craftsmanship are still crisp in your mind like a sheet of freshly fallen snow. you’ve spent embarrassingly long hours on this - gingerly deliberating which colour strings would suit him, then trying your best to make the knots look even and stick to the pattern.
it feels more intimate than you’d thought it would, strangely, gifting him something you dedicated an overflowing amount of time, effort - and so so much genuine, loving care to.
“yeah! wanted you to have it as a reminder that i’m always cheering you on no matter what, since, ya know, i probably won’t be able to make it to all of your games. i am but one girl, after all.”
isagi goes incredibly still, stunned all the way into next week, mouth agape like a fish suddenly sprung out of water. with your nerves already feeling like they’ve been diced thin in a blender, you immediately jump to the wrong conclusion.
“no pressure for you to wear it, obviously,” you chuckle, but there’s little humour in it when, through this new, panic-induced light, the fumbles and imperfections of your handiwork that you deemed barely noticeable (or at least passable) before now seem to poke your eyes out like a vicious flock of crows.
“it is uh, very very wonky-lookin’ so–”
while your relationship with isagi is still in its early stages, you’ve known him long enough by now to learn that wherever soccer’s not concerned, he turns into an absolute sweetheart - a man with an ultimately sincere and kind soul.
he borderline acts like one of those lame, rom-com cliche boyfriends, but you never had the heart to tell him, nor had any real desire for his behaviour to change. not when all of his stupid, cheesy antics make you want to kiss him into a lovesick puddle - a response he’s eager to receive each and every time.
there’s no trace of that endearingness now, however, as his muscled chest falls and crests in waves underneath his sweat-soaked practice shirt, a slight heave to his breathing. his stubborn gaze clings to you still, not having wondered once, so you don’t miss the tendril of assertiveness blazing in his eyes - a little leftover ego from the field he brought home with him today.
“no,” he repeats, and your toes curl, because his voice sounds just as raspy as when he rouses in the morning. “you’re not just a girl, baby. you’re the girl, yeah? my girl.”
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