“𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐦𝐞𝐧 𝐠𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐤𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐭”
a/n: i always write about the way they yearn for you so i thought it would be cute if i wrote something that was the other way around!
synopsis: the yearning things you do for them that get them bad.
ft. isagi yoichi, itoshi rin, itoshi sae, nagi seishiro, mikage reo, bachira meguru, shidou ryusei, karasu tabito, kaiser michael, ness alexis, chigiri hyoma, barou shoei, yukimiya kenyu, iglesias bunny, hugo vivian
isagi yoichi
isagi has spent so much of his life analyzing people that he notices things you don't even realize you're doing. you always hand him the prettier bowl when you're eating ramen together. when you walk on the sidewalk, you unconsciously switch places with him whenever a bike comes speeding by because you want to be closer to the road instead. when he's talking about football, your eyes never wander. you don't check your phone. you don't interrupt. you look at him like he's explaining the stars.
and one day he blurts out, "why do you always look at me like that?"
"like what?"
"like everything i'm saying matters."
"because it does?"
congratulations. you've accidentally turned the world's greatest striker into a microsoft windows error message yayayayayay!!!
he's smiling, but he's also looking away because his ears are bright red. his heart genuinely starts racing because, to him, being understood is infinitely more intimate than being admired.
whenever he gets home after training, you don't greet him with dramatic hugs or kisses. you just look up from whatever you're doing and instinctively scoot over on the couch. that's it. you made room. every. single. time.
eventually, he realizes you never even think about it anymore. your body just automatically saves space for him because somewhere along the line, your brain categorized him as home. he almost cries over six inches of couch cushion.
sometimes, while he's reviewing match footage late at night, you quietly sit beside him with your own hobby. maybe you're reading, drawing, playing a handheld game – anything. you don't ask him to stop working. you don't complain. you just exist beside him.
every so often he'll look over, see your head leaning against his shoulder without you realizing, and completely forget what tactical formation he was studying.
"yoichi?"
"... sorry."
"you okay?"
"i forgot football existed for a second. because… all i saw was you."
itoshi rin
rin isn't used to physical affection initiated without hesitation. so the first time you're walking together and absentmindedly fix his collar before anyone can see it crooked – because it bothered you – he actually stops walking.
"... what are you doing."
"your collar."
"... oh."
"is that okay?"
it’s totally okay to him, but his internal monologue is in complete shambles: she noticed. she touched me. she fixed it. she didn't even make a big deal about it. he spends the next four hours thinking about those three seconds.
whenever he's concentrating, you unconsciously reach over and smooth his hair back out of his face – a tiny little motion so he can see better. it starts becoming muscle memory for both of you. he'll be reading something, pause for half a second because a strand falls into his eyes… and wait. because he knows you'll move it.
when you do, he pretends absolutely nothing happened. inside? fireworks. outside? "thanks." inside? marry me right now.
the thing that absolutely destroys him is when you defend him without making him feel like he's incapable. someone says, "rin's kind of an asshole." before he can even respond–
"he's actually really considerate."
"?"
"he remembered i said i liked this drink three months ago and bought it without asking."
rin stops. you noticed. nobody notices. nobody looks past the sharp edges. but you always do.
and now he has to stare out the window for the next 20 minutes because if he looks at you, he's afraid the expression on his face might give him away.
itoshi sae
sae isn't very verbally affectionate. neither are you. that’s why you’re the perfect match.
the way you love him is by remembering microscopic details. one afternoon you're at a café, and before the waiter even asks, you order for yourself, then look at sae.
"and no fries with his."
sae blinks. "... i wasn't going to say anything."
"i know."
"you remembered."
"you don't like them."
it's such an insignificant thing, but somebody remembered something about him that everyone else forgets. he's cooked.
every time you take pictures together, you never ask him to smile. you know he won't. rather instead, you quietly tell him – "look at me." and you take the photo while he's already looking at you. every picture ends up softer. the only time his expression naturally changes is when he's looking at someone he loves.
when you show him afterward, he’ll say, "oh wow… this one's nice."
"yeah."
"i’m keeping it."
at home, he's secretly changing it to his lock screen three hours later.
after particularly exhausting matches, you never ask him how he played. you ask – "how's your body?"
"’s fine."
"don't lie."
"... my legs hurt."
"i figured." you already have pain patches in your bag.
sae has spent years being valued for what he can produce on the pitch. you ask about him, not his performance. it ruins him every single time.
nagi seishiro
nagi's favorite thing in the entire world becomes when you're doing absolutely nothing together. you're both lying on the bed. you're scrolling on your phone. he's playing a game.
at some point, completely unconsciously, your thigh reaches over until it's touching his. that's all. he glances down. then at you.
"did you mean to do that?"
"huh?" you look down. "oh." you never even noticed. "sorry."
"don't move." now his entire body feels warm. the fact that your body naturally searches for his without permission? he's finished.
every time he falls asleep somewhere ridiculous – couch, airport chair, team bus, hotel lobby – you automatically cover him with your hoodie or coat or jacket if you have one.
one day, he wakes up before you realize he's awake. he watches you gently pull your jacket over him before going back to whatever you were doing.
"... thanks."
"oh, you're awake."
"... do you always do that?"
"yeah?"
"why?"
"because you get cold."
he has never wanted to marry someone more over a sentence that simple.
whenever he gets excited talking about games, you don't pretend to understand. you actually ask questions. like "wait, so that's the final boss?"
"yeah."
"that's sick."
"right?"
now he's talking with his hands, sitting up straighter, rambling for 15 straight minutes. halfway through, he pauses. "sorry."
"for what?"
"i've been talking forever."
"i know."
"you don't mind?"
"i like hearing you happy."
game over. you have defeated nagi seishiro without even picking up the controller.
mikage reo
reo gives people things all the time – gifts, favors, opportunities, expensive dinners, the list goes on. what nobody gives him is the chance to be taken care of first.
one rainy day, before he can even open the umbrella he's carrying, you've already opened yours above both of your heads.
"mine's literally in my hand."
"yeah, but this one's already open."
"you..." he laughs. but for the next 10 minutes he cannot stop smiling because nobody has ever beaten him to taking care of someone else.
you hype him up when nobody's watching. after practice, while he's complaining about a mistake, you gently cut him off. "you know..."
"hm?"
"i think you're cooler than you realize."
"... where did that come from?"
"just thought you should know."
there’s no audience, teammates, cameras, or reason to flatter him. just pure honesty. and that's exactly why it sticks. he remembers that sentence for months, especially during the harder moments.
every once in a while, you reach for his hand first. sometimes you're asking for reassurance. other times, you just wanted to hold it. reo has initiated hand-holding thousands of times. but the first time you absentmindedly intertwine your fingers with his while walking through the city, he completely loses his train of thought mid-sentence.
"reo?"
"... yeah?"
"weren't you saying something?"
"... i was."
"?"
"... i forgot." because all he can think is that you chose him first. he didn’t offer, nor did he ask. loving him has become your first instinct.
for someone who's spent his entire life wondering whether people loved him or simply loved what he could give, that quiet certainty makes him fall for you all over again.
bachira meguru
bachira absolutely lives for physical affection, but the thing that gets him the worst isn't when he clings to you. it's when you start unconsciously copying him.
one afternoon, he's sprawled across the couch, doodling in a notebook while you read beside him. without even realizing it, you lean over until your head is resting against his shoulder. you don't even look up from your book. you just, like, migrate. like your body decided, yeah, this is a comfortable place to be.
bachira stops drawing. "... you're cuddling me."
"am i?"
"yeah."
"... should i–"
“no. don't move."
he sits there grinning so hard his cheeks hurt because the affection wasn't asked for, wasn't planned, wasn't even conscious. your body sought him out before your brain did. the monster is literally kicking his feet.
you never laugh at his weirdness. you laugh with it. he says something completely absurd like, "what if pigeons have secret governments?"
and instead of staring at him like he's insane, you nod seriously. "that explains why they're always in groups."
"RIGHT???"
now the two of you are spending 25 minutes building an elaborate conspiracy theory about pigeons running the economy.
afterward, he just looks at you with stars in his eyes. "you're my favorite person."
"because i support your delusions?"
"because you make them fun."
bachira has spent his life being called strange. you make him feel like strange is simply another word for home.
sometimes he'll wake up before you. he'll find you half-asleep, instinctively reaching around the bed until your hand finds him. the second your fingers brush against his arm, your hand relaxes, like your brain went, found him. okay. continue sleeping.
bachira nearly combusts. he has to physically bite his lip to stop himself from squealing (and waking you up).
shidou ryusei
everyone expects shidou's relationship to be loud, chaotic, explosive. what absolutely destroys him is how unbelievably gentle you are with him. after a rough match, he's bouncing off the walls, adrenaline still pumping. but surprisingly, you don’t tell him to calm down... you simply walk over, cup his face with both hands, and quietly ask, "you done breaking people's ankles today?"
"... yeah."
"good."
“... you gonna kiss me or keep holding my face?"
"i'm checking for bruises."
shidou thinks this feeling is better than scoring the winning goal.
he has spent his entire life being treated like something people had to manage. you're standing here making sure his cheek doesn't hurt. you're one of the only people who can make him genuinely blush. how? complimenting him when he's not doing something cool.
you catch him tying his hair up. "you're pretty."
"what?"
"nothing. that slipped out.."
"HEY!"
"hm?"
"... don't say stuff like that so casually."
"why?"
"because… my heart's doing weird things."
he loves kisses. you know what he loves even more? when you randomly hold the back of his neck. not even romantically. maybe you're guiding him around someone in a crowded hallway or fixing the collar of his shirt or absentmindedly rubbing the nape of his neck while talking. every single time, his brain completely blue-screens.
"you know that's unfair."
"what is?"
"that."
"what is that?"
"... you touching my neck."
"oh?"
"... i forget my own name for a second."
karasu tabito
karasu is sarcastic by nature. he teases everyone, especially you. so the first time you effortlessly beat him at his own game... he's intrigued. he says, "damn, look at ya. finally usin’ that brain."
without looking up from your phone, you answer, "thanks. i learned from watching you struggle."
"... excuse me?"
"you heard me."
his teammates are laughing. you're smiling innocently. and karasu... karasu is trying very hard not to smile like an idiot. that's my person.
you always notice when he's mentally tired before he says anything. he's still talking, joking, and acting like himself. but you quietly slide a drink toward him. "you've been talking for like... three hours."
"... have i?"
"yeah."
"damn."
"rest your voice."
he stares at the bottle for a second. everyone notices when karasu is loud. you notice when he's exhausted.
every once in a while, while he's ranting about literally anything, you'll reach over and absentmindedly play with his fingers. you're still listening and responding. you're just tracing one because your hands wanted something to do. karasu completely loses his train of thought.
"you okay, tabi? you can keep talking."
"... can't."
"why?"
"... yer holdin’ my hand without holdin’ my hand. that's kinda– really dangerous."
kaiser michael
kaiser expects admiration. he's used to people staring, praising, chasing, adoring. what absolutely dismantles him is when you quietly do something thoughtful that nobody else would ever think about.
you've noticed he always finishes the drink closest to room temperature first before touching the cold one. so one afternoon, you casually swap the cups around before handing them to him.
"... how'd you know?"
"you always do it."
"you noticed that?"
"i notice a lot."
for someone who has spent his whole career being looked at... being observed is infinitely more intimate. after all, observation requires attention.
sometimes you'll adjust his collar while talking to him. you don't interrupt yourself or announce it. you simply straighten the fabric because it flipped backwards. "there."
"ah, thanks.” kaiser is internally screaming because your fingers brushed his chest for half a second and you treated it like the most natural thing in the world, like touching him is simply part of your routine. it makes him feel normal and cherished – something he never thought he'd crave.
after interviews, everyone talks about his goals or his aura or his ego. you look at him and ask, "did you eat yet?"
"... no."
"figured.”
"... that's all you're gonna ask?"
"unless you secretly scored six goals instead of two."
"i only scored two."
"cool. now let's get dinner."
he laughs so softly it's almost inaudible.
for an hour, the entire world treated him like michael kaiser. then he came back to you and you treated him like someone worth feeding before celebrating.
ness alexis
ness loves talking. okay wait, correction: ness loves talking to you. because unlike everyone else, you never make him feel annoying. he'll spend 15 straight minutes explaining some ridiculously niche topic. halfway through, he pauses. "am i talking too much?"
"probably. but keep going."
"... really?"
"you're making cute little hand gestures."
"... you noticed my hand gestures?"
you have accidentally rendered alexis ness speechless.
whenever you're walking together, you unconsciously fix tiny things about him – lint on his sleeve, his crooked tie, hair sticking up. you never even mention it. just… boop. fixed. every single time.
eventually, he starts standing still whenever you get close. "nessie baby, what are you doing?"
"... waiting."
"for?"
"... you usually fix something."
"oh." you smooth one stubborn strand of hair back into place. he smiles so brightly you'd think you handed him the moon. he’s just so addicted to your touch.
the thing that absolutely gets him bad is when you brag about him to other people while he's close enough to overhear. someone asks, "is ness always this talkative?"
you grin. "yeah. but i like it."
"really?"
"he gets excited over the smallest things. i think it's adorable."
ness was fully prepared for you to apologize on his behalf. but rather, you defended the very thing he worries makes him "too much." he has to turn away for a second because his eyes suddenly sting. then five minutes later, he's right back beside you, smiling so hard his cheeks hurt.
"... hey."
"yeah?"
"... can i hold your hand?"
"you were already doing that."
"... oh. haha. good."
chigiri hyoma
chigiri is used to people complimenting him. his speed, his face, his hair – sometimes all three in the same sentence. but the thing that completely catches him off guard is when you're the one who quietly takes care of his hair after practice.
the two of you are sitting in the locker room after everyone else has started leaving, and he's absentmindedly trying to tie his still-damp hair into a ponytail with one hand while looking at his phone.
you sigh. "give me."
"hm?"
"the hair tie.”
"oh." he hands it over without thinking.
you stand behind him, gently combing your fingers through his hair before tying it up properly, smoothing out the little bumps like you've done it a hundred times. "too tight?"
"no."
he catches his reflection in the mirror afterward. his hair is neat and comfortable, exactly how he likes it. "wow. thanks."
"you're welcome."
he doesn't tell you this, but nobody has ever touched his hair so carefully without making it feel like they were admiring it. you handled it like it was simply another part of him. that's infinitely more intimate. he feels like he’s going crazy because of that.
whenever you're shopping together, you'll instinctively reach toward the clothing racks before he does. "this would look good on you."
"you think so?"
"yeah. and this color would make your eyes stand out."
he's trying on sweaters he would've walked right past, scarves he'd never have picked, jackets he didn't know he'd like. he realizes halfway through that you don't dress him because he's pretty. you dress him because you've spent enough time looking at him to know exactly what makes him feel like himself.
the changing room curtain closes. he leans against the wall. she pays way too much attention to me... and he hopes you never stop.
you never rush him after difficult matches. everyone else asks, "are you okay?" you simply hold your hand out. "ready?"
he looks at it. then at you. "... yeah." he takes it, your fingers wrapped around his as you walk beside him in comfortable silence.
he thinks that's probably what healing feels like.
barou shoei
barou would rather pass away than admit he likes being taken care of. so naturally... you don't make a big deal out of doing it. you come over to his apartment. he's cooking. you notice the cabinet above him is open. without interrupting your conversation, you reach up and close it before he inevitably walks into it.
"thanks."
"mhm."
10 minutes later, you wipe a tiny streak of flour off his cheek while continuing your story like nothing happened. "and then she actually said–"
"you just touched my face."
"yeah?"
"... why?"
"because you had flour on it."
"... oh." he's genuinely offended by how quickly his heart folded.
barou pretends he doesn't need reassurance. but after losses... he gets quieter. one night, he's sitting on the balcony staring into the distance. you don't tell him he played well. you don't tell him to cheer up. you simply sit beside him until your shoulders touch. after a while, you quietly say, "i'm still proud of you."
he exhales so slowly you almost miss it. "don't say stuff like that."
"why?"
"... because i'll start believing you."
you smile. "good."
he has to look away because if he doesn't, you'll see exactly how close he is to folding.
the quickest way to make barou malfunction is by trusting him before he even asks. it’s a crowded street. you're distracted. without looking, you reach for his hand. you already know he'll be there. your fingers slip between his naturally.
barou forgets what he was about to say. all his brain can manage is – she reached for me first.
don't expect him to let go for the next hour.
yukimiya kenyu
yukimiya knows people look at him. he's a handsome model that’s used to being perceived. but you? you make him feel seen. one evening, you're helping him pack for an away match. you quietly tuck an extra pair of sunglasses into the side pocket of his bag.
"i already packed one, love."
"i know."
"then…?"
"because last month you couldn't find yours and spent almost half an hour pretending the sun wasn't bothering you."
"... you remembered that?"
"of course i did."
yukimiya just stares at you. he barely remembers saying anything about it. yet you remembered it well.
he'll be talking passionately about fashion or photography, expecting you to politely nod. instead, you go – "wait, show me."
"hm?"
"the picture you're talking about."
"really?"
"yeah. i wanna see what you see."
that sentence alone nearly knocks the wind out of him.
people always admire his perspective. very few people actually want to step inside it. you do.
whenever the sunlight gets too harsh, you'll instinctively move so you're casting a little bit of shade over him. you don't even notice you're doing it. you're just standing slightly in front of him while talking.
"why're you standing there?"
"huh?"
"you're blocking the sun."
"oh. it's getting in your eyes, right?"
his chest aches. you notice before he even says a word.
iglesias bunny
bunny is constantly moving as a member of the new gen 11. there’s always cameras, interviews, training, flights, etc. you're the only person who never makes him feel like he has to perform.
the thing that gets him every single time is when you greet him exactly the same whether he's just won the champions league... or lost in the quarterfinals.
"hi."
"hi."
"i missed you."
"i missed you, too."
no "congratulations!" no "i'm sorry." those can wait. your first instinct is always him. not the footballer. your boyfriend. and every single time, he melts.
bunny loves making you laugh, but what absolutely folds him is when he catches you smiling at him before he notices. he'll be joking around with his teammates across the room. then he glances over. you're already looking, smiling to yourself, like watching him exist makes you happy.
"what is it, cariño?"
"nothing."
"you're smiling."
"am i not allowed to?"
he has to physically look away. if he keeps eye contact any longer, he's going to walk over and kiss you in front of everybody.
one day, he complains that his hands are freezing after training. without thinking, you take one of his hands and tuck it into the pocket of your coat while keeping yours in there, too. "there."
"that's your solution?"
"it's working."
"..."
"are you okay…?"
"don't move."
"why?"
"because i'm imagining doing this when we're 80 and wrinkly.”
hugo vivian
hugo has a naturally intimidating presence. he has broad shoulders and quiet confidence, the kind of guy strangers instinctively move out of the way for. you, however, have absolutely zero fear of invading his personal space.
if there's a loose thread on his sleeve? you're already pulling it off. his tie's crooked? fixed. lint on his coat? gone. all while continuing your conversation as though adjusting a six-foot-something professional footballer is the most normal thing in the world.
"you know..."
"yes?”
"you've never once asked before touching me."
you blink. "i’m sorry. do you want me to?"
“no. please keep doing it." the volume of his voice is like a whisper.
hugo isn't particularly expressive. so you've learned to celebrate the little victories. one tiny smile after training? "there it is."
"what is?"
"your smile."
"... i smiled?"
"for like... half a second."
he is absolutely doomed. you notice everything.
one rainy afternoon in paris, the two of you are sharing an umbrella. a passing car splashes water toward the sidewalk. before hugo can react... you've already stepped in front of him. the water hits your shoes instead.
"hey, why did you do that?"
"instinct?"
"i'm supposed to protect you."
you shrug. "guess we're protecting each other."
he looks at you for a long moment. then quietly carries you on his back for the rest of the walk home because he refuses to let your shoes get soaked any further.
there isn't a single teasing remark or joke. just a grip that's a little tighter than usual because, for perhaps the first time in his life, someone else's first instinct was to shield him, too.
© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢
