“𝐃𝟏 𝐲𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐫”

a/n: THIS REQUEST HAS ME ROLLING ON THE FLOOR

(art credits go to louvbon on twt)

you’re curled up against isagi on the couch, your head resting against his shoulder, your hand casually placed on his thigh. he’s fresh out of the shower, his hair still damp, smelling like body wash and the kind of man you want to ruin. 

and you’re in the mood. 

you tilt your head up, giving him what should be a painfully obvious look – eyes lidded, lips slightly parted. your fingers start tracing little patterns on his leg, creeping up slowly, deliberately. 

he doesn’t react. 

you press closer, practically molding yourself against him, lips barely an inch from his jaw. “yoichi,” you murmur, voice needy. 

“huh?” he says, completely oblivious. “oh, did i tell you about training today?” 

you blink. your hand pauses. this cannot be happening. 

“reo tried to cut me off, but i already saw it coming, so i faked left, and then –” 

you slide your hand higher, hoping he’ll get the damn hint. 

he doesn’t. 

“– so nagi thought he had me cornered, but i knew bachira was in position, so i –” 

you tighten your grip on his thigh. surely, surely he will notice now. 

he does. but not in the way you want. 

“oh, yeah, that spot’s sore,” he says, stretching his leg. “thanks, love.” 

you stare at him. blink. take a deep breath to calm yourself. 

“yoichi.” 

he finally looks at you, his big blue eyes wide and stupid. “what’s up?” 

you slide your hand even higher. lean in closer. 

“baby,” you try again, slow and clear, like you’re speaking to a small child. “i. want. you.” 

his face brightens. hope flutters in your chest. he finally gets it – 

“ohhh,” he says. “you wanna see the play?” 

you swear you see god. and he is laughing at you. 

“yoichi.” your patience is hanging on by a thread. you grab his face with both hands, forcing him to focus. “i want. you.” 

he blinks, slowly. gears turn in that soccer-ridden brain of his. 

“… you mean like, for training?” 

your soul leaves your body. 

“no, dumbass!” you groan, throwing yourself onto his chest. you feel him chuckle, his hand rubbing your back, still not getting it. 

“oh, you’re tired? we can sleep early if you want.” 

a muffled scream leaves your mouth, straight into his shirt. you contemplate whether loving this idiot is worth it.  

and as if to personally insult you, he kisses the top of your head and goes back to talking about soccer. 

heeyyy… if anyone’s wondering what they can talk to me about, here are a bunch of things I likkee (it’s a LOT)