When RIN ITOSHI Falls In Love, It Shows. You'd Think He'd Be Able To Keep It Hidden, Since He's Such

imagine being rin’s gf and noticing how when you go to his games to watch him play his bangs are often getting in his eyes and annoying him a bit. watching him have to move the hair from his face every few minutes whilst playing soccer at the same time. and when you kiss him after the game and you realise a bit of hair got in his mouth from when he stuck his tongue out during the game hhhh

so when you’re home you start clipping his bangs up in a cute pink ribbon clip. or any cute clip you own, like a sanrio one or something. and he looks so cute you think. he’s annoyed at first and pretending he doesn’t like it, and you think you should just stop doing it ‘cause it’s pestering him so much, but then in his next interview he has his bangs clipped up and everyone is so shocked/finds it amusing 🥹

like imagine somebody as serious and intimidating looking as rin doing an interview in that deep voice with a cute pink hair clip in his hair, courtesy of his girlfriend.

and he knows he probably looks very silly/and everyone will begin to guess that he has a girlfriend now, but he doesn’t care, ‘cause these are your clips and he knows you’re watching the tv giggling at how he looks (you told him he looks like a lil cat) , so to him it’s worth it ♡

G-g-g-g-g-g-gay

I know them people watching like "This is not the pride parade"

how easy it would be to forge itoshi rin’s signature.

“What’re you doing?”

Rin sat on your bed, his back pressed against the headboard, legs stretched out in front of him. Your dorm was decent, neat in some areas, and cluttered in others—nothing too bad to the point where it was concerning. The desk was stacked with books and loose papers, a mug of half-finished tea sat forgotten on the little kitchen counter, and the walls were decorated with a mix of posters that he remembered you saying that you liked, candid polaroids, and lots of memorabilia.

You sat cross-legged beside him, practically bouncing as you shoved your scrapbook into his lap, your excitement bubbling over like always. Rin had long since learned that when you got like this, there was no stopping you—only surviving.

Surviving meant just going with whatever it is that you wanted.

“You have to sign this page,” you said, pointing eagerly at a newly decorated spread.

“It’s for today, so I don’t forget it.”

Rin glanced down.

The page was filled with doodles—some of him, some of a soccer ball, and what seemed to be a very lopsided drawing of a goalpost. You’d also glued a small Polaroid of you two together from earlier, where you had ambushed him for a selfie after his practice.

Without a word, he picked up the pen (a glittery navy blue one, if he may add) you handed him and flipped to the empty space at the bottom of the page. He’d done this enough times that he didn’t need to think about it. With fluid, precise strokes, he wrote his full name: Itoshi Rin.

No embellishments, no fancy loops, just his name.

As soon as he finished, you leaned over to inspect it.

You blinked.

Then blinked again.

“That’s it?” you asked, tilting your head.

Rin frowned. “What?”

“I mean…” You pursed your lips, squinting at his handwriting like you were analyzing a piece of evidence. “Your signature is so simple. I could probably forge it.”

Rin immediately shot you a warning look, as if already giving you an internal monologue. “Don’t.”

“But it’s so easy,” you said, dragging out the last word as you grinned. “Like, I could totally get away with it.”

He sighed, running a hand down his face.

“Why would you want to?”

“Well,” you hummed, tapping your chin in exaggerated thought. “What if I need to sign something important on your behalf? Like, let’s say you’re too busy being a famous soccer player, and I need to approve some official documents for you.”

“You don’t.”

“But what if?” You smiled, leaning closer, eyes gleaming with mischief. “What if a brand deal needs your signature, and you’re not around, and the deadline is right now? I could save the day.”

“You’d get arrested for fraud.”

“Would I, though?” You poked his arm, and Rin shrugged with a quick, quiet sigh. “Because I’m pretty sure your manager would just be like, ‘Wow, what a responsible lover! Always taking care of Rin!’”

Rin’s face fell flat.

“No, they’d be like, ‘Wow, what a criminal. Get them arrested immediately.’”

You laughed, completely unbothered. “Okay, fine, I won’t forge your signature for business deals. But, hypothetically speaking, what if I had to? Like, say I get kidnapped—”

Rin groaned, already regretting engaging in this conversation.

“Why are you kidnapped now?”

“Because!” You gestured dramatically.

“Some rival team wants to use me as leverage against you. They tell me, ‘If Rin doesn’t throw his next match, we’ll make you disappear!’”

He let out a slow breath. “Then I’d just find you.”

“Oh?” You awed, tilting your head. “You’d come rescue me?”

Rin didn’t even hesitate.

Why would he?

“Obviously.”

For a brief moment, you paused, your playful demeanor faltering as you stared at him. Then, just as quickly, you shook off the thought and cheekily smiled.

“Okay, okay, new scenario,” you continued. “What if you get kidnapped—”

“Why am I getting kidnapped now?”

“Because you’re Rin Itoshi! Maybe some crazy fan takes you hostage, or a rival team wants to sabotage you, or, I don’t know, some billionaire wants to add you to their private collection of elite soccer players.”

“That’s not how people work.”

“Well, whatever the reason,” you said, waving a hand, “you’re held captive, and they demand that you sign a fake retirement letter so you can never play soccer again. But! You refuse because you’re stubborn, so they bring me in and tell me, ‘Forge his signature, or else!’”

Rin leaned his head back against the headboard, closing his eyes. He could feel you draping your legs over his, and he made no move to try to move them away. “I hate that you put this much thought into these things.”

“Come on, it’s fun.”

“No, it’s exhausting.”

“Well, since you refuse to make your signature harder to copy, you better hope no one actually tries to forge it.”

He cracked an eye open to give you a skeptical look. “Are you planning to?”

You gasped, placing a hand over your heart like he had just accused you of the worst crime imaginable. “Me? Your beloved? I would never commit fraud against you.”

Rin didn’t look convinced.

“Okay, okay,” you relented, leaning back against the pillows. “I won’t forge your signature. But you should really think about making it cooler. Maybe add a little flourish?”

“No.”

“An underline?”

“No.”

“A small soccer ball doodle at the end?”

“No.”

You pouted. “You have no fun.”

“And you have too much.”

You laughed again before turning your attention back to the scrapbook. Running a finger over his signature, you muttered, “Still, I bet I could copy it.”

Rin reached over and flicked your forehead.

“Ow!” You swatted at him, though there was no real force behind it.

He clicked his tongue, though softly. “Try it, and I’ll make sure you never get to hold my autograph again.”

You gasped dramatically. “You wouldn’t!”

“Try me.”

You huffed before flopping onto your stomach, burying your face into the bed. “You’re so mean.”

“And you’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah, but you like me anyway.”

Rin rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, he reached for your scrapbook, flipping through the pages filled with their memories. His name was already scrawled across several of them, marking the proof of your time together.

“Next time,” you said, peeking at him, “I’m making you sign in cursive.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am.”

“No.”

“Just wait and see, Rin. I’ll wear you down eventually.”

Rin exhaled slowly. If it were anyone else, he would have dismissed the idea entirely. But this was you. If there was one thing he had learned about you, it was that you were relentless.

And, somehow, he didn’t really mind.

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he cooked him like a caesar salad

it's always a good time for ice cream! 🍡🍧🍨🍦

These two are just the cutest... Nagi was worried about our princess. I love them and the friendship they have.

Also Zantetsu is so cute saying "victory!"

rkgk for a friend ⚽ bllk itoshi rin in Windbreaker because oomf said we gotta save him from that hellhole of a show

I'd like to think that you and sae would have the most atrocious digital footprint

summary · you're fifteen and chronically online. sae's fifteen and annoying. together, you're a PR team's worst nightmare.

series masterlist

you have exactly seven drafts saved on tiktok. six are you dancing. one is sae telling you to shut up.

“can you not,” he mutters, turning his face away from your phone. you’re filming him, of course. again.

“the people need to know the real you.”

“no one needs to see me brushing my teeth.”

you zoom in closer. “he’s camera shy.”

he flips you off with the toothbrush still in his mouth.

you cackle, tapping save to drafts like it’s muscle memory. it is. you’ve been doing this since the dorms started assigning roommates. and even though you technically aren’t rooming with him, you still manage to worm your way into every piece of content that’ll get you both publicly humiliated someday.

not that you care.

you set the phone down on the counter, careful lest sae splash it with tap water, plop on the closed lid of the toilet seat, and lean your elbows on your knees. “we’re gomna be international one day.”

sae snorts.

“no, really,” you insist. “and when that happens, our managers are gonna comb through every post, every comment, every digital crumb of personality we’ve ever left online and regret ever signing us.”

he spits into the sink and pats his mouth dry meticulously, vaguely amused. “you mean they’re gonna regret signing you. i’m normal.”

“sae,” you deadpan, “you started a twitter war with a fan account because they said jude bellingham was better than you.”

“they were wrong.”

you stare at him. “they were twelve.”

“wrong,” he repeats, tone final.

you’re too tired to argue, so you snatch the phone beside yours on the sink and open his barely-used tiktok account. well. barely-used by him. you made it when he refused to download tiktok and you wanted to piss him off.

he squints. “why do i have a video?”

you turn the screen to show him the lone post: a blurry mess of you running, the microphone catching nothing but wind and your wheeze-laughs. in the background, sae sprinted after you, blur of red hair and fury.

amidst the rush of air catching, your voices managed to still be distinctly heard.

“give. it. back!”

“say you love me first!” your shriek echoed through the speaker.

he groans. “delete it.”

you throw him a convicted smile. “no.”

— — —

you don’t get to keep them all.

a year or two later, just as your names start making headlines, your PR manager politely asks—read: forces—you to delete everything. your posts, his posts, your shared posts, even the cute ones where you and him were just innocently trying funny filters.

you used to joke that if either of you ever made it big, your teenage digital footprints would be your downfall.

you were half-right.

your pages were a goldmine of post 2016 cringe. you’d hop on every trend like it was the last oxygen tank on earth—heart-beat-beat-beat dances, slow-mo transitions, and god-awful povs that somehow always featured you looking out a rainy window mouthing “you said you’d never leave…”

sae with his twitter wars, unprovoked beef with strangers about him vs jude bellingham: who's more handsome??? anime opinions, and once, an argument about whether mint chocolate ice cream deserved rights.

they all got wiped up.

both your socials? nuked.

tiktoks: gone.

twitter: locked, deactivated, incinerated.

instagram? scrubbed.

except… they missed one.

sae’s old instagram account that's just floating in the void, quietly haunting the web while the polished, verified one gets all the attention.

it's completely bare, no posts, no profile picture, and a simple username. one might even think it was a spam, random, fan account—unless they did a double take, because just right below the cut was a highlight. just one. titled with a single white heart emoji. you werent sure if you were the one that placed that. you didn’t even know it was there.

it was a photo from your dorm days in madrid. sae still looked boyish then, still had that awkward teenage charm that clung to him in the tail-end of puberty. and you were just as young, just as wide-eyed. he still wore those stupid blunt bangs that refused to grow out no matter how many times he tried. but what caught everyone, even you off guard was the picture itself: sae pressing a kiss to your cheek, and you frozen in an over exaggerated, comical shock—one hand covering your parted lips like a silent film actress. no context. no caption. no explanation.

the internet lost its mind.

the account got unearthed after someone on football twitter went, “wait… did itoshi sae have an old IG?”

the tiktok posts came next.

“he was soft once. ONCE.”

“idk what’s worse, the highlight or the 2016 vibrance filter.”

“someone tell BOTH their PR teams tht account exists.”

“NO WAY SHE USED TO DO TIKTOK POVS AND HE DATED HER ANYWAY.”

you got a text from sae at the crack of dawn, since a handful of your fans were a bit more prominent internationally:

(3:09 AM) sassy man: did you forget to delete my old account?

(3:09 AM) fine shift: did you forget you kissed me on camera and let it live in a highlight captioned with a 🤍

(3:09 AM) fine shift: you're so sappy, sae

read (3:11 AM)

typical. he left you on read. (and you knew he was pacing around the hotel room muttering “shit.”)

but the damage was done. “sae itoshi’s secret soft era” became the fandom’s latest obsession.

you were mortified. but somewhere, deep down—beneath the grown-up layers, the career polish—you were kind of glad. because no matter how far you both got from who you were back then, that little ghost of your digital past still lived on.

and it was kind of nice, being remembered like that:)

જ⁀♡⊹｡° just put your sweet lips on my lips

( isagi yoichi x fem! reader )

♡ a/n — the first part in my newest series: the garden of you! (masterlist)

♡ word count — 1.2k

♡ content — isagi yoichi x fem! reader, slursagi mentioned, isagi is HEAD OVER HEELS for reader, just freaking puppy love, fluff, invasive paparazzi, established relationship ( 5 years ), reader & isagi are 25ish, not proofread!!

♡ synopsis — In the world’s eyes, Yoichi Isagi is unstoppable — the best striker alive, a two-time World Cup champion, and infamous for the brutal insults he dishes out on the field. But when the stadium lights go out, he comes home to you — still shy, still boyish, still head-over-heels. Under city lights, on the bench where it all began, he realizes that no trophy will ever compare to the way you say his name.

── .❀ we should just kiss like real people do

The world knows Yoichi Isagi in superlatives.

The best striker to ever play the game.

The man who’s rewritten soccer history—twice.

The player who turned “egoist” into a philosophy.

The boy from Japan who stunned the world and never stopped.

They know his goals. His mind. His ruthless hunger.

They know the way he screams across the pitch — brilliant, brutal, and unfiltered — flinging words that make highlight reels just as much as his goals do.

“You’re lucky I don’t play defense or you’d be in the fucking ground.*”

“Hope you brought a second pair of cleats, ‘cause I’m dragging you for the rest of this match.”

“I’m the best in the world, and you’re barely even a footnote.”

Iconic. Viral. Merciless.

But the Yoichi Isagi that walks through the front door at 9:42 p.m. on a Tuesday night?

He drops his bag by the door and calls out a little breathless, “I brought you the melon pan you like—!” before even taking off his shoes.

You’re still on the couch, wrapped up in a blanket, legs tucked beneath you, and as soon as you turn and smile at him—

He just… melts.

“Hi, baby,” you say.

And he stares. All pink ears and wide eyes and messy hair. He’s still in his training hoodie, still smells like grass and heat, but he looks at you like you’ve just told him he won the World Cup again.

“You’re so pretty,” he mumbles without thinking, and you giggle as you take the bag from his hand.

“You’re the one who’s glowing.”

“I’m sweaty,” he says bashfully.

“You’re glowing,” you insist, grinning up at him. “Like a boy in love.”

He groans and hides his face in your shoulder, mumbling something about you being unfair. You wrap your arms around his waist, and he clings back like it’s been days, not hours. 

He does this every time — like he’s scared he’ll blink and wake up to find it was all a dream.

You’ve lived together for three years now.

You’ve been his for five.

But Yoichi Isagi still gets shy when you compliment him.

Still flushes when you kiss his cheek.

Still stares at you when he thinks you aren’t looking.

When you’re out together, he gets stopped often — for autographs, photos, interviews. His fame doesn’t just follow him. It hunts him.

So when he books a quiet little dinner date at a tiny ramen shop tucked away from the city center, he hopes for some peace. Hopes for a normal night.

Hopes, selfishly, that maybe people can forget he’s Isagi Yoichi, world champion, and let him be just Yoichi, your boyfriend for a night.

But he’s not surprised when the flashes start.

You catch on quickly. He doesn’t say anything, just shifts closer to block you from view, arm resting behind you on the booth’s backrest.

“I guess someone tipped them off,” you sigh, picking at your noodles.

He shrugs like it doesn’t bother him. But it does. It always does — when people take your time like they’re owed it, when they ruin these quiet little moments he lives for.

So he looks over your shoulder. Locks eyes with the nearest camera.

And flips them off with a casual middle finger, expression still soft as he returns to you.

“Yoichi,” you gasp, hiding your laugh behind your hand.

“They’re not invited,” he says easily. “I have plans. With you.”

You lean over the table to kiss his cheek.

He blushes so hard he forgets how to use chopsticks for a full thirty seconds.

It’s only after dinner, as you’re walking hand-in-hand through the quieter parts of the city, that something shifts. He’s quieter now. Focused. Like there’s something heavier beneath the surface of his usual shy smiles.

The street is familiar. A little run-down, flickering lights here and there. You round the corner and see it before he says a word.

The bench.

Old wood, faded green paint. Under the lamp post where you met.

Where he sat beside you that night after training five years ago, heart still racing from the match, vending machine broken, unsure of how to start a conversation with someone like you.

You remember offering him a drink.

He remembers the first time you smiled at him.

And now, all this time later, he’s pulling something from his pocket.

Velvet box. Shaky hands.

And then he’s on one knee.

Your heart stutters. Your breath catches. His voice shakes.

“From the moment you said hello to me, I’ve been yours. Hook, line, and sinker.” 

He laughs through a tear that rolls down his cheek.

“You are every part of me. You consume my every waking thought. I love coming home to you. I love seeing you in my jersey. I love every part of being with you—and I want to do it forever.”

His voice drops. Barely above a whisper.

“Please. Will you marry me?”

You don’t remember saying yes out loud.

But you’re nodding. Crying.

Reaching for him with both hands, and then he’s standing, arms tight around you like you’re the only safe place in the world.

And he sobs.

Not the kind of tears that fall on the field, surrounded by roaring fans.

But quiet, breathless ones. Overwhelmed. Grateful. Real.

Yoichi Isagi.

The world’s greatest striker.

A living legend.

A foul-mouthed genius with two World Cups and a target on his back.

And in your arms, just a boy in love.

Hopelessly, deeply, forever yours.

Later that night — or technically, early morning — the world finds out.

Isagi posts just one photo to his account:

A candid shot of you in his arms, standing at the very spot where he asked you to marry him.

You’re laughing, hand outstretched, showing off the ring.

He’s holding you like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever touched.

No caption. Just a daisy emoji.

And within minutes, the internet erupts.

By the time sunlight filters through your bedroom curtains, he’s already lying wide awake, phone in hand, blinking at the dozens of articles piling in.

Isagi Yoichi: Giving Up Soccer for Love?

Engaged! The Striker Who Won the World’s Heart Gives His Away.

A Ring, True Love, Another World Cup?

He sighs and turns off the screen. Drops his phone onto the nightstand and lets his head fall back against the pillow.

Because in this moment, he couldn’t care less what the world thinks.

Not when you’re draped over him like this — half-on, half-off, mouth slightly open and drooling against his chest. One of your legs tangled between his, one hand resting right over his heart. Right where the ring he spent months agonizing over gleams up at him in the warm morning light.

He tightens his arm around your waist. Brings his other hand up to brush through your hair, so gentle, like he’s afraid to wake you. But you shift anyway.

“Mmhm… good morning, baby,” you mumble, voice raspy with sleep.

And he’s gone. Just like that.

Heart wrecked. Soul floored.

Totally, irreversibly, eternally yours.

A soft little laugh catches in his throat.

Eyes watering all over again.

God, you don’t even know what you do to him.

“Good morning,” he whispers. And presses a kiss to your forehead like a vow. Like he’ll never stop saying it.

Not for the rest of his life.

i'm obsessed with isagi HE'S THE MC FOR A REASON

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