cz19y

[cz19y]

Being the eldest one in the team is not for the weak

[cz19y]

bunnyiglesias!stranger that when he saw you talking to lavinho the first time, he would never have imagined that you were his daughter. he knew quite well how lavinho loved basking in women, so it was almost natural for him to think that you were just a passing flirt and not his teammate's mysterious daughter

spain wasn't very different from brazil, you certainly loved your homeland much more, but returning to the barcha campus didn't bother you. it had been a really long time since you last saw your father, and you just wanted to hug him after spending months apart: he in italy for a soccer meeting, you in brazil with your grandparents. it would have been nice to go back to normality, in your apartment in barcelona

arriving at the campus, you threw yourself into his arms: hugging him again was a pleasant feeling, but not lasting because of someone. before you can notice it a very tall boy approaches your father, and you notice the same emblem of the spanish team, sign of his belonging to the barcha

"lavi? where did you meet this señorita? in italy?" the boy asks, winking at your father. a slight annoyance appears on your face, but your father hugs you by the shoulders, bursting out laughing "this señorita is my daughter, iglesias!" he says in his usual loud tone, and instead of seeing embarrassment on the face of the boy who probably mistook you for a passing flirt, only an amused expression forms on his face "oooh! i didn't know you had one" he says amused, and you clear your throat putting a hand forward "nice to meet you. im y/n" you say with your gaze down, because even if you're annoyed by him you know that the manners of introducing yourself are everything, and he grabs your hand, shaking it a bit "bunny iglesias"

bunnyiglesias!acquaintance that from that day on he simply started to pay much more attention to your presence in the team campus. over time he remembered how many times he had already seen you in the past, thinking that you were the girlfriend of some other player

your father, since his return, had obviously returned to train daily at the barcha campus. in the past you had often accompanied him just to avoid spending time at home alone, but since he returned you had decided to start accompanying him more to simply spend more time with him, due to the months of distance. you didn't mind spending time there, the staff treated you with respect and you even joked with some of the team members. and yet, every time you turned around, that boy's face was never too far from you

"did you accompany your father today too?" he asks walking not far from you, just a few steps away. you huff, continuing to walk towards your destination, the canteen "apparently yes. don't you have to train?" you ask trying to sound polite, because telling him to leave you alone would perhaps be a little rude. you hear him chuckle "i don't need it! im already a genius at the sweet age of 19" he says, and this time you're the one surprised "19? we are the same age" you say turning around, making him stop a short distance away otherwise he would have risked falling on you. he tilts his head and smiles at you, towering a bit due to the height difference "at least between us someone is making their youth count" he says, and if before you thought you still had to be polite, now you know you can use your entire vocabulary of insults

"filho da puta..." you whisper nervously, striding back to the cafeteria, whispering more insults in portuguese. how can he say things like that to you if he doesn't even know you, but just stares at you from afar? who gave him all this confidence?

bunnyiglesias!kindafriend who for a LONG TIME thought he was your new friend when in reality you couldn't stand him at all. it suddenly became normal to bother you or just spend more time around you, even though you clearly showed that you wanted him dead

"come on, a simple 1vs1! i'll go easy!" he says bouncing the ball on his knee, changing his gaze between you and the object. you sigh exhausted, continuing to scribble in your notebook "i already told you no. if you want to humiliate someone go get one of those who just arrived" you say neutrally, even if with a hint of sarcasm. he laughs, throwing the ball in the air and making it end up in the net with a dry, calculated gesture

he comes closer, grabbing the water bottle at your side "you're just saying that because you're weak" he says taking a generous helping of water, and you glare at him "well sorry if my dad didn't teach me how to kick a ball when i was little" you say sarcastically, and he shrugs "i still have a hard time believing that you're the daughter of lavinho, that genius monster! and you... you're... simply you" he says, even though he's clearly making fun of you. you take your notebook, slapping it against his leg "cale a boca, você fala demais, seu bobo!" you say annoyed, and he takes his ball back while laughing "you talk like i can understand you" he says amusedly, unlike you that you just want to eliminate him from your life. you hate his cheekiness, his cocky grin, you hate even more the fact that your father adores him because of his skills

bunnyiglesias!friend who simply decided to spend all his free time with you, and you ended up liking him. your relationship is still based entirely on the fact that he annoys you, but now his existence annoys you less

"did you like how i shot the second time?" he asks taking the towel you have in your hand, drying his hair still damp from the shower. you roll your eyes, even as you nod "that was cool. maybe a little theatrical, very un-your style" you say, and your words get mixed up with the screams of the fans in the stadium, still all eager to talk to the barcha players

today there was a match, specifically in one of the biggest stadiums in the city: the camp nou. the match has been over for a while now, but of course you were here the whole time, sitting on the benches reserved for the players' relatives. the team members are now divided between those in the tunnel near the fans and those in the locker room, still cleaning up. you and bunny are in front of the tunnel, while you wait for your father, both of you are aware that journalists have already taken pictures of you. it's not something that bothers you particularly, you and him go out often and so some of your photos have already gone viral, but you are simply great friends. today will be no different, unfortunately, but okay

"what do you mean? that im a terrible player?" he asks jokingly, and you let out a laugh "more or less. maybe i should ask the team manager to move you to ReAl" you say crossing your arms, mentioning the barcha's arch enemy. bunny shakes his head, absolutely against it "i'd rather be slapped by lavi until the day i die" he says, and you burst out laughing. you take the towel in his hands, starting to walk towards the tunnel "first we should find him a reason to slap you" you say, disappearing from the eyes of the fans. bunny follows you, not before making a gesture to the fans "we can definitely find one"

"bunny inglesias disappears in the tunnel with his alleged girlfriend, the daughter of the champion lavinho?" shouts the commentator, but you are already in the tunnel to hear it

bunnyiglesias!bestfriend who simply didn't ask for this title, he just took it. bunny showed you how much he cared about you with small gestures, the ones that no friend had ever done for you. not seeing you together was almost strange, for lavinho and others players

"thank you!" you say taking your coffee, wrapped up in your winter coat. even with the temperature so low, outdoor training didn't stop for the players, especially the first team. your father had already done his shift, but since bunny still had to do his, you didn't mind staying in the cold and watching him

he pats your head taking off his coat, which you take with your free arm "don't worry. so after training dinner at the usual place?" he asks, and you nod with red cheeks, a bit caused by the cold and a bit by his concern "sure! but at least this time let me pay. i don't know why it's been months since you've let me pay a cent" you say disconsolately, but he shakes his head, amused "it's not in my vocabulary to let you pay. not because i want to be a gentleman, but because i would like to eat edible food and not something toxic" he says, then running towards the field. you reflect on his words for a few seconds "HEY! MY FATHER MAKES MORE MONEY THAN YOU, cabeça de vento!" you yell at him, but you are amused by his words. bunny runs towards the field, but turns to send you a flying kiss, to which you react by rolling your eyes even if smiling

clutching your coffee and his coat to your chest, you notice how his scent lingers on the fabric. you hold it a little tighter, trying to ignore the slightly raised heartbeat. you don't know what's happening to both of you lately, but all this attention and gestures have already crossed the line for a while now

bunnyiglesias!situationship who, since he understood that he can touch you without you wishing him the worst, has started to put his arm around your shoulders much more often. an arm became his hands on your waist, and his hands became kisses on cheeks

snuggled up to him under the covers, the january cold doesn't seem so annoying. your house has always been quiet, but since bunny comes more often, you feel much more relaxed. it has become the norm to be hugged under the covers, held tight as if you could escape, justifying the action as pure affection and nothing more. having him so close relaxes you, but at the same time the constant beating in your chest reminds you that you shouldn't be like this: technically, best friends don't do that. you have long thought that you have crossed that line, even if neither of you dares open the topic

"are you still cold?" he whispers, but you shake your head "no no. maybe im even feel to much warm, we've been hugging for too long" you say, but the only answer you feel and want to feel are his lips in your hair, while he gently kisses your head for some seconds "i don't care if you feel warm. im comfortable like this" he says, and you nod, although wondering how he can be comfortable with you pressed against him, like a sardine. his hand gently rubs your side, making you relax as you slowly close your eyes, nestled in the crook of his neck. you hate that you can't kiss him, so you crane your neck slightly, kissing his jaw. you hear him sigh, to chuckle more "the jaw now? next thing what is it, the nose?" he asks, and you shake your head, kissing his neck. he lets out another sigh, tightening his grip on your hips "the neck now, huh? i would have preferred another part" he says

it's moments like this that make you wonder why you haven't kissed yet. you want it, he wants it. why hasn't happened yet?

bunnyiglesias!boyfriend who hadn't planned on kissing you in front of your dad, but the opportunity was practically perfect. there was no point in ignoring each other's feelings anymore, not when gestures and looks spoke louder than words. it was the perfect moment

"follow me" he says taking your hand, and even though not convinced, you follow him "what do you want to do now?" you ask, but the only thing that appears before your eyes is your father. bunny stops for a moment perplexed, tilting his head "lavi? why are you here?" asks the boy, who unbeknownst to you had checked which of the fields were free at that time. lavinho shrugs, approaching with the ball in his hand "training. and you? what are you doing with my daughter here?" he asks smirking, because out of all of them he's the one who's most waiting for you two to admit that you love each other. bunny clears his throat, masking his anxiety with his usual little smile "oh... i had to do something... wait. you know what? i need you"

you remain confused, not knowing how to react "what do you have in mind?" you ask crossing your arms, extremely perplexed. lavinho imitates you, staying a few steps away while bunny takes a few steps back "senhor lavinho, acho que estou extremamente apaixonado pela sua filha" he says, his pronunciation is a bit bad, but his words immediately reach your heart loud and clear. you look at him covering your mouth, surprised "no way" you say excited, a bit from what he told you and especially for the fact that he said it in your native language. he takes your hand, kissing the back of it "posso ser teu namorado?" he says, his voice a little shaky

before he can even ask you or your father anything else, you close your arms around his neck so you can kiss him. bunny catches you, kissing you back while holding you up with his hands on your waist, eliminating the height difference issue. it's a sweet, messy kiss, but it feels like a release after that situationship limbo you've been living in for months. you smile satisfied as you kiss him, almost ignoring your father behind

"at least he had the decency to man up and ask you"

[cz19y]

ACKKK THANK YOU SO MUCH I FEEL SO HONORED!! :DD giggling and jumping,, ur also a fav <33

@itnec (dawg I don’t have many moots)

favirote moots?

(People you tag have to reblog and say their favorite moots)

Okay wait

@ibrokeurheartbcuzubrokemine @foliverfalls @allyeilishh @addisonraesbaby @emiliesblohsh @bilsslut @noodleswashere @bilsbabyy @bitchesbrokenpromises @billsdollie

[cz19y]

ᝰ.ᐟ FIRST TIME THEY CALL YOU THEIRS. → blue lock

ft. yoichi isagi, meguru bachira, rin itoshi, seishiro nagi, reo mikage, ryusei shidou & shouei barou

warnings: none

it first slips without him realizing. you’re watching him play during a match, cheering him on like you always do with a big smile and your eyes only focused on him— before he catches himself, the words “they’re mine.” blurt out of isagi’s lips.

his face flushes in crimson color the moment he hears himself, but he doesn’t take it back. if anything, he stands a little straighter, not breaking eye contact at all. you look at him like he’s the only thing that matters.

and to him, you are.

“mine~!” bachira giggles as he jumps onto your back without hesitation, arms locked around your neck from behind as he nuzzles his cheek against yours. “you’re my favorite person ever.” you laugh a little, used to his energy by now. but he looks up at you longer this time.

“i mean it,” he adds, softly. “you’re mine, okay?” and just like that, his grin returns as he gets off of you, but only to swiftly pick you up bridal style and spin you around while your laughter fills the room.

you’re sitting beside rin, shoulder to shoulder, as you watch the sky together. it’s peaceful. quiet. until rin suddenly mutters, “you’re mine.” which makes you blink in surprise, turning your head slightly to look at him. except rin doesn’t meet your gaze, instead keeping his eyes locked on the horizon. though you don’t miss how his ears are tinged with pink.

“just...don’t forget that.”

you play around on nagi’s phone, lounging on the couch while he naps next to you. or so you thought, until he reaches out and lazily places his hand on your thigh. “hey...” he mumbles sleepily, eyes still half-lidded. “don’t let anyone else touch you like this.”

you raise a brow in confusion, but before you could reply, he yawns. “you’re mine. too much hassle to let someone else have you.”

at an event with reo, he’s got an arm around your waist, that perfectly polished smile on his face while showing you off. but when someone looks at you a second too long, you feel his hand tighten ever so slightly.

“they’re mine.” he tells said person off with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. later, in private, he wraps his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder with a satisfied sigh.

“you know i meant that, right? i don’t want to share. not even a little.”

it happens after you patch shidou up from a fight he had on the field. he sits on the bench as you ordered him to, watching you with something between fascination or obsession. “you know...” he starts, a smirk forming on his lips despite having blood on them. “you’re mine now. that’s how this works, right?”

you only scoff, stepping away a little to avoid him from getting unhinged further. but he leans in just a bit closer. “yeah. definitely mine.”

barou grumbles after catching you steal a fry off his plate, hiding it behind your back to make it seem like you didn’t do anything. you stare at him with an innocent smile, “what, gonna bite me next?” you ask. “don’t tempt me.” you laugh at his words— but he doesn’t. he glances away before muttering under his breath, “you’re mine.”

“so stop messing around.”

you almost don’t hear it, but you do. it’s enough to keep you smiling for the rest of the night.

[cz19y]

kissing sae starts off as something precise. almost clinically calculating. he holds your chin lightly between his thumb and forefinger. tilts his head and gauges angles. it becomes something more. less about discovery by trial, more about understanding by instinct. by touch and sound and feeling. it becomes softer and warmer. his eyes flutter shut, but just before they did, you see how his pupils have dilated, and maybe it’s just the light from the window or your own love-drunk state, but you could swear they were pulsating in the shapes of hearts

[cz19y]

Hum hey so its my first time requesting :)

Anyway, can you do a Rin version of "How'd They Handle Your Relationship Going Public" and basically he and the reader have been together for a long time since they were teenagers, like 6 years already and they're engaged? Thanks :)

𓂃 . 𐑞 How'd They Handle Your Relationship Going Public ⟢

Part 1 . Part 2

ꔫ﹒genre﹒⟢ -boyfriend stories/fluff/drama. f!reader

⏆﹒⿻ ch . rin . nagi . karasu . alexis . chris prince . bunny iglesias

﹙◞◟﹚﹒warnings ﹒Public Scrutiny & Media Exposure / Emotional Vulnerability / Relationship Dynamics / Mature Themes / Social Media/Press Impact / Positive Romantic Themes

[Note]: Part two, since. you guys loved it so much! Also I included my first ever writing for bunny 😋 I KNOW WE'VE ONLY GOTTEN ONE CHAPTER WITH HIM SO FAR BUT IM IN LOVEEEE

Rin Itoshi

Rin Itoshi had always prided himself on emotional discipline. Ever since Sae left for Spain, he taught himself not to rely on others, to be self-sufficient, to view vulnerability as weakness. So when he fell for you—quietly, stubbornly—it wasn’t part of the plan. You snuck into his life like a soft breath in winter, unnoticed until everything was already changed.

Your relationship wasn’t built on grand gestures, but small, powerful moments—your steady gaze when the world doubted him, the hand you always reached out with when he stood at the edge of frustration. To Rin, you became home. A rare place where his sharp edges didn’t slice someone open.

So when photos of you two together surfaced—just one, a candid shot of you lacing your fingers through his as you waited outside his training center—it sent shockwaves across social media.

The response was instantaneous.

The comments flooded in:

"Is that Rin’s girlfriend?" "He’s human??" "Didn’t think he had time for anyone other than football." "Damn, she’s lucky but brave. Rin looks like he'd chew your heart up and spit it out."

At first, Rin was livid. Not at you. Never at you. But at the world. For prying. For staining something so private, so sacred.

He showed up at your apartment that night, jaw clenched tight, fingers twitching as if caught between punching a wall or pulling you close. You opened the door before he knocked, already sensing his mood.

“What the hell is their problem?” he muttered, brushing past you, his presence like a stormcloud on the brink. “Why do they care?”

You reached for him—gentle, but grounding. “Because they didn’t know you could love someone.”

His silence stretched, taut like a bowstring. Then he turned, and his voice cracked just slightly. “They make it sound like... like I’m soft. Weak. Like being with you is a distraction.”

You stepped closer. “Is it?”

“No,” he answered immediately, eyes dark and unwavering. “You focus me. You remind me what I’m fighting for.” In the weeks that followed, Rin’s approach to the public scrutiny became calculated. He didn't flaunt the relationship—but he owned it. He didn’t let the press dictate the story.

In interviews, when asked about you, he gave short but clear answers.

“Yeah, she’s important to me.” “No, I’m not distracted. I’m more locked in than ever.” “If someone thinks love makes you weak, they’ve never fought hard enough for anything.”

Privately, Rin softened. The rare smile he gave you now lingered longer. He’d grip your hand a little tighter in public, not possessive—but proud. You were the exception to his isolation. The only one who saw him entirely.

And as the world gradually adjusted to this new side of Rin, so did he. His ice didn’t melt—but he carved space into it, just big enough for you.

Nagi Seishiro

Dating Nagi was like being with a cat who slowly learned to care where you went—and eventually started curling up next to you every night without realizing it. At first, it seemed like he didn’t take much seriously. He grumbled when he had to wake up early, complained about drills, and often called things “a pain.”

But your relationship with him changed something. He still complained—but now it was with his head in your lap. He still wanted to play video games, but only if you sat next to him. He didn’t say “I love you” often—but when he did, it was always when you least expected it, whispered into your hair like a secret he didn’t want stolen.

When your relationship became public—thanks to someone catching a picture of you two cuddled up during a post-match interview cooldown—Nagi barely blinked.

“Huh,” he said, chewing a rice ball as you scrolled nervously through social media. “Didn’t even know we weren’t public.”

You looked at him, wide-eyed. “This is everywhere, Sei. Like, trending-everywhere.”

“Cool,” he said, flopping back on the couch. “Maybe now they’ll stop asking if I’m single.”

“But what if people harass you?” you asked, worry twisting your stomach. “Or say stuff about me?”

Nagi looked at you, his eyes sleepily serious now. “Then I block them. Or ignore them. Or dunk on them in-game. Who cares?”

But here’s the thing: Nagi did care. Not about the strangers—but about you. He noticed when your smile faltered reading the comments. He noticed when your phone lit up with unwanted messages. And he didn’t like it.

So, in the most Nagi way possible, he stepped up. Quietly, but unmistakably. He started tagging you in his casual stories—photos of takeout with captions like, “She chose this, pretty good tbh.” He posted a picture of your hands interlocked on his controller with the caption: “My lucky charm.”

And during a televised match, after scoring a ridiculous goal and being asked about what motivated him, he surprised everyone by saying:

“Wanted to win for her. She said I could do it. So I did.”

It broke the internet.

Suddenly, Nagi wasn’t just the genius with sleepy eyes—he was the genius in love, and soft, and real. And you—his S/O—weren’t just a side character. You were his tether, his cheerleader, the person who made life feel less like a chore and more like a game worth playing.

He didn’t care about the fame. Or the buzz. Or the hate. He only cared that you were still smiling, still beside him, still his. And late at night, when the world was quiet again and you were curled up beside him under a messy blanket, he’d whisper into the dark:

“Glad they know. Makes it easier to show you off.”

Karasu Tabito

Karasu was always the center of attention. With his untamed hair, sharp eyes, and a smirk that made girls swoon and rivals seethe, he thrived in the chaos of the spotlight. He invited it. Interviews, cameras, the gossip mill—Karasu handled it like a magician performing sleight of hand.

But you? You were different. Private. Grounded. A little more reserved, even if you could keep up with his banter. He loved that. The contrast between your calm and his chaos made you magnetic to him. You were his anchor. The only one who could call him out without losing his respect—and the only one he genuinely listened to.

The relationship started as a secret not because Karasu was hiding you—but because he wanted to protect you. “Let’s keep this just for us,” he’d say, nuzzling your neck with that wolfish grin. “The world’s nosy. And kinda gross.”

But all secrets crack eventually. A blurry video surfaced of you two at a club—Karasu’s hand tucked casually around your waist, your body pressed to his as you whispered something in his ear, smiling. It wasn’t scandalous. But it was intimate.

Social media exploded:

“That Karasu’s girlfriend? Damn, she’s got nerves of steel.” “Why’s he cuffed now? Did hell freeze?” “Not gonna lie, kinda hot couple.”

At first, Karasu laughed. He loved the drama.

"Looks like we're trending, babe," he smirked, flashing his phone. "You're famous now. Want me to teach you how to sign autographs?"

You rolled your eyes, but you could see the storm brewing behind his playful expression. He wasn't worried about himself. He was worried about you. Because suddenly people were digging into your life. Old photos. Your friends. Your job.

That night, he wrapped an arm around your shoulder while you scrolled through some of the invasive posts, his voice unusually serious.

“They’re jackals,” he muttered. “Feeding off things that don’t belong to them.”

“Why does this feel like more your world than mine?” you asked, a bit overwhelmed.

He looked at you for a long moment. “Because I’ve played this game longer. But I’ll teach you the rules.”

The next day, Karasu took control of the narrative. He posted a single, stunning photo—just you, laughing, wind in your hair, eyes closed—and captioned it:

“Mine. No apologies.”

It went viral.

People expected him to act cocky, but he surprised them. He started shutting down disrespectful fans. He mentioned you in interviews—briefly, but proudly.

“Yeah, she makes life better. Keeps me sane. And she’s hotter than most of you, so chill.”

What shocked people most wasn’t that Karasu had a girlfriend—it was how tender he was when he was with you. Still sarcastic, still teasing—but visibly grounded.

He even started skipping some afterparties. Choosing nights on the couch with you instead. “They’ve got lights and music,” he said. “I’ve got you. I win.”

Publicly, he was bold. Privately, he was yours—completely.

Alexis Ness

Alexis Ness was beautiful in the way a flame is—graceful, luminous, but never to be underestimated. A master of elegance and strategy, Ness moved like a dancer and thought like a tactician. He knew how to read the field—and people.

Your relationship with him started in quiet places: late-night cafés after practice, his soft laughter in whispered corners of the dorms, his fingers lacing with yours when no one was looking.

He adored you. But he also feared the world’s judgment. Not because he was ashamed—Ness wasn’t afraid of love—but because he knew exactly how cruel the world could be to something delicate.

“I want to keep you safe,” he whispered one night, tracing your fingers with his own. “Like a song only I know the words to.”

But one day, the veil lifted.

A professional photographer at a team event captured you both off-guard: Ness had just tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, a soft smile blooming on his lips. The photo was ethereal—almost staged in how perfect it looked.

Except it wasn’t. It was just real.

The internet lit up:

“Who’s the lucky one Ness is looking at like that?” “He has someone? Makes sense. No one looks that gentle unless they’re in love.” “Kinda jealous. Kinda obsessed.”

Unlike Karasu, Ness didn’t panic. But he did retreat. That night, he came to you, anxious fingers threading into his hair.

“I wanted more time before they saw,” he said softly. “You’re the one thing I didn’t want them to touch.”

You took his hand. “Then let’s give them only what we want them to see.”

That’s what you did.

Together, you crafted boundaries. He posted a photo of your joined hands—rings gleaming, simple and serene—with the caption:

“Some things are too beautiful to hide.”

Ness didn’t speak much to the press, but his actions were louder than any words. He’d take your hand in public now—elegantly, with poise. He didn’t flaunt your relationship. He honored it.

In matches, he played more focused than ever. Your presence didn’t distract—it centered him.

His teammates noticed it, too.

“You’ve changed,” one of them said.

Ness smiled faintly. “No. I’ve just found someone who makes me more myself.”

He started inviting you to team events, walking in with pride—not to show off, but to show you belonged by his side. The fans fell in love with this new side of him—still dazzling, but now softened, like silk that shimmered even brighter in daylight.

Chris Prince

Chris didn’t plan on your relationship going public. If it were up to him, it would’ve stayed quiet, private, safe—just for you and him. But the world had other plans.

A sneaky journalist caught the two of you in a quiet Parisian café, hands intertwined over untouched lattes. The headline?

“Golden Boy Chris Prince Spotted with Mystery Woman—Girlfriend Confirmed?”

At first, he panicked. Not in a messy, flailing way—this was Chris, after all. But in that smooth, refined way where you could feel the tension behind his eyes even as his voice stayed calm.

“I’ll have my team handle it,” he said, jaw tight. “No one needed to know about this. They’ll twist everything.”

You felt a sting at that. “Are you ashamed of me?”

He blinked, stunned. “What? No. God, no. I’m trying to protect you.”

But he saw the doubt in your face. And that—that—hit him harder than any tabloid ever could.

Chris had spent his entire life curating perfection. His image, his body, his brand—each a sculpture carved from relentless discipline. You? You were the one thing he didn’t want to sculpt. You were warmth and laughter and chaotic midnight ice cream runs. You were soft kisses in elevators and falling asleep during his skincare routine.

So when the press didn’t let up—when articles came out dissecting you, speculating on your past, judging your appearance, your career, your “suitability”—Chris snapped.

He posted a video. Simple. Elegant. A full shot of him sitting in a clean, bright room, wearing a navy suit. No music. Just his voice:

“This is for the press, the fans, and anyone else with an opinion. Yes, I’m in a relationship. And no, it’s not up for debate. You don’t get to decide who’s worthy of me. Because she already is—and more.”

The video went viral. Not because it was scandalous, but because Chris Prince—the immaculate, polished poster boy—broke his silence. For you.

And when he came home that night, kicking off his expensive shoes and collapsing next to you on the couch, he looked at you like you were everything.

“I don’t care if it messes with sponsorships or press tours,” he murmured. “I just care that you still want to be here.”

You kissed him. Of course you did.

From that point on, Chris didn’t just accept the public side of your relationship—he embraced it, with grace. But in his way. Controlled, intentional, classy.

Matching outfits at public events. Glances shared across the room. Gentle hand touches in front of cameras. And yes—every now and then, a quote in an interview that made fans melt:

“My greatest achievement? Winning her heart.”

He made loving you look like the most elegant decision he’d ever made. And in private, it felt even better.

Bunny Iglesias

When your relationship with Bunny Iglesias went public, it wasn’t subtle. No whispered confirmations or vague Instagram stories. It was front-page material—literally. A stolen kiss captured by a paparazzo during his victory lap after a big international match. Your arms around his neck, his fingers tangled in your hair, the kiss not just a peck but a declaration. And Bunny? Oh, he loved it.

“I always said I’d make headlines,” he chuckled the morning after, sitting shirtless in the hotel bed with the tabloid spread open in his lap. “But I didn’t think I’d be sharing the spotlight with the love of my life.”

That was the thing about Bunny—he wasn’t the type to hide. If anything, he was annoyed it took this long for the world to catch on. He immediately leaned into the chaos. His next Instagram post? A photo of you both in sunglasses, sipping champagne, captioned:

“For those wondering—yes, I won the match and their heart. 🐰❤️”

But public love wasn’t without its claws. The internet had opinions. Some praised your chemistry, calling you a “power couple.” Others… not so kind. “Why her?” “He could do better.” “She’s just a clout chaser.” The usual venom that slithered into any spotlight romance.

You tried to ignore it at first—but it got to you. One night, scrolling through your DMs, you stumbled on one that made your breath hitch. It was vicious, cruel. You didn’t even realize you’d gone quiet until Bunny looked up from his phone.

“Mi amor,” he said gently, plucking the device from your hands, “don’t give trolls the honor of your attention.”

“But they’re everywhere, Bunny,” you whispered. “What if it gets worse?”

He slid closer, arms wrapping around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder. “Then let them scream. You think I care what they say? I’m Bunny Iglesias. I chose you. They’re just jealous they weren’t worth writing love songs about.”

He didn’t just say it—he proved it. Every match after that, he made sure to blow a kiss to the camera and wink. Interviewers asking about his “spectacular form” would be met with smug answers like, “Must be love. Try it sometime.”

He turned your relationship into a bold performance—but behind closed doors, he made sure you felt real. Protected. Worshipped.

“You’re not just someone I’m dating,” he whispered one night while you danced barefoot in the kitchen. “You’re my favorite part of the spotlight.”

© writing by dior-luxury !

[cz19y]

How'd They Handle Your Relationship Going Public

( ✧ ) ────── boyfriend stories . fluff/romance - f!reader .

- [𝐜𝐡.] isagi . yukimiya . oliver . sae . michael

- [𝐩:𝐬] Possessiveness (Subtle) . Emotional Pressure . Media Intrusion . Public Scrutiny & Online Harassment . Emotional Intensity . Mentions Of Toxic Fandom

Note: So- these kinda got reallyy long LOL

Isagi Yoichi

Dating Isagi Yoichi wasn’t about fireworks or public spectacles.

It was subtle. Sacred.

You fell for him back when the world was just starting to know his name — before the viral goals, before the press conferences, before “Egoist” became a brand instead of just an insult people threw at him on the field.

He was still Yoichi back then. The guy who walked you home under quiet skies after long study days. Who left you hand-written notes in your bag, or called you at midnight to vent about training and self-doubt. The boy who looked at you like you were the one thing in his life not measured by rankings or goals.

“You make me feel real,” he said once.

“Even when the rest of the world treats me like a story.”

And you smiled, brushing a hand through his hair, saying the words he never quite believed:

“You’re more than enough.”

It started with a photo.

You’d waited for him outside a post-match event — nothing dramatic, just a quiet corner away from cameras, a hoodie pulled low, arms crossed as you bounced on your heels. He spotted you and smiled that exhausted, radiant smile — the one that only ever seemed to show when he saw you.

He jogged over, grabbed your hand, and tugged you into a hug so tight you didn’t even notice the flash from a phone across the street.

A fan had caught it. By morning, it was trending:

“ISAGI’S MYSTERY GIRLFRIEND??” “Who is the girl Isagi Yoichi hugged after the match?” “#YoichiLove — Bluelock Star Seen With Partner!”

You didn’t even realize the story had broken until your phone buzzed with thirty notifications and your social media was flooded.

And Isagi? He called you five minutes later.

“I’m so sorry,” he said before you could even speak. His voice was hoarse. Anxious.

“I didn’t think — I wasn’t careful —”

You stopped him gently.

“Yoichi. Breathe.”

But he was spiraling.

“They’re going to twist it. They’re going to make you into some villain, or a fangirl, or say you’re a distraction— I didn’t protect you well enough.”

That hurt more than anything — not the media, not the attention. Just hearing how he blamed himself for being loved.

Yoichi wasn’t flashy. He didn’t make bold declarations online. But he believed in honesty — in earning everything, not just on the pitch, but in life.

So instead of hiding you, he did something few players would:

He acknowledged you.

Not with a viral post or a dramatic reveal — just a few sentences in a quiet press interview, when a reporter inevitably asked, “Is the person in the photos your girlfriend?”

He smiled — that awkward, slightly crooked smile he wore when he was nervous but firm.

“Yeah. She is. I don’t want to hide the people who believe in me. Especially not the one who’s been there since the start.”

The internet exploded again — this time with less speculation and more stunned admiration.

“ISAGI CONFIRMS RELATIONSHIP!” “Simp king behavior?!?!” “Yoichi out here being respectful, loyal AND talented—”

Surprisingly, most of the feedback was positive. Even fans who’d worshiped him as their fictional boyfriend begrudgingly respected how he handled it. It wasn’t performative. It wasn’t arrogant.

It was just real.

Still, the adjustment wasn’t easy.

Suddenly, your name trended with his. You were tagged in edits. Rumors circulated. Fans analyzed your outfits, your expressions in the background of blurry photos. Some idolized you. Some resented you.

You once told Yoichi how overwhelming it was — how suffocating it felt to be seen by so many strangers.

He listened, eyes dark with quiet intensity, then pulled you close.

“We can disappear whenever you want,” he murmured. “I’ll take us anywhere. Just say the word.”

You shook your head against his chest.

“I don’t want to run. I just want to feel safe with you.”

And he looked at you like you’d just scored the winning goal.

“Then that’s what I’ll protect. Not the image. You.”

You never quite got used to the cameras. But you got used to him — to how he’d squeeze your hand before stepping onto the pitch, to how he’d always find your eyes in the crowd, to how he never let the world take away the quiet between you.

He still wrote you notes. Still called you before matches, even if it was just to say,

“I’ll play better knowing you’re watching.”

And every time a headline surfaced, or a new photo went viral, he handled it the same way — with grace, respect, and unwavering devotion.

“They can watch,” he told you once, fingers laced with yours as the city lights blinked outside the hotel balcony.

“Let them. Just means more people get to see what I already know — that loving you was the best decision I ever made.”

Yukimiya Kenyu

Yukimiya wasn’t like the other players.

While many flaunted confidence in interviews and thrived on spectacle, Yukimiya moved with a different kind of grace. He was precise. Sharp. Fashionable, yes — maybe even elegant — but always calculating. He had a past he didn’t often talk about, a future he fought for like every breath was borrowed time.

And somehow, despite his walls, you were the one who slipped through.

You weren’t loud about it. Neither was he. Dates were quiet. Rooftops. Galleries. Libraries. His hand always found yours under tables, behind curtains, in the quiet corners of his schedule where the world forgot to look.

He liked it that way — liked the sense that this was his, untouched by cameras, untouched by expectations. You weren’t someone he had to perform for. You saw him beyond the rising football star, beyond the reconstructed corneas and interviews about perseverance.

“You see me,” he said once, “even when I can’t.”

You hadn’t known what to say, so you just kissed him softly and squeezed his hand.

You weren’t even doing anything scandalous — just sitting across from each other in a Kyoto café, a book open between you, sharing matcha and chocolate pastries. A fan had taken a blurry picture. The internet took care of the rest.

At first, it was subtle:

“Is that Yukimiya Kenyu in the background?” “Who’s that girl? Is he dating her?”

Then came the full unraveling: tagged posts, speculative gossip blogs, news articles prying into your identity. Someone even found your university and posted photos of your class schedule. It was invasive. Fast. Brutal.

And Yukimiya?

He froze.

He didn’t answer your messages for the first 24 hours.

You weren’t mad — just... worried. Yukimiya lived in constant pursuit of control. His style, his image, his brand — they were all sculpted with care. Even his recovery from his eye condition had been framed as a “reawakening” in interviews.

Now that frame was splintering.

When he finally showed up at your door, he looked exhausted. Hoodie pulled over his eyes, glasses on, jaw tight with unspoken tension. You let him in without a word.

He sat on your couch like the weight of the world had just pressed him flat.

“I didn’t want it to happen like this,” he said after a while, voice low. “Not this messy. Not... uncontrolled.”

You sat beside him. “You mean us being known?”

He didn’t answer right away.

“I was afraid it would make you a target. That people would judge you for choosing someone like me.”

That sentence struck you like a slap of cold air. Someone like me.

“Yuki,” you said gently, “you’re not damaged. You’re not broken. And I’m not ashamed to be with you.”

He exhaled shakily. “But they’ll never understand.”

You rested your head on his shoulder. “Then let them misunderstand.”

Yukimiya didn’t rush to post about you. He didn’t tweet a declaration. No Instagram story reveal. That wasn’t his style.

Instead, he granted a one-on-one interview with a respected journalist he trusted. In it, he talked about life after his eye surgery, his evolution as a player, and finally — near the end — he said:

“There’s someone important in my life. She’s not a public figure, and she didn’t ask for this attention. But she’s been a part of my journey. Quietly. Steadily. And I’m thankful for her.”

No names. No theatrics. Just truth — calm, composed, and deliberate.

The response was... surprisingly warm.

Fans praised his maturity. Commentators highlighted how he’d handled it with class. Most importantly, no more pictures were leaked. The frenzy faded. The boundary held.

One night, weeks later, he brought you to the top floor of an art museum after hours. A private event. Just the two of you. Paintings surrounded you like silent witnesses.

He stood beside a piece he liked — a minimalist skyline fading into a misted sunrise — and turned to you.

“I used to think love was something I had to earn. That I had to be impressive enough. Neat enough. Strong enough to deserve it.”

You reached for his hand.

“And now?”

“Now I think love is what makes me brave enough to be seen.”

He turned to you fully, pulling you into his arms, forehead resting against yours.

“Even when it’s messy.”

The world knew about the two of you — but only what you allowed.

You attended matches, sometimes. He’d glance at you in the stands before kickoff, and you’d give him that quiet nod — his anchor. The one that steadied him before the storm.

Fans respected the space you created. Maybe it was how Yukimiya carried himself — with a quiet pride and gentle resolve. Maybe it was because you never needed to prove your love was real. You just lived it.

And when someone asked him years down the line how he balanced fame and relationships, he just smiled, ever the minimalist.

“When you find someone who helps you see clearly... you don’t let them go.”

Oliver Aiku

You never quite saw it coming. One day he was just that guy on the U-20 team, cocky and golden-eyed with a smirk that could stop traffic. The next, he was the one calling you at midnight because he couldn’t sleep before a match, or because he “missed the way your voice sounds when you’re sleepy.”

For months, it was yours alone — private, unsharable. He liked it that way. You both did. The rest of the world could have his smirks, his post-match charm, his “loverboy” persona in interviews. But you had something different.

You had Oliver soft.

When the two of you were alone, he dropped the pretense. He let you see him insecure, exhausted, kind. He’d curl an arm around your waist and talk about the pressure of being team captain, of always being expected to lead. You’d press your forehead to his and promise he didn’t have to perform for you.

And he’d just whisper, “Good. Because I’m tired of being everyone’s image.”

It was a video. Not even anything scandalous.

Just a short clip someone recorded at a rooftop bar in Shibuya — you and Oliver dancing under dim lights, laughing, your fingers looped through the necklace he always wore. He pulled you in by the waist like no one was watching. Unfortunately, someone was.

The internet did what it always did: erupted.

“Who is she??” “Oliver Aiku has a girlfriend?? No way he’s settling down.” “This better be a joke, he flirts with literally everyone on Earth—”

Your DMs filled with messages, some supportive, others venomous. Pictures were dug up. Threads were made. Fan edits. Fancams. Hate. Fanfiction.

And at the center of it all?

You — frozen in place on your couch, scrolling through the chaos, heart in your throat.

Oliver didn’t respond right away.

He was in training when it went viral, and by the time he called you that night, the storm had fully formed.

“You okay, babe?”

His voice was soft, low. Not his usual flirt. You could tell he'd seen the worst of it.

You hesitated. “I don’t know.”

There was a pause. Then:

“Pack a bag. I’m coming to get you.”

You spent the weekend holed up in a villa he rented — outside the city, quiet, private. No paparazzi. No noise.

Oliver barely touched his phone. He spent most of the time just being there — cooking, teasing you into eating, pulling you into his lap like he needed to feel you near. And when you finally broke down — not loud, just quiet tears that slipped down your cheek — he held your face like it was fragile.

“They don’t get to decide what this is,” he said. “We do.”

“But they’re already tearing it apart,” you whispered.

His jaw clenched, and for once, the flirty glint in his eyes vanished.

“Then let me show them exactly who I’m with. And what happens when they f*ck with my girl.”

Oliver Aiku was known for his charm. The press loved him — the hair, the grin, the way he played both the field and the media. So when he asked to make a personal statement during a press conference the following week, people assumed it was a stunt.

But it wasn’t.

He walked in wearing a navy-blue suit, calm as a sea before a tidal wave. Cameras flashed. Reporters murmured.

Then he took the mic.

“Yeah. That was me in the video. That’s my girlfriend. And if you’ve got a problem with it — if any of you think this changes how I play, how I lead, or who I am — I don’t care. She’s not a weakness. She’s the reason I breathe easier before games. The reason I sleep better. And if supporting me means hating her? Don’t support me.”

It was blunt. Direct. No theatrics. No filters.

And it worked. The internet bent.

Suddenly, fans started changing tune. You weren't just “the girl in the video” — you were his. And not in a possessive way. In a part of his story way.

Fan art showed up. Support posts. People admired the rawness of how he defended you. And slowly, the tide turned.

You were still nervous in public sometimes. Oliver noticed.

So he'd make a game of it — kissing your hand in the middle of a crowd, tossing an arm around your shoulder while the press followed, flashing them a cocky grin like: “Yeah, I’m hers. Get over it.”

But when you were alone, the confidence faded, replaced with something real.

Years later, he joked about it.

“They thought I couldn’t commit to a single girl. Joke’s on them, huh?”

You were lying in bed, your head on his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear.

“You’re the only thing I’ve ever wanted to keep forever,” he added quietly, brushing your hair away from your eyes.

He had no defense against you.

And the world? It could watch all it wanted — because Oliver Aiku had nothing left to hide.

Sae Itoshi

At first, he didn’t say anything.

When the photo leaked — a candid one of you exiting a quiet Tokyo café with his hand casually resting on the small of your back — the media’s reaction was instant, and loud. Commentators speculated. Fans dissected every pixel. Your name, previously unknown to the public, was now splashed across headlines next to his.

“Sae Itoshi Spotted With Mystery Lover — New Flame or Just a Friend?”

You were neither shocked nor surprised. Dating Sae came with that unspoken risk. You’d been careful, both of you had. Sae hated the spotlight outside of football. And yet, even with all your precautions, the world found a way.

You waited for him to react — to say something, anything. But Sae, being Sae, remained unreadable.

That night, you sat together on the balcony of his apartment in Madrid. The city lights twinkled below like scattered stars. He was sipping tea, calm as ever, eyes distant, not touching his phone — which was blowing up with notifications.

You finally broke the silence. “So… what now?”

He glanced at you, just for a second, then looked back out into the night.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded, though the knot in your stomach said otherwise. He could see it — of course he could. You weren’t sure if the worst part was the people combing through your personal photos or the vicious fans commenting that you weren’t “good enough” for him.

“They’re being brutal,” you said softly.

He set his tea down and turned to you fully.

“Ignore them.”

You huffed. “That’s easy for you to say. You’ve trained your whole life to not care what people think.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “Exactly. So let me teach you.”

The next morning, you woke up to him sitting at the edge of the bed, phone in hand, fingers scrolling through comments you couldn’t bring yourself to read.

“I told them to back off,” he said, like it was the weather.

You blinked groggily. “Who?”

“My PR team. My manager. I told them we’re not hiding anything. No cover-ups. No fake denials.”

You stared. This wasn’t the reaction you expected from someone as reserved and private as Sae Itoshi.

He stood and walked over to you, leaning down slightly so his forehead almost touched yours.

“I’m not going to pretend you don’t matter to me. If they can’t handle that, they’re not my fans.”

Your breath caught.

He wasn’t dramatic about it. He wasn’t loud. But that was Sae’s way. His loyalty was quiet, unwavering — like the tide.

The football world spun on its axis.

While some fans were in denial, many respected Sae’s stoicism and honesty. His response wasn’t explosive like Kaiser’s or cheeky like Bachira’s — it was definitive. His social media post, short and clinical, read:

“I’m in a relationship. It’s not your business. Respect it, or leave.”

The caption was paired with a single photo: you and him sitting on a park bench, your hand resting on his knee as he stared straight into the camera. Not smiling — but not hiding either.

At matches, the cameras started to pan to you in the stands. You kept your expression neutral, remembering Sae’s advice: don’t let them see what they want to see — just be yourself.

The other players respected you. Rin, surprisingly, didn’t say much — but he acknowledged you now, and that was enough. Sae never made a show of affection in public, but after each match, when the press swarmed him and he seemed miles away from it all, his eyes would search for yours in the crowd — and soften.

And later, in the quiet of your shared apartment, after the chaos had faded, he’d rest his head in your lap, fingers loosely intertwined with yours, voice low and honest. You traced a finger through his hair, and he leaned into the touch.

“You make everything quieter,” he whispered.

The world moved on. Scandals came and went. Fandoms shifted.

But your relationship stayed solid — not because it was flashy or idolized, but because it was built on knowing. Knowing when to speak, and when to just be. Knowing that love doesn’t need to shout to be real.

Michael Kaiser

When news broke that Michael Kaiser — the prodigy, the self-proclaimed emperor of the field — was in a relationship, the world didn't just react. It combusted.

Twitter trended. Sports tabloids foamed. Fans raged and swooned. And at the center of it all was a picture. Not some grainy paparazzi shot — no. It was him. Kaiser. Post-match, sweat clinging to his temple, jersey slung over his shoulder — and his arm around you. His head bowed to whisper something in your ear, and you, flushed with affection, smiled in a way the world hadn’t seen him smile before.

You and Kaiser had been together for just under a year. A secret year, full of subtle gestures, hidden rendezvous, and text threads that could melt steel with their heat and tenderness. Michael had always kept the world at arm’s length, cloaked in arrogance and splendor — a star with sharp edges. But you? You’d seen beyond the diamond-cut smirks and cocky winks. You’d seen the person behind the persona.

And that person, for all his bravado, was intensely private.

So when the photo leaked — probably snapped by someone in the VIP box who couldn’t resist the scoop — your stomach dropped. You knew the storm that was coming.

And yet, when you confronted him about it later that night, sitting in the plush silence of his Berlin apartment, he just leaned back on the couch, one leg draped over the other, and grinned.

“So what? Let them know,” he said with a shrug, sipping his espresso like this was just another day. “They’re obsessed with me already. Might as well give them another reason.”

You blinked. “You’re not... upset?”

He looked over at you — really looked. That sharp, imperial gaze softened just a little.

“Why would I be upset about them knowing I have the most precious thing in the world?”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. He reached over and gently ran his thumb along your cheekbone, then tapped the tip of your nose.

“Let them scream. Let them cry. I don’t care. I’m Kaiser. And you? You’re mine.”

The reaction was volcanic.

Fan forums exploded. Some cried betrayal, their delusions of ever being with him shattered. Others became obsessed with learning everything about you. Pictures were dug up. Speculation ran rampant. Were you a model? A secret heiress? A spy?

Some of the headlines were vile. Others were absurd. One read: "Michael Kaiser’s Secret Weapon — Is Love His New Training Regimen?"

At first, it was overwhelming. You’d never been in the public eye, and now your face was plastered on international sports gossip sites. Your phone buzzed nonstop. Comments flooded your socials. Threats. Questions. Weird fan art.

You tried to hide it, but Kaiser noticed. Of course he did.

One morning, you woke up to find your name trending again — but this time because of him.

In a post-match interview, after effortlessly sinking three goals, Kaiser stood before a horde of reporters, sweat still glistening on his brow.

“Michael, there’s been a lot of talk about your relationship lately. Do you think it’s affecting your game?” one reporter asked, voice laced with implication.

Kaiser smiled — a slow, razor-sharp smirk.

“Yes,” he said, to the surprise of everyone. “It’s making me better. I was already the best in the world. Now, I’ve got someone who believes in me even when I’m not on the field. That’s power none of you could understand.”

The reporters laughed nervously. He wasn’t done.

“Also, if anyone thinks they can talk about my partner — or threaten them — and not answer to me? Try it. See what happens.”

The clip went viral in seconds. Fan culture shifted overnight. His most loyal supporters, seeing the genuine affection in his eyes, began to support you. Protect you. Others backed off entirely, afraid of drawing the emperor’s wrath.

And you... you cried that night, not from fear or stress — but from feeling seen. Defended.

Kaiser held you close in bed, your head on his chest, his fingers lazily tracing circles on your arm.

“You don’t belong to them,” he murmured into your hair. “You belong to me. And I protect what’s mine.”

Life settled into a strange new rhythm.

You became more comfortable with the spotlight, especially because Kaiser never let you face it alone. If he was photographed, he always made sure your hand was in his. If someone tried to bait him with gossip, he shut it down mercilessly. He made it clear to the world: this relationship is not a weakness. It’s part of my kingdom.

And over time, fans began to admire the two of you — not just as a power couple, but as something real. You attended games together. Sometimes sat beside Noel Noa. You were seen smiling at Rin Itoshi during tense matches. You even met Isagi once. Kaiser had scowled the whole time.

“He’s lucky I didn’t steal you, too,” Kaiser muttered afterward.

You laughed and shoved his shoulder. “You’re insufferable.”

He turned to you, smiling like the world was his — because to him, it was.

“No. I’m just in love.”

[cz19y]

I am begging . . .

begging . . .

BEGGING FOR MORE TABIEITA IN THE MAIN STORY

i love this dumb bitch so much help😩

[cz19y]

They're so silly I love it XD

[cz19y]

doodles of this new bunny guy, he seems silly 😼

[cz19y]

He's kind of... HUGE????

[cz19y]

oh he mad as hell😂😂😂😂✌🏾

manifesting more sae in chapter 308🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️

[cz19y]

whoever said sae never looked more like rin in this panel please sleep with one eye opened

[cz19y]

[cz19y]

Reo blocking Nagi is one of the greatest things that he did not only for himself but for the both of them.

Only delusional fans would get disappointed and angry with what he did.

[cz19y]

Bllk 307 leaks warning

IVE WAITED FOR SO LONG SAE IS FINALLY HERE HES BACK

[cz19y]

When tumblr refreshes itself and the fic I was reading fucking disappears forever 💔

I’ve been searching for a smau I was reading for three days 😔