#blue answers asks

[blue-of-fortune]

[ooc: i need to make more blue sprites but everytime i want to my cat comes and sits on my lap rendering me unable to do anything ever]

[bluefirewrites]

YOU wrote "walk a mile in my doodled shoes" how did I not know that?? I go back to that fic all the time ! it's SO CUTE !! 💜💜💜

welp sorry to not get to this until now but thank you! i think about that fic alot too. i did have the rest of the fic/plot points planned out. just wish i could write them.

[lightblueminecraftorchid]

sending love to the Sad Wet Beast (I’ve been sick, except mostly tired above any other symptoms, and I had a day where I just cried and cried about it. good times.)

💙

We shall be Sad Wet Beasts together. Siblings in arms. I send u my love back so that u may survive The Horrors.

💙

[andstuffsketches]

[dingledraw]

Well, that went down like a lead balloon.

[haveyoumetmythief]

The Saint of Duty

But I see her in the back of my mind/All the time

Like a fever, like I'm burning alive/Like a sign

Did I cross the line?

Do you see her in the back of your mind?

In my eyes?

[nutnoce]

AH! AH HA! I have the answer

[retquits]

Does Monroe have liked/loved gifts? 👉👈 Asking so I know what items I can throw at him to befriend him

LOL yes he does!! uhh .... erm ....... you may notice a theme,

(this is technically not finalized until the game is finished, but ... you probably get the idea 💦)

[ayyy-imma-ninja]

Poor Moon his soul almost left his little fairy body at lunar sneaking on him lol

( I don't know if fairies have souls, so just to be safe.Let's just make this technically a metaphor)

way to kill the mood, dude-

(i am still working on cosmic tides stuff but i also had the energy to do a bit of this)

[ddejavvu]

pairing: Spencer Reid x reader

request: The BAU going to interview a witness in the hospital, only whenever Spencer is in the room, or speaks to reader in his soft voice, or touches them, their heart monitor starts beeping extremely loudly. Much to the amusement of the rest of the team. And to your sheer mortification. Spencer hypothesises maybe he looks like the unsub, poor guy has to get explained to him why he's wrong for once. And why they all keep sending him in to talk to you ;)

"Guys, I don't think I should go in there." Spencer's face is pinched in a concerned frown, and his teammates eye him with the same worry.

Derek claps a hand on Spencer's shoulder, "Why not, Reid? You're the only one she'll talk to."

"I think it's because she's afraid of me," Spencer admits, shoulders hunched uncomfortably inwards, "I think she's only talking because she's worried I'll hurt her, or something. I must look like the unsub."

"You think she's afraid of you?" Rossi questions, a paper cup of coffee in his hands that is entirely too empty for him to be having this conversation, "Reid, I don't think that's true."

Spencer presses onwards undeterred, shaking his head, sending his curls flying, "Every time I go in there I make her nervous. Her heart monitor starts going haywire, like she's having a flashback or something. I mean, one time I put my hand on her arm and the nurses flocked into the room because they thought the medication they'd given her was causing a seizure. I think I must remind her of the unsub somehow, and we can use that in the profile, but I don't want to keep tormenting her."

There's far too many seconds of prolonged, awkward silence. The team glances at Reid, at each other, at the floor, anything that will keep them from having to open their mouths. Eventually, Hotch steps into his role as leader, and moves through the cramped hallway towards Spencer's nervous, guilt-ridden trame.

"Reid, she's not nervous because you look like the unsub. She- squirms, and stutters, and you're the only one she'll talk to about what happened to her. If she were really negatively affected by your presence, she'd ask us not to send you in anymore. But she practically looks disappointed whenever anyone else tries talking to her. I don't think her heart rate increases because she's afraid of you."

Spencer's silent, his brows creased in thought, but perhaps even his genius brain can't parse this one out in a timely manner. Emily pipes up, "Reid, she's got a crush on you. And if that's what it takes to get this guy, then that's what we'll have to use. You're kind to her, and she's receptive to that. Now it doesn't matter the reason, but you can at least take solace in the fact that she's not afraid of you, okay? Not at all. That's why you have to go back in there, because you make her feel safe."

"No, I- I don't think that's what it is." Spencer's cheeks warm, pinkening beneath the hallway's fluorescent lighting, "I don't think she'd be able to form that sort of connection so soon after experiencing such a traumatic experience."

"That's exactly why she likes you," Derek insists, "You saved her. You swooped in and carried her to safety and now you're her knight in shining armor. And even if she won't feel this way forever, she feels it now, and you're the one she wants to talk to. You're the one that makes her feel safe. So go in there, and make her feel comfortable enough to help us catch this guy. Okay?"

Spencer's mouth tightens in a displeased frown for just a second, "I don't think you guys are right. I- I think it's something else. But I'll talk to her again."

"That's all we're asking." Hotch nods, pushing his shoulder gently towards the door of your room, "Now, go in there, and work your magic, Reid. We need more details."

Spencer turns the doorknob to your room with clammy hands, and finds you sleeping inside. He debates whether or not he should back out and let you rest, but for every minute he delays, their unsub walks free. He presses onwards, and the soft click of the door shutting behind him is enough to rouse your frayed nerves from sleep.

You jolt awake, eyes flying wide open and hands clenching the bedsheets like they're weapons you could use. Your eyes lock onto Spencer, and for a brief, terrifying moment, you stare at him like he'll attack you. But you drink in the curve of his nose, the puff of his lips, the messy ringlets of honey-colored hair that fall around his face, and your breathing evens out.

Your heart monitor, though, does not. Reid watches as your heartbeat stays frantic, and he moves slowly towards a chair by your bed in hopes of not spooking you any further.

"Hi, Dr. Reid." You murmur, your voice soft as you settle back against your pillow, "Is there any news on the investigation?"

"No, nothing new." Spencer admits, watching as you turn to face him. You angle your body entirely towards him, and you even scoot your head a centimeter closer on your pillow. Your face twists in displeasure at Spencer's admission, but you don't move away.

"Oh." You lay your cheek in your palm, "Did you want to talk to me more? I told you everything I know."

"I believe you." Spencer nods, "But l'm here to coach you through a memory exercise. You can stay laying down, but- take my hands?"

There's a slight blip in your heart rate, a missing beat where there should have been two. Then it kicks back up wilder than ever, and you take the hands Spencer's offering to you.

"Close your eyes," Spencer instructs, his own flitting towards your heart monitor where it beeps wildly.

"Think back to when he moved you. What sort of terrain was it? Did he go over any hills? Did it smell like animals?"

You squeeze Spencer's hands, nervous, and he squeezes yours back, "Just- remember, I'm here with you, l'll be here with you the whole time." You breathe deeply, and nestle closer to Spencer on the bed. Your hands are sweating in his own, which is a symptom Spencer knows all too well. You're leaning into him, begging for contact as you angle yourself towards him like a flower to the sun, and your heart rate steadily beeps at a mildly concerning level. Spencer keeps his voice steady as he leads you through the memory retrieval exercise, but nothing convinces him more that his team was correct than when it's over, and your eyes snap open, wildly, desperately searching for him.

"I'm here." Spencer hums comfortingly, and he knows that you're taking solace in him when you squeeze his hands, keeping him close instead of letting him go.

[ping-ski]

sugar daddy eclipse is real finally

[rileymorph]

I love your fanart so so so much, it actually sustains me at this point🙏🙏🙏💗💗💗

I just wanted to say that everytime I see your artstyle on my dash it makes my day!! So thank you :))

((in all seriousness, thank you so much for the sweet Ask!!! :"D it makes me happy that my art can make someone's day <3 :""D))

[airybcby]

hi!! for ur event, can i order a latte with chocolate shavings and vanilla syrup, iced, with itoshi sae? <3 (love ur writing btw)

order up!

iced latte add vanilla syrup and chocolate shavings!

જ⁀✦ truly madly deeply

( sae itoshi x reader )

♡ a/n — for my for here or to go event! find the menu here! (masterlist)

♡ word count — 4.8k

♡ content — sae itoshi x reader, really tried to write it gn! but prob gives more fem! reader, slowburn, secret crush, fluff, lowkey forbidden relationship, gets heated at times, MANY 'will they won't they' moments, maybe ooc sae? , not proofread

♡ synopsis — You had one rule when you started working for this team: No fraternizing with the players. But would you risk it all for Sae Itoshi?

── .✦ so baby say you'll always keep me

The one rule you were given when you started working with ReAL Madrid was simple.

No fraternizing with the players.

Not an official rule — not something printed in the handbook or explained in a staff meeting.

But it was understood.

Unspoken, like most important things.

Whispered during your onboarding by a senior trainer in the rehab room, punctuated with a sympathetic pat on the shoulder.

“You’re young, you’re good at your job, and some of these guys are… well. You’ll see. Just be smart about it.”

You were smart. You were focused. Professional. Careful.

And then there was Sae Itoshi.

He wasn’t the first player you met when you joined — but he was the first to look at you like you were more than just another person in a polo shirt holding ice packs and foam rollers.

Not interested, exactly.

Just… aware. Noticing. Present.

Most of the guys — even the veterans — barely registered the new staff beyond what you could do for them. Sae didn’t say much, but his attention never wandered.

Not when you spoke. Not when you treated him.

And definitely not when you stood on the sideline during training, arms crossed, watching him finish drills with surgical precision.

He never smiled. Not at first. But he always listened.

And then, slowly, something shifted.

You’re just finishing up your notes on post-training evaluations when you feel him behind you.

He doesn’t say anything — he never does — but you’ve gotten used to the way his silence feels different from everyone else’s.

When you look up, he’s standing beside the table, fingers tapping twice on the edge like punctuation. His left shoulder is a little lower than his right. Tense.

“Same side?” you ask, already standing, already reaching for the ice.

He nods once.

You gesture toward the treatment bench. “Sit.”

He does, wordless.

The air between you is warm — the kind of warm that’s only noticeable when it’s wrapped in silence.

You don’t say much as you prep the cold pack and gently place it against the muscle, fingers brushing his skin.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. Just watches you, quiet as ever, those storm-colored eyes flicking once to your mouth, then back down to your hands.

You clear your throat. “You’ve been favoring this side. Want me to check your balance?”

“No,” he says.

But then, after a beat:

“…Later.”

You glance up. “Later?”

He meets your gaze for one second too long.

And then: “If it gets worse.”

Just like that, it’s gone. The moment, the pause — the quiet maybe that hung between you for half a breath.

Vanished. Like it never happened.

You try not to think too much about it. You’ve gotten very good at that lately.

The not-thinking part.

Not thinking about how he always walks straight to you after practice now.

Not thinking about how he says your name more often than he says anyone else’s.

Not thinking about how, last week, you left your jacket on the sidelines and found it later folded neatly in the equipment room — with your name tag pinned to the top, clipped there with surgical precision.

Not thinking about the protein bar.

You hadn’t mentioned you were running low. You’d just been grumbling to yourself in the corner one afternoon about a packed schedule and skipped meals.

And the next day, one sat waiting for you on your desk.

Your favorite kind. No note. No fanfare.

But you knew it was him.

Because later, after he came in for ankle recovery, he caught your eye when he left and said — totally flat, totally casual — “Eat something.”

And then walked out.

Like it didn’t mean anything.

It’s fine. It’s fine.

You’re fine.

Because nothing’s happened. There’s been no rule broken. No boundary crossed. Nothing except the quiet thrum of something unspoken.

A crush that lives in the stillness.

A feeling that grows slowly, impossibly, like grass through concrete.

You don’t let yourself want more.

You can’t.

But then there’s a match.

A hard one. Away game. Rough field, aggressive opponents, three fouls that should’ve been red cards and a shoulder collision that makes your gut twist the second you see him go down.

You’re not allowed to run onto the field unless signaled, so you don’t — you grip the metal railing and hold your breath while he gets up on his own, jaw tight, shoulder rolled back.

He finishes the game. Of course he does.

He always does.

Afterward, the locker room smells like sweat and adrenaline and faint disinfectant.

You find him sitting on the edge of the bench, jersey peeled halfway off, towel around his neck. His shoulder’s already starting to bruise.

You crouch beside him and press your fingers gently into the muscle.

He doesn’t hiss, but his breath hitches.

“I told you,” you murmur, trying to sound lighter than you feel. “You’re overcompensating. You’re going to hurt something worse if you keep—”

“I only let you treat me,” he says quietly.

Your hand stills.

You blink up at him. “…What?”

“I don’t go to the others.” His voice is low. Careful. “Only you.”

He looks at you like he’s said something important.

And for a moment — just one — you think: maybe. 

Maybe this is it. 

Maybe he—

“Because you’re the best at your job,” he adds, eyes flicking away.

And just like that — it’s gone again.

You look down, smiling faintly like it didn’t mean anything. Like your heart didn’t almost trip over itself trying to beat out the space between what was said and what wasn’t.

“I’m just doing my job,” you whisper.

He doesn’t answer.

But his hand brushes yours, barely, and he doesn’t pull away.

The shift isn’t loud.

It’s not like Sae stops speaking to you — that would imply he ever spoke much to begin with. But there is something. Something so small, so quiet, it might not have registered at all if you hadn’t already memorized the weight of his presence.

Before, he used to come in twice a week. Sometimes more. It wasn’t always necessary — his reports were clean, and his body was frustratingly disciplined, like he could command it into balance just by thinking.

Still, he’d show up during cooldowns. Even when there was nothing urgent, he’d let you stretch his shoulders or work through soft tissue stiffness along his hip.

Now, it’s only once a week. Standard check-ins. Just enough to tick the box.

You wouldn’t notice the difference, maybe, if it were someone else. But Sae… Sae never did anything without reason.

And this, whatever this is — it feels deliberate.

You don’t ask, of course.

You’re still a professional. You still keep your reports up to date, your voice neutral, your expression unreadable when he walks past you on the training pitch without looking your way.

But it stings. Not like a cut. Not like something sharp and dramatic.

It stings like cold. Like the moment you realize the sun’s gone behind a cloud and you didn’t notice until the warmth left your skin.

The next time he shows up — a Thursday afternoon, damp and hazy — he doesn’t meet your eyes.

He slides onto the table, rolls up his sleeve. You go through the motions.

Ice. Wrap. Recheck. Done.

“Anything else?” you ask, soft but flat.

He shakes his head once.

And then he leaves.

To everyone else, it feels normal.

It’s just Sae. Quiet. Efficient. Detached. His usual self.

But you know better. Not because you have proof — there are no messages left on read, no flirtations ghosted midair — but because for the first time in a long time, he feels like everyone else.

It settles in your stomach like a stone.

You tell yourself it’s nothing. That it can’t possibly be the reason you think it is. That you're being ridiculous. Unprofessional.

You never flirted. You never hoped. You were careful.

But that doesn't change the way your chest feels too still whenever his name shows up on the schedule. Like you're holding your breath without realizing.

And it definitely doesn’t explain why you find yourself waiting — not for him, of course not — but for something. A moment. A look. Something you can't name and aren’t allowed to want.

That night, you stay late finishing notes.

The room is quiet. The hum of the fridge. The sharp click of your pen. The occasional thud of a soccer ball being kicked around outside — late stragglers doing drills on their own.

You glance toward the door once. Then again.

But no one comes in.

Especially not him.

And for the first time since you started this job, the silence doesn’t feel like peace.

It feels like missing something.

Something you were never supposed to have in the first place.

Thursday comes again, and so does the quiet.

It’s been three weeks since he started keeping distance. Three weeks of one-a-week sessions. Three weeks of pretending not to notice the absence where once there was almost something.

You see him during practice. Of course you do — his movements are unmistakable, all clean geometry and unshakable focus. You’re good at pretending. You wave when he passes with the others, smile when it’s polite to. He never breaks rhythm.

And you keep telling yourself it’s nothing.

That this is how he is with everyone. That you misread the silence — that it never held anything warm to begin with.

But then he walks in that afternoon.

And you forget how to breathe for just a second.

He’s early.

Not by much, but enough that you notice — just a few minutes before his usual slot, with damp hair and a neutral expression. He closes the door behind him like always. He doesn’t look around, doesn’t shuffle awkwardly. Just walks to the bench and sits, rolling up the left sleeve of his training kit without a word.

You look at him. Then at the clock. Then back at him again.

“Didn’t think I’d see you today,” you say, light. You pick up the cold pack and start to wrap his shoulder. “Missed you in here.”

You mean it as a joke.

But not really.

There’s a pause. A beat.

Sae looks straight ahead and says, completely deadpan, “I’m here.”

It knocks the wind out of you, a little. Not because it’s cruel. But because it’s honest.

You blink. Let out a small laugh, trying to shake it off. “Right. You are.”

You pat his back gently, like it’ll help steer the moment away. “I was joking.”

You weren’t.

But you say it anyway. Because if you don't, something might show.

Sae doesn’t respond. Just shifts slightly beneath your hands as you tighten the wrap. His skin is cool beneath your touch — sweat just barely starting to dry — and for a moment, there’s a flicker of something between you.

Not a look.

Not a word.

Just silence that feels like it means something.

And then it’s gone.

He leaves a few minutes later. No goodbye. No thank you.

Just a glance — barely — over his shoulder as he walks out.

You watch the door close behind him, lips pressed together, hands still cold.

And then, finally, you let the sigh slip through your nose.

This isn’t a crush, you tell yourself.

This is proximity. Familiarity. Routine.

He doesn’t feel the same.

He can’t.

And besides — it’s just a rule. You don’t get to break the one rule.

Not even for someone who never smiles, but somehow makes you feel like you were meant to be seen in silence.

It’s a Monday.

Quiet. Overcast. You’re sitting at your desk behind the glass, scrolling through rehab charts and mid-season recovery plans when the door clicks open.

You don’t look up right away — probably one of the rookies showing up too early or one of the older staff coming in to steal the good foam rollers. You’re halfway through highlighting a note on delayed mobility when a familiar presence slides into the corner of your vision.

You freeze.

Your head lifts.

“Sae?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just walks in like he belongs here, which — technically — he does. Only not today. Not this hour. You check the calendar. He’s not scheduled.

But he’s here.

He doesn’t meet your eyes. Just sits on the edge of the treatment bench and leans back, letting out a long, quiet exhale through his nose.

You’re still staring when he finally mutters, flatly:

“Can’t feel it.”

“…what?”

He closes his eyes. Repeats it like it’s obvious. “My shoulder. Can’t feel it.”

You stand, already reaching for your kit. “That bad?”

Another nod. Not defensive — just tired.

You grab what you need: massage gel, the gun, clean towels. You don’t know why your hands are suddenly colder than they were a minute ago.

“You know I told you icing it would only help for a bit, right?” you say, teasing, as you walk toward him.

All you get is a grunt.

You hum, clicking your tongue. “Even the great Sae Itoshi can’t follow instructions.”

That earns you something that almost passes for a smile — not on his lips, but in the tilt of his head. Like he’s letting you win the moment just a little.

You squeeze gel into your palm and press gently into the curve of his shoulder, thumb gliding over the tightest part. His skin is warm, muscle like steel under your fingers.

“I should write that down,” you murmur. “Put it on a wall. Frame it.”

Another grunt. You’re learning his language. That one meant: not funny.

You grab the massage gun and switch it on, the soft whirr filling the room. You lower it carefully onto his shoulder, letting it ease into the stiff tissue, adjusting the pressure with your free hand.

He shifts slightly under the contact. Not a flinch — just a small breath, like he's finally letting go of something he’s been holding onto too tightly.

You take a half-step around him to reach the far side of the muscle, balancing awkwardly on the edge of your toes — and just as you lean in, your foot catches against the mat.

Your body tilts. The massage gun jerks in your grip.

You suck in a startled breath—

And his hand is instantly at your waist.

Not rough. Not panicked.

Just there. Steady. Sure.

Your other hand lands on his chest to balance yourself — warm through the fabric, rising gently with each breath. His eyes open, meeting yours from only inches away.

Neither of you moves.

It’s not dramatic. Not romantic. Just charged.

His hand stays at your waist for a beat too long. Not because he's holding you — but because he's not letting go.

And when he does, you exhale — flustered but trying to play it off.

“Thanks,” you murmur, adjusting the gun with both hands now. “That would’ve been an embarrassing way to end the day.”

He doesn’t answer.

But you can feel the heat lingering in the space where his fingers were.

You don’t say anything else.

Because suddenly, all the silence between you isn’t empty.

It’s waiting.

When you’re done, you hand him a towel and walk back to the counter without a word.

Behind you, he moves slowly. Like he’s not quite ready to leave.

The air is different now. Charged. But quiet.

You glance at him once, over your shoulder.

He doesn’t look at you. Just wipes the gel off, puts the towel down, and stands.

And then — just before the door — he pauses.

“Thanks.”

It’s the first time he’s ever said that.

And your heart... forgets how to beat for just a second.

You don’t expect to see him outside of the training center.

You’ve gotten used to the rhythm of him — Tuesdays, sometimes Thursdays, that one Monday when he showed up without warning and left your brain short-circuiting for a week. It’s a pattern you’ve learned to survive around. Close enough to notice, far enough to protect your heart.

So when the coaches call for a casual dinner — something light, team-bonding, media-free — you go.

It’s harmless.

You show up in a simple dress and a clean face, hair pinned back because you didn’t want to try too hard. You sit with the staff, laugh at the younger players’ jokes, nurse a lemonade instead of wine. You try not to look for him when he’s late — he’s not yours to wait for.

And then the door opens.

He comes in quietly, as always — a few players behind him, hoodie pulled low, hands in his pockets. He doesn’t scan the room. Doesn’t nod. He just slips into the crowd and sinks into his usual shadow.

But somehow, you still feel it.

His presence, like a pulse behind your ribs.

The restaurant’s busy — private enough, but small — and the only open spot when they call for a table shift is beside you in the lifted booth at the back.

You scoot in, moving to let someone pass, when a hand gently closes around yours.

It’s not dramatic. Not tight. Just a touch — fingers curling into your palm, guiding you in as you step up and over the ledge of the booth. A brief point of balance.

You freeze.

The touch is gone in a second.

You sit. He settles beside you, expression blank as ever. Picks up a menu. Doesn’t speak.

And still — your hand stays warm where his fingers were.

You don’t say anything. Just stare down at the laminated page in front of you, not reading a single word.

Was that anything?

It shouldn’t be. It was nothing.

But your heart is moving like it was something.

You’re careful not to look at him. You don’t trust your face.

It was nothing.

It was just a hand.

It was just to help.

It meant nothing to him.

But to you?

It meant everything.

You’re already tired when he walks in.

The room’s quiet, the lights dimmed just a little — end of day, end of week. You’ve been cleaning up, reorganizing the cabinets, just about to lock things up when the door opens.

And there he is.

He doesn’t say hello. Just lifts his arm slightly — that same shoulder — and drops his bag by the wall.

“Still bothering you?” “Can’t feel it,” he says, like last time. A ghost of a pattern.

You sigh and motion him toward the bench.

He sits. The silence stretches comfortably between you as you gather your tools — a new cooling gel, the massage gun, towels. It’s all familiar now. This rhythm. These few feet between you.

As you stand in front of him, your hands already moving to apply the gel, he says quietly:

“You were quiet at dinner.”

You blink.

It’s not a question. But it’s close.

Your eyes flick up to his face, surprised. He’s looking straight ahead, like it wasn’t a big deal to say it. Like he didn’t just poke a hole in the distance he's always kept between you.

You let out a small, quiet laugh.

“Didn’t know you noticed things like that.”

“I do,” he says simply.

Your hands slow.

You press your fingers gently into his shoulder, kneading the muscle. It’s tight — same as always — but you swear there’s something else tonight. A tension that doesn’t come from overtraining.

“You should’ve come in sooner,” you murmur. “You wait too long.”

“You say that every time.”

“Because it’s true.”

You catch yourself smiling. He doesn't laugh, but you feel the shift in him — a slight exhale, something lighter under the surface.

You step to the side, turning your face to look at him — and so does he.

Too fast.

Your faces are too close.

Your shoulder brushes his chest, and your lips — just barely — skim his.

It’s not a kiss.

Not really.

But it’s not not a kiss, either.

It’s a breath. A half-second. A mistake.

You freeze.

Your eyes are wide. His are already on you. You don’t know who moved first. Who leaned. Who didn’t pull back in time.

You’re close enough to feel the space between your mouths still tingling.

“I—” you start, voice small, breath hitching.

But he says nothing.

Doesn’t move. Doesn’t reach for you.

His eyes are calm. Still. unreadable.

Like nothing happened. Like everything did.

You take a step back slowly, fingers cold now where they touched him.

“That was— That didn’t mean anything,” you say, too quickly.

Still nothing from him.

Just that same unreadable stare.

You clear your throat, wiping your hands on a towel.

“You’re done for today,” you mumble. “Come back Monday.”

He nods.

No words.

He grabs his bag. Walks to the door.

Just before he leaves, he pauses — doesn’t turn around, but lingers a beat longer than usual.

And then he’s gone.

You don’t move for a while.

Your mouth still feels warm.

Your chest still feels too full.

And all you can think is: That wasn’t supposed to happen.

But it did.

And now you’re not sure anything will feel the same again.

The almost-kiss lingers.

It doesn’t get talked about. Of course it doesn’t.

Sae doesn't mention it when he stands up that day. He doesn't say anything when he grabs his bag and walks out. He doesn’t even look back.

And you don’t chase it.

You tell yourself it was nothing. A slip. A weird moment. One of those almost-things that happens and then disappears.

Except it doesn’t disappear.

You think about it every time you sit at your desk. Every time the door opens and it’s not him. Every time it is.

He goes back to normal — which for him is once a week, barely speaking, focused. But you can feel it.

Something's different. Beneath his calm, something is coiled.

And then one Thursday — a day he’s not supposed to be here — he walks in again.

Shoulder still stiff. Same bag. Same quiet.

You don’t say anything. Just gesture him toward the bench like usual.

This is fine, you think. You’ve done this a hundred times.

You kneel beside him again. The gel’s cold on your fingers, your heart already too loud. You avoid his eyes.

He hasn’t said a word.

And then — as you shift to reach for the massage gun behind you — his hand shoots out.

Grabs your wrist.

You look up.

He’s staring at you. His jaw is clenched. And in that second, something in his eyes breaks.

“Sae—”

You don’t get to finish.

He pulls you in.

Mouth on yours. Hard. Desperate. Like he’s been dying to do this. Like he doesn’t care that the door’s wide open or that anyone could see or that you might pull away—

You don’t.

You kiss him back.

Without thinking, without hesitating — you melt forward, hands reaching, one curling around the back of his neck, the other burying itself in his hair. 

He groans softly against your lips, and you feel it — all the weeks of silence, all the restraint, all the waiting — poured into this one impossibly unprofessional, undeniably real kiss.

Your breath stumbles. Your chest is pressed to his. His hands are on your waist now — not tentative, firm — holding you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

You don’t want to move. You don’t want to stop.

But then—

Footsteps.

Somewhere down the hall. Nearing.

You rip yourself away like you’ve been yanked out of a dream.

Your lips are swollen. Your heart’s in your throat.

You’re standing. He’s still sitting on the bench. The door is still open.

You both just stare at each other. Breathing hard. Nothing spoken. Nothing fixed.

“You kissed me,” you whisper, breathless.

“Yeah,” he says, quiet but steady. “I did.”

The footsteps pass by. Don’t stop. Don’t look in.

But now the moment’s real.

Not a mistake. Not a maybe.

And it can’t be taken back.

You avoid him for a week.

You tell yourself it’s smart. That it’s professional. That it’s the only option — because the one rule they gave you when you started here was clear:

No fraternizing with the players.

And if what happened in your office last week counts as “fraternizing,” then what you want to do — touch him again, kiss him again, be with him — would end everything you’ve worked for.

So you schedule him with another trainer.

You act like it’s just a rotation. Like it’s logistics. Like it’s nothing.

And yet...

Every time his name pops up on your calendar, your chest tightens.

You keep your head down. 

You eat lunch later now, wait until he’s already left the training floor. 

You smile politely when you pass each other in the halls. 

You don’t look up when he doesn’t say a word.

He’s quiet. As always.

He doesn’t corner you. Doesn’t question you. Doesn’t even ask why — which somehow makes it worse.

Because it would’ve been easier if he yelled. Or confronted you. 

Or even just acted like it mattered.

But of course he doesn’t.

This is Sae Itoshi. He doesn’t do emotional.

So why, then, does it feel like your stomach drops every time you hear footsteps and it’s not him?

Why does it feel like you’ve taken your own heart out and handed it to no one?

You’re sitting at your desk when it happens.

Late afternoon. Lights low. 

You're reworking schedules, trying not to think about the fact that Sae's name still sits untouched in your rotation for next week.

Then the door opens.

You don't look up — not right away — but you know it’s him before he speaks.

Then the door clicks shut.

And you hear the lock turn.

“Sae—”

He’s already walking toward you.

There’s no storm in his face. No visible anger. Just his usual still, unreadable calm — like he hasn’t been sitting with this inside him for days. 

Like he didn’t just trap you in the one room you’ve been desperately avoiding.

He stops in front of your desk.

His eyes meet yours.

“Date me.”

Just that.

Two words. Like a challenge. Like a fact.

You blink. The breath catches in your throat.

You wish — for once — he didn’t look so unaffected.

Like this isn’t the moment your world just flipped over.

“I...”

You want to say no.

You should say no.

That’s the rule. That’s your job. That’s your future.

But he just stands there — not pleading, not pushing, just waiting — like he knows.

And you are so, so weak for Sae Itoshi.

Your chair scrapes the floor as you stand — too fast, too shaky — and by the time you reach him, your resolve is already gone.

“Yes,” you whisper between kisses as you throw your arms around his neck, crashing into him.

“Absolutely.”

“A million times yes.”

His arms wrap tight around your waist, grounding you, steadying the way your whole body’s shaking. His mouth finds yours again — slower this time, deliberate — like he’d been waiting to be allowed.

Some people might think you just got proposed to, with how breathless you sound, how tightly you hold him.

But no.

You just finally got what you wanted.

And it was everything.

It starts in pieces.

A quiet knock after hours.

A brush of fingertips behind closed doors.

A kiss — slow, careful — when there’s no one left in the building.

Sae doesn’t say much. You never expected him to. But his silences are different now. 

His hands find you faster. His eyes linger longer. Sometimes you swear he almost smiles.

You don’t tell anyone.

Of course you don’t.

It’s the first real thing in your life that feels too delicate to name — like the minute you speak it aloud, it might vanish.

So you let the secret bloom in quiet places.

In early mornings before staff meetings, when he leans on your office wall with his coffee, watching you sort tape and ice packs like he has all the time in the world.

In the staff stairwell where he pulls you in by the waist and kisses you once — only once — before disappearing toward the locker rooms without a word.

In the way your phone buzzes with a single, low-effort message at the end of the day:

you free?

Not a question. Not romantic. Just... him.

And every time? You are.

You start smiling without realizing it.

It’s dumb. It’s unprofessional. But you can’t help it — the way your chest goes warm when you think of him, the way your lips pull up when you remember his hands on your waist.

And people notice.

One of the older staffers teases you about it at lunch.

Another pokes your cheek with a grin.

“Someone’s in a good mood lately.”

You laugh it off, head ducked, biting the inside of your cheek to keep your face from giving you away.

But then — just for a second — it hits you.

They can’t know.

This can’t get out.

Not unless you want to lose everything.

And that’s the moment it sinks in.

You're happy. Maybe the happiest you've ever been.

But it’s happiness with an expiration date if you're not careful.

So when Sae appears in the hallway later that day, when your heart stutters the same way it always does, you force your feet to stay planted. You smile — smaller. Safer.

But then he leans in just slightly. His hand brushes yours.

“Tonight?” he asks, low.

And you say:

“Always.”

Because you mean it.

Even if you’re terrified someone might find out — you mean it.

You’ve already decided:

You’ll choose this.

Over and over again.

idk if i LOVE the ending but yeah!

i hope you liked it!!

likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated!

⋆.˚✮ 2025 ©airybcby ✮˚.⋆

[idolverse-official]

this would happen so often XD

[thewritetofreespeech]

Could I request the Itoshi brothers and Bachira with a ballerina reader?

“You can’t possibly be serious.”

Rin didn’t know a lot about relationship and girls, but he still knew when he said that, he crossed a line.

“Oh really.” [Y/N] snapped back at him. Arms crossed across her chest. Glaring at him with that fiery determination Rin usually respected, but now was a little scared of. “So you admit you think my training is BS compared to your training?”

The two of them had been on very intense practice schedules as of late. Rin training up to prepare for his next match and move up, and [Y/N] training for their upcoming performance and hopefully be scouted for prima in a company. They were stressed out, fried, and exhausted. And what do exhausted people do when they are exhausted? Compare their exhaustion so they make sure that their complaints are justified as they are the only one, in the whole wide world, who could be this exhausted.

“I didn’t say it was ‘BS’. I’m just saying you can’t possibly compare what I have to do to what you have to do. The weight training. The cardio.”

“The stretching. The vaults.”

“The practice matches. The strategy management.”

“Learning every step in the performance, even if it isn’t yours, to memory. Being lifted almost 8 feet in the air and hoping your partner can hold so you don’t break your leg, or your neck.”

“The ice baths.”

“Pointe shoes.”

“Having to deal with Isagi!”

The couple growled at each other before [Y/N] finally snapped. “Fine! You think it’s so easy, you do it!”

“Fine!”

Rin would live to regret that.

The next day, to foolishly prove a point, Rin went through [Y/N]’s whole workout schedule with them. The stretching, the vaults, the practice, the lifts. He wouldn’t let himself be lifted, nor wear pointe shoes, but by the end of the day his body hurt in new ways he didn’t even know were possible. “Still think it’s so easy?”

Rin looked up from the floor he was laying on up at [Y/N]. “Fine. I take it back.”

She smiled and knelt down beside him. “Well, I appreciate that. People think because ballet is all pretty costumes and fluid movements that it’s calm & easy. They don’t appreciate the work that goes into it.”

“I’m sorry.” He realized he was doing that. Belittling their hard work.

Rin sat up and took a sip out of his water bottle. “Are you going to do my training tomorrow then?”

“Sure. What’s fair is fair.” She agreed. “But no weights. I can’t bulk up anymore of Madam Costume Maker will murder me.”

Rin scoffed. “We’ll just do an easy day for you then. If you can’t handle it.”

She punched him in the shoulder, but Rin was too tired to even feel it.

One thing that people don’t tell you when you become a professional athlete is that it’s not just about the games anymore. It’s the press.

Sae sighed as he came back to his hotel room. Completely drained from having to deal with people all day and answer their silly questions. He just wanted to play football. Why did he have to tell everyone about his fitness strategy or what brand of saltines he liked?

As he was taking off his coat his phone rang and Sae answered it. “Hello.”

“Thank you for the flowers.”

A small smile tugged at Sae’s lips as he heard [Y/N]’s voice. “Of course.” With his game coming up, he was not in town for [Y/N]’s opening night. He felt bad about it, which was strange, but being professionals in their art sometimes they had to make sacrifices. That didn’t mean he couldn’t make an effort. “How was the show?”

“Good. Early critic reviews seem to be positive.” Of course they were with [Y/N] as the prima. “I wish you could have seen it.”

“I will.” Sae explains that he paid someone to film their performance. He had gotten special permission and everything from the company; with a hefty donation. “I’ll watch it later.”

“You sound tired.”

“I am.” He confessed.

“Poor baby,” [Y/N] cooed. Even though she was the one that went through the grueling physicality of dancing, she still seemed more concerned for him. “Why don’t you take a hot bath and get some sleep then?”

“They don’t believe in baths here.” Or at least his hotel room didn’t.

“A shower then. I’ll see you next week?”

“Of course.”

Sae hung up the phone and sighed again. Still tired, but a little refreshed from talking to [Y/N].

He showered and went to bed as suggested. Getting a goodnight sleep for another press tour tomorrow before the game. When he woke up that morning there was a knock at his door and a delivery from room service. A hearty breakfast of an egg white omelet, fresh fruit, and salty seaweed tea. The kind of breakfast he needed but would never get for himself. After accepting delivery, Sae noticed a card on the silver tray and quickly read it.

:Do your best: was all it said, but Sae knew who it was from.

He sat in his hotel room and ate his breakfast in silence. Watching [Y/N]’s performance on TV. Just because they had to make sacrifices didn’t mean that they couldn’t make the effort.

Bachira had been obsessed with ballerina’s ever since his mother took him to see a show once at Christmas.

The bright costumes. The spins. The music. It always excited him.

Dating [Y/N] was almost like being in the show. Helping them with their choro. Coming to rehearsals to see them practice. Bachira had probably seen the show a hundred times before actually opening night, and yet he was as nervous & excited as the actual dancers.

“You’re going to do great [Y/N]-chan~!” He whispered to her backstage.

“I don’t know…it’s a much bigger crowd than I expected….”

“That’s ok.” Bachira told her. “They’re all just faceless blobs in a crowd. Don’t focus on anyone but me in the first row. Unless…I get removed for cheering too loud. That’s gonna be hard for more….”

[Y/N] chuckled, then kissed Bachira’s cheek. “Thank you. I wouldn’t have made it this far without your support.” The music changed, coming up on [Y/N]’s cue, and they get into position to dance out. “Don’t get kicked out.”

“I’ll try~!” Bachira promised, then went to his seat to watch the performance from the audience. In awe & rapture of the beauty of the show and his partner.

[ask-toxichero]

"...D0 TH3Y M4K3 M3 L00K C00L3R?"

ASK STATUS: OPEN !

(uhh.. welcome, punks. i guess.)

"UHH.. W3LC0ME, PUNKS. 1 GU3SS"

(player wanted to make this blog, so you better like it!)

"PL4Y3R W4NT3D T0 M4K3 TH1S BL0G, S0 Y0U B3TT3R L1K3 1T!"

".. Well, since Mr Shedletsky hasn't given me another one of his adventures to get the swords. I'm sure he wouldn't mind if i made this little thing!"

"You can ask me or Griefer about our adventures and questions in general ! "

[ INFO UNDER THE CUT! ]

RULES

DNI IF: basic DNI (racist, TERFs, homophobes, etc), pro/dark/com-ship or tolerates it, NSFW blogs. We block freely btw.

No NSFW or extreme gore.

Character interactions are welcomed! Just as any type of silly interaction.

Do not use the dividers used here! They were made by Blue just for this blog. You can use the art giving credits.

ADMINS

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The designs are not made by us! They were made by @bazeeble. We asked for permission before using them for this blog!

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