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ferraori · 4 days ago

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@rroxii my old one seems a little bit out of date now so i’m making a new one! if you still want to be tagged in the old one then let me know🫶

𝐁𝐋𝐋𝐊 𝐗 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐇

𝐈𝐒𝐀𝐆𝐈 𝐘𝐎𝐈𝐂𝐇𝐈 - 𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐊

𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘 𝐑𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍 ; Jack and the Beanstalk is a fairy tale about a young man named Jack, who is living in poverty and is planning to sell his cow. He exchanges his cow for magic beans, and when he throws them into the dirt, they grow into a large beanstalk. Climbing on the large new plant, Jack comes face to face with a giant who plans to kill and eat Jack.

Determined, Jack runs away and steals the giants’ treasure as well. One thing leads to another, and the giant ends up falling off the clouds while Jack uses the treasure to live the rest of his life in luxury. The story teaches us that we should always make the best out of a bad situation, and that sometimes you will receive things that you don’t expect.

𝐑𝐎𝐘𝐀𝐋 𝐎𝐑 𝐑𝐄𝐁𝐄𝐋? ; By most standards, Isagi is already a Rebel. He doesn’t have any royal blood and isn’t heir to any throne, so he isn’t a Royal by any means. However, despite this, Isagi usually gets along fairly well with Royals.

𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐘 𝐅𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐃? ; Very much so. Isagi doesn’t initially realize this, although he soon does later on, but he follows his destiny on a near daily basis. He is constantly making the best out of a horrid situation, whether it’s his mutual hatred towards Prince Kaiser or learning how to overcome the challenge of Prince Rin. Isagi does plan to follow in his father’s footsteps of climbing the beanstalk.

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐓 ; Since he has no predetermined love interest in his story, he is therefore free to choose whoever he desires to love forever and after.

𝐀𝐃𝐃𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐈𝐍𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 ;

He rooms with Mikage Reo, son of Prince Charming, and together they share the largest dorm in the school, although Isagi is fully aware that it’s because of Reo’s status that he managed to get such an enormous dormitory.

His favorite class at Ever After High is Hero Training due to the physicality of the class, and it may very well may be the only class that he excels at, as he has low to average scores in every other class that he takes. However, according to his roommate Reo, this is because Isagi always gets distracted by something else at night and forgets to study or do his homework.

Out of everyone in the school other than Reo, Isagi receives the most letters from home. Many other students are jealous of Isagi’s lovely family life and tend to turn bitter about such information.

Despite him not thinking of himself as popular, not a lot of people at school hate or even dislike Isagi. In fact, despite not realizing it, numerous people have crushes on Isagi, though many of them are often too shy to confess or drop any hints of their crush on him.

𝐌𝐈𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐄𝐋 𝐊𝐀𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐑 - 𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐘 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐓 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌, 𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐋…𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐘 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐓

𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘 𝐑𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍 ; Beauty and the Beast is a timeless love story about a young girl who makes a trade with a Beast, who is also the owner of a castle, for him to keep her in the castle instead of her father. Though the story is told in a romantic view, it’s more or less Stockholm Syndrome.

However, eventually, the Beast and the young girl find themselves falling in love with one another, and after a long time of bonding and a tragic incident, the Beast is revealed to have been a handsome prince all along, and they live happily ever after.

Not in this version though. In this version, the young girl—though now a woman—realizes that her “love story” was in fact a case of Stockholm Syndrome, and after birthing her first child with the Beast, she leaves without her child.

𝐑𝐎𝐘𝐀𝐋 𝐎𝐑 𝐑𝐄𝐁𝐄𝐋? ; Everyone believed that Kaiser was a standard Royal at first glance, but Kaiser is in fact a Rebel. He has Royal blood and he is the heir to a throne, but he refuses to follow his Destiny of becoming a Beast out of disdain for his father. (Although according to Isagi, Kaiser doesn’t even need to change his appearance to become a Beast as he already is one.)

𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐘 𝐅𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐃? ; As already established, Kaiser doesn’t want to. However, in a surprising twist of fate, he wakes up one morning in a Beast form, therefore being forced into completing his Destiny. But he then refuses to see anyone out of fear as he doesn’t want to risk being with his one true love. However, he does end up turning back into a human again after (unwillingly) spending time with his one true love, and he’s still salty about completing his Destiny to this day, even when he’s betrothed to his one true love and soon to be King.

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐓 ; Another Beauty would be his one true love, and it ended up that Cinderella’s child was his one true love. After all, they were kind, beautiful, and lovely, just like Kaiser’s type. Truly a lucky man, that Kaiser.

𝐀𝐃𝐃𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐈𝐍𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 ;

He rooms with Alexis Ness, who is perhaps the only person in the school who can stand Kaiser. His room is also fairly large, with his side of the room filled with blue roses and blue velvet furniture. Meanwhile, Ness’ side of the room is full of red roses and magenta and pink furniture; fitting for the child of Sleeping Beauty.

He has no favorite class at Ever After High, as he tends to skip class or he just doesn’t pay attention at all, though he always receives excellent marks. According to Ness, Kaiser scans his notes—that he had notably copied off of Ness’—once or twice and is able to get a perfect score on the next test.

There are many rumors circulating around the blue roses and crown tattoo running from his neck to his hand. Some say that it was to cover up a scar, others say that it’s just pure symbolism. However, one thing’s clear: the teachers and Headmaster all hate the tattoo.

He’s both popular and not at the same time. He has fans, and he never has trouble finding a partner or partners for anything, and people crowd around him often. But at the same time, no one other than Ness actually likes him and most people only cares about his skill and looks.

𝐈𝐓𝐎𝐒𝐇𝐈 𝐑𝐈𝐍 - 𝐒𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐃 𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐆 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌, 𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐋…𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐆

𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘 𝐑𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍 ; The Princess and the Frog—or the Frog Prince depending on which you prefer—is an iconic story about a Prince who turns into a Frog and requiring a kiss in order to turn back into a human. However, when a girl kissed him, she turned into a Frog as well.

However, after spending time together as Frogs, they both end up falling in love. After a few conflicts, they finally turn back into humans and end up getting married with a happily ever after.

𝐑𝐎𝐘𝐀𝐋 𝐎𝐑 𝐑𝐄𝐁𝐄𝐋? ; Already, he lacks the Royal requirement of being the heir to a throne. His brother is the heir, Rin is just a spare. Despite that, Rin is still a prince. So he’s a royal, but just not Royal with a capital R or Ever After High Royal.

𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐘 𝐅𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐃? ; Rin doesn’t have a Destiny, that’s the problem. His older brother Itoshi Sae is the one who will turn into a Frog and wait for his true love to kiss him. Meanwhile, Rin is doing everything he can do in order to find a purpose and beat his brother in something, anything.

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐓 ; Rin has no required love interest and therefore can pick and choose whoever he wants to release his romantic feelings towards. However, many strongly believe that Rin can’t love others, as even when the most beautiful of people confess to him, he rejects each and every person. Rin doesn’t know either; maybe he just hasn’t found the right person yet. Maybe.

𝐀𝐃𝐃𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐈𝐍𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 ;

He shares a room with Bachira, son of the Mad Hatter, and he despises it. Rin wasn’t even the one who chose the room; when asked for his preferences for roommates, he just wrote down “N/A”, and that led to him being dorm mates with Bachira. Rin’s side of the room is bland; with nothing but a chair, a desk, a bed, and a couch. Meanwhile, Bachira’s side of the room is wacky and full of bright colors and strange trinkets.

Rin’s favorite class is Dragon-Slaying, as it has little requirements other than the need to use weapons and to be quick on his feet. Dragon-Slaying is notably also one of the few things that Itoshi Sae isn’t particularly good at, according to Bachira.

Rin originally didn’t have any friends at Ever After High and didn’t plan to either, but Bachira ended up dragging him along and forcingly befriending him with Isagi, Nanase, and Hiori. After befriending such sunshiny people, many more people ended up losing their fear or disdain for Rin.

Whenever Rin’s parents come to visit, many often notice that Rin seems particularly distant with them and that they usually talk about Sae whenever they’re with Rin. Many have assumed that this could be a possible reason for why Rin bears such a grudge towards Sae.

𝐁𝐔𝐍𝐍𝐘 𝐈𝐆𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐀𝐒 - 𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐑𝐀𝐁𝐁𝐈𝐓 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐓 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐖𝐎𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃

𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘 𝐑𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍 ; Alice in Wonderland is a classic novel by Lewis Carol, and it is about a young girl named Alice who sees a running white rabbit one day and decides to chase it. She falls down a rabbit hole, and ends up finding herself in a fantastical world named Wonderland.

Alice then attempts to find a way to go home, and along the way, she goes on numerous adventures in Wonderland, including her meeting with the Mad Hatter and the Cheshire Cat. However, when she finally encounters the tyrannical Queen of Hearts and finally finds a way to go home, the story ends.

𝐑𝐎𝐘𝐀𝐋 𝐎𝐑 𝐑𝐄𝐁𝐄𝐋? ; Bunny is a Rebel, as he doesn’t have a drop of Royal blood, he isn’t the heir to any throne, and he has no idea if he even wants to follow his Destiny. Despite that, he goes to visit Wonderland often.

𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐘 𝐅𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐃? ; Bunny has no idea. His Destiny is for him to run down the rabbit hole back to Wonderland one day when he’s late and wait for Alice’s child to follow him. But it’s a bland Destiny, and Bunny doesn’t even understand himself enough to know if he even wants to fulfill it.

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐓 ; Bunny has no required love interest, though he always jokes that his love interest would and should be Alice’s child. Due to this, many people in the school ship the two together.

𝐀𝐃𝐃𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐈𝐍𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 ;

Bunny is rooming with Itoshi Sae, which many find both funny and scary at the same time. Itoshi Sae bears a clear loathing towards Bunny, though no one knows how Bunny feels towards Sae. Bunny’s side of the room is full of soft equipment and carrot plushies, while Sae’s side of the room is just a bed and a table and a chair.

No one knows the mechanics of how the White Rabbit and the Cheshire Cat even managed to conceive or have Bunny, and no one wants to know either. Taking advantage of this, Bunny often threatens to tell someone the method of his birth whenever he finds it funny, although it’s unclear whether or not he actually knows how it happened.

There are numerous rumors about Bunny’s scars, although Bunny usually jokes that he once fought a Dragon and that’s how he got his scar, which no one believes. The most unchained theory about his scars is that the Cheshire Cat scratched him a bit too hard once when he was younger.

His suicidal terms and phrases often scare many away despite his calm and collected nature and good looks. Many have urged him to go see the Counselor or a therapist of some sort, though he always just refuses with a smile.

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ferraori · 4 days ago

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almost professional

what began as just a job slowly blurred into something more—quiet glances, late nights, and words left unsaid. as his manager, you told yourself it was professional. but somewhere between the victories and the arguments, you fell for him—and deep down, it was clear you were never alone in that.

blue lock masterlist. leave a little stardust on my ko-fi

starring. isagi yoichi x fem!reader

genre: fluff, romance, aged up!isagi, manager!reader

wc: 6.4k

author's note: this has been long overdue and finally got the chance to post so i hope you can guys enjoy it!!

you still remember the first day like a punch to the gut. the sun was cruelly bright, your shirt collar too tight, and your nerves louder than the echoes of cleats hitting concrete floors. fresh out of high school, you thought maybe—just maybe—being a personal assistant to one of the blue lock managers would be more clipboard than chaos.

you were wrong.

blue lock was chaos incarnate. testosterone-laced competition and ego filled every inch of the high-tech facility. the atmosphere was thick with ambition—sharp and hungry. you’d barely been handed your id lanyard when you saw him.

isagi yoichi.

number 11 on his uniform. blue lock’s rising star. not the loudest, not the flashiest—but there was something magnetic about him. his focus. his hunger. the quiet way he stared at the goal like it owed him something.

he wasn’t the type who made noise with his mouth—he made it with every calculated movement on the field. his presence wasn’t loud, but it echoed. he wasn’t chasing greatness. he was planning to devour it.

you were just an assistant. a glorified water-bottle carrier and clipboard keeper, assigned to help one of the assistant managers with schedules, logs, media coordination, and the occasional locker room clean-up. you thought you’d blend in, unnoticed. invisible.

but he saw you.

you dropped a stack of evaluation reports on your second day—nervous fingers slipping on the slick folder edges as a few dozen pages scattered across the corridor like fat snowflakes. players walked past, too absorbed in their rivalries to care. he was the only one who stopped mid-drill to help you.

no words, just a quiet presence kneeling beside you, passing sheets one by one. his gaze didn’t linger, his tone wasn’t soft, but you felt something settle in your chest like a small, persistent fire.

that was the beginning.

the transition from high school graduate to someone responsible for tracking the life of one of japan’s future stars was brutal. you hadn’t learned how to run on four hours of sleep yet. every day was a barrage of unread emails, misplaced gear, and dodging the media. and isagi—bless him or curse him—never made it easy.

he forgot schedules. argued with reporters. trained obsessively until his body screamed for rest. he’d sneak in extra drills behind the training staff’s backs, ignoring ice baths and nutritional plans like they were optional side quests. and when he lost a match?

he’d go silent. not out of shame, but out of hunger. he disappeared into himself, chewing through his own failures in silence, replaying them like reels behind those sharp, analytic eyes.

you learned how to tell when a loss was eating him alive. you’d hand him water in those moments and your fingers would brush, and he’d look at you like he was trying to find something to hold onto that wasn’t made of shattered expectations. neither of you ever said much.

but he never made you feel like you didn’t belong.

that was the thing.

even when he ignored the schedule you worked all night on. even when he took off running after a grueling session while you were still packing up cones. even when he made your heart race for reasons that had nothing to do with caffeine or chaos—he never once treated you like you were less.

he’d catch your eye across the field and nod, just once. not as an athlete to a staff member. but as isagi to you.

a silent acknowledgment.

a kind of understanding you couldn’t quite name yet.

you weren’t close. not really. but you orbited each other like planets too afraid to break the rules of gravity.

you told yourself it was fine. you were young. you were just starting. you had a job to do. professionalism first. you’d only known him for a few months, anyway.

but time stretched in strange ways inside blue lock. days felt like weeks. every win was a triumph. every loss a tragedy. you weren’t just growing up—you were burning alive in a forge.

and so was he.

you watched him sharpen. from the boy who knelt beside you on the floor, to the weapon who dissected the field with terrifying precision. you watched the rough edges smooth, then hone themselves into something more lethal.

and you wondered, sometimes, if he even remembered that second day—those papers, those soft moments.

because you did. every time.

every time he smiled at you like he forgot he wasn’t supposed to.

every time his gaze lingered a second too long when you laughed with another staff member.

every time he walked past you in the hallway and you swore you could feel him brush against your shoulder just to remind you he was there.

you weren’t a star. you weren’t a player. you were just someone orbiting the sun, hoping not to get burned.

and even though you told yourself not to—god, you did it anyway.

you started to fall.

you tried to resist it—buried it beneath early mornings, laminated schedules, and meticulously curated recovery routines. but how could you not fall for him?

for isagi yoichi, who burned with purpose and carried the weight of ambition on his shoulders like it was stitched into his very skin.

and then, everything changed.

it was a little over a year since you’d first stepped foot into blue lock—older, sharper, and more confident in your role. you’d stopped flinching at angry reporters and learned how to talk back to ego-driven agents with a polite, lethal smile. you’d grown, and so had he.

he was eighteen now. so were you. and after a string of phenomenal international matches, after climbing higher and higher through the blue lock rankings, isagi was officially signed to bastard münchen.

germany.

you found out through a press release.

you read it three times in your cramped dorm before the words sank in:

“yoichi isagi signs with bastard münchen.”

you were happy. you were proud. and you were… a little bit heartbroken.

you thought that was the end of it. thought the distance would finally bury those feelings that had grown too heavy to carry. you started preparing yourself to let go.

until the call came.

it was late.

you were organizing training reports in the blue lock archive room when your phone buzzed with a foreign number. you stared at it, hesitated, and picked up.

“hello?”

there was a beat of silence, followed by a voice that made your heart flip in your chest.

“it’s me,” isagi said. his voice was steadier than you remembered, deeper—like germany had already started shaping him.

you sat up straighter. “isagi? i—congrats on bastard münchen. that’s incredible.”

“thanks.” a pause. “listen… i didn’t call just to talk about the team.”

you blinked. “okay?”

“i had to submit the name of my personal manager today.”

you swallowed. “right. they usually assign someone local to the club, right?”

“i didn’t want someone local,” he said firmly. “i wanted someone i trust.”

your breath caught.

“you don’t have to answer now,” he continued. “but i told them your name. you're already on the shortlist. all that’s left is your approval.”

“i… me? why me?”

“i’ve worked with a lot of staff since blue lock started,” he said. “but only one person ever looked me in the eye like i wasn’t just a player. like i was a person. only one person stayed late making sure i didn’t destroy my body training too much. only one person handed me water and knew exactly when i needed to say nothing.”

you felt heat crawl up your neck.

“i need someone like that,” isagi said, quieter now. “someone who gets me. not just my stats or my brand. me.”

the room was too still. too small for everything you were feeling.

“i don’t know if i’m experienced enough,” you whispered.

“you will be,” he said. “we’ll grow into it. together.”

his words settled in your chest like a promise.

you looked around the room—the familiar concrete walls, the smell of synthetic turf still clinging to your hoodie. it had been your whole world. but suddenly, it felt small.

your world was already shifting, orbiting something—someone—much larger.

you exhaled. “okay.”

“yeah?”

“yeah,” you said, smiling. “i’ll come with you.”

and for the first time in a long time, you could hear the smile in his voice, too.

“good,” he said. “because i don’t think i could do this without you.”

now you suddenly found yourself on a plane, seated next to him as clouds blanketed the window and the dull hum of the engine filled the silence between you.

it was surreal.

the flight to germany was long, and yet—somehow—it still didn’t feel long enough for you to fully process what had happened. you, barely out of high school, freshly promoted from an assistant to an official manager in training, were leaving your country for the first time. leaving familiarity behind. and for him.

yoichi isagi.

he had headphones slung around his neck and a german phrasebook half-open in his lap, though his eyes were closed, head tilted back against the seat. the soft light from the overhead fixture cast gentle shadows across his cheekbones—sharper than when you’d first met him. his frame had filled out too. the boy who used to eat protein bars at ungodly hours and fall asleep during video reviews had grown into someone entirely magnetic—focused, still humble, but no longer naïve.

your gaze lingered on him too long.

and as if he could feel it, his eyes cracked open.

“staring at me again?” he murmured, voice husky from sleep.

you rolled your eyes, flustered. “i was just making sure you’re alive. you haven’t moved in thirty minutes.”

he smirked, that signature lopsided grin that had charmed half the football world but still managed to hit you the hardest. “i’m conserving energy. coach noa’s training is going to murder me.”

you fiddled with your seatbelt to hide the way your heart flipped. “you knew what you signed up for.”

“so did you,” he said, eyes narrowing just slightly. “you sure you’re okay with this?”

you blinked. “with what?”

“leaving everything. coming here. managing me.”

you looked at him then—not the press conference version of him or the highlight reel, but the boy who had always run headfirst into the impossible, dragging you with him in the quietest, most consistent ways.

“i wouldn’t be here if i wasn’t sure.”

he didn’t respond right away. instead, he turned fully toward you, elbow resting on the armrest as he studied your face in that calm, intense way he always did—like reading between your silences.

“then i’m really glad,” he said softly. “because it’s always better when you’re there.”

you looked away before your face betrayed you.

“try to nap,” you muttered, pulling the thin airplane blanket over your lap. “it’s a long flight.”

he didn’t argue, but before he leaned back, his hand brushed yours.

accidentally, maybe. or maybe not.

and even though your heart thudded violently at the contact, you didn’t pull away.

you spent two years in germany—and in that time, you watched yoichi isagi evolve from a promising blue lock player into a name that echoed in bundesliga stadiums.

your days were filled with chaos and routine. waking up before the sun for training briefings. managing interviews in two languages. making sure his recovery meals didn’t clash with his ever-shifting macros. but in between the noise, there were quiet, defining moments.

late-night ramen in his apartment after exhausting matches. silences filled with trust, not tension. the way he’d knock on your door just to vent about a missed shot, knowing you’d listen without judgment. how he’d look for you after every goal, even if it was just a glance across the pitch.

there were arguments too. over his sleep schedule. over his stubborn insistence on solo drills. over that one time he played through an injury and didn’t tell you.

“you’re not invincible, yoichi,” you snapped, hands trembling as you held the ice pack against his swollen ankle.

“but i have to be,” he said, voice low, eyes meeting yours. “if i want to be the best.”

you didn’t reply. you just held the ice there longer, your hand warmer than it should’ve been.

and then, there were the moments when everything stilled.

like the time you got caught in a sudden berlin downpour after a match, both of you soaked and laughing under a bus stop with steaming paper cups of hot chocolate. he looked at you then like you were more comforting than the win he’d just scored.

or the quiet december night he bought a tiny, crooked christmas tree for your shared apartment lobby, just because “you looked homesick.”

your feelings for him grew slowly, like ivy—wrapping around your days, unnoticed until they were impossible to untangle.

and somewhere in those two years, he changed too. not just as a player. but in the way he always waited for you to catch up when the cameras pulled him forward. the way he always made sure you had a seat near the bench, even if you pretended not to care. the way he looked at you during team dinners—just a second too long.

you were falling.

and you couldn’t tell when it stopped being professional and started becoming personal.

but maybe… it had always been both.

now, two years later, you were back where it all began—but everything had changed.

you sat next to him on a plane bound for tokyo, the soft rumble of the engines beneath your feet, the skyline of berlin shrinking behind you like a memory. his duffel bag was stuffed under the seat, your shared itinerary tucked neatly into your folder. the cabin lights were dimmed for the long flight, and yet, the glow around him seemed brighter than ever.

isagi yoichi—japan’s golden boy. the face of soccer. magazine covers, sponsorship deals, fan chants that now echoed globally. his name wasn’t just on jerseys now. it was on billboards, in commercials, written into headlines.

you glanced sideways at him. his head was leaned back, headphones in, eyes half-lidded as if he could sleep. but you knew him better than that. he was thinking. planning. turning every play in his head like he always did.

the moment still felt surreal. the boy you met in that steel-and-glass crucible called blue lock, who once picked up your fallen papers, was now returning home as japan’s prodigy.

he opened one eye and caught you staring. a small smirk tugged at his lips. “you keep looking at me like i’m not real.”

you rolled your eyes, but your chest tightened. “just… hard to believe sometimes.”

he took one earbud out, shifting in his seat to face you more. “believe it. we’re going home.”

a pause.

“together.”

that one word carried more weight than you were prepared for.

you looked down at your hands, laced loosely in your lap. your badge now read personal manager, but it never felt like enough to define what you were to him—or what he was becoming to you.

“tokyo’s going to be insane,” you murmured.

he nodded. “the cameras, the press… the expectations. yeah. it’s going to be hell.”

you risked a glance at him again. “you ready for that?”

isagi turned fully now, resting his arm casually on the armrest between you. his voice was quiet, but his tone held that same intensity you remembered from blue lock—focused, unwavering.

“as long as you’re with me?” he held your gaze. “yeah. i’m ready for anything.”

outside the window, the stars shimmered against the dark stretch of sky. below you, tokyo waited—brighter, louder, and ready to welcome back its star.

and beside you, the boy you once admired from a clipboard’s length away was no longer just a rising athlete.

he was something else entirely.

and so were you.

you had become a constant in isagi yoichi’s life, a shadow moving with him from practice to press conferences, from early morning jogs to late-night post-match breakdowns. two years as his manager—and more—had taught you everything there was to know about him.

you knew the rhythm of his day. the exact way he liked his energy drinks stacked in the fridge. how he tied his laces a little tighter before every match. how he spaced out when he was thinking too hard, eyes locked on some invisible replay only he could see. you knew that the sharp edge in his voice didn’t always mean anger—it often meant fear. or frustration. or the unbearable weight of being expected to win every single time.

because with greatness came gravity and sometimes it pulled him under.

especially after a draw. or worse, a loss.

there was one night—after a particularly brutal draw that stuck in your memory. he hadn’t spoken much on the way back. the silence in the hotel room was deafening until he finally snapped.

“just—stop. i don’t need a manager right now, okay?” his voice had cut like a whip, sharper than usual. “i don’t need you hovering over me like i’m about to fall apart.”

you didn’t flinch. you’d learned not to.

instead, you leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, expression cool despite the ache in your chest.

“too bad,” you’d replied, your tone dry. “because you’ve got one. and i’m the only one on the planet who knows how to deal with your melodramatic, football-obsessed ass.”

there was a beat of silence.

then he’d laughed—a low, tired sound, like the fight had drained out of him. and when he looked at you, something softened in his eyes. you’d stepped forward, not saying anything, just standing there until the storm passed.

it always passed.

that was your rhythm.

he’d stumble, you’d steady him. he’d push, you’d pull back just enough to stay close. never too far. never gone.

you knew by heart how to deal with him.

when to speak, when to wait. when to leave him alone in the quiet of a hotel room, and when to press a steaming cup of coffee into his hands without saying a word.

you knew the exact moment when his silence meant he needed space, and when it meant he needed someone to stay.

you learned to read him like a game plan—fluid, complex, always shifting. but unlike a strategy on the field, he wasn’t something to be solved. he was someone to be understood.

and you did.

god, you did.

you were the first person he called when a match didn’t go his way. the first he texted when he landed a new sponsorship. the one he looked for in a crowd even when thousands were chanting his name.

you weren’t just his manager. you were his constant.

his calm in the storm. his quiet in the noise.

more years passed, filled with the same push and pull that defined your relationship from the start. moments that lingered too long. glances that said too much. every touch that could still be excused as accidental… but wasn’t.

your feelings grew like something wild and stubborn, untamed by logic or titles.

and his actions? they never made things easier.

some days, he treated you like a best friend—late-night ramen runs, inside jokes, the quiet comfort of shared silence. other days, he’d look at you like you were the only thing grounding him to earth, and you’d forget how to breathe.

so you stayed. through wins, losses, contracts, and chaos. your heart never quite sure what category you belonged to.

manager.

friend.

confidante.

something else?

now, he was part of japan’s national team. a global star. a name that made headlines and filled stadiums.

and you? still there, right beside him. still managing his calendar, his training schedule, and—if you were honest—his moods.

one late evening after practice, as he tossed his towel over his shoulder and walked beside you down the empty corridor of the training center, you nudged him lightly with your elbow and said with a grin,

“you know, with all this success… maybe you don’t need me anymore.”

he stopped walking. turned to you.

his brows furrowed, not in anger—never in anger—but in that intense way he looked at the goal. like he was zeroing in.

and he said, without even a beat of hesitation:

“that’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever said.”

you blinked.

he kept going. voice low. steady. certain.

“i’ve needed you since blue lock. i needed you in germany. i need you now. not just because you keep me organized or sane or whatever… i need you.”

and there it was. maybe not a confession.

but a crack in the wall he always kept up. something raw and real slipped through.

you were silent for a beat, maybe two.

the hallway felt too quiet all of a sudden. like the world was holding its breath just to see what you’d do next.

and in the dim lights of the corridor, you thought—no, felt—something flicker across isagi’s face. not frustration. not his usual competitive fire. but something softer and something close to pain.

it passed quickly, like it hadn’t even been there at all.

but the thought stuck in your chest like a needle— was that hurt? was that the expression of someone who’d already imagined a version of his life where you were no longer beside him?

or maybe, once again, your heart was playing tricks on you. reading too far into the way his gaze lingered. projecting your own ache into the lines of his face.

still, your voice came out quieter than you expected when you finally said, “okay, yoichi.”

he looked at you then—really looked—and something in his shoulders eased. like he’d been waiting for you to say his name that way. like hearing it in your voice meant you weren’t going anywhere.

you tried to play it off with a smirk, stepping ahead of him down the hall.

“too bad you’re stuck with me,” you tossed over your shoulder. “you might be the star, but i’m the one who keeps you from spontaneously combusting in a press conference.”

that pulled a small laugh out of him. quiet. real. the kind that made you feel like everything between you was still unwritten.

still shifting. still waiting.

and maybe, just maybe…

he’d finally stopped pretending that this—whatever it was between you two—was just professional.

then you found yourself in his apartment again one night.

the familiar quiet wrapped around you both like a worn-in blanket. you were tucked into your usual corner of his couch, fingers curled around a half-full mug that had long gone warm. the low hum of the city filtered in through the half-cracked window, mixing with the soft sound of the tv playing some late-night program neither of you were really watching.

isagi was sitting on the floor, leaning back against the couch near your legs, phone in hand, thumb lazily scrolling. he looked… normal. human. in a way that the rest of the world rarely got to see. hoodie slightly oversized, hair damp from a recent shower, one sock half-slipping off his foot.

just yoichi.

not the prodigy. not the national team's frontman. not japan’s football miracle.

just the boy you had known since blue lock.

and maybe it was the comfort of being here, in this strange pocket of peace the two of you always carved out no matter what country you were in, or maybe it was that ache that had been growing quietly in your chest—something you'd never quite been able to shake—but the words slipped out before you could second-guess them.

“but i’m serious, yoichi…” your voice was soft, nearly lost beneath the static of the tv. “if i quit for real… would you even let me?”

his thumb paused on the screen. but he didn’t look up.

so you kept going, trying to keep your tone light, even as your chest tightened.

“you’re with the national team now. people are lining up to work with you. you’ve got agents, brands, the whole damn country watching you like you’re the second coming. you don’t need me anymore, do you?”

the silence stretched longer than you expected.

and then he moved—slowly, deliberately. he set his phone face down on the coffee table with a soft click, and leaned his head back so he could see you. his gaze wasn’t angry. it wasn’t even confused.

it was pained.

“don’t say that.”

just three words. but they hit like a punch to the gut.

you blinked, unsure what exactly you’d triggered. but he turned then, shifting to face you completely, still seated on the floor, his knees drawn up, arms resting on them.

“do you remember germany?” he asked, voice low. “that argument we had after i lost that match? when i was being a complete asshole, and you threatened to quit if i didn’t get my shit together?”

you gave a small nod. you remembered everything about that day. the way his voice cracked in frustration. the way you’d yelled for the first time. the way your hand had trembled when you almost handed in your resignation. almost.

he looked away for a second, then back at you.

“that was the first time i realized… winning didn’t mean anything if i couldn’t share it with you.”

you sucked in a breath, but he was still going, eyes locked on yours like he needed you to hear every word.

“it wasn’t just about you being my manager anymore. it was never just that. you kept me grounded when i was lost. you called me out when no one else would. you were… you are my constant.”

he exhaled shakily, then pushed himself up from the floor.

you thought he was going to walk away. instead, he stepped in front of you. and when you didn’t move, frozen in place by the rawness in his voice, he reached down—hands bracing on either side of the couch, caging you in without touching.

your heart thudded so loudly you were sure he could hear it.

his face was close now, close enough to see the tiny scar on his cheek from a match months ago. close enough to see the way his eyes softened—like everything he felt was finally being laid bare.

“every version of my future…” he said quietly, almost like it wasn’t meant to be heard. “you’re in it. you’ve always been in it. and i think—” he swallowed hard, “—i think i’ve been in love with you since back then. since before i even knew what to call it.”

you didn’t speak. couldn’t.

and maybe that silence scared him. maybe it emboldened him.

but then, he moved.

his hand reached up, brushing along your jaw with a gentleness that didn’t match the fire in his chest. his thumb hovered near your cheek, then slowly tucked a strand of hair behind your ear like it was something he’d always wanted to do.

“so if you quit…” he murmured, breath warm against your lips now, “…then i lose more than a manager. i lose you.”

and then he kissed you.

it wasn’t rushed or frantic. it was sure, quiet, and devastatingly full of everything he’d never said. everything he’d kept behind the wall for years. his other hand came up to rest against your back, pulling you toward him like he couldn’t stand the thought of you being even an inch too far.

you kissed him back.

because, truthfully, you’d been his long before you even realized it. and maybe he had been yours too—every late night, every argument, every quiet win and crushing loss.

the world outside could wait.

for now, there was just you and yoichi. no titles. no roles. no blurred lines.

just the truth, finally spoken between kisses that felt like promises.

he didn’t pull away.

not at first.

not when your breath hitched. not when your fingers curled into the fabric of your hoodie like you needed something to hold on to—maybe to ground yourself, or maybe to stop yourself from falling even deeper.

he kissed you like a secret. careful, but certain. like it was something he’d rehearsed in his head a hundred times but was only now letting himself feel for real. his hands were braced on either side of you, knuckles white against the couch as if letting go meant it wasn’t real.

and when he finally did lean back, it was barely a few inches. just enough to see your face, to let his forehead rest against yours.

“i’m sorry it took me this long,” he whispered. “i kept telling myself it was enough just having you around. that i didn’t need more. but i do.”

your chest tightened. not in a painful way—but in the way it does when something you’ve been waiting for finally, finally arrives.

“i wasn’t imagining it then,” you murmured, your voice hoarse.

he shook his head gently. “no. you never were.”

a beat passed.

you reached up, fingers brushing the edge of his jaw, tracing the stubble that hadn’t been there back in blue lock, or even in the early germany days. he had grown—on the field, off it, into himself. and somewhere in all of that, your hearts had quietly kept time.

“i don’t think i could quit even if i wanted to,” you admitted with a soft laugh, blinking away the sudden heat behind your eyes. “you’ve ruined me, isagi yoichi.”

he smiled. not the smile he gave cameras or coaches or fans—but the one that only ever seemed to appear when you were the only one looking.

“good,” he said, nudging his nose against yours, voice hushed and thick with something unspoken. “because i don’t think i’d want to be anything great if you weren’t the one watching.”

your breath caught, your hands still resting against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of it. his words hung in the air between you—bare, vulnerable, a truth finally freed.

for a moment, neither of you moved. the quiet of his apartment, the soft hum of the city through the windows, the golden warmth of the lamp casting gentle shadows—it all felt suspended in time.

then, carefully, yoichi guided you back, his palm warm at your lower back, coaxing you to lie against the couch cushions. his touch wasn’t rushed—it was reverent, like he was afraid if he moved too fast, the moment would shatter. he leaned over you, his body never pressing down, just surrounding, bracing one arm beside your head, the other gently cradling your jaw as he looked at you.

you searched his face.

there was no more hiding in it.

none of the usual restraint or boyish awkwardness. just yoichi, stripped of everything but the feeling he’d kept buried for far too long.

“i’ve thought about this more times than i can count,” he whispered, as if admitting it out loud still felt unreal. “told myself it wasn’t the right time. that i couldn’t… risk it. not when you were always there, always steady. i didn’t want to mess that up.”

your heart clenched, fingers reaching up to brush against the hem of his hoodie, curling there like an anchor.

“you never would’ve messed it up,” you said softly, voice nearly breaking. “not with me.”

his expression shifted—like something inside him had finally exhaled after holding its breath for years. and then he kissed you again.

but this time, it was different.

it wasn’t rushed or desperate. it wasn’t like the fleeting spark from earlier. it was slow. intentional. a quiet unfolding of everything he hadn’t known how to say before.

his lips moved against yours like he was memorizing the way you felt—savoring, grounding himself in you. you felt the careful slide of his hand as it moved to cup your cheek, thumb brushing gently beneath your eye. your hands found their way to his shoulders, holding onto him not because he was going anywhere, but because it finally felt safe to do so.

when he pulled back, it was only enough to rest his forehead against yours again. his breath was warm against your lips, the faintest tremble in his voice.

“after our fight, my mind kept replaying these scenarios… all these versions of life where you weren’t there. and i hated it,” he confessed, voice barely above a whisper. “i didn’t know it then, but i was already unraveling at the thought of losing you.”

you stayed quiet, because your voice wouldn’t come—not with the way your throat tightened, not with the way his words were threading straight through your chest.

“i kept picturing the space beside me being empty. after matches. after bad days. on mornings when everything just felt… too heavy.” he closed his eyes for a second, like he was bracing himself. “and no matter how i tried to imagine it, none of it ever made sense. none of it ever felt right.”

your fingers slid from his shoulder to the curve of his neck, grounding him. “why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“i was scared,” he admitted. “of screwing it up. of saying too much. of… not saying enough.” his eyes opened slowly, meeting yours again with raw, steady honesty. “but mostly, i was scared that if i let you see how much you meant to me, i’d never be able to hide it again. and you’d walk away.”

your heart ached—not because he’d kept it in, but because you knew that fear. you’d lived in it, too. the quiet agony of wanting something so deeply and never knowing if it was safe to reach for.

“i wouldn’t have walked,” you said gently, brushing your thumb across his jaw. “i was already falling.”

he blinked, stunned silence filling the space between you.

“you didn’t have to protect me from your feelings, yoichi. i wanted them. i wanted you.”

he exhaled shakily, like your words had loosened something knotted up inside him for years. “you’re the only thing that’s ever made sense in all of this. even when i was lost, even when i didn’t believe in myself—you always did.”

you smiled, a soft, bittersweet thing. “that’s because i saw you. the real you. not just the player. not just the dream.”

for a moment, something flickered in his expression—fragile and unguarded. a rare occurrence, like a crack in the armor of japan’s most relentless striker. the same isagi yoichi who the world saw as driven, sharp, composed under pressure… was now sitting in front of you with his heart trembling in his hands.

it was different, seeing him like this. not after a match, not in the glow of victory or the burn of ambition—but in the quiet, where there was nothing to prove. just him. just you. just this.

he gave a breathy laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “yeah? even when i was being a complete asshole?”

“especially then,” you said, almost teasing—but your tone was laced with warmth. “that’s when you needed someone to see you the most.”

he looked at you like he couldn’t believe it. like he was seeing you clearly now for the very first time. “you always knew how to get through to me,” he murmured. “even when i didn’t deserve it.”

“you never had to deserve me,” you whispered back. “you just had to let me in.”

a quiet passed between you. gentle. tender. the kind that wrapped around your hearts like a soft blanket—worn in the corners, familiar, and real.

yoichi didn’t move at first. just stayed there, eyes scanning your face like he was trying to commit it to memory—every blink, every breath, every unspoken word lingering between you both. his thumb traced slowly along your cheekbone, grounding himself in the fact that you were still here. that you hadn’t walked away.

then, without warning, he leaned in again—not rushed, but with purpose, like his heart couldn’t hold back another second. his lips hovered just above yours, barely brushing, his voice nothing more than a whisper that trembled against your skin.

“i love you,” he said, the words breaking through him like floodwaters finally let loose. “and i’m sorry it was so late.”

the weight of it settled in the air. real. heavy. beautiful.

you blinked slowly, something in your chest pulling tight and warm all at once. because you knew—had known—but hearing it from him, finally, was something else entirely. like everything you’d poured into him had finally found its way back.

your hand slid to the back of his neck, fingers gently threading through his hair. “it wasn’t too late,” you murmured. “you said it. you’re here. that’s enough.”

his eyes closed briefly, like those words gave him permission to breathe. and then he kissed you again—this time gentler, but no less full. a kiss that said thank you, that said i need you, that said i’m not letting go.

his weight shifted slightly, his body still hovering above yours, arms braced to keep you close without crushing you—like he was afraid you'd disappear if he held on too tightly.

the world outside faded—no games, no pressure, no unspoken expectations. just the soft brush of his breath against your cheek, the quiet thrum of two hearts learning each other again.

he stared at you for a long moment, like he still couldn’t believe this was real. then he exhaled a shaky breath, lowering himself just enough to rest his forehead against yours.

“i’m not letting this go,” he whispered, voice barely holding together. “not now, not ever.”

your hand found his, fingers lacing through his with a familiar ease. you didn’t need to say anything—your touch said it all. that you weren’t going anywhere. that this—whatever it would become—was worth holding onto.

he leaned in one last time, pressing a kiss to your temple, slow and steady, like a promise.

then he shifted beside you, pulling you gently into his arms, your head tucked beneath his chin. his heartbeat was a steady rhythm against your ear, his hold secure, warm.

you let yourself close your eyes. for the first time in a long time, there was no rush. no uncertainty. just the quiet truth of his love, wrapped around you like a shield.

you were here.

he was here.

and this time, you would move forward together.

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