Hi! This is, basically my first time ever sending in an ask or a request for anything 😭 hi, how are you? Hope this finds you well and also just wanted to say I absolutely love how you write Sae Itoshi. He is one of the most misunderstood characters in bllk, I feel, along the lines of Isagi, Rin, Shidou, Kaiser, etc etc and it brings me honest joy how you choose to write him not as an some emotionless robot, some analytical genius (because come on we all know that boy is not that good at math off the court), or some sly fox only hiding behind a stiff persona because that just becomes ooc.
He's a genuinely complex person who used to be a mix of occasionally playful and relatively unbothered, who was forced to face reality in Spain at a young age which point blank crumbled his dreams, and since he didn't know how ever else to process said feelings, they expressed themselves in repression. Because if he doesn't get vulnerable, if he doesn't let himself hope and just facts, he can actually improve instead of dreaming. He subconsciously applied Rin to the same standards because he didn't want his little brother falling behind or going through the same pain he did but since Rin didn't know how to process such a big change so suddenly after having last seen his big brother leave cheerful and hopeful, he processed it as hate. A decent amount of people I've met say Sae is really mean, had no skills to back his talk, should've been softer on Rin like that would've saved him the hurt of being crushed by other players further forward when he realises he was too blinded by ambitious dreams to get better when he thought he was good enough.
Genuinely, I feel like Sae's motives are really misunderstood and the whole distance as focus, the being blunt and even crude to force others to improve because you care really kinda resonates with despite them being bad habits. He's a huge comfort character for me and I feel like you do a great job at portraying him in the most Sae way possible 😭
Soooo, that's to say, is it possible to request a comfort fic with Sae..? I got the idea from reading that one fic you wrote about Sae helping you sleep through exam anxiety and current situations I've been going through. Unsure if you know but tldr; war going on in love and deepspace fandom about preplanned 6th love interest being deleted.. I know it's slightly unhealthy to be attached to or be comforted so deeply by fictional characters but after it, I've just kinda been running hugely on autopilot and dissociating a horrible amount. (Apologies in advance if I'm using the wrong terrrm, I've always used that and if I'm wrong, feel free to correct me)
So's to say.. (｡-ω-) is it possible to request Sae dealing with/helping out a reader who has been deeply dissociating the past couple of days, a week or so? (Like the whole jazz of feeling like a spectator. Body and words not feeling like your own and being unable to feel extreme emotion during it because everything just feels dulled, like. You're not panicking or stressed but the situation is still weird and makes you feel so out of it. Like everything is genuinely just a simulstion. Unsure if that's what everyone experiences but I'm describing my own experiences with it.)
Premise/cause of reader's dissociation being either the deletion of the character of the game and reader being a player or some other reasons similar, to just even a random bout of it, reader being unsure why they feel so(in the last scenario if you choose that), etc etc. It would be really appreciated!! (Especially if it were with the first scenario of Valko cancellation but again, yours to choose)
Again, I absolutely love how you write Sae and I hope this finds you well, author-sama!! Thank you!
Anon, signing out!
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Slowly, You're Here Again
"Some days, coming back to yourself is the hardest journey of all."
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⟢ sae itoshi × reader
⟢ hurt/comfort • fluff
⟢ dissociation
comfort
healing
reassurance
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for days, the world has felt distant, as though you're merely a spectator in your own life. when sae realizes you've been quietly drifting further away from yourself, he does what he does best: stays. no pressure, no judgment, just unwavering patience as he gently helps you find your way back, slowly, until you're here again.
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2.1k words
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The screen of your phone is a rectangle of light that feels like it’s located three miles away. Even though you are holding it, feeling the smooth glass beneath your thumb, the distance persists. You look down at your hand, at the pale skin and the familiar curve of your knuckles, and you don't recognize it. It’s a prop. A clever piece of prosthetic work attached to a body that isn't yours, acting out a scene in a movie you aren't sure you bought a ticket for.
'Deleted.'
The word doesn’t carry weight anymore. It’s just a sequence of pixels. For days, the world has been losing its saturation. The blue of the sky looks like a flat, matte paint job; the sound of the traffic outside the Tokyo apartment is a recording played through low-quality speakers.
You scroll through the archives one more time. There are screenshots of his dialogue, Valko, the man who was supposed to be a pillar of the story, now scrubbed clean as if he never existed. 30 wishes sat in your in-game mailbox as a "compensation." A digital bribe for a lobotomized narrative. It shouldn't have been the breaking point. You have a job, you have exams, you have a life that requires your presence. But your brain, already frayed from months of high-tension stress, had chosen Valko as the one safe harbor.
When they took him, they took the floor out from under you. And instead of falling, you simply… floated away.
The front door clicks open. The sound is sharp, but it reaches you through a layer of thick, gray wool.
It’s Sae. You know it’s Sae because he lives here, and his footsteps have a specific, disciplined cadence. He’s been home from Spain for the off-season, his presence usually a sharp, grounding force in the apartment. But today, he is just another shadow moving through a digital simulation.
You don’t turn your head. You can’t quite remember how to move the muscles in your neck.
He drops his gear bag by the door. The thud is heavy, real. It vibrates through the floorboards, and for a split second, you feel a spark of gravity. Then it fades.
"I'm back," he says. His voice is a low baritone, cool and crisp.
You don't answer. It takes too much energy to calculate what a "normal person" would say. Instead, you keep staring at the wall. Not at a picture on the wall, or a mark on the paint, just the space where the wall meets the air.
Sae walks into the kitchen. He moves with a lethal kind of efficiency, even when he’s just pouring a glass of water. He’s been watching you for the last seventy-two hours. He saw you forget to eat the toast he made yesterday. He saw you stand in the bathroom for twenty minutes staring at the faucet without turning it on. He hasn't pushed. It’s not in his nature to pry unless he has a solution, and he’s been gauging the depth of the water you’re drowning in.
He walks into the living room and stops. You are sitting on the edge of the sofa, feet flat on the floor, hands in your lap. You haven't moved since he left four hours ago.
"You're still in that spot," he says. It’s not a question.
You blink. The motion feels mechanical. "Am I?"
Your voice sounds like it’s coming from a speaker in the corner of the ceiling. It’s thin and tinny. You wonder if he can tell that you aren't actually inside your body right now.
Sae narrows his eyes. He sets his water glass down on the coffee table with a deliberate 'clack'. He steps into your line of sight, blocking the empty wall. He’s wearing a training zip-up, his hair slightly damp from weather or sweat. He looks incredibly vivid, too vivid. He looks like he’s been rendered in 4K while the rest of the room is stuck in 480p.
"Look at me," he commands.
You shift your eyes upward. You see Sae Itoshi, the world-class midfielder, the man who treats emotions like unnecessary friction. But his eyes aren't cold right now. They’re observant. Precise.
"How long has it been since you felt your feet?" he asks.
The question is so strange it bypasses your defenses. You look down at your feet. They’re there, encased in white socks. "I can see them."
"That wasn't the question," Sae says, his voice dropping an octave. He steps closer, invading your personal space, forcing you to acknowledge his physical mass. "I'm asking if you can feel the floor. Or if you’re just watching yourself sit there."
You feel a strange, hollow ache in your chest, but it doesn't blossom into a sob. It’s just... there. "Everything feels fake, Sae. Like if I touched the wall, my hand would go through it. Like I'm a ghost."
He doesn't scoff. He doesn't tell you that you're being dramatic. He knows what it’s like to lose the center of your world; he knows what it’s like to have the thing you built your identity around crumble into something unrecognizable.
"Stay there," he says.
He leaves the room. You stay. You don't have the initiative to do anything else. You listen to the sound of the kettle in the kitchen, the rising hiss, the click of the shut-off. The scent of peppermint begins to drift into the room. It’s a sharp, stinging smell.
Sae returns carrying a mug. He doesn't give it to you. Instead, he sits down on the coffee table directly in front of you, forcing your knees to bracket his. He takes your right hand.
His skin is warm. His grip is firm, his callouses catching slightly against your palm from years of gripping gear and holding his own in a world that tried to break him. It’s the first real thing you’ve felt in days.
"Drink," he says, holding the mug to your lips.
"I'm not thirsty."
"I don't care. The heat is the point."
You take a sip. It scalds your tongue, a sharp, buzzing pain that forces your brain to snap back into your mouth. You wince, your eyes watering.
"Good," Sae mutters. "You're still in there."
He sets the mug down and takes both of your hands in his. He doesn't just hold them; he squeezes, a steady, heavy pressure that anchors you to the sofa.
"Talk to me," he says. "Don't give me the 'I'm tired' script. I know what that looks like. This isn't that."
"It's stupid," you whisper. "It’s so stupid that I can’t even say it out loud without feeling like a child."
"Try me," he says, his gaze unflinching. "I play a game for a living where grown men cry over a ball hitting a net. Realism is subjective."
You look at him, and for a moment, the gray veil thins. "They deleted him, Sae. Not just changed him. They erased him. The developers. Because some people complained, they just... reached into the world and pulled out the one thing that felt like a light at the end of the tunnel. And now the whole story is broken. It feels like I spent months building a house, and I woke up and the builders decided the house never existed. I have the keys, but there's no door."
You wait for the judgment. You wait for Sae to tell you that it’s just a game, that Valko wasn't real, that you should focus on your exams.
Instead, Sae is silent for a long time. He looks down at your hands, his thumbs tracing the line of your wrist.
"When I went to Spain," he says softly, "I had a version of myself in my head. A version of the world. I thought if I played a certain way, if I was good enough, the world would make sense. Then I got there, and they tried to rewrite me. They tried to tell me the 'Sae' I had spent my life creating was useless. They tried to delete the heart of my game."
He looks up, his eyes boring into yours. "Grief isn't about the object. It’s about the betrayal of the reality you were promised. You weren't just looking at a character. You were looking at a promise of safety. And they broke it for money."
The way he says it, 'betrayal of reality', makes the air rush back into your lungs. He isn't trivializing it. He’s validating the fact that your safe space was invaded and destroyed.
"I feel so small," you admit, your voice finally cracking. "To be this affected by something that doesn't 'matter.'"
"Who says it doesn't matter?" Sae asks. "The stress you've been under with your work... you needed a place where the rules didn't change. They changed the rules. Your brain checked out because it couldn't handle one more thing breaking. It’s a survival tactic. But you can’t stay in the theater forever. You have to come back to the stage."
He lets go of one of your hands and reaches up, his fingers brushing the hair away from your forehead. His touch is startlingly tender, a contrast to his usual sharp edges.
"Tell me five things you can see," he says. "Right now. In this room. Not in your head."
"I see... your eyes," you breathe. "The steam from the tea."
"Two."
"The scratch on the coffee table from when you dropped your keys last week."
"Three."
"The way the light is hitting the dust in the air."
"Four."
"Your pulse," you say, looking at his neck. "I can see your pulse in your throat."
Sae nods once. "Better. Now, three things you can feel."
"Your hands. They're heavy." You pause, focusing. "The wool of my sweater is scratchy. And... the floor is cold under my feet."
He doesn't let go. He shifts, moving from the coffee table to the sofa beside you. He doesn't ask. He just wraps his arm around your shoulders and pulls you into his side. He is solid, a mountain of muscle and heat. He smells like expensive soap and the cold evening air.
"Listen," he says, his voice vibrating against your temple.
You close your eyes. At first, there is nothing. Then, you hear it. The rhythmic, steady 'thump-thump' of his heart. It’s slow. Unbothered by the chaos of the world.
"That’s real," Sae says. "I’m real. This room is real. The people who deleted your story are far away and they don't know you. But I’m here. I’m not a simulation. I won't be retconned."
The numbness begins to dissolve. It doesn't happen all at once; it’s like ice melting in a slow sun. A sob finally sticks in your throat, and then another. You lean into him, burying your face in his chest, your fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt. You aren't just crying for a fictional character. You’re crying for the exhaustion, for the weeks of pressure, for the terrifying feeling of losing your grip on your own mind.
Sae doesn't shush you. He doesn't pat your back awkwardly. He simply holds you with a firm, unwavering pressure, letting you shatter against him because he knows he’s strong enough to hold the pieces.
"It's okay," he murmurs, his chin resting on the top of your head. "You're back. Stay here with me."
Minutes pass. Maybe an hour. The room grows darker as the sun sets, casting long, purple shadows across the floor. The "digital" feeling of the world has faded, replaced by the mundane, heavy comfort of being tired in a real way.
Eventually, your breathing levels out. You feel the weight of your own limbs again. You feel the hunger in your stomach, a sharp, grounding reminder of your body's needs.
You pull back slightly, looking at him. Sae’s expression is neutral, but his eyes are soft.
"I think I'm okay," you whisper. "Or I will be."
"I know," he says. He reaches for the now-lukewarm tea and hands it to you. "Drink the rest. Then I’m making dinner. Real food. Not that instant trash you've been staring at."
He stands up, but before he goes to the kitchen, he pauses, his hand lingering on your shoulder.
"Fandom, games, stories... they’re just mirrors," Sae says, his voice quiet. "They broke one mirror. It sucks. It’s pathetic of them. But the person standing in front of the mirror is still here. Don't let them take that too."
He leaves you then, the sounds of him moving in the kitchen, the clink of pans, the running water, forming a new, solid soundtrack for your evening. You take a sip of the tea. It tastes like mint and honey. It’s real.
You look at your hands. You recognize them now. They’re the hands of someone who has been through a lot, someone who is hurting, but someone who is undeniably, fiercely alive.
The TV is on in the background, the volume low, showing some mindless sports highlight reel that Sae isn't actually watching. You’re curled into his side on the couch, a thick duvet pulled up to your chins. The apartment is warm, the scent of the garlic chicken Sae made still lingering in the air.
He’s scrolling through his own phone, probably looking at match analysis, his thumb rhythmic and steady against the screen. You’re just resting, watching the way his chest rises and falls.
"Sae?"
"Hn."
"Thanks for... not laughing."
He stops scrolling. He doesn't look down, but his hand finds yours under the blanket, squeezing your fingers.
"I don't laugh at things that draw blood," he says simply. "Sleep. I’ve got the midwatch."
You close your eyes, the gray fog now nothing more than a distant memory of a bad dream. The world is back, sharp, painful, and messy, but as long as his heart is beating against your ear, you know you’re not a ghost
You are here, and that is enough.