#blue lock lemon

[kaisaerinlover]

rin and sae itoshi

(aged up, can be perceived as another entry of the rin and sae nii series-esque thing i have, but u don’t have to!!!!!)

thinking about how sae’s playstyle is always described as a beautiful destruction, and how rin’s playstyle is described as violent destruction. how sae is so calculated and perfect on the field and how rin is so destructive and impulsive, not even able to speak cohesively.

thinking about how when they fuck you it’s the complete opposite. rin is more gentle for the most part. and sae is a rough fucker. rin wants to hold you and treat you like you’re the most precious thing in the world and sae wants to fuck the shit out of you until you can’t walk anymore. rin whispers sweet nicknames into your ear and sae bites you and calls you his whore.

thinking about the few times where their playstyle mesh into your intimate life. the moments where rin lets himself go and fucks you so hard into the bed you’re genuinely scared you might have lost your ability to walk. how sae sometimes treats you like his princess and ruffles your hair oh so sweetly. how sae makes love to you and rin makes your legs shake the next day when you stand up.

thinking about how rin is just so erratic and sae is so calculating and cold… rin is always so emotional whether he’s treating you like a flower that might wilt if he’s too rough with you or whether he’s ruining any semblance of innocence left in you by slamming himself so rough into your poor cunt. thinking about how he’s either so lovesick or so fucking feral when he sees you looking so cute on his bed all for him.

sae is so cold, always. sae itoshi knows what he’s doing at all times. when he’s being so rough, whispering those mean names into your ear, watching to see if those tears spill onto your sweet little cheeks. how he thrusts into you at the same pace same force every time just to make sure you know how much of a slut you are for him. but also when he decides to spoil you. when he’s being so sweet, calling you his baby, leaning down to kiss your forehead and praising you so nicely for being such a good girl for him.

they’re so different, but they’re so similar at the same time. every fuck with either of them reminds you that they really are brothers, they’re truly one in the same. a singular mind operating two bodies at once. freakish, truly.

[egomiso]

the dressing room

your love for kenyu wins over common sense when you decide to visit him at his shoot one day chara: kenyu yukimiya x f!reader warning: nsfw content: oral, praise, mirror k!nk, creampie

Kenyu Yukimiya was a well-rounded guy.

A little too well-rounded. Excellent in soccer, an attractive model, and a charismatic personality, there was nothing he couldn't achieve. Too perfect and no rough edges. You wondered if you were undeserving of him, if that one day he would realize it and discard you to the side like the garbage you were.

Well, too bad. Because you were selfish and could never be the saint that lets him go. Rather, you would drag him down, straight down to hell, tainting his pure qualities.

He was so beautiful. And you loved him for that.

As you walked into the studio that Kenyu Yukimiya was supposedly working in today, you set down your bag containing his food and looked around. The studio was draped in white and organized, with cameras set up in the corner. You noticed a lot of familiar faces, including his manager and other employees under the same company, but your boyfriend was nowhere in sight.

You decided to go look for him.

Approaching one of the narrow hallways extending out from the main room, you peeked through doors that led to restrooms and storage rooms. Eventually, there was a door labeled Dressing Room. There was a likely chance he was in here, so with a deep breath, you raised your hand and knocked on the wood surface.

It took a few seconds, but a voice could be heard behind the door.

One that could only be described as Kenyu's.

You turned the knob and opened it, to see him there, sitting in a chair before the mirror. Surprisingly, it was empty except for him, the silence of it unusual. By now, the makeup artist would generally be in here, shouting orders to her minions.

"Love!" His eyes widened by your presence. He instantly got up from his seat, coming towards your way. "Why didn't you call me when you got here?"

You smiled. "I wanted to surprise you. I got you food too... but I left it out in the studio room."

Just as you were about to turn around to look for the forgotten food, his hand was on your arm, the warmth suddenly surrounding you like a thick fog. "No, it's okay. I can eat later."

"Is that so?" You tilted your head.

"Yes, because I'd rather eat you," he said jokingly, but the way his eyes darkened in hunger made it not so jokey.

You leaned on the door to shut it, your fingers twisting the key fob to lock it without looking back once. Your eyes stayed trained on your boyfriend. "You're so naughty, Ken."

With that, you closed the distance between the two of you, crashing your lips onto his. Soft and warm, they gave you a rush of butterflies as they always do, your heart beating against your chest, similarly to the day you first shared your kiss. As your tongue slithered into his mouth to dance alongside his, the rhythm of the kiss deepened and fastened. You held tightly onto him, feeling the heat of his proximity, causing your lower region to grow wet.

You pulled away first, smirking at his disappointed look. With your hand in his, you pulled him back to the mirrors and pushed him into the seat he originally sat at.

You pretended not to notice the outline of the hard-on that was showing on his pants, or the flustered red look on his adorable face. You loved seeing this side of him, something so much more vulnerable compared to the leader persona he kept. It was why it was too goddamn hard to let him go.

"[Name]..." he whined, eyes flitting about.

You picked up the glasses he left on the counter and held it up to him. "Put your glasses back on."

He blinked at you for a moment, surprised. "It's lame, isn't it? I hate being so blind."

"No. It's not. I love your glasses. You're fucking hot in them."

"I do...?" He instantly took the pair from your hand and put them on. He had the brightest grin on, now that he could see you fully. Not that it was helping his hard-on though... "This is why I love you."

You wrapped your arm around him and sat on his lap, grinning at the feeling of his boner. As you pressed your weight down against it, he grabbed your face into his direction. His orange eyes glimmered dangerously behind the rims, impatient and ready to devour. No longer so gentle and kind, he was ready to tear you apart.

"You're asking for it," he growled.

He kissed your neck, sucking succulently at the skin to mark you whole. "Mhm... I am." As he was about to take off his glasses again, you stopped him. "Don't. Fuck me in your glasses."

"Yes, my queen," he responded. Pulling your white blouse apart to reveal your bra, he continued to trace kisses down your body, from your collarbone to your torso. The peppered kisses tickled your skin, contributing to the heat between your legs. Eventually, he unbuckled the bra to reveal the blossom of your breasts.

His eyes widened, taking it all in, savoring it bit by bit. "You're a goddess. My goddess."

He kissed your breasts and started sucking at the nipples, sending a rush of euphoria through your head. You moaned with your head leaning back, clutching at the lengths of his brown hair.

And with that, he yanked at your pants to reveal your panties, already sopping wet. You worked your fingers to take his clothes off as well, pulling him up from the chair. His body was sculpted pristinely, built from his years of soccer, slender but with muscle rippling along his limbs. He was incredible to look at, and you wondered what you ever did in this lifetime to earn such a view.

"You're so fucking hot," he whispered.

"Then prove it."

He kissed you once more, and while doing so, stuck his fingers into the folds of your pussy. You moaned into the kiss, feeling the motions of the fingers sliding up and down in repetitive motion, sending you into orbit at the sensation.

"Ken-- mmph!"

He fiddled them expertly as if playing on a string instrument, knowing exactly where to hit the right spots.

"Shit," you moaned.

He pulled his fingers out the moment you were getting close, edging you on by the second. "You like my fingers, hm? I bet you'd like something bigger more."

You breathed out, feeling wet, slimy liquid rolling down your leg. However horny you were, you were also not going down without a fight. Kenyu somehow always flipped the switch to your competitive side -- and for that, you wanted to see him beg today. "You're not the only player on this field." Your hand wrapped around his large dick, feeling the layered folds of its skin. It was real hard, perfectly ready for your pussy. You massaged it up and down, before getting down to take it with your mouth.

A kiss on the tip of his member left him groaning instantly. "Fuck, [Name]." Your lips parted as you leaned forward, taking in the huge thing. The walls of your cheeks wrapped around it, as the tip hit the back of your throat. It was huge, but you loved it, because it tasted just like him.

His hips buckled and he shoved forward, lodging his penis deeper into your throat. Grunts sounded the still air, his sexy voice turning you on even further.

"Your mouth is so good," he moaned, his hands grabbing each side of your face. "Give it to me, love. Urgh!"

You savored his taste, his gifts, his love. Seeing him this way, so opposite from his put together persona, you only wanted him even more. More, more, more! He was yours, and it should stay this way until the end of this lifetime. You would give him this outpour of love that he could never find elsewhere. If he were to ever astray, this ensured he would make his way back to you.

Because you kept him addicted to you.

As you face fucked him, slithering your tongue along the edges of his dick, you watched his expression carefully. From the sweat sheened forehead to the ecstatic, high glint in his gaze, to the lull of his mouth hanging, you could feel your pussy grow tighter from the sight of it. Your beautiful Kenyu. Your shining star. To satisfy him was a gift from the heavens above.

"I-I'm going to..." he trailed off. Knowing him, you released the hold of your mouth from his penis, grinning mischievously. He was breathing heavily, wiping at his mouth. "Can we make love now, my love?"

"Is that what you really want?" you asked, grabbing hold of his chin.

An orange gaze full of yearning beneath lopsided glasses, he wanted it so bad -- wanted you so bad.

You kissed him, once, and then nodded in approval. "Mirror."

That was all it took. He pushed the weight of your body against the counter, clearing the makeup products with the swipe of his arm. Those same muscular arms created a makeshift cage on either side of your hips, trapping you in with his heat and testosterone. You watched the mirror closely, as he slowly leaned over your shoulder to kiss your collarbones.

With that, he pressed you down and your breasts landed on cool surface, spreading before the mirror. With a concentrated furrow of the brow, he held his member and inserted it into you, the feeling of it leaving you nearly reeling. So good!

Your eyes shadowed in lust, your mouth painted in a lopsided, crazed smile. Without missing a beat, you watched his reaction closely, the way it darkened of his own ego.

Love me like it is your last day.

"You're so tight," he told you with a grit.

"Just for you," you exhaled, as he started to shove his dick deeper, lodging it to the depths of your core. You were one with him, your ass to his waist, together and forever. He was the other half of your heart, the piece that filled the gaping hole that was your existence.

His hips buckled back and forth, the rhythm of his penis accelerating, pounding into your pussy. It hit the spots that brought you to a high. Skin on skin contact slapping rough became the sound of music to your ears.

"God save me!" you breathed out.

"I am your God," he said in response, sending a shiver down your spine. It reminded you once more why you loved him so. His true ego, his true self, only that was shown to you in these moments. He had multiple faucets to him -- multiple layers like an onion to peel. And everyday, you would continue to learn more about him. He could never grow boring. Not to you.

"Mmph!" you moaned, your fingers scratching the counter, trembling.

It was so hot, watching him through the mirror, tearing you down like lion's prey.

He fucked you like there was no tomorrow, made love to you like there was no tomorrow, in this small dressing room.

He made love to you in a place he shouldn't have, crossed a boundary at work when he should have stayed professional instead.

But you were honored. He made an exception just for you.

The friction of his dick against your vagina was heating up, the sensation comforting and delightful. It felt so good, so worth it, and so hot to do something so risky.

"You're so naughty, boy." Your words left as a slur, mouth dry and jumbled by it all.

As if your words were a catalyst of a jinx, a knock on the door outside of the dressing room echoed suddenly. The two of you stilled, eyes wide and frozen in place. Your heartbeat was loud in your ears, but the pulse of your vagina was louder.

"Kenyu, are you in there?" It was his manager. "We'll begin the photoshoot soon."

"Y-Yes! I'm eating my lunch first, I'll be there soon!" he called to her. His tone was light and pure, the cheeks of his face tinted in red. He played it off smoothly, as if his dick wasn't lodged deep into you, yearning for more. You almost laughed. What a bad, lying boy he was, lying straight through pearly, white teeth to his manager while in such a deranged position. Oh how you loved every second of it.

Footsteps faded away, and it appeared his excuse had been bought for the time being.

You giggled and he sighed a breath of relief. "You always get me in some sort of trouble, [Name]."

"And what's wrong with that?"

"..."

"Exactly. So finish what you started."

He did it without any objections, ramming his cock into you even harder than before, your vagina accepting its length and girth naturally. This time, the two of you attempted to stay quieter, the thrill of the dangers adding onto it. You muffled your moans and he muffled his grunts, the temptations endless. Steadily, his thrusts were slowing down as his teeth grind harshly.

"Love, I'm c-coming soon."

You were nearly reaching your climax as well, the dam of stimulation ready to burst open. He groaned deeply and his head hung low, his chin grazing your head. Heat of his semen poured into you, oozing and creeping into your body's system. And you accepted it, because you accepted all of him.

It caused you to reach yours too and the high of a climax had your knees weak, taking you everything not to howl. So, so good. So damn good.

The cum dripped down your leg and to the floor, a beautiful mixture of yours and Kenyu's creation.

He pulled himself out of you and you turned around to embrace him with gentle arms. Despite how sticky and sweaty his body was, you were fine with it, because this was the product of your work. His arms squeezed tightly around you, the strength of them undeniable.

"Your motivation for today," you whispered.

"Nearly, got me in trouble, but it was worth it."

"Because someone couldn't control himself.''

"Just being in your presence makes me feral."

You grinned, petting his face softly. "Don't feed into my ego."

He tilted his head innocently. "But you already have the biggest one."

You lightly smacked him in the head, shooting him a glare. If he wasn't careful, he was going to gain some blue balls the next time. That would show him.

"I love you," he said, taking off his glasses and rubbing the fog off. You fought against the growing smile. Someone was breathing a little hard. How cute.

"I love you more."

[dough09]

Might not be suitable for everyone. If you aren't comfortable with bare body contact, making out, hickeys, I advise you don't proceed ❤️😭

Btw, promise I'm working on the next part for "Am I doing the wrong thing?"

Mr. Tease

“Mi vida~?” Said the deep voice from the bedroom. “Can I have my shirt back? The black one, the one you stole from me?”

You opened the door slowly and looked inside. His chest was bare but it was not like that was unexpected. You walk up to him and hug him tightly from behind burrowing your face in his back. “Say please.” You grin into him.

He turned towards you. Your eyes unintentionally averted down to his chest. “As much as I love you, eyes up here mi cariño.” He smirked and raised your chin.

A smug look smeared across his face. You could help yourself from blushing. No matter how many times you kissed, no matter how much time you spent together it just couldn't fit into your mind. The football prodigy many admire is your boyfriend, and you’ve been living with him for two years. “Will you stop staring?” He chuckled and leaned down to your neck. “Sorry-” “Stop apologizing so much- also, stare at me more..just not now” your cheeks were tinted in a deep cherry red.

“Soo your shirt- say please and I’ll give it to you” you grinned. “Am not doing that” he scoffed and kissed your neck. “You are~” you said and squeezed his cheeks to being his face to yours. “Say please Y/N~” you coed.

He frowned and glanced away “please..” he mumbled quietly. “What was that?” His frown turned into a soft glare. He knew you were just messing around. You heard him clear as day the first time too. “Please.” But he went along with you, because he is aware that there is no way out.

“It's on the right side of my shirt pile” you giggled and let him go. “Thanks” he let out a sigh but pulled you back into him. You shook your head. “Thank YOU, for asking for it back properly.”

“Actually, I don't have to hurry to that interview that much…” he pulled his shirt on. Sae cornered you to lean on the bed. Your face was between his strong arms as he climbed over you.

You could contain your massive smile anymore and your arms slipped up to his neck without a second thought. “Your manager will be mad, so let's not” you said but your hands were dictating a different move. “We won't be long.” He smirked and leaned down to gove you a hickey.

His fingers were curled around your hairstrands and your lips were connected in a fast and passionate dance.

Soon his phone started vibrating. Messages were coming in at a fast pace but he still didn't get up. He and you were way too engrossed in what you two were busy with at the moment.

You always thought that was hot. He loved soccer just as much as you, but he would throw any event, interview or meeting away the second you needed him.

Finally the device quieted down. But not for long. A call disrupted the messy sounds of kisses. He pulled away and frowned at his phone. “Seriously…” he reached for his phone and answered his manager. He put it on speaker but muted himself.

Again he leaned down swiftly and rushed in more kisses. These weren't like the ones before.

These kisses were sloppy and fast. Like he tried to pour every passion he had in it. He rocked his body on top of yours which made you fall deeper.

But it was pointless, he had an interview. This one was actually important. It was supposed to be about his future goals and aspirations as well as his private life. Not that he’d say much about that.

“Sae, are you there?!” The impatient sound of his manager rang out. He turned to unmute himself. “Yeah, listening.“ he said between more passionate kisses.

He bit down on your neck which caused you to let out a loud moan. Your face got embarrassingly pink and he smirked and picked his phone up to show that he was unmuted.

The voice from the call didn't dare speak anymore. “What? I was in the middle of something - I can't just throw out everything just because of your call.” Sae sighed.

“Just get to the venue now!” And with that the man hung up. He might’ve been too embarrassed to continue. “W-wait- he might think we were…” you gulp. “It's his fault for having dirty thoughts, not mine.” he grinned. “Now, where were we?” your boyfriend shrugged.

Finally he got his car keys and went to his car. “When I’m back home, we will continue.” He eyed the hickeys on your neck. “Hermosa~”

You bit your lips and looked away in embarrassment. “Have a good interview” and on that note you shut the door. Leaving him with his smirk there.

[peppermint-monster]

Kunigami Rensuke X Shy. Chubby Reader!

Warning: Pet names (Curvy Goddess), Confession...?, FLUFF?, Hickeys, Jealous-ish Kunigami, Missionary Position, Reader being a little bit obsessed, Blowjob, Situationship...? Basically, NSFW. 🤷🏻‍♀️

Also, be mindful that I didn't really mention much of the reader's appearance (besides, she's a female) since I wanted to keep it vague for everyone to relate as much as possible, though it is definitely for the more voluptuous side of ladies. 😊

Please be mindful that the photos are not mine, but the making of the collage is.

MINORS DNI!!!! 🔞🙅🏻‍♀️ If you're not comfortable with this, please ignore!

P.S. I write all characters over 18 and up (I should have mentioned that at the start 😅).

Kunigami Rensuke X Shy. Chubby Reader!

On Monday morning, while casually chatting with his friends, Kunigami unexpectedly realized that as they discussed their ideal partners, he noticed the shy, curvy girl sitting across the classroom, her eyes occasionally darting toward him. Seated at his desk, with his friends' chairs subtly turned in his direction, Kunigami couldn't help but feel a sense of intrigue and curiosity about the situation. 

“For me, she must have a mature charm, like Sensi.” His friend with a bowled cut fawningly smiles, thinking about Sensi. And if they’re married, it just makes it even better for cheating.”

“I would say an idol,” His other friend butted in, fixing his glasses while mentioning the idol he likes. “Her singing, dancing, just everything is perfect.” It almost seemed like steam was coming out of his nostrils.

“Idols, huh?” Meanwhile, Kunigami couldn't help but snicker at the mention of idols.

This provoked the glasses-wearing friend, who suddenly stood up, slamming his hand on the desk, and demanded, "And what are you trying to say?"

“You better watch it. You never know what these idols do backstage.”

“Tsk- alright, how about you tell us your ideal woman?” He argues back.

“Well, my ideal is…” Kunigami murmurs, bringing his hand to cup his chin while he thinks.

He starts describing his ideal woman, stating that almost everything about the curvy beauty sitting across from him completely differs from his ideal type. 

She is the exact opposite—a nerdy loner. She always has her head stuck in a book and consistently wears her winter uniform, complete with big black glasses and long, unstyled hair. It's a complete contrast.

“And also her personality must be…”

“There’s still more!?!?” His glasses friend said. “There’s no way your fantasy girl would ever exist like that.” He continued.

“At least ours are realistic ideals, right?” His bowl-cut friend includes.

And he knew that. Kunigami knew that no one existed exactly like he expected, yet if there were, he would fall for them in a heartbeat.

If only he knew…

--------

Unbeknownst to Kunigami, stuck in his train of thought he didn’t notice the sliding door opening, signaling someone walking in, until hearing a group of girls gushing over someone.

“So cute!”

“Did you get a boyfriend?”

Glancing around to see what the girls were looking at, he noticed a girl in the center gaining all the attention. 

And he couldn’t believe his eyes.

He saw her sitting there numerous times, book in hand, as her mind wandered into the world of fantasy. She was the usual plain-looking, chubby girl, but she was visibly displaying a new look—only this look was exactly what he mentioned to his friends three weeks back.

“I dig sweaters.” He had said.

And then a week later, “Short skirts are cute.”

Even the way she styled her hair matched his preference. 

It was undeniably her.

She made him feel something he couldn't quite ignore.

He was captivated, unable to break his gaze from her. A dryness settled in his mouth, and he swallowed hard, fighting the rush of saliva that threatened to overwhelm him.

Simultaneously, his heart began to race, skipping a beat amid the overwhelming sensation.

As soon as she drew Kunigami in, he began to question it. 

This change in her appearance—is it just a coincidence, or did she overhear what he and his friends were talking about? 

And if so, why would she change her look? 

And her appearance... It couldn't be linked to him... Could it?

Her eyes met his across the room, locking in a moment of unspoken connection before she flushed and averted her gaze, returning her attention to her book. Kunigami couldn't help but smile and quietly laugh to himself at the sweet, fleeting interaction.

‘Cute.’

Ever since returning from Blue Lock, Kunigami has undergone a noticeable transformation. The experience has left a lasting impact on him, altering his perspective and demeanor. 

The feeling of not being chosen and facing disqualification left him shattered. Soccer had been his ultimate passion and the central focus of his prime years. He aspired to be a source of inspiration for countless young aspiring athletes, but now he found himself at a crossroads, needing to seek a new career path.

He could always be a firefighter.

With him so focused on wanting to become a soccer player, he didn’t have time to socialize with his friends or interest in girls.

But now…

Strangely, Kunigami can’t seem to keep his eyes off a particular curvy beauty.

And that’s precisely what he couldn’t stop doing for almost the whole week until finally, Friday came around.

The school bell rings, signaling the final class of the day has finished.

Everyone is beginning to pack up and get ready to go. Kunigami walks toward one of his friends and says, “Yo, Yuuta, do you want to hang out?”

“Sato-kun! Please come with me to the student counseling room.” There, Sensi cuts in.

“Okay!” The bowled cut hair happily said, following after his teacher.

“And you, Daisuke?” Kunigami asks, turning to his glasses friend.

“Actually, I got tickets for my favorite idol concert. So I can't go.”

As his friend turned to leave, Kunigami nodded slightly and offered a small, understanding smile. "Ah, okay," he said softly, his gaze following his friend as they walked away. "See you around."

��Everyone seems to have already left…’ He gingerly rests his hand on the polished surface of his desk, running his fingers along it as he double-checks for any forgotten items. As his gaze sweeps across the room, it falls upon a woman with alluring curves seated in her customary spot. 

Since the start of the week, Kunigami has been inexplicably fixated on her, following a noticeable transformation. He is also captivated by the presence of two other girls who surround her.

One of the girls turned to the curvy beauty with a hopeful expression, a hint of desperation in her voice. "Hey, could you do me a huge favor and cover for me this time? I know we're both supposed to be on cleaning duty, but you'll really be doing me a huge solid."

He could tell just by the shy girl's face that she was reluctant to agree.

“I-I guess I could…”

The group of girl's excitement overflowed as one exclaimed, "Yes! Thank you so much. I owe you one big time," beaming with gratitude. Her joy spread to her friend, who followed close behind, both wearing bright smiles.

Meanwhile, the shy girl let out a heavy sigh as she closed her book and began to tidy up the room.

‘What the hell? Why didn't she say no?’ He thought to himself, feeling unjust that the other girls had left her to clean alone. 

"Damn it,”  Kunigami couldn't bear to leave her there by herself.

She was suddenly startled by a loud thud from behind. As she turned around, she saw the man she longed for, dropping his bag and hastily overturning a nearby chair onto the desk.

"Kunigami-kun, what are you doing here?" She inquired, her voice tinged with shyness as she nervously gestured with her arms.

Hearing her say his name for the first time sent shivers down his spine.

"Uh yeah, I saw what happened. It was unfair for them to abandon you to handle all the work alone. You should have refused," He continued, methodically arranging the chairs. "Besides, I had nothing else to do."

Nervously, she bit her lower lip. Her eyes caught for a second his muscular biceps flexing under the short-sleeve bottom-up he wore as he lifted a chair with zero effort. 

She swiftly tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear before turning back around. A mix of relief and gratitude washed over her at his unexpected act of kindness and also a shame for catching herself lusting over his sexually frustrated physique.

She endured the relentless silence as they cleaned, each movement grating on her nerves. For more than a year, Kunigami Rensuke had consumed her thoughts. She had gone to great lengths to catch glimpses of him, whether watching him play soccer, following him through the hallways, or stealing glances at him during class. 

However, just as she was planning to confess her feelings with an envelope at hand, she received the devastating news that Rensuke was going to be away for a bit. The opportunity slipped through her fingers, leaving her to feel uncertain of when she would ever see him again.

As the days stretched into weeks and then months, she was irresistibly drawn to the vacant seat where he once sat. The memories of his presence, the sound of his voice, and the warmth he exuded lingered in her mind, making it impossible for her to avert her gaze from the void he had left behind.

One quiet morning, she settled into her usual seat with a captivating book in hand, fully engrossed in its pages. As she delicately adjusted her glasses, she turned to the next page, realizing that she was gradually adapting to life without Kunigami Rensuke by her side.

“Kunigami-sama! Long time so see.”

Her entire body tensed as the unexpected name reached her ears, causing her to tighten her grip on the book she held, feeling it crumple slightly under the pressure of her shaking hands. 

‘It couldn't be,’ She thought to herself, her mind racing with disbelief. Slowly lifting her gaze from the pages, she caught her breath as her eyes met the sight of an incredible man who made her heart flutter uncontrollably once more.

As he walked past her desk to join his friends, who were eagerly calling him over, she couldn't help but feel her buried emotions resurfacing, sparking a new sense of purpose within her.

As she walks to the closet, she hangs the broom on its hook. When she goes to put away the dustpan, it slips from her hand and falls to the ground. Unbeknownst to her, someone hears the noise, looks over, and catches a glimpse of her bending over to pick up the dustpan, unintentionally revealing her panties.

"Ah!" Startled by the sudden surprise, Kunigami, with a chair at hand, doesn't see where he is going, causing a loud crashing sound behind her.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, truly," he insisted, his tone unwavering even as he struggled to steady himself. He took a deep breath, attempting to exude confidence as he rose to his feet, a slight wobble in his knees betraying his composed façade. His attention was momentarily diverted by an uncomfortable warmth at his nose, where a thin stream of blood had begun to trickle, leaving a crimson mark on his shirt. He glanced at her, desperate to assure her that everything was okay, unaware of the evidence of his struggle.

"Here, take this." She offered her napkin shyly. 

"Ah, thank you." He bashfully accepted the napkin, a hint of a blush appearing on his cheeks as he nervously scratched the back of his head and averted his gaze.

As she gracefully walks away, he raises his hand to wipe his nose absentmindedly. Still, as he does, he is suddenly captivated by the delicate and appealing fragrance lingering on the cloth. He finds himself pausing, drawn to the fabric as he inhales the alluring scent, each breath deeper than the last, succumbing to its intoxicating allure and lewd images his mind can't seem to stop fantasizing. Gosh, he’s a pervert.

It seemed as if some unseen force, perhaps fate itself, was deliberately tempting him, urging him to pay attention to details he had previously overlooked. Amidst all these captivating details, she stood out as the most enchanting.

With the chalkboard eraser at hand, she goes to do the last task of wiping down the board but can't reach the very top.

“Almost.”

She goes on her tippy toe, nearly reaching the top, but still can barely make it. 

“What am I going to do with you.”

A more substantial hand, resting against her elbow, moved across her arm and up her hand, clutching the eraser with painstaking care. The unexpected hand, which also rested against her arm, gave her the sensation of robustness and comfort.

“Here, let me.” He leaned toward her, and she could feel his warm breath brush against her ear as she finally allowed him to take the eraser and finish wiping what was left on the board.

“Thank you, Kunigami-kun.”

Her heart pounds in her chest as she turns around and devours Rensuke with her eyes. 

How his scent lingers surrounding her body—intoxicating her.

His auburn eyes gave away something she didn't know she would see directed toward her—the look of desire driving her to bite her lower lip.

His gaze flitted between her enigmatic eyes and the enticing fullness of her lips, which she habitually teased with gentle bites. The moment she caught sight of the deepening shadows in his irises, the playful nibbling paused, leaving an electric tension hanging in the air.

Suddenly calling her name, Kunigami spoke, “Want to come to my place?”

As Kunigami gently closed the door behind him with a soft click, silence enveloped the room, amplifying the tension in the air. 

Shyly gesturing for her to join him on the bed, where they settled side by side, their bodies close yet each lost in their thoughts, fingers fidgeting nervously with the fabric of their clothes. The moment's warmth was overshadowed by a palpable sense of embarrassment as they dared not meet each other's gaze, both acutely aware of the unspoken emotions swirling around them.

But this didn't deter them, they were drawn to each other. Their pinkies grazed softly, igniting a spark of courage that allowed them to entwine their fingers.

Kunigami was the first to break, whispering her name as he  leaned in while lifting their locked hand prompting her to peek, his gaze intense as he cradled the back of her neck with his hand, pulling her close. 

Their lips finally met in a fervent kiss, sending a jolt of electricity between them. The world around them faded away, and the warmth radiating from his body enveloped her, creating a heady intimacy that wrapped them in a cocoon of shared emotion and desire.

With utmost care and respect, he treated her as a true gentleman should. She was a delicate flower, fragile and ethereal, reminiscent of fine porcelain. At that moment, his thoughts became a swirling haze, struggling to articulate the depth of his admiration for her beauty and grace.

Warm soft flesh that with every time he touches her, shivers and goosebumps travel through her body as she reacts softly whimpering and moaning for him, for more.

Pulling away for a fleeting moment, their lips parted, leaving a thin, glistening thread of saliva connecting him to the panting, curvy beauty in front of him. His mind swirled in a dreamy haze, while a shadowy intensity clouded his eyes once again.

A sudden gasp slips from her lips, as Kunigami holds her, bringing her onto his lap while he slowly moves his mouth to her neck.

 He moves along her throat quickly, becoming lost in the moment. Her skin was cool and it tasted just as good as he imagined it would. Her scent filled his nostrils bringing him to a heated daze, as he thanked Faith for leading him to this moment.

"Hmph~"

Very softly he began pressing kisses downwards to the crook of her neck. Growing more confident with the kisses when seeing the curvy beauty squirming, eyes closed with a flustered expression as his mouth drew small licks to her skin.

When he got to the right spot below her ear, he felt her inhale sharply.

Slowing his kisses gently flicking his tongue out to lick at the spot, one of her hands gripping the front of his shirt, while one of his moves to cradle the back of her neck. Guiding her to tilt her head back to give him more access to the tender skin.

Beginning to focus solely on that spot, kissing and licking, then nipping lightly. Receiving soft moans from her.

Music to his ears.

She's never felt this way or experienced anything like this at all. Bodies pressed against each other, chest to chest, her thick thighs on either side of him, and his impossibly warm and solid arms comfortably caging her soft form. As though not allowing her to go.

"Ah..."

She couldn't help the butterflies that erupted in her stomach at the thought of doing this with Kunigami and being so close and wrapped around him it made her skin hypersensitive everywhere he touched.

His touch was feather-light, lazily going down to her upper thigh massaging her thigh, doing nothing in which to soothe the ache between them.

He was gentle when he bit down on her sweet spot, planting his lips around it and sucking. Slowly began to suck harder and harder, she was certain there was a mark.

Back arched, knuckles white from the tight grip she had on Kunigami’s uniform as stuttered gasps slipped from her lips.

"R-Rensuke~"

He pulled away slowly, inhaling sharply when he caught the bruise forming.

“I... Sorry. I think I went too far.” Raspily panted out, putting his forehead against the crook of her neck, his tanned, calloused fingers gripping her flesh, grasping her fabric ass, and crushing her against his chest.

“D-Dummy…”

She gently cupped the side of his face, drawing him closer. Kunigami could see the flush of embarrassment on her cheeks, her lips slightly swollen from pouting. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, reflecting a mix of longing and vulnerability as she leaned in, heart racing, to kiss this beautiful man who captivated her so completely.

“Oh-”

She cries out, feeling his hands gently knead and massage her breast.

A rough hand held her chin, forcing her to face him fully to ignite a heated kiss. 

“K-Kunigami…kun -Hmph!”

"Say my name. Say my surname." He breaths between kisses.

"Uh- Rensuke!"

The sensations were electrifying, awakening every nerve as she surrendered to the strong arm wrapped around her waist. His fingers worshipped her curves, keeping her pinned to him.

He squeezed her breasts just enough to make her arch her back. Delicately drawing circles to her nipples through her shirt and bra.

Kunigami breaks from her lips, and his hand lifts her uniform shirt to her neck. The cool air hits her skin, giving her chills.

“A-Ah!” She softly moans, instinctively bringing her hand to grip his shirt.

“Cold?” Kunigami smirked.

Shyly nodding, she felt the mattress dip followed by his warm body over hers. He cups her soft titties with his rough calloused fingers, pinching her soft flesh causing them to peak even further at the contact.

Earning Kunigami a series of sweet breaths from the chubby Goddess underneath him.

She bit her lip when feeling Kunigami’s hot breath move closer to her swollen tits-covering each one in sloppy kisses, before pulling away while gently sucking in the skin.

Her hands, which had previously kept her lewd cries at bay and held up her blouse, now fisted his orange hair as his tongue traced her firm buds, writing out her name repeatedly.

She's going crazy, her tongue hanging out, her head in a daze, and her only thought is that she doesn't want her bliss to end.

“You’re perfect,” He raspy utters, taking her left nipple into his mouth and sucking it lightly, pulling it between his lips before letting it go.

"These," Kunigami moves to the right and keeps going, scraping the delicate bud with his teeth to indicate what he meant. "These are perfect."

Wrapping his lips once again around her right nipple, sucking and swirling his tongue around the juicy skin.

Soft moans and whimpers escaped her quivering mouth. She ached for this man desperately. Thighs rubbing together, panties soaked by her slick as she stares back at him with those doe-like eyes of hers. 

“Feels good?” Kunigami asked, popping off her tit while licking his lips.

“So good.” She hums, shyly feeling her cheeks heating up

“Are you really ok with this?” His warm, raspy voice teased her. 

He slowly removed the top of his uniform, gently loosening his tie and allowing it to hang freely around his neck before unbuttoning his shirt. Each undone button showed a glimpse of his chiseled, sun-kissed skin, catching her eye and making her heart speed up.

The sight of his perfectly sculpted physique, with defined muscles gleaming under the soft light, was utterly intoxicating. It clouded her thoughts and left her completely spellbound in his presence.

“It's ok… Because I want this too.” She confessed, doe-eyes visibly showing the desire she craved to receive from this man that it seemed like her irises were heart-shaped.

Damnit.

This wasn't good for Kunigami.

Why did you have to be so adorable?

With a warm, comforting grin that displays his adoration, Kunigami bends down trailing a line of kisses up her neck until he arrives at her mouth. Kissing her slowly, allowing himself the time to let his tongue explore every inch of her before they make sweet love.

However, it didn't stop there.

You and your gentleman entered a casual relationship that day. This arrangement is free of strings, removes worries about infidelity, and ensures that no one gets hurt.

Experiment with various positions, including doggie, mating press, and being pinned against a wall. And if you're feeling adventurous, add some cosplay and the setting—the school—to make it more interesting. Sneaking under the stairs for a nice fuck fest or at the top of the roof entranceway, offering the greatest sloppy toppy that made Kunigami's knees shake.

He's addicted to the feeling,  your mouth, tongue, hands just everything about his curvy goddess and the way she works him.

Cum and saliva dripped down the side of his length and down his balls as she sucked him thoroughly, even moaning around his flush tip for good measure. The sweet sensation overwhelmed his uncut hypersensitive dick, making him let out a hoarse moan but a soft whimper came out when she released him with a wet pop noise.

She giggles at his protest, letting up and ranking her nails and leaving sweet kisses on his inner thigh.

Just thinking about all they've done kept a grin on his face.

“Yo, Kunigami, why are you grinning like crazy?”

Snapping back from his drifting thoughts, he looked up at his friends, a light blush creeping across his cheeks. “Hmm, no, it’s nothing,” he managed to reply, his voice slightly hesitant. He sat at his favorite spot atop his desk, a clutter of books and notes forming a protective circle around him, while his friends gathered around, their laughter and chatter creating a warm, familiar atmosphere.

Yet that didn't stop Kunigami from drifting back, thinking about what he’d do with the sexy beauty tonight.

‘Maybe we can try some cosplay today?’

Usually, she sat in her assigned seat across the room, deeply engrossed in a book. Today, however, that seat was strangely empty, and Kunigami felt puzzled. His curiosity was piqued when he caught a glimpse out the window. There, standing beneath the cherry blossom tree, was the curvy beauty he had been searching for. But she wasn’t alone; standing opposite her was a male student he had never seen before.

They were lost in a conversation that felt like a secret, their words just beyond his reach. The mystery twisted in his gut, a relentless urge to know what was being said. 

‘Who is that guy?’ he thought, a whirlwind of unease brewing inside him. 

It should be stirring something deep within him, driving him to drop everything and rush to her like a man starved for connection. He ought to be showering her with compliments, easing her worries whenever she asks if he appreciates what she’s doing for him. Yet here he is, slumped in his desk chair, tangled up in his thoughts, hesitating.

“Is he her boyfriend?” The question lingered in the air, weighted with unspoken possibilities, stirring a mix of curiosity and jealousy that kept him on edge the entire time. He struggled to focus in class and at home, especially with her posing on his bed in his soccer jersey.

Kunigami tried to reassure himself that it was just a situationship—nothing serious, nothing to worry about. Yet, with every passing moment, that gnawing feeling of jealousy consumed him. What if she found someone who cherished her even more than he did? 

No, he couldn’t let those thoughts spiral out of control.

Kunigami was sitting on the bed with her above him, legs wrapped around his waist and arms around his neck.

“Hey… that guy you were with earlier, by the cherry blossom trees… is he your boyfriend?” He glanced at her, searching for any sign in her expression.

Her heart raced at the intensity of his gaze.

“It’s okay; you can tell me if he is,” he added, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear and brushing his fingers against her cheek in a tender yet questioning gesture.

She was taken aback, her emotions boiling just below the surface. How could he be so oblivious to the depth of her feelings for him? Frustration coursed through her veins, and she fought to steady her breath. Did he truly not see what was right in front of him?

“I swear you're so dense, Kunigami-kun…” she muttered. Kunigami caught off guard, tilted his head to the side as she suddenly grabbed either side of his face and kissed him, initiating a full-on makeout session. 

Of course, he didn’t pull away; he could never do that. As they broke the heated kiss, he steadied her on his lap, still in shock. “W-What?” he stammered.

“You dummy! I wouldn’t do this with anyone I didn’t love!” she exclaimed, her voice a mix of frustration and vulnerability. “Didn’t you notice how much I’ve changed because of you? Every time you share your thoughts on your ideals and dreams, I listen intently, hoping to absorb your passion and make it a part of who I am. I want to become someone you can finally see and appreciate before you leave me again. That’s why I…."

Her voice trailed off as she noticed his flustered expression, his cheeks dusted with a pink hue. Realization dawned on her, and she became shy, trying to come up with an excuse for her sudden confession.

“Ah- no. W-What I mean…”

“What’s this feeling of relief?” Kunigami thought, realizing how happy he was that someone had fallen for him. It was especially surreal coming from the curvy beauty who had essentially confessed to loving him even before he left for Blue Lock.

“-Ah!” A gasp cut through her throat at the swift motion, she’s pressed against the mattress with Kunigami hovering over her.

“What is it Kunigami-Kun?”

“Sorry…”

He confidently pulls her legs toward him, his lips brushing against the delicate anklet adorning her ankle. Their eyes lock, and at that moment, the air is charged with an undeniable energy, awakening a thrilling response deep within her.

“Sorry for not noticing.”

Giving a final kiss at the tip of her toes, before he wrapped her legs around his waist, tugging him closer to her and her slick heat.

Feeling the dizziness swirl in her head and the world around her blur, she caught sight of Kunigami. His hand was firmly wrapped around his cock, and the way he stroked it was both deliberate and intense, drawing her attention like a magnet until he bumped the head of his cock against her, pressing right at her swollen bud, responsive to his every move.

A low groan pulled from his throat with each inch of him she was able to take. A small roll of his hips had her sobbing and wiggling to get more of that delicious friction she ever so desired.

His hips leave hers, only for a second before slamming back against hers again, glistening juice leaving a connected thread that snaps against his own trimmed pubic hair.

Every slow action feels excessively slow for their desperate selves, yet each is deliberate. They understand how to prolong their pleasures and know the right spots to make them come undone.

Yet Kunigami held back, pretending he wasn't just as desperate for her, as if he truly had the self-control he feigned in her presence. And yet he wanted to throw all that away to throw her legs over his shoulder and fuck her in a mating press until they both passed out.

He just wants to make her completely his.

Shifting his angle, his cock was thrust deep inside of her, slow yet powerful, pleasure building and rising. 

"I won’t allow you to rest."

“Me too.”

The building in her belly reached a feverish pitch. Her abdomen became unbearably tight, her walls tightening around Kunigami’s cock, squeezing him and making him sigh in pleasure.

In a daze, she feels Kunigami's lips meet hers, igniting a passionate kiss that leaves no room for hesitation. She firmly locates his hands, grasping them with purpose as they connect in an exhilarating moment that demands attention.

The sound of skin slapping against each other was deafened by her cries of ecstasy. She whimpers, eyes rolling back and legs shaking, “Hm! I’m gonna cum! I’m gonna cum! I’m gonna…”

Mind going blank, lewd moans and ears ringing, her body finally succumbed to the pleasure he brought her. Her cunt clamped down on him, milking him for everything he got and forcing him deeper by insisting her legs remained locked around his waist as she continued to ride out her high. Kunigami nearly collapsed as a result. 

He breathes her name, an impassioned and urgent appeal that hovers in the air. Their foreheads meet, and for a minute, the world melts away—it's just the two of them, their breaths intertwining. Sweat glistens on their bodies, with drips falling from his moist bangs to her chest.

“I-I love you~”

Her eyes shoot open at his confession. 

“Me too. I love you so much,” she breathlessly admits, her voice trembling as she stares deep into his eyes, tears brimming in her own, shimmering like stars. With a rush of feeling, she pulls him closer, drawing him in for a kiss.

Kunigami uses this motion to slam his hips against hers one last time as he cums.

He kept himself steady as he emptied his last load, where he finally allowed himself to relax. As he enveloped her in his warm embrace, the softness of her curves pressed against him, creating a cocoon of intimacy. He felt a profound sense of comfort as if he were her safe haven, where worries melted away and only the enchanting rhythm of their heartbeats remained.

Oh, how she loves this man and how he means well with everything he's done, but with the sudden confession from the man she fell for, the heat flooded between her thighs once more.

She shifts their bodies, with her on top and a shocked Kunigami on his back. She straddles over him, Her fingers trailing along his toned chest. She gives him a lustful look and licks her lips.

“Now I believe someone owes me a night filled with restlessness; I hope it's not a lie.” She teases.

“Never.” He growls, his callus fingers digging into the fat of her thighs. 

Unable to resist her anymore, Kunigami confidently grasped the back of her neck and pulled her in closer, capturing her lips in a commanding kiss that left no doubt about his intentions.

In the end, someone who is willing to love the person for who they are is Kunigami Rensuke's ideal woman.

[zqxouii]

not again!

bachira meguru x fem!/afab!reader | genre : smut, mdni 18+ warnings : cursing, first time, unprotected sex, m!/f! reciving + giving, pet names, praising | wc : 1.8k

a tough game against a cute rival can be a big pain in the ass. even the tiniest little mistake has the power to turn the game of 1v1 all way around.

especially when you can't even focus on the game cuz he's the one you're up against, it isn't easy to try controlling the way you blush when he's all fired up and dribbling over the park ground, his eyes locked on yours.

you're his neighbor, one of the only few friends he's ever had, you've both grown up together, years passing by with your feelings getting deeper for him.

but all this still doesn't affect your play somehow.

"let's see.." bachira pants as he's running all around nonstop doing new fancy tricks trying to dribble past you. "so.. tell me y/n, what do I get when I make this one?"

"eh- how 'bout 2 packs of pineapple candy?" you clench your teeth, stealing the ball effortlessly from him, sprinting towards his goalpost. "this is the last goal for today so you might not get them, though!" you let out a chuckle.

competing with him for years has made his playstyle very known to you, so its kinda easy for you to predict his moves.

at last, you win today, again, very much to bachira's annoyance. "not again.. don't gimme that shit again" he frowns, which he doesn't do often.

you giggle a bit, thinking he must be a little frustrated on the fact that you've been constantly winning from him the past few weeks, not noticing what he's about to do next, "meguru..? will you listen to m—"

the next moment, you find yourself in his grasp, holding you up with his arms, folding your legs around him, as he hungrily leaving hickeys all around your collarbone.

it all seems surreal, you've been waiting for this moment from god knows how long but you are quick to react.

"what the fuck are you doing bachira—?! we're in pu—public put me d—down right now!"

his wet kisses making you crazier every second, it looks like he's not even afraid of that, or anything at all that moment.

he's fucking into it.

the tension is electric between you two when the first drop of rain hits your face, catching you off guard. the storm seems to appear out of nowhere, the sky darkening quickly as thunder rumbles in the distance. the drops start slow, then quickly build, transforming into a downpour that soaks you both within seconds.

the air is suddenly colder, and the sounds of rain crashing against the pavement and your breath mixing with the pounding beat of your heart echo around you. the coolness of the rain against your skin contrasts sharply with the heat of bachira's body, pressed so close to you.

you shiver gets down you spine, but it’s not just from the rain. he looks up, his face just as drenched, his hair plastered to his forehead. he smirks at you, wild-eyed, as if the storm only fuels his energy.

you can't help but stare.

"guess we're stuck out here now" he teases, his fingers brushing against your wet skin, sending a jolt through you. "unless you want to keep this up in the rain."

you're not sure if he's being serious, but before you can respond, his arms wrap around you again, lifting you effortlessly. you squeak, not fully prepared for him to carry you.

though you can't remember how did he actually bring you home so quick, he puts on the wooden floor, back on your legs pushing you against the glass door just as you get in.

the rain falls harder now, the drops almost seeming to create a blur around you. the storm has a power all its own, but it's nothing compared to the tension in the air between you two.

he’s soaked, the thin fabric of his school club jersey clinging to his toned, wet body, the definition of his abs visible through the material.

you feel the strength in his grip, his muscles flexing as his arms pull you closer, making your breath catch in your throat.

"y/n.." his voice is a low, gravelly whisper, laced with something more. something raw. "I'm sorry for this.. but I need you" the words hang in the air, heavy with need.

before you could say anything, his lips are on yours—sudden, urgent.

the kiss is demanding, desperate, and it takes everything in you to not melt under the weight of it. his tongue slides against your lips, a silent request, and you part them just enough for him to deepen the kiss.

it’s all messy. it’s everything you’ve been trying to fight but now can’t resist.

his hands find your waist, gripping you tightly as he presses his body flush against yours. the rain continues to pour down around you both, but it’s nothing compared to the fire building between you two.

you respond instinctively, your own hands threading into his wet hair, pulling him closer. his tongue explores you with an intensity that makes your heart race, each kiss more desperate than the last.

the wetness of the rain, the heat of his mouth, everything blurs together, and you find yourself lost in him, in the sensation of him.

it's the feeling you always wanted to sense everyday.

bachira's kiss is wild, full of the hunger he's kept hidden for so long. you feel it in every flick of his tongue, every press of his body against yours.

you lose yourself in the kiss, forgetting everything around you, until all that’s left is the both of you, tangled together in the storm.

you both pull off after some seconds, lust filled in each others eyes. bachira lifts you again, slowly walking towards the couch, trying to control his trail of thoughts.

"should I ask her about it?" , "what if she doesn't feel comfortable?"

he places you on the couch, at one end and sits on the other end, trying hard to not to spill shit, not looking at you.

"wanna.. wanna do it?"

he looks up at you, dumfounded. were his thought read by you or you wanted him that bad like he needed you?

"huh..? I—" he's cut off, "you said you needed me before."

the next second, you were on your knees in front of him, eyeing his bulge curiously. you took a glance at him and slowly slipped his cock out, it had to be atleast 7 inches.

you paused for a bit, gulped and took a deep breath before grabbing him. this only added to nervousness bachira had in his mind, making him rest his head on the back of the couch.

just a couple of stokes in and he was as red as a tomato, a moaning mess. you wanted to give him all the pleasure he deserves in the world, he's all you've ever desired.

so you did the best you could to satisfy him, the slow and sensual handjob it seemed at first, the faster and rougher it was the next moment.

now, the situation wasn't in control, heavy pants & lewd moans filled the air. as your hand movement went faster, you could feel him twitch more and more each second, he was close, you were doing great.

SPLAT!

you licked bachira's cum off your face, giving the heavily breathing man a wink. he sat up straight, holding your jaw between his thumb and index finger, caressing your cheek.

"you- did a great job, darling" he murmurs as he closes the distance between this mouth and your ear.

"my turn now."

there he is, on his way to bring you to his bedroom as he wants you to be comfortable and be slow with the process, you're both are having your first times, after all.

his room is all decorated based on soccer—posters, figurines of famous players, messy clothes all around. you feel so cozy, so relaxed here and bachira's scent everywhere adds more love in to the air.

he follows your eyes, taking a long look of the room then gives you a pat on the head. "shall we continue, miss?"

a small nod and his gaze turns like that of a predator. he spreads you legs apart, devilish intentions on their peak, only he knows how he controls himself every fucking day not to masturbate to your photo.

he knows what he needs to do.

getting close to your clothed clit, he takes a quick sniff before giving some licks. he reaches for your panties, sliding them off your glassy soft skin, making you blush red making you hit your head back on his pillow in pleasure.

God, this man knows stuff.

he slowly traced all your curves with his tongue around your cunt to your tits, sucking on the right one while putting in a couple of his fingers in your sweet spot and exploring your core, taking you to heavens.

"I can't resist it now."

bachira doesn't take more than just a few seconds to strip his clothes off. "may I?" you didn't respond, ofcourse getting fingered from your long time crush was already a lot to process.

he understood the look on your face and slowly slid his dick in you, your inner walls taking him well, your wetness for him turning him even hornier.

quickly pulling half his cock out, bachira putting power to thurst deep inside you. he had this little goal in his mind to give you your best first time, to make you his, forever.

as a continuous series of rough thrusts went on, you tried your best to make it up to his efforts and return his favour, your lips locked on his throughout the process.

this was it. you were close, he was close. it was the time you both had been waiting so long for.

his dick now on your stomach, he let his cum out on your body with little droplets of his release on your face too while you let your tensions out on his silk bedsheet.

not taking too long afterwards, bachira was fast to clean you up. he rushed to the bathroom to get a small towel soaked in lukewarm water for you right after you were done.

he even got you dressed up in a new dress, that he had planned to gift to you for your birthday the next day.

his care, love and affection was all that you ever wanted. he also wanted you rest for a couple of hours, to cool yourself down with some snacks and coke, staying curled up to you in his bed.

how adorable. how precious he is.

© zqxouii — the storyline belongs to me and I do not consent anyone to translate, repost or rephrase my writing on any other platform so I expect you to respect my boundaries.

[viboraneno]

╰┈➤ Tempest

➜ Synopsis: What should've been a simple interrogation turns to more than that when the suspect takes an interest in you.

➜ Pairings: Criminal!Tabito Karasu x Detective!Reader

➜ This Fic Contains the Following: Fem!reader, semi public sex, dubcon (but for only like a minute lol), threats of getting caught, unprotected sex, cunnilingus, fingering, karasu being a tease ig idk he's a strange one

➜ WC: 3,470

➜ Note: a piece for the criminal collab event by the ever amazing @nxuvillette! def had fun writing this! ok ik the votes wanted nanami but i'm gonna let that idea cook a little longer to make it special for you guys <3. i also wanna thank @mitsuwuyaa for exchanging ideas back and forth with me and being my beta! you're the best <333

➜ Taglist: @eveningatthemoviesnetwork @pixelcafe-network @theseabreezestreet @lovedbydaisyx

“This is the one that you’ve been assigned to, he’s quite the repeat offender according to his rap sheet. Suspect is also known for playing mind games; so whatever he says to you, just don’t react and keep calm.”

You nodded as you looked down at the file your coworker gave you as you two walked, holding his mugshot in your hand before pulling out the contents.

‘Tabito Karasu,’ you read to yourself. ‘alias “The Assassin”… what a guy, huh?’ His appearance definitely caught your attention besides his criminal record. Minor crimes on the record soon escalated to major ones that would’ve definitely had him behind bars for a handful of years or even longer than that. How he managed to be out on the streets up until now was beyond you. Even then, he apparently didn’t come quietly and put up quite the fight for your fellow officers.

“Be careful, Detective. Don’t fall for anything he tells you,” with that, the both of you entered the interrogation room where you were greeted by him: Karasu. The Assassin. A thief. Whatever alias he went by, it suited him well. He already had his eyes on you when you entered and they were scanning up and down your figure almost gleefully, a smirk slowly spreading along his face.

“Well now… what’s this, Officer? Ya got a cutie to entertain me with?” He would sit up from his slouching position, smirk still intact. You could already feel that this was gonna be a long interrogation.

“Don’t even start with that, I’m here to talk to you about what happened,” you said, glaring at him. Yet he didn’t seem bothered by your snippy reply. In fact, he only raised an eyebrow.

“Oh? Ya just wanna ‘talk’ ta me, huh? By all means, be my guest, Miss Detective; I’m already dyin’ ta know what our chat’s gonna be about,” he would lean back in his chair, arms folded behind his head without another care in the world. The handcuffs attached to him did not seem to bother him at all.

With that, you were given a pat on the shoulder and a whispered “good luck” as your coworker left. Now left alone, you let out a sigh as you took a seat on the other side of the table to begin the interrogation. All the while Karasu’s eyes followed your every movement, almost as if he was studying you.

“Now, Karasu, I’m gonna ask you a few questions,” you began, sitting comfortably. “The reason why you’re here is because you’re suspected of being part of a big robbery that took place the other night in Shibuya. Other officers have reported you as the one behind it all, do you deny it?”

Karasu tilted his head in response, not unlike a curious crow. “What do ya think? Do ya reckon I'm the ringleader behind that whole mess?” No direct answer, just answering a question with a question. This made you bite the inside of your cheek in annoyance. You were told to expect this type of thing from him after all, he wasn’t someone to admit to anything or even break down that easily.

“Yes, I truly believe that you were behind the robbery. The discovery that the officers made have led the trail back to you, along with talking to neighbors of yours that have confirmed that you entered and left your apartment around the time that it all took place,” you said. “On top of that, witnesses described the thief as having dark blue eyes and a tall muscular figure. One of them even said they saw a beauty mark on his face. And guess who matches that description?”

And yet, Karasu did not look the least bit worried. After all, he did have quite the record and it wasn’t like he was going to stop after this one if he were to somehow get off easy. His relaxed posture almost unnerved you, just how can someone be so calm after being told he was caught and identified? That was something you could never understand with men like him.

“‘Kay, so yer guys ID’d me,” he stated, shrugging. “That doesn’t mean anythin’ to me. If ya think I’ll stop, ya better think again, Miss Detective. But let me ask ya this… do ya really think that this time I’ll be put away for good?” He asked as he leaned forward, his elbows now on his table. He rested his head on his hand, his stare almost mocking if it weren’t for his smirk disappearing. Was he asking you a serious question?

You stared back, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you squirm under his gaze. “Yes, I think that this time you’ll be behind bars for a long time if not for life, especially with everything you’ve done before.” But this didn’t even make him frown. If anything, it made Karasu smirk at you again. If you didn’t know better, he probably found it adorable that you weren’t playing any games with him.

“Yer lookin’ a little angry there, Miss Detective. What have I done to make ya so pissed off at me?” He asked, leaning back into his chair once more. This time, his hands were now under the table. “Did I do somethin’ to ya personally? Or… is there something that’s goin’ on there?” He said. His eyes seemed to be scanning you once more and you almost felt yourself shiver. But you still tried to keep strong and not let him see any weakness he could exploit.

“No, there isn’t anything you’ve done to me personally. I just detest thieves,” you replied. That seemed to make his eyes light up.

“Ya don’t like no good thieves like me, huh? A man’s gotta steal to eat, ya know? It’s not right to lock up someone starvin’ like me, gorgeous.” His eyes seemed to burn into yours more as he said that.

There was no way he was serious about this. “You look well fed to me,” you scoffed back. “There’s no way that you could be a starving man as you claim you are.”

“Then I guess we’re both liars, you and me.”

That took you off guard for sure. “What are you talking about?” You asked, confusion crossing your face.

“Maybe I am lyin’ about not bein’ well fed, but yer definitely lyin’ as well, Miss. I overheard one officer say that yer the best detective here… but that comes with a lot of detriments, right? When was the last time ya ever had free time to care for yourself? Hm?”

You were even more confused, “I don’t know what you’re even trying to say. Are you insinuating that I don’t take care of myself? I don’t understand-” you were cut off by your radio crackling with the voice of your captain, “Detective?”

You picked up the radio to answer some questions about the suspect and the interrogation, but you failed to account for one thing.

You made a huge mistake that would seal your fate in this room: you took your eyes off Karasu. And that was all it took for him to make his move.

As you put your radio down after what felt like a lengthy conversation despite lasting for close to a minute, you would feel a hand cover your mouth. Your heart began to pound as your skin began to crawl, how did this happen? When did he move? How did he break free?!

As if sensing your panicking thoughts, you felt Karasu’s lips brush against your ear. “When you've been in and out of the doghouse like me, it gets real easy to slip off the ‘cuffs,” he would whisper before licking the shell of your ear, this sent a chill down your spine. Before you could struggle, you felt his free hand slide down your hip to between your legs. You tried to squeeze your thighs together but to no avail. He was so much bigger and stronger than you, any attempt at fighting back was going to fail.

“Poor, poor, thing,” he sneered, his hand cupping your cunt through your trousers. “Yer pent up, are ya? I can feel how warm ya are through these. In fact… When was the last time ya took care of this dry spell here? And I mean, really took care of it. Probably haven’t had a real orgasm in ages, huh?”

You tried to struggle against him, but he refused to let you go. “Oh no, no, no, baby; why don’t I give ya a helpin’ hand with this?” Before you could react, you felt him unbutton your trousers and slide his hand down to your clit and slowly began rubbing it. “Now, I’m gonna move my hand away and ya better not scream… at least not yet. These walls here are soundproof after all.” He was not wrong and much to your dismay, it only seemed to stir something within you. Were you actually getting excited?

This didn’t escape Karasu either, “Oh, ya like that?” He cackled, “Who’d have thought that Miss Detective here likes havin’ dirty criminals touch her?”

“No! That’s- that’s not true-” you tried to protest, trying to wriggle yourself away from his hold on you. And yet he was too strong for you to break free.

“Yer lyin’ and I can smell it, but that’s okay. A beautiful woman needs a real man like me to take of ya after all,” He only moved his fingers along your clit faster as he used his other hand to push your trousers down your legs. The chill in the room was more obvious as you felt the goosebumps already rise on your skin.

You tried to purse your lips together to hide any moans but he wasn’t having it, pressing his thumb down on your clit. A loud gasp escaped your lips in response.

“Why hide, babe? No one’s gonna hear ya anyways. Unless,” you didn’t even have to look at him to know that he was smiling, “ya didn’t lock the door comin’ in, did ya?” You nodded frantically, so sure you locked it before taking a seat for the interrogation.

“See? Nothin’ to worry about.” Before you could say anything else, he would lay you on top of the table and pull your pants off completely along with your panties, exposing your wet cunt to him. He licked his lips before he dove in, not wasting any time to get a taste of you.

He was right, it had been way too long since you’ve been with someone and it showed. A few licks at your clit was enough to have you moan and trap his head with your thighs but he didn’t seem to mind. In fact, it encouraged him to keep going and even ravage you more. His large hands would grasp at your hips and squeeze them as he ate you out like he was eating his last meal on earth.

He even went as far as to move his hands upwards to begin unbuttoning your shirt.

“Karasu…” you moaned, trying to reach for any part of him to hold onto as he made you see stars. No one has ever made you feel this way before and you almost screamed as you felt him inch a finger inside you as he continued licking at your clit, one finger soon turning into two as he stretched you out. Preparing you to take him.

“That’s it, Detective… that’s it…” he cooed as he scissored his fingers in you. “Gotta prep ya for me, you’re doin’ good so far.” His praise made your heart skip a beat as a soft moan escaped your lips.

Before long, you felt him move his fingers away from you before he would spread your legs more for him. You gave him a questioning look, wondering why he pulled away so soon.

“Did ya think that was all? Oh no, I have more than that planned.”

To your surprise that you didn’t notice sooner thanks to the pleasure, he was stroking his cock. The dripping wetness from you was used to lube him up.

“Now why don’t I help ya feel good?” Before you could respond, Karasu would lean over you and begin kissing at your neck, nibbling every now and then as he kissed his way up to your lips. As the two of you kissed each other deeply, his cock would rub against your folds. You moaned against him as you felt yourself grow more excited. If he kept up this teasing any longer, you were so sure that you would break.

Fortunately, your wish was granted when you felt him slowly push his way inside you. A loud moan left your lips as your eyes fluttered closed. Karasu wasn’t faring much either as he groaned before dropping his head on the junction between your neck and shoulder. You gasped when you felt his teeth kiss your skin, but that didn’t bother you. In fact, the idea of a bite mark left by him had you squeeze around him.

Karasu let another groan out as he felt it, his hands squeezing your thighs as he began fucking you with fast, deep thrusts that were soon to have you scream for him. “Fuck, baby… don’t do that. We’re just gettin’ started. I can’t let ya go just yet.”

His pace would quicken right after he said that, spreading your legs more for him. Your arousal would coat his cock more and more, the wet sound being more obvious in the otherwise quiet room. You couldn’t stop the moans spilling out of your lips even if you tried. You pulled the criminal closer to you, draping your arms along his broad back. A very far cry compared to you glaring at and even close to detesting personally only a couple minutes ago.

However, the pleasure would be interrupted by something you hoped that wouldn’t happen until the very end. Your radio once again crackled with a voice interrupting the moment with a “Detective? Is everything alright there?” Your eyes immediately shot open at the voice that asked. It was one of the officers, the same one that escorted you into the room.

Karasu also caught on as he eyed the radio before reaching for it himself.

“No! Wait- don’t touch that!” You began protesting, trying to push him away, but that didn’t stop him as he grabbed the radio, smirking down at your panting form. His thumb was so close to pressing the button and let everything in the room be heard.

“Looks like someone’s callin’ to check on ya, this was supposed ta be an interrogation after all,” he would chuckle at your attempts to grab the radio from his hand as the officer still tried to call out to you.

“Now ya got two options, gorgeous,” he began, grabbing your wrists together with his free hand, “either ya answer and tell yer little coworker that everything’s fine or I’ll be the one answering it. I reckon that Miss Detective here doesn’t want the force ta know that she let someone like me fuck her until she came. Right?”

This made your heart beat rapidly. If Karasu answered, your coworker would guess that something was wrong and rush in only to see you two like this. You couldn’t risk it. How were you going to face the others after all that? “Give me the radio… I’ll tell him that I’m okay…” you tried to speak through uneven breathing.

Without another word, he wordlessly gave you the radio and let you answer. But his thrusts wouldn’t stop, oh no, he would keep going; albeit at a slow teasing pace that was already driving you mad.

“There you are! The interrogation is already keeping you busy?” He had no idea.

“Yeah, sorry.. But everything is fine,” you answered, trying to keep your voice steady whilst Karasu would fuck you. As you were asked a few more questions, you felt your sweet spot being nudged at. You bit your lip in an attempt to stay silent, glaring at the criminal who was making you feel this way. He was not making it any easier for you, almost if he was trying to get you in trouble judging by the gleam in his eyes. Your thighs trembled as you were close to the end. You would be ashamed for cumming so easily, but he was right. It’s been way too long after all.

Thankfully your officer didn’t question you anymore, much to your relief. He bid you goodbye, cutting off his end. Once that was over, Karasu went back to his harsh pace again as if sensing you were gonna reach your climax.

“Good girl, that wasn’t so hard now, was it?” He teased even though he was also losing his composure. Your walls enveloping around him tightly was soon to make him lose it. Unable to hold back anymore, he leaned over you as he kissed you once more. Your tongues tangled together in a dance of temporary passion, a mess that felt amazing in the moment regardless of whether you’ll regret it.

One hand would reach your clit and rub it in circles, aiding your coming release. Unable to help yourself, you grinded against him, trying to chase your orgasm and have him cum with you. “Too good… I’m gonna cum…” Your eyes would close again, the feeling satisfying you more than you could ever describe. No one up until now has ever made you feel this way… and to think he would be the first one to.

“Go on, baby, cum fer me… cum fer me. Aha, there it is… good, baby,” he would chuckle as you finally came. A moan sounded throughout the room as you came all over your cock. You trembled around him as he didn’t stop, continuing to push you beyond your limits. His pace slowed down slightly to draw out your climax as he reached his own, head burying into your shoulder as he groaned. His hips stuttered as he kept thrusting, making sure that every drop filled you up and stayed inside.

After what felt like an hour, he finally pulled away from you. He fixed himself back to how he was before you walked into the room before he helped you dress. You let him pull your bottoms back up and button up your shirt again before he helped you up off the table.

“There we go. That was real fun, Miss Detective, shame we can’t do this again. But I’ll remember this and hopefully dream ‘bout it,” he said, chuckling as if he told a joke. You sighed as you fixed up your hair. Even with the attempts at fixing yourselves properly, anyone would be able to tell that you two had sex. Karasu’s face was slightly flushed and you had potential marks soon to form on your neck. Good thing the bite mark he left on you would stay hidden underneath your shirt. But you couldn’t account for the fact that you were just as flustered as him.

“I…” you started to say, but what was there to be said? You just let him fuck you during a supposed interrogation, you were lucky that the room was soundproof and that you weren’t caught during radioing. But now you had marks soon to decorate your neck and you had to find a way to take care of that before you were allowed to go home.

“Ya gotta leave right? It’s whatever,” he shrugged as he sat back down in his chair. “Ya gotta go back to work after all. But try not to make it any obvious that ya fucked me, okay?” He added, smirking at your embarrassed expression. “But I guess we’re done here now. I’m done talkin’ about that robbery, might as well have yer buddies take me in already.”

You scoffed. “I’ll be fine. But I’ll see you around the prison,” you said, before leaving him in the room, refusing to deal with his smugness any longer or stick around to hear whatever remark he had to say.

As you left, you turned on your radio. “Chief, it’s me. The interrogation is done, the suspect is guilty,” you said, walking down the hall. Even with that, you could already feel his cum pooling into your panties. You sighed, this was going to be a long night and you only had yourself and Karasu to blame. Hopefully you can make it through the rest of the night with his cum inside you.

Perhaps you were no better than a rotten thief like him after all, especially that you let said thief have his way with you without too much of a fight.

[wildchild-401]

Check out my Blue Lock one shots! So far, all of them are sm^t, and most of them have multiple parts.

^ bonus, my favorite ship, RyuSae

[boinin]

I'm not feeling this as an overall cover (the background is a lot)—but!

Seems to me that they're going for gold and silver as Charles's feature colours. Not grey and 💩 brown, as I've seen others put it. That's kind of cool, even if the presentation doesn't work overall.

The contrast chaos of the background is reflective of Charles's character, as are the Cheshire Cat spirals. Tbh I think if they didn't have the big BLUE down the bottom, and the gold/brown were cooler toned, this would be a complete hit.

Charles's pose and expression are great though—Nomura-sensei continues to kill it on the volume illustrations.

[kaisaerinlover]

inspired by @twijaxx take on the kaiser scene at the end of ep 14 😍😍😍

imagine kaiser booked a nice little hotel getaway for you both to get a way for a bit on his break, a really rare occurrence for him. he barely ever gets a break from football so it’s nice to escape once in a while and have some normalcy. berlin is a really nice city too, and kaiser’s pockets are deep enough to afford the best of the best. that’s why you’re both sitting on the balcony after his shower, sipping at champagne worth more money than either of you could have envisioned a few years ago. kaiser likes treating himself to the luxuries of life; expensive champagne, 5 star hotels, designer robes, exquisite jewellery. but most of all you. you are the greatest luxury of them all.

and you know how to use that nice little mouth you have on you as well - so almost every single night like this ends with you on your knees sucking his cock, taking it so well.

and tonight isn’t any different, he’s a bit drunk, you’re sober. he throws you that charming smirk that no girl can resist, not even you, and you know what he wants. the city is so beautiful at this time. it’s a shame your view is obstructed by his cock, or not, you like the sight and he knows you do. he has you on your knees beneath the opaque table, has you at his feet exactly where he likes you, almost spoon feeding you his length. and you open your mouth so meekly. so willing and so obedient for him just how he likes it.

you know you’re doing a good job the way his hand is tangled in your hair and he’s pushing your head down on his cock so hard your nose is smashed into his pubic bone. but neither of you care; you’re both as disgusting and perverted as each other. “keep going f’ me baby” he breathes out. and he feels like he’s about to cum, he really does, until his phone vibrates on the table. you expect him to not answer because of the way he growls in such an irritated manner, until you hear him breathe a sigh of relief. before he can even answer you stop sucking him and look up at him with big pouty eyes. “micha are you really gonna answer at a time like this?” god he wants to destroy you, he really fucking does. looking at you with saliva coating your pretty pink lips and teary eyes whilst you’re on your knees looking so desperate to have his dick lodged in your throat again, you’re a sight for sore eyes. but he just rolls his eyes and snaps at you “obviously, if i was going to press answer before you stopped sucking me, stupid whore” you’re used to his chastising at this point. so you just whine up at him, before he shuts you up again with one thrust of his cock back in your mouth. you’re mad, you look ridiculous with your angry pouting face and his shaft in your mouth. he does a shushing motion to you before he starts speaking on the phone.

he knows you won’t do anything against him, so he just leaves you to cockwarm him whilst he talks. you’re dumb and malleable, so he knows the call doesn’t need to be made in private. every so often he leans down and smacks your cheek affectionately, but god. the wait is so fucking agonising. it really feels like it’s been an hour. you just want to taste his cum, feel his cock, have his fingers inside you, anything. but you’re forced to sit on your knees whilst he makes some stupid call.

so you do something a little unprecedented, especially for a girl who kaiser thought was so obedient. you stand up from where you were originally kneeling and sit yourself down on his cock. and boy is he mad, he’s never shoved his hands over a phone speaker so fast. “what are you doing you fucking idiot?” his words are sharp and he hisses them at you. you just whine back at him. “you’re making me wait too long- don’t w-wanna wait- ah” he wants to fucking punch you right now, wants to grab your jaw and break it. he really fucking does. thank god he’s holding his hand over the speaker or they’d hear those precious moans that only HE deserves to hear. kaiser is really angry at you, but this call is important, so he simply brings his mouth to your ear and whispers, “fine stay like this then, but you better be a good fucking girl yeah? behave or you won’t cum tonight.” and you’re elated, you really are. you feel so full with his cock inside you. kaiser just dead eyes you and goes back to talking with whoever is on the other end. some boring football stuff, you suppose.

but god, this is even more agonising than before now; you stupid horny little thing. it’s even worse now, you wanna bounce on his cock so bad. you want him to fuck you so hard oh so desperately, but if you move you know you’re in trouble. he has one hand holding his phone to his ear as he talks and the other twirling pieces of your hair around his finger as he stares off into the serene view of the city. god you hate this, you hate it so much. you hate how sweetly he’s playing with your locks, how the city is so fucking peaceful and boring, and how he’s not doing anything. kaiser is a man who knows how to control all of his stimuli, he’s toying with you, you’re too stupid to realise it. he wants to laugh at you and your pathetic state, but he can’t; he has matters to attend to!

your pretty little head is filled with nothing except thoughts of how hard you want him to bang you on this stupid little table. how you want him to just bend you over and fuck the living shit out of you. but he’s still talking. you’re so desperate, poor stupid you, you contemplate moving despite his words. but that won’t end well. but i called you stupid for a reason, you did it anyway! you try to do it as lightly as you can; you really swear! you’d never want to anger your boyfriend on purpose. but it’s on his fucking cock you idiot. you think he can’t feel it. he growls in your ear, getting agitated now “listen you fucking whore, if you can’t even wait a few minutes for me to finish talking what does that say about you?” he’s insulting your self control. it’s true you’re so pathetic. but he keeps going to your surprise, having muted his end of the line to give you this scolding. “pull that shit on me again you little bitch and i swear to fucking god i will leave you like this and i won’t touch you ever again. understand?” he’s angry, and you gulp. kaiser’s wrath is not something anyone would ever want to face. but you’re so desperate, you beg, you plead for him to reconsider “p-please- can’t wait more- i can’t micha i can’t i can’t i ca-“ and god does your sweet begging just make him even harder. pisses him off even more. he has your throat in his tattooed hand now. “i said, do you understand, don’t make me ask again, engelchen” engelchen, what an ironic nickname for what you’re doing right now. “mmmhm- micha-“ he slaps you a bit. “use your words or i might not know what you mean, baby” he’s such a fucking tease. it’s so hard to speak without moaning, and you know if you get him in trouble he’ll be super pissed. that’s a line you don’t wanna cross for sure. “u-understand micha-“ and he glares at you. but he releases his grip, picks up his phone and praises you before he unmutes himself again. “good girl, wait a few more minutes yeah? then i’ll give you what you want.”

those few minutes were the most painful minutes of your life. even torture couldn’t compare to this. you want him so fucking bad, you’re like a bunny in heat, and he forced you to wait and sit still the entire time. if you so much as moved he shot you a look so cold and mean it could probably kill the average person. you’re used to it; and you hate the fact it turned you on even more. you’re literally foaming at the mouth, bless your poor soul. you don’t even realise when your boyfriend finally hangs up the phone until he grips your waist again and takes a swig of his champagne. ready? and you’re so ready, oh you’re so fucking ready, you nod so eagerly - when you hear the glass clink on the table and feel him picking you up off his lap you know what’s coming.

it’s like heaven when he bends your sweet little ass over the table and fucks you into oblivion. you whined so much, god your moans are music to his ears. the neighbours probably thought there was an early christmas choir with all the slapping and the noises. no; that’s just you and your boyfriend’s disgustingly crude display of love. kaiser is a rough fucker, and today is no different; well, yes it is. he’s mad at you, he’s so mad, you can tell from the way he’s holding your head down against the table and smashing his fat girth so hard into your little cunt. you might just split open. it wouldn’t surprise you. but who cares? this is like heaven.

all of his rage from your stupid, impatient, slutty antics is poured into each thrust. after he was nice enough to let you sit on his lap? “you fucking slut, you- ah- deserve this so much-“ he condescends you as he pounds your little backside. your pussy is aching and his cock is filling you up and hitting the right places so well. he pulls your face up by the hair just enough for you to be able to respond to him. he wants to hear you. “m-michaaa- hard-der- more- micha- ‘m sorry- love you- love your cock- love you lo-love you-“ your cries are so cute. he loves your teary face and your desperate whines. with a final hard thrust he finally finishes inside of you. and just the feeling of his hot cum in your womb is enough to give you an orgasm too. the feeling of him inside you is incredible. you’re kinda like a jigsaw puzzle; you want to laugh at that thought. that would be a really disgusting puzzle.

when he finally pulls out, your saliva from before and his cum drip out of your pussy. there’s slick rolling down your legs and your hair is all messed up. he doesn’t like seeing his essence leak out of you though, so he roughly pushes it back in with two fingers and leans down to peck your forehead. “today i was nice, you and me both know that. fix up your act, prinzessin” and all you can do is nod, you both know nothing will change, you’re a cockdrunk little slut. but you can pretend, you’re both good at that. all you can do is pant as you feel him lift you into his arms and lean into his chest.

tonight’s sleep is gonna hit so different.

[whosyourfavevoicedby-polls]

[wjehfshs]

He is a beautiful chubby man

[leemon-shark]

OH MY GOD RAICHI ERWHVEUVEWUIRUEI ILY ILY ILY ILY

ILY MOD /P

As you should

{-reaching out his hand to pat your head, although awkwardly-}

(mod: ILY YOU TOO, he's in a calmer mood today)

[viboraneno]

SCREAMING BUT WITHOUT THE S also i'm doing good babes and my discord and inbox is always open if you wanna talk <333

heyyyy girl, may i request "dacryphilia" with yukimiya? ^v^

omgeee yes ofc my love <33 yukimiya (that sexyyy man) comin right up!!

how are you btw?? feels like i haven't talked to you in forever (which is my bad, I've been so busy with life)

also, here is the full list if anyone wants to request anything!!

kenyu yukimiya x fem!reader

warnings: dacryphilia, degradation, pet names, mentioning of vaginal sex

minors and ageless blogs fuck off

"Aww, look at you," Kenyu says, raising your chin to look at him. Your jaw sore from sucking his cock and your mascara smudged.

Your lips quiver slightly, and the tears in your eyes sting from the makeup.

"You couldn't finish me off, could you?" he asks. "All because you are such a little crybaby." Kenyu's coos and soothing touch almost make his words nonexistent to you, but that is never the case.

"'M not a crybaby," you pout, a tear falls from your face, catching your lie.

"You sure?" he asks rhetorically; he already knows the answer. "I love seeing those big tears of yours."

"You're mean," you retort. This makes him chuckle.

"It's okay, baby, I will fuck the tears out of you instead," he offers. Your eyes widen at this revelation. He helps you to your feet before pinning you up against a wall. He really knocks you off your feet with how fast his movements are.

"K-Kenyu," you gasp.

"Just you wait, baby," he starts. "You won't be able to form coherent words when I'm done with you."

© c1nna1nmyr0ll 2024, all rights reserved. do not plagiarize, use for ai, copy, translate, or repost my content on any platform. comments, reblogs, and likes are loved

[foxtrology]

blue velvet (9)

harry castillo x reader

series

word count: 20k

warnings: no y/n, 28 year age gap, female reader, fluff, smut. unedited, all mistakes are mine.

There was a pot on the stove that kept boiling over. Just slightly. Not loud. Just that soft hiss of starch against metal, the kind of domestic sound that didn’t register until it had already left a mark.

She didn’t hear it at first.

She was folding laundry with her knee pressed against the side of the couch, a towel slung over her shoulder like it had something to say. The loft was quiet in that way it always was midafternoon—humming the floorboards, the occasional rustle of the lemon tree Harry insisted they drag inside for the winter, and the thrum of traffic seven stories down.

The water hissed again. Frances yowled in protest from her perch on the windowsill, tail flicking like a metronome for the restless. She blinked. Stood. Moved the pot. And then just…stood there. Hands on the lip of the stove, steam brushing her face like something personal.

It had been a year. Almost to the week. The wedding had taken place on a day that smelled like sea salt and rot. The kind of day that came with folded napkins and teeth behind every smile.

Lucy had walked down an aisle she didn’t own in a dress that tried too hard, and Harry—Harry had stood beside her like an act of defiance. Unshaken. Solid. Watching with his hand on her thigh, his mouth at her ear.

A year later, and she still remembered the champagne glasses sweating in her hand, the way Francesca had said, “You look like a movie star who burned down the studio,” and the way John—her John, in that unreal, tragic, strange little way—had looked at her like she was a ghost he couldn’t place.

She stirred the pasta absentmindedly. It had gone soft. Mushy, really. Harry would pretend to like it. He always did. The front door creaked open. Not loudly. Just that familiar, specific sound of the lock catching on the wood, followed by the low thud of his shoes on the threshold.

“Baby?” he called.

“In the kitchen,” she said, already scooping the noodles into a bowl.

Harry’s tie was loose. His hair wind-blown in a way that meant he’d walked home despite the driver’s offer. His coat was slung over one arm like it had betrayed him. He kissed her cheek. Barely a breath.

Then stared at the bowl. “This is a crime.”

She smiled. “It’s mushy.”

“It’s illegal.”

“You’ll eat it.”

“I’ll love it.”

And he did. Of course he did.

Ate the whole thing with the quiet stubbornness of a man who would go to war for a dish he hated, if only because she’d made it. She sat across from him, legs tucked under her, chin in hand. Watched him eat like she didn’t already know the way his mouth turned down when something was too salty, or the way he hummed slightly when something reminded him of a childhood he didn’t talk about.

He looked up at one point, eyes narrowing. “You’re staring.”

“You’re handsome.”

“I'm old.”

“You’re both.”

Harry Castillo, in his mid-fifties and no longer quite the young thing of Wall Street he'd once been called, leaned back in his chair and said, “You’re ridiculous.”

“Say that again when I’m in your bed later.”

He did not reply. But he finished the pasta. And kissed her wrist when she took the bowl away. The thing about Harry was that he didn’t lie. Not to her. Not even when it would’ve been easier. He told the truth like it cost something, but he paid anyway. Which is why the silence—lately—felt off. Not a big silence. Not a dangerous one. But a different one. Something about the way he left the office a little earlier. The way he turned off his phone at dinner.

The way he started locking the drawer of the old walnut desk they kept in the corner of the loft, the one that used to hold little more than spare charger cords and two unread novels. She didn’t think he was cheating. God, no. But doubt was like that. Slippery. Ugly. It didn’t arrive with sirens, just whispers. Just a look. A turn of his head. A glance that didn’t land.

She sat on the edge of their bed that night and stared at her reflection in the old freestanding mirror he'd bought her for no reason at all.

“You’re spiraling,” she said softly.

Frances, watching from the dresser, blinked once like agreement.

“Shut up,” she added.

Harry had started taking more meetings lately. More calls. And yet the numbers weren’t climbing. There were no new acquisitions. No press releases. Just long stretches of time he wouldn’t account for and a new, hushed kind of warmth when he came home.

It was beginning to rattle her.

Worse—she hated that it did. She was not someone who unraveled. Not someone who paced or spiraled or stared at their partner’s phone like it owed them something. She had survived a father who defrauded an entire generation of investors, who buried her under the weight of his name, who taught her that silence was safer than truth.

She did not fall apart. And yet. Harry left his watch on the bathroom sink the next morning. It wasn’t like him. The man wore it like armor. She stared at it while brushing her teeth, foam in her mouth, wondering what it meant.

By the time she padded barefoot into the kitchen, he had already made coffee. Two mugs. Hers a little lighter, with cream. His bitter as sin. She accepted the cup in silence. He kissed her temple.

Then added, “You wanna come in with me today?”

She blinked. “To the office?”

Harry shrugged. “You’re bored.”

“I am not.”

“You’re going to alphabetize the pantry again. That’s the last station before madness.”

She snorted. “You hate when I come in.”

“No, I hate when the interns flirt with you behind my back.”

“And then you stare them down. Making them run off, scared.”

“Exactly.”

He set the mug down. Looked at her. Earnest. Crooked. “Come with me.”

So she did. She changed into black pants and one of Harry's long sleeve button ups. Left her hair down. Wore the earrings her fiancé had bought her in Rome, even though they pinched.

The car ride was quiet. She stared out the window. Harry’s hand was on her thigh. Thumb brushing slow.

At the office, people paused when they entered. Everyone at his office knew Harry was with her. How could they not? The Carrie Roth article hit every part of the world. And once her problematic family was posted about online too, everyone knew her.

And here she was. She sat in his office on the couch, curled with a book she didn’t read, watching him work. He didn’t speak much. Just glanced at her sometimes like she was gravity. Like she was the reason the pen moved. It should’ve settled her.

But it didn’t. The weirdness grew. Little things. He changed the password on his laptop. He started carrying something in his pocket—tucked, hidden, checked on when he thought she wasn’t looking.

He left earlier one day and came back smelling like pine. Not cologne. Not sweat. Just...forest.

“You okay?” Maya asked over coffee the next week.

She nodded.

“Harry weird?”

“No more than usual.”

Maya blinked. “But something’s off.”

She stirred her coffee. Stared at the spoon.

“I don’t think he’s cheating,” she said quietly.

“Jesus.”

“I don’t. I just—he’s hiding something.”

Maya’s face softened. “Maybe it’s good.”

She scoffed. “Nothing ever is.”

But Maya said nothing. Just squeezed her hand.

That night, Harry came home with a new plant. For the rooftop.

“Why a rosemary bush?” she asked, watching him try to wedge it between their second lemon tree and the aloe.

“Because it’s hardy.”

“That’s a weird word.”

Harry wiped his forehead. “You’re a weird word.”

She kissed his shoulder. Later, she found him standing on the rooftop long after dark, hands in his pockets, staring up at the string lights like they were a message he didn’t understand.

She stepped behind him. Wrapped her arms around his waist.

“Tell me what’s going on,” she whispered.

Harry turned. Looked at her.

And said, “Soon.”

Which made her want to scream. The next day was uneventful. Which made it worse. She alphabetized the pantry again. Found herself staring at the junk drawer. Pulled it open. And saw it.

A small, velvet box. Dark blue. Tucked beneath a stack of contracts. She didn’t touch it. Didn’t breathe. Just closed the drawer. Backed away. Stood in the middle of the kitchen and let her heart thud against her ribs like a warning.

By the time Harry came home, she was on the couch, blanket up to her chin, a book in her lap and nothing in her head. He paused.

“Hey.”

She looked up. Smiled.

“Hey.”

He crossed the room. Sat beside her. Touched her knee.

“You okay?”

She nodded.

Then said, quietly, “I found it.”

Harry blinked. Then laughed. Not loudly. Just…relieved.

“I was going to do it tomorrow,” he said.

She stared at him. At the man who had buried empires with a line of his mouth and now looked like he was afraid she might shatter. He reached into his coat pocket. Pulled out the box. Opened it. The ring was old. Gold. Worn. His mother’s.

“Say something,” he said softly.

She didn’t. Not right away. Just…looked at it. Then looked at him. “You asshole,” she whispered.

Harry’s mouth twitched. “I know.”

“You’ve been making me crazy.”

“I was nervous.”

“You? Nervous?”

He shrugged. “You matter.”

She touched the ring. Touched his hand.

Then said, “Yes.”

Harry exhaled. Like a man coming home. He slipped the ring on. Then kissed her like salvation. Frances yowled in protest. They didn’t care.

Outside, the lights on the rooftop flickered. Inside, time folded quietly. And for the first time in her life— She believed in beginnings. She wrote it in her journal that night—beginnings—underlined once, then again, as if repetition might root it into something permanent.

She wrote it after Harry had fallen asleep beside her, one hand still curved around her waist, the other resting lightly against her thigh like a promise.

He slept like a man who had survived war and still dreamt of it. She watched the way his brow twitched, the way his mouth softened in the dark.

He’d said I don’t snore earlier. He absolutely snored.

It was two in the morning when she turned off the lamp. The ring on her finger felt too big and too right all at once. His mother’s. Worn and beautiful and chosen.

They didn’t tell anyone right away. Not even Maya. For two full days, it was just theirs.

They woke up the morning after he proposed and didn’t go anywhere. Stayed in bed too long, drank coffee under the covers, ordered lunch from the Thai place with the curt delivery guy Harry tipped like he was royalty. She wore one of his shirts. He didn’t even button his. They read. Fell asleep again. Read some more. She forgot what time was. Forgot the way doubt had once lived in her like rot.

She didn’t feel like a woman who had been abandoned by a mother who faked a passport and fled to Mallorca. She didn’t feel like a woman who had a father in prison for crimes she could recite backwards. She didn’t feel like a woman who had a brother buried in a suit he never wanted. She felt—quiet. And loved. And new.

On the third morning, Harry poured her coffee and said, “When do you want to tell people?”

She raised an eyebrow. “People?”

“Maya.”

“Ah. The entire world.”

He handed her the mug. Kissed the top of her head. “Start there.”

She didn’t plan it out. Maya came over for wine and beloved snacks—rosemary crackers, three cheeses, one sliced peach—and as they sat on the floor of the loft, toes under the coffee table and Frances curled into a resentful ball beside the ottoman, she casually held up her left hand.

Maya blinked. Then blinked again. Then launched herself across the floor, nearly knocking over the Manchego.

“No. No—no. You’re kidding. You’re fucking joking. You’re a liar. You’re—”

“Maya.”

“You’re engaged?!”

She nodded. Smiled. Bit her lip. Maya stared at the ring. Then at her. Then at the ring again.

“It’s perfect,” she whispered. “You’re perfect. He’s—I mean, he’s old, but he’s perfect.”

She laughed. Maya tackled her into a hug. Frances made an undignified noise and slunk away.

“When did he ask?”

“Two days ago.”

Maya gasped. “You held it in for two days?! You sociopath.”

“I wanted it to be ours for a minute.”

Maya nodded. “Okay. That’s allowed.”

Then—softer—“You deserve this.”

She swallowed. Maya brushed her hair back from her face.

“Hey. Look at me.” She did. “I’ve known you through some shit,” Maya said. “Some bad men. Some worse men. Some god-awful years. But this? You and him? This is the realest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Her throat tightened. She reached for her wine glass. Maya stopped her. “Wait.”

“What?”

“Let me ask before I explode.”

She smiled. “Ask what?”

“Can I be your maid of honor?”

She burst out laughing. “You’re not even gonna wait for me to ask?”

“No. I’m taking initiative.”

“Yes. You’re my maid of honor.”

Maya grinned so wide her face went pink. “Yes!” Then paused. “What are we doing? When’s the wedding? Are we eloping? Are we doing City Hall with a dress that makes him cry? Are we renting a house in the Alps? Do I have to wear heels?”

She smiled again. “We’re doing a vineyard. Harry owns one. In Europe. He bought it ages ago. Says it’s quiet and private.”

Maya blinked. “You’re gonna be Mrs. Castillo on a vineyard in Europe?”

“Apparently.”

“I love you. I’m going to cry.”

“And I'm going to cry with you.”

“Also I need to start working on my speech.”

“You have a year.”

“Oh, honey,” Maya said, pulling out her phone. “That’s barely enough time.”

Harry did not like the idea of a wedding planner.

“I don’t want a stranger touching our day,” he said.

“Our day,” she smiled, like she couldn't believe it.

“Yes. Our day.” Harry leaned down and kissed her cheek.

He was annoyingly good at logistics, which meant he somehow became the one who coordinated flights, worked with the vineyard’s staff, hired a local florist, and made a spreadsheet that was both terrifying and perfect. She took over the invitations. They wrote them by hand. On real paper. With real pens. At the kitchen table, elbow to elbow.

“Do people even open mail anymore?” he asked, flipping through the stack of thick cream envelopes she’d bought in Brooklyn.

“They will if it’s from us.”

“Arrogant.”

“Confident.”

He smirked. “God, I love you.”

“Write that in your invitation.”

He started with his star's invitation. To his sister.

Isidora, the card said, in his uneven, blunt handwriting. You once said I was born angry. You weren’t wrong. But I’m less angry now. Maybe because I’ve found someone who makes me feel like I don’t have to defend myself just to exist. I’d like you to come. I’d like your husband to come. The girls too. She wants them there. I do too.

She watched him sign it. Watched him hold the pen like a weapon until he relaxed. They addressed the rest together. Francesca and Luca, obviously. Danny of course. Sadie would try to pretend it was just a business trip, but she’d bring three backup dresses and a portable steamer.

James and his wife, who had quietly become their favorite people. She remembered James hugging her at Harry’s birthday and saying, “I’ve driven that man for fifteen years. I’ve never seen him happy until you.” That was it. Ten people. No cousins. No plus-ones. No press.

Well—almost no press. Because someone at Forbes caught wind of it. Some intern probably noticed a shift in the property record, a flight manifest, and Harry’s purchase of three dozen linen napkins from a French wholesaler.

Sadie called in a cold sweat. “I can’t spin this,” Sadie said. “I can’t even contain it.”

“You don’t need to,” Harry replied. “We’re not hiding.”

“But—”

“No but.” His voice dropped. “They can write whatever they want. But this is ours.”

Later that night, as she folded guest favors into cream tissue paper—little jars of local honey and sprigs of dried rosemary—Harry wrapped his arms around her from behind.

“You doing okay?”

She nodded. “It’s a lot.”

“I can make it less.”

“Don’t you dare.”

He kissed the side of her neck.

“I want it to be beautiful,” she murmured.

“It already is.”

She turned in his arms. “I want it to feel like the start of something. Not the end.”

Harry brushed her hair back. “You are the beginning.”

They sat on the couch with the list between them.

Location: check.

Guests: check.

Music: no playlist yet.

Food: Mediterranean, with her aunt’s lemon pasta on the menu even though the aunt had been dead for ten years.

Vows: unwritten.

Dress: unknown.

That's when she decided to start going dress shoping. Harry insisted, “You deserve the best. Go take the credit card and break something.”

In Paris, she found a dress that didn’t sparkle but whispered. That slipped like water. That felt like herself, if herself was allowed to be worshipped for one entire evening. She texted Harry a single photo of the fabric—a blur of ivory silk in a windowpane of morning light. He texted back: I’m not ready.

When she returned, he waited at the arrivals gate with a bouquet of peonies and a driver who knew not to speak.

Back in New York, the loft felt like it had expanded. Like the rooms were waiting. She started sleeping in one of his shirts again. The oldest one. The one with frayed cuffs and a faded logo from a failed tech company Harry had once invested in, then dismantled for parts. He caught her in it one night. Didn’t speak. Just crossed the room and kissed her like she was fire and forgiveness. The next morning, they made pancakes. She burned the first two. He flipped the rest.

“Do we have to write vows?” she asked, watching syrup pool at the edge of her plate.

Harry nodded. “I do. You can freestyle.”

“I’m going to write them.”

He grinned. “Make them dirty.”

“I’m going to make them holy.”

“You’re already holy.”

She threw a piece of pancake at him. He caught it. A week later, her vows still only had the words, You make me want to stay. That felt like enough. But she kept writing. On napkins. On receipts. On the back of old journals. The vineyard sent updated photos—golden light, neat rows of vines, white stone buildings that looked carved into the land. Harry studied the photos in bed.

Then murmured, “You’ll look good against this.”

She rolled over. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m obsessed with you.”

“I know.” She kissed his chest. Listened to his heartbeat. Slept like someone waiting for something soft.

They mailed the invitations in person. Walked to the postbox together in the rain, Harry holding the umbrella too high, her scolding him the whole way. They mailed ten envelopes. No more. No less. Each one sealed with a quiet kind of faith. They stopped for pastries after. Harry bought two. She stole half of his. He didn’t complain. He never did. Not when it came to her.

By the time spring stretched its way toward the city again, the lemon tree on the rooftop had bloomed. Small white blossoms. Sharp scent. Hope. They stood beside it one night, glasses of wine in hand, watching the sun slip behind the buildings.

Harry said, “Do you ever think about the ceremony?”

She nodded. “Every day.”

“What do you see?”

“You. Waiting.”

He kissed her temple. “And you?”

She looked up. “What do you see?”

He touched her face. “The only thing I’ve ever wanted.”

The wind stirred. The city below buzzed like a secret. And for a long, long moment—There was nothing else. Just them. Just light. Just beginning.

Her wedding dress hung at the far end of the closet. A white garment bag, thick and expensive-feeling, with a gold zipper and a hand-lettered card pinned to the hanger. Her name, in soft cursive. A florist’s ribbon threaded through the loop. Harry walked past it every morning.

And every morning, he paused. He never touched it. Never peeked. Not once. He had a quiet, almost reverent fear of it. Like it might vanish if he looked too closely. But he saw the curve of the hem tucked near the floor. The tiny bow of the ribbon. The card with her name. And it did something to him.

Made his heart slow. Then stutter. Made the coffee in his hand feel warmer. The morning light feel softer. It was a silent, constant reminder—he was marrying her. Her. The woman who burned toast and kept rearranging their fridge magnets to spell out the most random words she could think of. The woman who let Frances sleep on his side of the bed, then teased him for sleeping like a corpse. The woman who made him believe in love again. His future. Right there. In the corner of their shared closet.

Sometimes, when she was still asleep and he was getting dressed, he’d glance at it, just once, and mutter under his breath, “Jesus Christ.”

Not out of nerves. Just out of disbelief. He was really marrying the love of his life.  Because this—this quiet life, this rooftop lemon tree, this woman asleep in his bed in one of his t-shirts—was everything he’d stopped believing he could have.

She still visited him at work. Despite herself. She hadn’t wanted to work at the office. Had resisted. Loudly. She didn’t want to be “the girl who sits at a desk outside her fiancé’s door and color-codes paperclips.”

But then boredom crept in. So did curiosity. And the understanding that if she wanted a certain kind of cheese served at their wedding, she had to email six Italian vendors, not two. So she showed up one Tuesday with her laptop and a sharp opinion on chair rentals. And never really left. She didn’t have a title. Didn’t want one. But she took meetings when she felt like it, made suggestions Harry actually listened to, and once rewrote an entire pitch deck because “I couldn’t sleep and you were doing it wrong.”

She’d deliver lunch, too. Sometimes in brown paper bags. Sometimes in Tupperware. Once in a pastry box labeled FOR THE ASSHOLE IN SUITE A. She dropped it on his desk and left without a word. Harry opened it. Smiled. And ate every bite.

His staff watched her like a myth. Not because she was intimidating. But because she was the only person Harry Castillo had ever let into his orbit without pretense. He didn’t bark at her. Didn’t interrupt her. Didn’t ignore her when she curled up on his office couch to read or asked if he’d printed the seating chart. He listened. He smiled.

He sometimes shut his laptop mid-email just because she asked, “Want to go get coffee with me?” And when she did stay home? She wrote her vows. Or tried to. It was harder than expected. Not because she didn’t know what to say. But because every time she tried to pin it down, her words felt too small.

How do you explain I love you so much it makes my hands shake in a way that doesn’t sound like you stole it from a Hallmark aisle? She sat on their couch one afternoon, curled under an old throw blanket in one of Harry’s sweatshirts—gray, frayed, warm from the dryer. Pen in her mouth. Blank page in her lap. Frances on the windowsill, twitching her tail every time a pigeon got too bold.

The sweatshirt was her favorite. It still smelled like his cologne. Or maybe just his skin. She wore it when she missed him, even if he was only five floors away. She chewed the end of the pen, then sighed. Crossed out the sentence she’d just written. Tried again.

You make me feel like I belong somewhere. Not in a house. Not in a city. In a person. In you. Too vague. Too soft. Too—

She groaned and let the pen drop. She needed air. Tea. A distraction. She padded barefoot into their bedroom. Reached for the socks in the laundry basket and noticed it—something crumpled, sticking out from beneath the drawer where Harry kept his extra notebooks. Half-tucked, like it had slipped and never been picked up. She bent down. Pulled it free.

A single piece of thick white stationery, creased in half, faint coffee stain at the top. His handwriting. Slanted. Rushed. She didn’t mean to read it. But she did.

Vows — Draft One (throw this away)

I don’t believe in a lot of things. Not God. Not fate. Not soulmates. But I believe in you.

I believe in the way you look at me when I’m tired and unkind and still trying. I believe in the way you steal my socks and burn my toast and make me laugh when I’m too far inside my own head to find the door out. I believe in how you love me—loudly, recklessly, like I’m not a man who’s ruined everything he’s touched.

You make me believe in things I didn’t ask for. And I want to wake up next to you until my back goes out. I want to read beside you until my eyes give up. I want to argue about dish soap and sing badly in the car and die knowing you knew every version of me and didn’t flinch.

I love you. I’ll love you when we’re old. When we’re boring. When no one knows our names anymore. I’ll love you when I forget to say it.

I’ll love you always. Even after.

–H

Her chest stuttered. She sat down on the edge of the bed. Read it again. Read it a third time. By the end, her hands were shaking. She didn’t cry. Not really. Just pressed the page to her chest and whispered, “Of course I’ll marry you.”

Later, she tucked the draft between the pages of her journal. Didn’t tell him. Not yet. She liked the idea of hearing whatever version he landed on without knowing. But she also liked knowing that he’d written that. That he’d meant it. That even the vow he’d thrown away felt like a liturgy. That night, he came home late. Jacket slung over his shoulder. Eyes tired. Shoulders tight. She met him at the door. Wrapped her arms around him. Didn’t let go.

He let out a breath against her hair. Kissed the crown of her head. “What’s all this?”

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”

“I just missed you.”

Harry smiled. “That’s a crime, you know.”

“What is?”

“Being this in love with me.”

She laughed into his chest. “You’re such a menace.”

“And you’re stuck with me.”

She didn’t answer. Just kissed his jaw.

He groaned. “God, you’re gonna wreck me in that dress.”

“You haven’t even seen it.”

“I don’t need to.”

He walked past her into the closet, started unbuttoning his shirt. Paused. Glanced at the dress bag.

His voice went quiet. “I saw your name on the tag today.” She stepped up behind him. Slid her arms around his waist. “I see it every morning,” he added. “Makes my heart do that annoying thing.”

She smiled. “Thump?”

“More like oh fuck, I’m going to cry.”

She kissed his back. Felt him relax. He held her hands over his ribs. They stood like that for a while. Breathing together.

Spring turned to summer. Summer turned to countdown. The vineyard sent updates. Rows of vines stretching green under the sun. White tablecloths delivered. The chef confirmed. The cake finalized—lemon, of course. She picked her shoes. He picked the wine. Maya picked her dress and cried in the group chat. Francesca wrote a toast that involved both the stock market and Harry’s record achievements. Luca offered cigars. Danny offered to keep the peace along with Sadie.

The final week arrived like a wave. And through all of it—through the stress, the softness, the boxes that kept arriving and the seating chart that kept changing—Harry stayed constant. Steady. Warm. The kind of man who took her hand during a chaotic phone call and squeezed it once. Who let her steal the sheets every night and still tucked her in. Who whispered, “I can’t wait to see you walk toward me,” when she was brushing her teeth.

He wasn’t like other men. He never had been. Because when he looked at her, it wasn’t with hunger. It was with reverence. And when she looked back—

It was home.

The rain started like a joke. A single droplet. Then a few. Then the kind of summer downpour that felt sudden even when it wasn’t. New York in June didn’t apologize. The city had no warning systems for softness. Just clouds and concrete and a kind of cinematic surrender.

She loved it. Always had. That thick, humming kind of rain, heat bleeding through it, streets glistening like film stills.

They were already running late. The car had hit traffic, some construction detour with a single blinking light and a cop who didn’t care who Harry Castillo was. He hadn’t said a word about it. Just let his hand rest on her knee while they idled, watching people dart between puddles, laughing and shrieking and slipping on corners that hadn’t been dry in hours.

He looked good that night. Really good. White dress shirt, sleeves pushed up just enough, dark pants that sat perfectly on his hips, the soft graying scruff. His hair was damp at the temples. He smelled like salt and cedar and that cologne she’d asked him never to stop wearing.

She wore a black slip dress that clung a little, in the way silk does when it rains, and a pair of earrings Maya had talked her into. Her umbrella had snapped in the wind earlier that week—cheap bodega plastic—and she hadn’t replaced it. Harry had his own. Big. Dark blue. Old enough to have been repaired at least twice.

When James, Harry's driver, finally pulled up to the curb, Harry slid out first. The rain was heavier now. He didn’t hesitate. He opened the umbrella with one hand, turned toward her with the other, and held it at that particular slanted angle that kept every drop off her—even if it meant soaking the entire right side of his own jacket.

“Harry,” she said quietly, glancing at the growing damp patch on his arm.

He didn’t blink. “Walk.”

So she did. He kept his stride slow. Steady. Let her take his arm like they were on some old movie set. When a gust of wind caught the edge of her dress, he shifted closer, shielding her with the bulk of his body. They looked like money and history and something romantic you didn’t quite believe until it was in front of you.

The restaurant sat tucked beneath the overhang of a building that had been there forever. Brick. Low lighting. The kind of place that didn’t advertise, didn’t seat walk-ins, didn’t trust Yelp. They’d come here a hundred times. Probably more. The host knew her drink order. The chef sent them things “off menu.” One of the waiters always asked about Frances. 

They hadn’t been back since the proposal. She’d wanted one last dinner here before they flew out. One last night before vows and vineyards and their honeymoon in Lisbon and waking up with a different last name.

Harry reached for the door first. Shook off the umbrella. Opened it for her, like always. And that was when she saw them.

Lucy. And fucking John. At the host stand. Talking. Laughing. And, for just a moment, not noticing them. Lucy looked exactly the same. That too-long fringe. That half-smile that never quite matched her eyes. She was wearing something tan and soft and undoubtedly expensive. She turned slightly—laughing at something John said—and that’s when she saw them.

Lucy's eyes landed on the ring. His mother’s ring. The one Harry kept in a drawer she’d once been told not to open. Lucy stared. The smile faltered. Then—quietly, calculatingly—she turned fully to face them.

“Harry,” Lucy said, voice slicing through the room like the clink of cold silverware. “Wow. This is a surprise.”

Harry didn’t flinch. Just placed a gentle hand at the small of his fiancé's back and said, without looking at Lucy, “We’re late.”

John, smiling awkwardly, stepped forward. “We’re just visiting. Up for a friend’s reunion. Saw this place on a list and figured—”

“You could afford it?” Harry said, voice dry as dust.

John flushed. “Hey, now. I got a job.”

Lucy smiled tightly. “My father brought him on at the company. Construction management. We just bought a house in Chatham.”

“Good for you,” Harry said, voice so flat it might as well have been printed.

She said nothing. Just watched Lucy. Lucy watched her back. Their eyes met. And Lucy’s gaze dropped—to her dress, to her shoulders, to her ring on her left hand. It lingered.

“That’s...quite a ring,” she said finally. “I recognize it.”

Harry’s jaw shifted.

Lucy continued, lightly, like she wasn’t sharpening a knife. “Didn’t you say nobody was ever going to wear it again? That it wasn’t for public?”

Harry’s voice was quiet. Cold. “I said it wasn’t for you.”

The silence was swift. Even the host blinked.

John cleared his throat. “Guess we didn’t get an invite to the wedding, huh?”

Harry turned to him then. Smiled. Just slightly.

“You didn’t get one because you weren’t wanted.”

John’s mouth opened. Then closed. Lucy’s eyes narrowed. And that was when the maître d’ appeared. Harold. Mid-sixties. Glasses pushed up his nose.

“Mr. Castillo. Miss. Your table is ready.” He didn’t even glance at Lucy. “Apologies for the delay. We’ve kept it waiting. Wouldn’t dare seat anyone else.”

Harry nodded. “Of course.”

He touched the small of her back again, guiding her forward. They didn’t say goodbye. She didn’t need to. He didn’t need to. Their silence said enough.

The booth was tucked in the back. Candlelit. Quiet. Familiar. Harry didn’t speak for the first full minute. Just reached for the wine list, handed it to her without asking, and then drummed his fingers once against the white linen tablecloth. She stared at him. He stared back. And then—slowly—he smiled.

“That was terrible,” she said, laughing before she could stop herself.

Harry nodded, smiling, trying not to laugh with her. “It was terrible.”

“She saw the ring.”

“She’s always wanted something that wasn’t hers.”

“She looked like she wanted to bite it off my hand.”

“She can try,” he said, “but I’m faster.”

She laughed again. He didn’t. He just looked at her. Really looked. And then leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, fingers brushing hers.

“I like you in the rain,” he said.

She tilted her head. “Why?”

“Because you love it. And it puts you in a good mood.”

She blinked.

He shrugged. “And because I get to get wet shielding you.”

She laughed. “You're an idiot.”

“Your idiot.”

They ordered the usual. The wine they always liked. The burrata with the peaches. The pasta with saffron. The steak, rare, because Harry swore medium was for quitters.

The waitress—Jess—winked at them as she dropped off the plates. “I’ve already told the chef. He’s sending dessert. Congratulations on your engagement, again.”

“Thank you,” she said, cheeks flushed.

Harry nodded once. His hand was still on hers.

“I want to be out of here before they eat their first course,” he said, very seriously.

She smiled. “You’re so dramatic.”

“Only in defense.”

“Of?”

“You.”

She went quiet and smiled. He let that sit. By the time dessert came—some fig tart thing she didn’t even order—she had forgotten all about the host stand. Because Harry had leaned in again.

And told her, in that gruff, quiet voice that always hit her somewhere low in the chest, “Seeing that ring on your hand might actually kill me.”

She smiled. Soft. Lethal.

“Then it’s doing its job.”

They walked out an hour later. The rain had stopped. The streetlights cast everything in gold. Harry opened the umbrella anyway. Held it above her head, just in case.

“Old habit,” he muttered.

She slipped her arm through his. They walked to the car like the world hadn’t tried to dig up old ghosts. Like love was the only thing that had survived. Because it was. And it always would be.

Lucy didn’t finish her drink. The stem of her wine glass had been pressed between her fingers for too long—skin warming the Sauvignon, knuckles pale from the grip. She wasn’t listening to John anymore. He’d been talking about something—renovations, tile samples, maybe the way her father had offered him more work. She couldn’t recall.

Her gaze had drifted, caught somewhere near the front of the restaurant, where the door still lingered open just enough to let the evening draft roll in. Where Harry and the woman he's going to marry, walked out of the restaurant. The air smelled like wet concrete and wood polish. It reminded her of something old. Something half-remembered. Her nails tapped softly against the glass. She kept seeing it. The ring. That ring. Harry’s mother’s ring.

The one he used to keep locked in a drawer with a tarnished clasp, buried under tax returns and a folded menu from a restaurant that didn’t exist anymore. Lucy had found it once. Early on. When they were still new and reckless and playing house in his penthouse like they didn’t know it was going to burn.

She’d slipped it onto her finger, the way anyone would, the way a girl tries on an outfit she doesn’t think she’s earned. She remembered standing in the mirror. Turning her hand this way and that. Admiring it in the soft hallway light.

He’d seen it. He hadn’t smiled. Hadn’t even looked at her with anything resembling fondness. Just a slow, flat, “Put that back.” And she had. Because it hadn’t belonged to her. It was too heavy. Too real. It had memory in its shape, in the way it sat on her hand like judgment. Now, years later, she'd seen it again.

But this time—

On her. The girl. His girl. The girl who Lucy called a child. In her words 'You brought a child to my wedding.'

Lucy had felt it like a crack along her spine. The sick sort of click when reality shifts a little to the left and you realize you've been left behind without anyone needing to say it. She tried not to watch them walk out. Really, she tried.

John was saying something again—probably trying to fill the space, bridge the chasm that had opened the second Harry’s voice slid across the room like ice. Something about how they must be excited to be heading to Europe soon. Something about Harry’s “usual table” being available when they come back.

But Lucy didn’t care. Her eyes were on him.  On Harry. Through the glass, she could see them in profile—him holding the umbrella just slightly off-center, his right shoulder soaked. Always the shoulder. Always the goddamn coat. The same one she used to tease him about, said he looked like a detective in a French movie.

And her. She looked older now. Not aged, just... solid. Like she'd grown into her own skin. Same soft jawline. Same thoughtful mouth. The kind of beauty that didn’t need permission. Her dress clung to her in the rainlight. Her hand slipped naturally into the crook of Harry’s arm.

And the ring—That ring—caught in the glow of the streetlamp like a quiet fuck you. Lucy exhaled slowly. Her chest felt tight.

“Do you think it’s real?” she asked suddenly, cutting into John’s monologue.

He blinked. “What?”

“Them,” she said, voice softer now, like she was trying to convince herself she didn’t already know. “Their relationship. Their wedding. Do you think they are actually going to go through with it?”

John paused. Sipped his wine. Then, slowly, said, “It looks like it.”

Lucy nodded once. Didn’t look at him. She watched the umbrella close as Harry opened the car door for her. Watched her slip inside, glancing back just once with a grin. Not at the building. Not at the window. Just toward him. Her future husband.

Like she knew he was watching.

“You okay?” John asked, voice cautious now.

Lucy didn’t answer right away. She ran a finger along the condensation of her glass, drawing a small circle, then another. Finally, she said, “Do you remember the night of our wedding reception?”

He blinked again. “Which part?”

“When she showed up. With him.”

John sighed. “Yeah. Hard to forget.”

Lucy looked at him now. “Do you remember what I said to her?”

“You were upset.”

“No,” she said, sharper. “Do you remember what I said?”

John hesitated. Then nodded. “You called her a child.”

Lucy looked away. Back toward the window.

“They’re going to France,” she murmured. “That vineyard. The one he bought before the market crash.”

“How do you kno—?”

“Because I asked once,” she said. “Back then. When I thought maybe I could make a life with him. Asked if we’d ever get married somewhere quiet, somewhere real.”

“And he said?”

Lucy smiled tightly. “He said he didn’t believe in weddings.”

John didn’t speak. Because he knew. He knew it now too. That Harry Castillo had simply been waiting for the right person. Not a woman who understood appearances. Not a girl who grew up in a house that held grudges like trophies. Not someone like Lucy.

She watched as the car disappeared down the avenue, taillights slipping into the current of the city. The server came by with their entrees. She didn’t eat. Just sat there, napkin folded in her lap, staring at the ring on someone else’s finger burned into the backs of her eyes. Because she knew what that ring meant. And she knew that when Harry had looked at her, he had never been capable of the softness she saw when he looked at her.

That wasn’t regret. It wasn’t bitterness. It was something colder. Something closer to envy. Because Lucy, for all her knowing, all her proximity to wealth and power and privilege—

Had never been loved like that. And now she never would.

While Lucy, back at the restaurant was reeling at her table, the couple she was thinking about had just arrived at their loft

The rain had slowed to a whisper against the windows, the kind of hush that made the rest of the world feel like it had stepped back to give them space.

She toed off her shoes by the door, barely speaking. Harry didn’t, either. But the air had changed. Something tight lived in the silence now—something hungry. It shimmered between them, thickening every breath.

He locked the door behind them without looking away.Then—slowly, deliberately—he stepped toward her. One hand still damp from the umbrella, the other hanging loose at his side. His shirt was rumpled, clinging to him in places where the rain had soaked through. The cuff of his right sleeve was pushed up, exposing his forearm and the hairs at his wrist.

She watched him. Harry watched her back. Like a man who had held back for too long. He touched her first. Just a hand to the side of her neck, fingers curling under her jaw like he was steadying her. His thumb brushed the soft hollow beneath her ear, and she let out a breath like it had been trapped in her chest all evening.

Then he leaned in. Kissed her—not gently. Harry's mouth landed on hers like possession. Tongue parting her lips, thumb tilting her chin up to give him more. He kissed her like a man with patience but no more restraint. Like someone who had memorized the taste of her and still couldn’t get enough.

When he finally pulled back, their breath mingling in the space between them, he murmured, “You have no fucking idea what you do to me.”

She smiled, lips kiss-swollen. “Show me.”

His eyes darkened. He stepped forward—pressing her back until her spine hit the wall. Then he kissed her again. And again. And again. His hands moved now—everywhere. Cupping her face, then sliding down to her waist, then gripping her ass hard enough to pull her hips flush with his. She gasped when she felt him—hard against her stomach, straining through his slacks.

“Been like this all night,” he muttered into her neck. “Watching you walk around in that dress. Smile like that. Touch me like it’s nothing.”

“Harry—”

He grunted. Bit down softly on the edge of her shoulder. She whimpered.

“You think I don’t know what you’re doing to me?” he growled. “You think I don’t know you’re wearing that fucking ring and looking at me like you want me to lose control?”

Her breath hitched. He pulled back just enough to see her face.

“You like it,” he said darkly.

She nodded. “Yes.”

He exhaled like that answer hurt. “You’re gonna kill me, baby.”

“Then die,” she whispered, “on top of me.”

That was it. He dropped to his knees. Right there. In the middle of the loft. No ceremony. No warning. Just his large, calloused hands curling around her thighs as he shoved her dress up past her hips.

“Fucking hell,” he hissed when he saw what was underneath. “No panties?”

“Didn’t want lines.”

“I fucking love you.”

He leaned in. Bit the inside of her thigh. She gasped.

“Hold onto the wall,” he said, voice guttural.

She did. Hands braced behind her. Eyes wide. Then—His mouth. His mouth. It met her with such greedy precision that she nearly collapsed. Tongue flat against her clit, then curling. Then flicking. Then sucking.

And he moaned into her. Like this was the meal he’d been starving for. His grip on her thighs was bruising in the best way—anchoring her to him as he feasted. And feasted. No mercy. No slowing. Just Harry—on his knees, devouring her like she was the only thing on this earth that could save him.

“Harry,” she whimpered, knees buckling.

He groaned. “Say my name again.”

“Harry—oh—fuck—”

He sucked harder. She came apart. Loud. Clutching his hair. Whole body trembling like she’d been struck by something divine.

He kept going until her thighs twitched. Until her breathing stuttered. Until she whimpered, “I can’t— please—”

Then he kissed the inside of her thigh, his lips slick, facial hair damp. He looked up. Eyes blown.

“You taste like heaven,” he rasped. “Like mine.”

She didn’t remember how they got to the bedroom. She remembered him carrying her. Holding her like she weighed nothing. Like she was something precious and burning and fragile all at once.

He set her on the bed. Didn’t follow immediately. Just stood there for a moment. Looking down at her.

Then he stripped her first. Slid her dress off over her head. Then he stripped himself. Button by button. She watched every piece fall. Watched the shirt drop from his shoulders—broad and solid, with arms that still made her ache. Watched the undershirt come off. Watched his stomach—soft, comforting, familiar—bared to her like a confession. He caught her looking. Paused. She sat up on her elbows. Reached out. Touched his stomach.

“I love this part of you,” she whispered.

He swallowed. “You’re gonna ruin me,” he said again.

Then pushed his pants off. His cock sprang free—thick, heavy, already leaking. She sat up fully now. Reached for him.

But he shook his head. “No. Not yet.”

“Why not?”

“Because I need to be inside you. Now”

He knelt on the bed. Spread her legs gently. Like an offering. And then—

He slid in. Slow. Careful. But deep. She gasped. He grunted, jaw clenched, trying not to lose it.

“God, you feel good,” he breathed. “Every time. Every fucking time.”

She moaned. He began to move. Not fast. But with purpose. Like every thrust had a message. Like he was trying to say I love you with every inch of his body. He kissed her neck. Her jaw. Her shoulder. Her breast. Every part of her he could reach.

“You’re mine,” he growled into her skin. “You’re going to be my wife.”

“Yes,” she gasped.

“You belong to me.”

“Yes.”

“And I’ll spend the rest of my life proving you made the right choice.”

He fucked her harder then. Rougher. But still careful. Still worshipful. His hand came between them, rubbing soft circles against her clit. His mouth never stopped moving. Kisses. Praise. Obscene promises.

“Gonna make you come again,” he whispered. “Gonna feel you squeeze my cock and lose your mind.”

She did. Hard. Arching up. Crying out. Clutching his back with nails that left marks. And he came with her. With a shout. A groan. A final thrust so deep it made her see stars. He collapsed on top of her.

Sweaty. Spent. Still inside. They didn’t move. Just stayed like that. His body heavy over hers. Her fingers combing through his hair.

She whispered, “I love you.”

And he—still breathless—murmured against her shoulder, “I’d burn the world down for you.”

She smiled. Pulled the sheet over them. Held him tighter. He didn’t fall asleep immediately. Just stayed inside her, even as his cock softened, holding her like she was the only thing tethering him to earth. Because maybe she was.

They should’ve been asleep. The sheets were tangled. The air warm with sex and sweat and something sacred. He was still inside her. Slowing. Softening. Breathing hard against her shoulder. The weight of him grounding her. Wrapping her in heat.

But Harry Castillo wasn’t done. Not even close. Because when she shifted—just slightly—he growled. Low. Animal.

“Again,” he rasped. “Need you again.”

She blinked up at him. Eyes still hazy, lips parted. “Harry—”

His hand slid down her thigh, lifting it over his hip. The movement pressed his cock deeper again—still there, still thick, still very much a presence. He kissed her jaw. Her mouth. Bit her bottom lip.

“Don’t care how tired you are,” he whispered, voice like smoke and sin. “You’re not getting up until I make you cry again.”

She whimpered.

He smirked. “Yeah. There she is.”

Then he pulled out—just enough to make her gasp—before slamming back in with a force that stole her breath.

“Oh my God—”

“Not God, baby,” he growled. “Just me.”

Her nails dug into his shoulders. He welcomed the sting.

“Harry—fuck—”

“You feel that?” he grunted, hips snapping into hers. “Feel how wet you still are for me? How your pussy won’t let me go?”

She nodded, moaning. “Y-yes—”

“Fuckin’ knew you were made for me.”

He leaned down. Kissed her throat. Her collarbone. Bit the edge of her breast until she arched into him.

“Your body’s so perfect,” he murmured. “So soft. So fuckin’ mine.”

Then rougher, “Look at you. Dripping on my cock like you want me to fuck a baby into you.”

Her eyes flew open but she moaned. Loud. “Harry—”

“Yeah,” he growled. “Bet you’d take it. Bet you’d let me fill you up and beg for more.”

She whimpered—louder now. And he lost it. He flipped her onto her stomach in one motion, like it was nothing. Grabbed her hips. Pulled her back. She barely had time to gasp before he was inside again—deeper now.

From behind. One hand on her lower back, the other in her hair. Her cheek pressed to the sheets. Her mouth fell open. And Harry fucked her. Harder. Rougher. Still in control. But wild. Every thrust was a statement. This is mine. You’re mine.

“Look at you,” he growled, panting. “Back arched. Ass bouncing. Taking this cock like you were fucking built for it.”

“Please—Harry—I’m gonna—”

“Do it. Fucking do it. Let me feel you fall apart on me again.”

She shattered. Came around him like she’d never come before. Screamed into the mattress. He grunted—loud—and slammed in once more, spilling inside her with a groan that sounded like something ancient, like something only she had earned. He stayed there. Deep. Still. Then he moved again. Slow. Shallow. Because he wasn’t done.

“You can come one more time,” he said low, filthy and sweet. “Gimme one more, baby. Just one more.”

She shook her head, crying now—not sad, just overwhelmed. And Harry kissed the back of her shoulder.

“Don’t worry,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

Then—again. His fingers slid between her legs.

“Shh,” he cooed. “One more for me. Be a good girl.”

And she did. God help her, she did. She came again—wrecked, sobbing into the pillow, body trembling, legs useless. He kissed her spine as she collapsed fully, lowering both of them to the bed without ever leaving her. He curled around her from behind, one arm tight around her middle, his cock still buried in her.

“You’re so fucking good to me,” he whispered.

She couldn’t answer. She just breathed. He kissed her shoulder. Her temple.

“You still with me?”

She nodded. Barely.

“Good,” he whispered. “Because I’m not letting go.”

Then—softer still—

“I’ve been waiting my whole life for someone to let me love them like this.”

And she melted in his arms. Because Harry Castillo wasn’t just wild in bed. He was devoted. Feral. Tender. Vulgar. Romantic. Hers. Forever.

The room smelled like sex and sweat and skin. The sheets were soaked. The pillows half-off the bed. The lamp still glowed low, casting soft golden light across their tangled limbs. She laid boneless, breath shallow, eyes closed. Floating.

Harry didn’t move for a while. Just held her. One arm wrapped around her ribs, the other under her head, fingers stroking her hair like he was still grounding himself. He kissed the back of her neck. Then her shoulder. Then just breathed her in.

“You alive?” he asked softly, voice rough with exhaustion and something quieter.

She hummed. That was all she could manage. He smiled into her skin.

Then shifted, slowly, carefully, slipping out of her with a groan that felt more reverent than lustful. He sat up, rubbed his hands over his face, and let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh.

“You destroyed me.”

She snorted, eyes still closed. “You did all the work.”

“I stand by what I said.”

He leaned down. Brushed her hair off her cheek. Kissed the corner of her mouth.

“Stay there,” he murmured. “Don’t move.”

She didn’t. Didn’t want to. But she heard him pad barefoot across the room. Heard the soft creak of the bathroom door. The rush of water. The gentle thud of the cabinet opening. When he came back, he was holding one of their thick white towels—her towel. The one she always stole from the linen shelf. The softest one.

He crouched by the bed. Wiped between her thighs first. Gentle. Slow. Not clinical. Loving. She flinched, still sensitive. “Sorry,” he said softly. “I know. I know, baby.”

His fingers were careful. Thorough. Once he was done, he tossed the towel into the hamper by the door and scooped her up like she weighed nothing. She made a sleepy sound of protest.

“You need a shower,” he whispered. “Just a quick one. Then you can collapse on me again.”

She let her head fall onto his shoulder. Nuzzled in.

“I’ll carry you the whole way if I have to.”

“You already are,” she mumbled.

He kissed her temple. “Spoiled brat.”

But he carried her into the bathroom anyway. The steam had already filled the space. The shower was on—warm, not too hot. The kind of perfect he knew she liked without asking. Always had. He stepped in with her still in his arms, only setting her down when the spray hit their skin. She gasped slightly. The water soaked her hair, slid down her back.

Harry reached for the shampoo first. He did this slowly. Like a ritual. Poured it into his palm, worked it through her hair with strong fingers, careful not to tug. He massaged her scalp. Tipped her head back under the water. Watched the suds slide away. Then the conditioner. Then the body wash. All without saying much. He just washed her. Took care of her. Worshipped her in the most mundane way possible.

“Arms up,” he said quietly.

She obeyed. He washed her underarms, her stomach, her thighs. When he knelt to do her legs, she touched his hair. Twisted a damp strand between her fingers.

“You don’t have to do all this,” she whispered.

“Yes I do,” he said simply.

Then kissed her knee. When she finally blinked, she realized he’d already washed himself, too. That he’d done it fast—efficient—because all his focus was on her.

They stepped out together. He wrapped her in a towel. Rubbed her dry. She giggled when he got to her hair.

“Sorry,” he murmured. “This part never goes well.”

“You’re better at it now.”

He smirked. “Practice.”

Once she was dry, he walked her into the bedroom again. The sheets were already changed—he must’ve done it in the two minutes she wasn’t looking.

“I was very efficient,” he said when she blinked at the bed.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re welcome.”

He helped her into pajamas—his shirt, of course. The one she loved. The old one with the faded lettering and a frayed collar. Then kissed the top of her head.

“Go sit,” he said. “I’m making tea.”

She padded barefoot into the kitchen. Curled onto the couch with a throw blanket. Frances blinked at her from the windowsill, unimpressed, then curled back into a ball. Harry moved around the kitchen like a man on autopilot. Filled the kettle. Pulled out her favorite mug. Tossed in a tea bag. Herbal. Soothing. He added honey. Carried it over without spilling. Then—because he always did—he sat beside her and waited for her to sip first before resting a hand on her thigh.

“Good?” he asked.

She nodded. “Perfect.”

He leaned back. Let out a slow breath. His body ached. She could tell. He shifted like a man twice his age but smiled like a teenager in love.

“You okay?” she asked softly.

He nodded. “My back hurts. My thighs are killing me. I might never walk right again.”

She snorted.

“But I’m so fucking happy.”

She looked at him. And believed it. The soft light from the kitchen made the gray in his beard shimmer. His eyes were softer now. Barefoot. In sweats. Damp curls pushed back. The kind of man no one saw like this except her. She curled into his side. He wrapped an arm around her and pulled her into his chest. They didn’t talk for a while. They just breathed.

Until she said, “You didn’t have to change the sheets.”

“I couldn’t let you crawl into a crime scene.”

She laughed against his shoulder.

He kissed her forehead.

After a while, he stood again. Scooped her back into his arms with a groan. “One more trip.”

“To the bed?”

“To heaven.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re so dramatic.”

“And you’re in love with it.”

He set her down on the clean sheets. Climbed in beside her. Pulled the blanket up. Wrapped himself around her like armor.

When the light clicked off, she whispered, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For all of it.”

He pressed a kiss to the back of her neck. And whispered, “I’d do it a thousand times.”

Then, “Sleep, baby. I’ve got you.”

And she did. Always.

Two days passed the way all sweet, strange days do when something big is waiting on the other side of them—quiet, deceptively slow, marked by the kind of soft rituals that feel like a pause before a life shifts.

She had spent most of the time barefoot in their loft. Doing what, she couldn’t exactly say. Folding things that didn’t need folding. Opening drawers. Staring at her wedding dress bag and then walking away. Sometimes she just stood still in the middle of the kitchen like a clock trying to remember what its hands were supposed to do.

Harry had been...Harry. Brooding, purposeful, half-distracted but not with her. Never with her. If anything, he moved around her more like a shadow that kept checking in—running a hand down her back when he passed, kissing her temple without a word, standing behind her when she stared into the fridge like she’d find answers in the shelves.

The day before their flight, she caught him repacking one of the carry-on trunks. A serious crease between his brows. Like the positioning of the charger cables might determine the entire outcome of the wedding.

“You know it’s all going in the same jet,” she said, wrapping her arms around his middle from behind.

“Incorrect,” he murmured. “This is the jet with you in it. That means it has to be perfect.”

She pressed her cheek against his back. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You knew that when you said yes.”

She smiled into his shirt. “I did.”

He turned then. Tipped her chin up. “Everything’s going to be perfect.”

“I don’t care if it’s not.”

He kissed her, slow and soft.  The morning they left New York was gray in the way June sometimes is—low clouds that made the air feel suspended. The kind of overcast that made the world seem quieted, as if someone had turned down the volume knob.

Frances was already gone.That part had been surprisingly hard. Harry had insisted on delivering her himself to Danny’s sister on the Upper West Side. He’d said he didn’t trust anyone with their girl, not even the concierge they knew by name. Only Danny’s sister got the greenlight.

And even then, he’d grilled her on feeding times, her window perch, what she liked and didn’t like when it came to brushing. Frances hadn’t even looked back when they left.

“She didn’t even care,” he said in the car afterward, arms crossed, sulking like a man twice her size had just been personally rejected by a cat.

“She knows we’re coming back,” she had said. “She’s not mad.”

Harry didn’t laugh, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “You always do that.”

“What?”

“Make me feel less stupid about caring.”

“You’re not stupid. You’re in love.”

He glanced at her then, eyes warm beneath the sharp set of his brow. “Yeah. I am.”

They arrived at the airfield just past noon. The sun had finally come out—split the clouds like something divine and golden had changed its mind about withholding.

Her dress was carried aboard by Harry himself, the garment bag over one arm, his other hand steady at the small of her back like he could shield her from gravity.

She hadn’t seen him sleep the night before. She had, once or twice—through the blur of her own nerves and the quiet hush of early morning—but he always seemed to be awake. Reading something. Checking his watch. Watching her like she was the steady thing keeping him from unraveling.

The jet smelled like leather and cedar. Her dress was hung with reverence in the back cabin. A hook installed just for it. 

“You packed everything?” she asked, curling into one of the leather chairs while the staff moved quietly behind them, prepping for takeoff.

“Everything,” he said. “Three times.”

“I still feel like we forgot something.”

Harry sat across from her, eyes steady. “We didn’t.”

“You sure?”

“I’ve waited my whole life for you. You think I’d let packing be the thing that ruins it?”

She felt her throat tighten. “You’re being sweet.”

“Don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation.”

“You might get an ulcer.”

He smirked. “I'd get anything for you.”

They buckled in as the engines kicked up, a low hum that turned quickly into a roar. Harry didn’t look away from her. Not once. She watched out the window as New York disappeared beneath the clouds. Slowly. Then all at once.

The flight to Avignon was smooth. Long, but quiet. She slept part of the way, curled under a soft gray blanket with her legs folded up beside her and her head on Harry’s thigh. He didn’t move. Just kept a hand on her arm, thumb stroking the skin absentmindedly. She could feel the heat of him even in her dreams.

When she woke up, he was reading. His glasses were low on his nose—only for the plane, only for her. The frames were dark, delicate, and completely at odds with the man who wore them. She reached up, gently pushed them up the bridge of his nose.

“Hi,” she murmured.

His hand found her hair. “You slept.”

“So did you.”

“Nope.”

She sat up slowly. “Harry—”

“I don’t sleep on flights.”

“You’ve been on flights your whole life.”

“Still don’t sleep.”

She frowned. He leaned in. Kissed her forehead. “I’ll sleep when you’re my wife.”

They arrived in the afternoon. The vineyard shimmered like something half-plucked from a dream. Olive trees lining the drive. Grape vines in perfect rows. A light breeze that caught the lavender just right and made the entire hillside smell like peace.

The house was old. Stone. Weathered in the way that made it beautiful. Her name had already been added to the door plaque beside his in the study. Harry had done it the week before. Quietly. Without asking. Just...made it true.

Their guests would arrive in staggered groups over the next two days. For now, it was just them. And the quiet. And the land.

And the kind of light that made time feel like it had slowed to the pace of breath.

She kicked her shoes off by the front door, again. Looked out at the land from their bedroom window. Harry stood behind her. Didn’t say a word. Just wrapped his arms around her middle and let the sun warm both their faces.

“I love you,” she whispered.

“I love you too,” he said back.

Later that night, they walked the grounds barefoot. She carried a wine glass. He carried a lantern.

The staff had lit candles in mason jars along the gravel path toward the altar. The view overlooked the valley—mountains in the distance, the sun setting like something spilling gold across the whole world.

He didn’t let go of her hand the whole walk. Not once. They stood where they’d say their vows. The chairs were empty. The flowers not yet placed. But it already felt full. Like something had bloomed there already, invisible but pulsing.

“You nervous?” he asked softly.

She shook her head.

“You?”

“No.”

She looked at him. He was staring at the valley. Then down at her.

“I’ve never been more sure.”

She touched his face. “Good.”

He leaned in. Kissed her once. Twice.

Then said, low, in that way that only she ever heard, “You’re it for me.”

She smiled. So did he. Then they walked back. Slowly. Past the grapes, past the lanterns, past the soft hum of France settling in for the night. And in the main house, as she curled into him under an old quilt, the world stilled again. It was happening. Finally. And it felt like everything had been building to this. To them.

The next morning began with the sound of crates being unloaded.

It was early—not so early that the sky was still dark, but early enough that the hills around the vineyard were cloaked in that quiet, silvery mist that always seemed like it should come with piano music.

She woke before Harry, not by much, and not for long. He followed shortly after, groaning at the stretch of his back as he stepped out of bed barefoot, in nothing but his boxers and the scowl of a man who slept five hours and drank half a bottle of wine the night before.

“Is there a reason someone’s banging around outside like it’s a construction site?” he muttered, raking a hand through his graying curls.

She was brushing her teeth already, barefoot in the bathroom, one of his T-shirts hanging off one shoulder. “Cake,” she said through a mouthful of mint foam.

“Cake?”

She spat, grinned. “Wedding cake.”

His expression didn’t shift, but she could see something soften in the set of his mouth. Something like amusement. He leaned on the doorway, arms crossed, watching her like a man who still couldn’t believe she existed.

“We’re really doing this,” he said quietly.

She wiped her mouth on a towel, turned, and walked to him. “You say that like I’m going to back out.”

He kissed her forehead. “I’d still chase you.”

“I know.”

They made their way downstairs slowly, the kind of slow that came with time. Their rhythm had fallen into something domestic, something patient and known—she pulled the French press from the counter while he opened the windows, muttering something about how the air smelled different here, like crushed rosemary and old rain.

Outside, a delivery van had parked near the side garden. The pastry chef and two assistants were unloading a multi-tiered, half-finished cake into the house kitchen, careful and focused. Another vehicle was idling further up the dirt road—full of crates, ingredients, imported oils, things she’d never remember the names of but that Harry had probably signed off on himself.

From the porch, she watched as a young chef—barely twenty-five—stepped out of the second van, wiping his hands on his apron like he’d just completed something sacred. He looked nervous. The kind of nervous that said he’d heard of Harry before.

Harry leaned against the doorway beside her, sipping his coffee. “That kid looks like he’s about to shit himself.”

“Be nice,” she said, bumping her hip into his. “Not everyone’s immune to your face.”

“My face is fine.”

“It’s the eyebrows.”

He snorted. “Here I was thinking you liked them.”

“I tolerate them. The nose makes up for it.”

He glanced at her sideways, smile just barely there. “That so?”

She kissed his jaw. “That’s so.”

By noon, the place was alive.

The vineyard staff moved around them like the quiet hum of honeybees—setting up wooden trellises, moving chairs and lanterns, arranging tables under the olive trees with casual expertise. The arch where they would stand had been wrapped with early greenery and a few starter blossoms, soft ivory and pale green. By the end of the day, the rest of the flowers would come in—wild roses, sweet peas, clematis, jasmine. It felt like something slowly unfurling.

Harry stayed close all morning, rarely more than a few feet away. Sometimes he gave orders in that clipped tone of his that made people obey without asking questions. Other times, he said nothing—just stood behind her with a hand in his pocket, watching her talk to the florist or adjust the seating chart again for the fifth time.

“You know it’s the same people no matter where you put them,” he said, glancing over her shoulder while she squinted at the paper.

“But the energy matters.”

He made a noncommittal sound. “Maya doesn’t care if she’s on the left or the right.”

“She might.”

“She won’t.”

She looked up at him. “Are you going to complain about me being meticulous now?”

He bent low. Kissed her cheek. “I’d rather you plan it than me.”

“That’s what I thought.”

He lingered behind her, arms slipping around her waist, face pressed to her shoulder. “You smell like coffee and lavender. I love it.”

“You smell like me.”

“You’re welcome.”

By the time five p.m. rolled around, she had already changed into a soft linen dress and pinned her hair up. She’d been in the sun all day, laughing with the staff, fussing with the tables, stealing sips of Harry’s wine when she thought he wasn’t looking.

Harry had swapped his shirt twice. He was in a dark linen button-down now, sleeves rolled to his elbows, sunglasses perched on top of his head, and a look on his face that said don’t talk to me unless you’re her.

But when the car that held Isidora and her family pulled up, something in him broke open.

It was subtle. No fanfare. Just a shift—like someone had reached into his chest and unknotted something that had been tangled too long. His back straightened, but not with tension—with something closer to hope.

She touched his arm gently. “She’s here.”

He nodded once.

Isidora stepped out of the car with her husband first—Luis, tall, clean-shaven, polite in a gentle, almost invisible way. Then the girls spilled out.

Yvette was the older one, maybe ten. Dark curls, sharp eyes, already unimpressed by the gravel drive and her baby sister’s endless chatter. Shiv was younger—seven, maybe eight. All limbs and laughter, skipping ahead like she’d already claimed the vineyard as her playground.

Harry stood still. She watched his face closely. He didn’t blink.

Isidora was the last one out. She wore a cream linen set and the kind of sunglasses only elegant younger sisters could pull off. She looked more Paris than Spain these days. But when she took them off and smiled at Harry, the years fell away.

“Hello, brother,” she said.

Harry cleared his throat. Looked down. Then stepped forward. It wasn’t dramatic. Just real. They hugged.

And it was awkward at first—like they’d both forgotten how—but then it changed. She saw it in the way his shoulders dropped. The way his hand pressed against his sister’s back. The way her eyes got glassy but she didn’t say anything.

Luis nodded politely to her. “You must be the woman who made this possible.”

“I guess I am,” she said, smiling.

Shiv ran straight up to Harry and tugged on his hand. “Are you the grumpy uncle?”

Harry blinked. Looked down. Then slowly crouched to her level.

“Who told you I was grumpy?”

“Mama said you never smile.”

He tilted his head. “You think that’s true?”

Shiv considered it. Then grinned. “You’re smiling now.”

He chuckled. Soft. Rare. Yvette stood at a distance, arms crossed. He looked at her. “You too cool to say hello?”

Yvette shrugged. “Maybe.”

He stood. Walked to her. Ruffled her hair with one large hand.

“You’ll warm up,” he said. “Everyone does.”

That night, the house felt full. She made tea. Harry lit the fire outside, even though the air didn’t really call for it. The girls sat on the stone steps eating little plates of cheese and olives. Luis helped one of the vineyard staff bring in a crate of wine. Isidora wandered the garden with her, talking about how strange it was to see her brother laugh.

“I forgot he could,” Isidora said, sipping her wine.

She glanced over at Harry. He was pouring juice for Shiv, sitting on the low stone wall like he’d always been someone’s tío.

“He’s different with you.”

“He’s still himself,” she said.

Isidora smiled. “That’s what I mean.”

When everyone had gone to their rooms, she found Harry alone in the study. Shirt unbuttoned at the throat, a glass of wine in his hand, one leg hooked lazily over the arm of a chair.

“You did good today,” she said.

He looked at her. “You brought them here.”

“You brought the wine.”

He set the glass down. Pulled her into his lap. She fit perfectly there. Always had. He pressed his face to her collarbone. Breathed deep.

“They’re good kids,” he murmured.

“They love you already.”

He didn’t respond. Just held her tighter.

After a while, he whispered, “Thank you for not letting me die alone.”

She blinked. Then pressed her lips to his forehead.

“You were never alone,” she said softly.

He didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. Because his arms never loosened. And the house smelled like rosemary and wood smoke. And she was home.

Morning came on a soft breeze. She woke alone—Harry had gone out early, something about making sure the florist didn’t leave the arch lopsided—and the sheets were still warm where he’d been. His side smelled like him, a mix of cedar and old soap and something sharp that always lingered on his collars. She reached for it, just for a second, fingers curled into the pillow. Just holding the shape of him.

Outside, it was quieter than usual. The kind of quiet that wasn’t emptiness, but expectation.

She stood slowly, still wearing one of his T-shirts, and padded barefoot toward the window. The air outside had turned golden, honeyed and soft, the morning light spilling across the gravel drive and down the sloping rows of vines. She could already hear movement near the west lawn—footsteps, soft laughter, a crate being set down.

More flowers had arrived. Delphinium, roses, foxglove, narcissus. Creams, blushes, blood-wine purples. The staff carried them like offerings, careful hands delivering stem after stem to tables and corners and vases lining the stone walls.

She opened the window, breathing it in. Then heard a knock. When she turned, Harry was standing in the doorway, hair wet, fresh from the shower, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, that familiar grumpy furrow to his brow that usually meant something had gone not quite to his liking. But his eyes softened when he saw her.

"You didn't eat," he said, stepping inside. A small white plate in his hand—toast, sliced fruit, a folded napkin tucked beside it like he’d rehearsed the delivery.

“I was going to come down.”

“You didn’t.”

She smiled, taking it from him. “Thank you.”

He grunted, kissed her temple. “Eat all of it.”

“I will.”

“You say that, and then I find toast crusts hidden in your napkin.”

She grinned, dragging him down for a proper kiss. “I’ll eat all of it. I swear.”

He gave a satisfied nod but lingered at the edge of the bed, watching her eat like it was the most fascinating thing he’d seen all morning. “They should be landing soon. I told James to send a text once they’re on the road from the airstrip.”

She nodded, mouth full of melon.

He paced a little, adjusting the cuffs on his shirt.

Then, awkwardly, “I, uh…I talked to the jeweler.”

She looked up.

He cleared his throat. “For you. Since… y’know. I proposed with my mother’s. You deserve another ring for our ceremony.”

She set the plate down. “Harry—”

“I picked something simple. I thought about doing something bigger but…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “You’re not a chandelier kind of girl.”

“No,” she said quietly, “I’m not.”

“So it’s just… plain. Platinum. Thin. But it’ll sit under hers like it’s been waiting.”

Her eyes stung.

“You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to,” he said, with that steel certainty he always saved just for her. “You’re not marrying a man who half-asses the details.”

She smiled, stood, pressed her face to his chest. “I got you a ring, too.”

“You did?”

She nodded. “It’s hidden in my vitamin bag.”

He snorted. “Of course it is.”

The guests began to arrive one after the other, small groups of them stepping out of the long black cars Harry had arranged—private, simple, efficient. James and his wife first, polite and beaming. Then Sadie from PR, surprisingly flushed and holding the hand of a short-haired woman with wide eyes and perfect posture. Francesca and Luca followed, both look older now—Luca had grown into the kind of lanky that made the bride smile. Francesca had new bangs. They hugged her like family.

And then, finally, Danny and Maya. Still pretending they weren’t together, which was more transparent than ever now that Maya was wearing Danny’s sweatshirt tied around her waist and Danny kept touching her back in that absent, protective way men do when they’ve already decided she is mine.

Harry didn’t comment on it, of course.

Just shook Danny’s hand and gave Maya a rare smile that was almost fond. “You both made it.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Maya said, hugging her tightly.

Everyone scattered to their respective rooms—Harry had insisted everyone stay on the vineyard itself, a cluster of small stone guesthouses scattered like pearls across the slope. No one argued. It was impossible to want to be anywhere else.

She and Harry wandered through the grounds as more chairs were delivered, more linens unpacked, more glassware unwrapped.

At one point, she caught him adjusting a table setting himself, muttering under his breath about forks being off-center.

“You’re not allowed to be this controlling on your own wedding weekend,” she teased.

He glanced up. “This isn’t controlling. This is precision.”

She stepped closer. “You’re a menace.”

He let her loop her arms around his middle, despite the eyes of the staff nearby. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, let his hand linger on the back of her neck.

“You’re marrying this menace.”

“I know,” she said softly. “Gladly.”

The day passed in golden slowness. There were wine tastings with James’s wife, who had a secret palate and guessed each vintage without looking. There was a plate of thinly sliced jamón and marinated olives that she ate with Maya in the shade of a cypress. Harry disappeared once or twice to check on the chef’s preparations—“I don’t trust anyone with garlic but myself”—but always returned, like his body couldn’t go too long without orbiting hers.

By late afternoon, the long outdoor table had been set for the pre-wedding dinner. A single taper candle at each seat. Vines coiled along the center. Plates so clean they caught the light like mirrors. It looked like something from an old painting—simple and reverent.

She turned back toward the house to change when she felt it. That familiar shift in the air. The way it always felt when he was behind her, without a sound. She didn’t turn around. He touched her wrist lightly.

“Come upstairs with me.”

She blinked. “Why?”

“I need to show you something.”

“Harry—”

He leaned in, his mouth close to her ear, voice quiet. “It’s not a trick. I promise.”

She followed. They climbed the stairs together slowly.

The sun had begun to dip. Shadows stretched long across the hall. One of the windows was open—grapes growing just outside, still ripening. The hallway smelled like warm linen and something sweeter, something herbal, probably from the candles she’d unpacked the day before.

His room was at the end of the corridor. One of the guest rooms no one had touched. She stepped inside first. Then stopped.

The bed was made—neatly, precisely. Her pillow was on one side. His on the other. Their usual comforter. A candle lit on the nightstand. The soft cotton robe she always wore folded at the end of the bed. On the dresser, a photo of her and Frances, taped to the mirror, slightly crooked. And there, next to the sink in the adjoining bath—her toothbrush, set beside his. Her skincare already on the counter.

She looked at him.

“I can’t sleep without you,” he said quietly.

Her chest ached.

“But we’re not supposed to see each other the night before.”

“I know.” He stepped in, gentle. “We won’t.”

She gave him a look.

“I mean it,” he said. “Lights off. You on your side. Me on mine.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“I won’t even breathe too loud.”

“You’ll snore.”

“I’ll apologize in the morning.”

She stepped into his arms. He held her like the world was ending.

Like tomorrow was already here.

“You ready?” she whispered.

“I’ve been ready since the second I saw you on those steps.”

“You hated me that day.”

“I didn't hate you. I wanted you that day.”

She smiled into his chest. “Shut up.”

“Sue me.” He kissed her hair, breathing in. Then whispered into the top of her head, “We’ll turn off the lights. I just need to know you’re there.”

“Okay,” she said.

And it was.

The evening light slipped through the window like gold silk. The guests laughed faintly down below. The vineyard held its breath. And upstairs, in a room built just for one night—just for them—he kissed her one more time.

Then let her go. Just for now. Because tomorrow was the wedding. And she would be his. Forever.

The sun began to slope low across the vineyard, bathing everything in that kind of old gold light that made skin glow and stone blush. The tables had been set hours ago—linen napkins folded into soft half-moons, polished silverware gleaming under the trees. Vines wrapped the legs of the chairs. A single taper candle burned at every seat, the flame flickering against the soft hush of the countryside.

She stood barefoot at the edge of it all, a glass of white wine in one hand and a curl of her hair caught behind her ear. She hadn’t put on anything dramatic. Just a soft blue dress that hit mid-calf and clung gently to her back every time the breeze rolled in. The neckline scooped low, square and delicate. She’d let Maya braid the crown of her hair an hour ago, with two wildflowers stuck haphazardly in, as if plucked by accident.

Harry had watched the whole process in silence from the porch. Now, he was behind her.

“You look like a goddamn Botticelli painting,” he murmured, his hand coming to rest on the small of her back.

She turned her head slightly, just enough for her smile to find him."Big words for someone who claims they can't spell Baroque."

"I can spell it. I just can't stand it."

"You’ve got drama with Baroque now?"

He just shrugs.  She laughed quietly, letting her fingers brush the back of his hand. He wasn’t dressed up either—linen trousers, a white shirt open at the neck, sleeves cuffed up his forearms, the smallest hint of the bullseye tattoo on his hand visible when he reached for his wine. His hair was still damp from the shower, pushed back messily, with a single unruly curl falling toward his brow. The kind of disheveled that made her feel something between her legs.

His nose was sharp. His jaw shadowed with gray scruff. His mouth looked perpetually like it was thinking of something sharp to say, even when he wasn’t. She wanted to kiss him every time she looked at him.

“You keep staring,” he said under his breath, not looking at her.

She sipped her wine. “So do you.”

He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “That’s because you’re mine.”

She didn’t say anything back. Didn’t have to.

Instead, she slid her fingers into his—warm, calloused, familiar—and walked with him to the table, where their people were already gathering like a soft orbit.

Maya had kicked off her sandals within five minutes of sitting down. She was nursing her second glass of rosé and kept adjusting the tiny wildflower tucked behind her ear like it personally offended her every time it drooped.

Danny, sitting beside her, had rolled his sleeves up to his elbows and had the kind of farmer’s tan that came from refusing to wear sunscreen. He was slicing bread with the laser focus of someone trying not to say something emotional.

Across from them, Francesca and Luca were already bickering softly over whose turn it was to pass the olive oil. Francesca had braided her hair into a tight coil at the base of her neck and was wearing a silk slip dress that made her look like she belonged on an old Italian postcard. 

Sadie was seated near the end, arm draped casually around her girlfriend’s shoulders, the both of them in loose linen and dark nail polish. Sadie kept making quiet commentary about the table setting—“I’m going to steal these napkin rings”—and her girlfriend just hummed agreeably while popping cherry tomatoes into her mouth like popcorn.

James and his wife had taken the seats closest to the head of the table, both of them glowing with the kind of married contentment that came from years of knowing which wine went with which kind of cheese. His wife had brought a notebook with floral sketches in it. James had brought a bottle of port older than their hostess.

Isidora was seated at the other end, flanked by her two daughters—Yvette, who was asking the waiter whether there would be dessert, and Shiv, who was wearing one of Harry’s old baseball caps, was trying to convince everyone she was drinking champagne when it was apple juice.

Harry, predictably, didn’t sit until everyone else had. He made two rounds first—checking the wine, adjusting a seat cushion, muttering something to the waiter about the temperature of the plates. She didn’t interrupt him. Just watched. Quietly. The same way she always did when he slipped into that mode—that obsessive, precision-focused place where care and control bled into each other until he’d exhausted both.

When he finally dropped into the seat beside her, he exhaled like he’d been holding his breath all day. She reached for his hand under the table. He squeezed once. Then twice. Then didn’t let go.

The first course was something light—melon and prosciutto with a drizzle of local honey and a crumble of something sharp. Harry picked at it with a faint frown, eyes narrowing every time he hit a bite that didn’t feel cold enough.

“You’re judging the food,” she whispered.

He didn’t deny it. “It’s pretense until the lamb arrives.”

She snorted.

“I’m serious.”

“You’re a menace.”

“You picked me.”

He turned his head and kissed her temple. Soft. Familiar. Like it was already habit.

Maya gave a toast somewhere between the bread course and the grilled vegetables. She hadn’t warned anyone. Just stood with her glass and cleared her throat dramatically.

Harry leaned over to her and muttered, “She’s going to make me cry.”

“You won’t cry.”

“I absolutely will.”

Maya raised her glass. “I wasn’t going to say anything tonight. I was going to save my speech for tomorrow. But then I realized I’d already cry too hard at the ceremony and possibly forget how to speak, so—here we are.”

Danny passed her a napkin without a word. She took it.

“I’ve known her since she was sixteen. She was angry and sharp and stubborn and half-feral, and I adored her immediately. I knew she was going to grow into something terrifyingly good.”

She shifted, glass trembling slightly.

“I didn’t know she’d find someone who deserved her.”

Harry blinked once. Stared hard at the table.

“But you do,” Maya said, voice softening. “You see her. And you let her be seen.”

She looked at her then. “You love him like it’s a fact of nature. Like gravity. Like breath.”

Then at Harry. “And you…you are still a terrifying man. But you’re kind to her. Gentle. Devoted. And I’ve never once doubted you would protect her.”

Harry raised his glass. Didn’t speak. Just nodded once. Just smiled. That was enough.

Everyone drank. Dinner stretched into the soft dark. The sun sank lower, and the candles began to glow brighter. The temperature dropped slightly. Luca ran inside to grab sweaters. Francesca wrapped herself in a shawl and pretended she wasn’t crying during Sadie’s accidental heartfelt comment about love being a quiet thing. Harry barely ate his potatoes. She stole them. He noticed. Didn’t comment. Just pushed the rest of his plate toward her.

“You’ll be too full for dessert,” he said.

“Not possible.”

“Bold statement.”

She smirked. “I’m marrying you. I have to be bold.”

That earned her a faint smile, crooked and warm.

He leaned in. “You’re gonna kill me in that dress tomorrow.”

“You haven’t seen it.”

“I don’t have to.”

She nudged his foot under the table. He nudged back. Gentle. Comfortable. By the time dessert arrived—tiny pear tarts with sugared herbs—Harry’s hand had wandered to her thigh under the table, casual, unmoving. His thumb drew slow circles just above her knee.

She turned to him at one point, whispered, “You good?”

His answer was quiet. “Best I’ve ever been.”

They lingered longer than they meant to. The wine bottles emptied. Shiv fell asleep in Isidora’s lap. Yvette asked if she could braid her aunt’s hair. Danny and James smoked cigars near the fountain while Francesca and Sadie argued about floral arrangements. Maya retold the story of the proposal twice—once for Luca, once for Sadie’s girlfriend, both times with more dramatic flair than was strictly necessary.

Harry stayed beside her through all of it. Never far. Always within reach. At one point, she leaned into his side, tucked her head under his jaw, and he exhaled into her hair like it had been his plan all along.

“You tired?” he murmured.

“A little.”

“Want to sneak away?”

“Not yet.”

“Okay.”

He didn’t press. Just kissed the top of her head. Eventually, the guests began to peel away—slowly, reluctantly, like children being called inside after playing too long in summer light. Francesca said goodnight with a low bow and a wink. Maya tackled her into a hug. Danny just looked at Harry and said, “She’s the best thing you’ve ever done.”

Harry nodded. “I know.”

And when they were finally alone—just the two of them, the candles low, the air thick with the scent of warm sugar and cut rosemary—Harry didn’t say anything at first. He just pulled her into his chest. Held her there. She let herself be held.

The sky was dark now. The stars blinked low over the hills. Somewhere in the distance, an owl called once. Then again. Harry’s heartbeat thudded slow and steady beneath her ear. She didn’t want to let go. She didn’t have to. They walked back to the house in silence. His hand never left her back. And when they climbed the stairs together, passed the still-open window and the soft curl of incense from the hallway table, she stopped outside the room where she wasn’t supposed to sleep.

Harry opened the door first. Then turned. Held it for her.

“Lights off,” he said, voice low. “No funny business.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You think I’m the one who starts it?”

He smirked. “You are.”

“Bold.”

“True.”

She stepped inside. He followed. And that was it. The night before the wedding. Their last as fiancés. And it had been simple. Beautiful. Mundane. Just them. And their people. And the kind of love that didn’t need proving. It had already been lived. And tomorrow—It would be named.

And then the sun rose. It came in slow, spilling across the vineyard like honey over warm bread—thick, golden, unhurried. The kind of light that filled rooms before sound did. The kind that didn’t wake you with urgency, but with the quiet certainty that something mattered.

She felt it first against her cheek. The warmth of it. Then the weight behind her—the long, anchored line of Harry’s body still curled into hers, solid and warm, one arm draped heavily around her waist, the other tucked beneath her pillow like he’d buried part of himself under her just to be sure she wouldn’t vanish. His breathing was slow. Deep. The kind that only came with rare sleep.

She shifted slightly. The bed creaked. Harry made a low, half-conscious sound, somewhere between a hum and a growl, and pulled her closer. His nose brushed the back of her neck. He always did that. Always found the softest part of her and stayed there. She closed her eyes again.

Just for a second. Let her fingers slide over his forearm, the veins and hair and warmth of it. He smelled like skin and sun-dried cotton and the faintest hint of the cedar soap he insisted on traveling with because “other soaps makes me itch like a bastard.” She loved him and his sensitive skin.  God, she could stay here forever. But she wouldn’t get the chance.

Because that was when the door slammed open. “Motherfucker!”

She jolted. Harry didn’t. He just grunted. Then, lazily, “Close the door, Maya. You’re letting the bees in.”

“No,” Maya snapped, stomping across the room. “You’re letting tradition die in its sleep.”

“Maya,” she tried, barely able to speak through a sleepy laugh, “what the hell are you doing—”

“Dragging your romantic, traitorous ass out of this bed like a proper maid of honor, because you’re getting married in four hours and you slept with the groom.”

“She didn’t sleep with me,” Harry said, not opening his eyes. “She just slept.”

“Same bed,” Maya hissed. “That’s sacrilege.”

“Calm down, we didn’t elope.”

“She’s wearing your shirt.”

“It’s her shirt now.”

“I’m going to scream.”

Harry finally cracked one eye open. His voice was a husky murmur. “Do it outside.”

Maya pointed at him like he was a cat that had brought in a mouse. “You. Don’t move. Don’t even think about sneaking a kiss. If I see you near her before the ceremony, I’m cutting off your coffee supply for a year.”

Harry’s mouth curved. Not quite a smile. Just the slow, crooked pull of amusement he saved for the few times someone entertained him. “You’re lucky I like you.”

“You don’t.”

He stretched. Long. Deliberate. The sheets fell low on his hips.

Maya immediately turned around, groaning. “Disgusting.”

“Don’t look then.”

“Oh my God.”

His bride was laughing now. Fully upright, one hand in her hair, the other gripping the edge of the blanket like it might shield her from Maya’s wrath. Harry hadn’t moved to cover himself. He never did. But his fingers brushed hers beneath the sheet, one last anchor before the day really began.

“I’ll see you later,” he murmured, low enough that only she could hear it.

“You better.”

Then Maya was yanking her out of bed like she was still nineteen and late for something she didn’t remember signing up for. She kissed Harry’s forehead quickly, then let Maya drag her down the hall barefoot, groggy, her legs still loose with sleep and the aftertaste of closeness. The room Maya brought her to was enormous. The biggest sun room she's ever seen. Old stone walls. Exposed beams. Soft French light. And everywhere—everywhere—was care.

The dress was hanging from a brass hook in the corner, the ivory fabric spilling like cream onto the fainting couch beneath it. Her shoes were lined up in a row on a woven mat, with backups beside them. Skincare was arranged by order of application. Her makeup bag—packed by Maya—was open and blooming with options. A mirror stood tall in the corner, flanked by two vases of fresh lavender. A tray sat near the chaise with three linen napkins, two pitchers of water, and an untouched espresso.

Maya crossed her arms, smug. “You’re welcome.”

She blinked. Swallowed. “You did all of this for me.”

“Of course I did.”

She turned slowly in the room, taking it all in. The candle Maya must’ve lit an hour ago. The playlist humming softly in the corner, instrumental, slow. The card on the nightstand that said you’ve already won in Maya’s handwriting.

“I love you,” she said.

“You better. You’ve turned me into a monster. I ordered a clothing steamer. A steamer. Do you even know how ugly those things are?”

“You’re my maid of honor.”

“Damn right I am.”

The next hour passed like water through fingers. She sat in a chair while Maya curled her hair and told her stories about a wedding she once attended when she was a child in California where the bride caught fire (not dramatically, just enough to lose her veil). They laughed through mascara. Drank espresso. Argued over lip liner colors.

Every now and then, she touched the sleeve of Harry’s shirt she was still wearing and smiled. She hadn’t taken it off yet. Couldn’t quite make herself do it. She kept looking at the dress. It didn’t feel like the dress. It felt like a door. And she wasn’t sure what would be on the other side once she stepped through it. A knock at the door breaks her thoughts. Harry’s voice, muffled.

“Can I come in?”

Maya froze.

“No! No!”

“I have her breakfast.”

“You can pass it through the door like you’re in some tower.”

“Christ.”

There was a pause. Then a tray appeared, gently nudged through the barely cracked door.

Maya snatched it like it might explode. “Thank you, goodbye, she’s mine now.”

“I could bench press you,” Harry muttered.

“I could poison the appetizers.”

Then she slammed the door again and turned to find her grinning.

“He’s ridiculous.”

“So are you,” Maya said, setting the tray down. “Eat. Or I’m feeding you like a baby goat.”

She lifted the lid. Toast. Eggs. Two slices of roasted tomato. A cup of tea with cream. And—folded neatly under the napkin—a note. She saw it immediately.

Maya raised a brow. “He’s nothing if not dramatic.”

“Give it.”

Maya handed it over to the bride. She unfolded it slowly, thumb brushing the edge of his handwriting—blunt, sharp, all angles and pressure. It wasn’t long. Just this:

You slept with your leg over mine all night.

You drooled on my chest.

You still looked like peace.

In a few hours, you’re going to walk toward me and I’ll stop breathing.

You are the only thing I’ve ever truly wanted.

Don’t be nervous.

You’re already mine.

—H.

Her throat closed. She folded it back. Pressed it to her chest.

Maya didn’t ask what it said. Just leaned over and kissed the top of her head.

“You okay?”

She nodded. But her hands shook. Not with fear. With knowing. This was really happening. She was marrying a man who would spend the rest of his life making her feel like a choice, not a default. A man who still watched her like she was something he didn’t think he deserved. Who whispered I’ve got you in the dark and meant it.

A man who never once flinched at the truth of her—That her father had ruined lives and called it ambition. That her brother had folded under the weight of it and never gotten back up. That her mother had boarded a plane in the middle of the night and never sent a letter. That her name came with apologies. That her survival came with guilt. Harry had never asked her to apologize for any of it.

Only said, once, in a whisper, “You didn’t cause the storm. But you’re the one who walked out of it.”

She breathed in. Looked at herself in the mirror. And slowly began to unbutton the shirt. The dress slid over her body like a promise. Ivory. Heavy. Beautiful. It didn’t sparkle. It didn’t shout. It whispered. Like the life she was stepping into. She turned slowly in the mirror, fingers brushing the soft silk. Her hair was curled down her back. The earrings glinted. Her hands were steady. Her heart wasn’t. Because it was full. And when Maya came to stand behind her, brushing imaginary lint off her shoulder, she saw it too.

“You look like the beginning of something.”

She met Maya’s eyes. Smiled.

“I feel like it.”

The ceremony would begin soon. But for a few more minutes— She stood still. Let herself feel the quiet. Let herself hold that note to her chest, eyes closed, one hand on her heart. And in the distance—

Down the slope of grapevines and chairs and string lights—

Harry Castillo was waiting. And he was trying not to fidget. Which, now at fifty-six, with a reputation for stoicism that terrified executives and made junior associates piss themselves, was saying something.

He was already dressed. It wasn’t complicated. A dark suit—deep charcoal with a faint texture you could only see up close. No tie. Crisp collar. One button closed. Clean shave. Polished shoes. A watch on his wrist she’d gifted him on his birthday, the inscription hidden on the back: This is the only time I want you to keep track of. His hair was still damp from the shower. His sleeves were rolled to the wrist, not an inch higher. He’d redone the buttons twice. They were perfectly aligned now, of course, but he kept glancing down at them like something had shifted when he wasn’t looking.

James stood nearby, sipping a small glass of white wine that Harry hadn’t offered.

“You’re pacing,” James said mildly.

“I’m not pacing.”

“You’ve walked that length of stone floor seven times.”

“I counted eight.”

Danny leaned against the arched doorframe of the study. His tie was loose—he hadn’t bothered to fasten it yet—and he was chewing on the end of a toothpick like he’d been born in a Western.

“You nervous?” Danny asked.

“No.”

“You look nervous.”

Harry shot him a look. Danny shrugged, easy. “It’s good. Means you give a shit.”

Harry didn’t reply. Just exhaled through his nose and checked the small paper in his breast pocket—again. The final version of his vows, folded once, worn at the crease.

James wandered to the window. “The chairs are all set. Florist’s finishing the arch. I think Sadie yelled at the pastry chef.”

Harry blinked. “What about the garland for the chairs?”

“Done.”

“The wine labels?”

“Lined up.”

He turned. “The music cues?”

Sadie appeared then, slipping through the side door with the quiet assurance of someone who managed entire legacies in heels and silk blazers. “Handled. We even tested the speakers. Twice.”

Harry opened his mouth. Sadie held up a hand.

“Whatever it is—don’t. It’s done. All of it. If you so much as try to adjust a candle, I will drug you.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You can’t speak to me that way.”

“I’m your publicist. I have to speak to you that way.”

Danny snorted. “She’s right.”

Harry looked at them all—Sadie, James, Danny—and for a moment, the weight of it hit him. This wasn’t a press event. This wasn’t a deal closing. This was his wedding. His.

And she was upstairs. In a room he wasn’t allowed to enter, surrounded by women who knew more about serum and chiffon than he ever would. She was probably scowling at a mascara wand. Or reading something to calm her nerves. Or laughing too loud. Or looking at herself in the mirror like she didn’t quite believe this was real. Like she didn’t know how much it cost him to ask her to believe it. He swallowed. Checked his watch. Then turned toward the door that led outside.

“Where you going?” James asked.

Harry grabbed a small folded envelope from the side table. “I’ll be back in five.”

The vineyard stretched wide. The vines were in full bloom, green and humming, the earth warm and soft underfoot. He walked slowly. Deliberately. The breeze tugged at the open collar of his shirt. The sun was warm but not oppressive. He took the long path. The one that curved behind the main rows, past the slope where the kitchen herbs were grown, toward a quieter, less manicured corner. The dirt was dry here, the stones old. The kind of place you didn’t landscape. You left it wild. Let it remember.

He stopped at the fence post that was painted blue last summer, for no reason other than she liked the way it looked. Then crouched beside the vines. And pulled out the letter. It wasn’t long. But it was his:

To my mother, 

You didn’t get to meet her.  You would’ve liked her.  You would’ve seen it. The way she looks at me. The way I look back. You once said I wasn’t made for quiet things. Turns out I just hadn’t earned one yet. 

I’m getting married today. She’s younger than me. She’s smarter than me. She drives me insane and makes me calm in the same breath. And she found that ring in a drawer I swore I’d never open again. I’m giving it to her. Because no one else ever should’ve worn it. 

You said I was born angry. But today, I’m not. Today, I’m grateful. You got me here. Even if you didn’t mean to. I hope you can rest now. I’m going to try.

—Harry 

He folded it again. Tucked it between the roots. Brushed his fingers over the soil like a benediction. Then paused. Because something else was already there. A scrap of paper, half tucked beneath the next row over. Smaller than his, paler. Folded once. He reached out slowly. The name stopped him.

Teddy.

He didn’t touch it. Not at first. Just stared at it. Let the wind move around him. Then, carefully, he opened it. Her handwriting. He knew it. Every curve. Every sharp edge. It wasn’t dated but you could tell it was written recently. Just this:

Hi. I don’t know if I believe in these kinds of things. But today, I needed you to know. I’m okay.

I’m marrying a man who doesn’t flinch when I tell the truth. I’m marrying someone who knows where I come from and stays anyway. I wish you could’ve met him. You’d like him.

You’d pretend not to. But you’d watch the way he makes coffee. The way he touches me like he’s afraid I’ll leave. The way he folds my laundry when he thinks I’m not looking.

He’s stubborn. And smart. And he sleeps on the left side even though he hates it.

I miss you every day. I wish you’d stayed. But I’m staying. For both of us.

—Your sister

Harry sat down. Right there in the dirt. Bent over, elbows on his knees, jaw tight, shoulders still. He didn’t cry. But his throat ached. He folded the note again. Put it back. Where she had. Two notes, side by side. His and hers. For ghosts.

He stayed there a long time. Not saying anything. Just breathing. Letting the wind move. Letting the silence settle. Letting the weight of it all—grief, love, history—press into the earth where it belonged. Then, finally—He stood. Straightened his jacket. Checked the time. And walked back. When he reached the edge of the main house, James was waiting.

“You good?”

Harry didn’t answer right away. Just nodded once. James held out a boutonniere. Small. White. A little crooked. Clearly done by his bride.

“She’ll kill you if you forget it.”

Harry pinned it to his lapel without comment. Then glanced toward the path that led to the arch. He exhaled. Rubbed his hand over his mouth. “Let’s go.”

The chairs were full now. The guests were seated. The sun was beginning to shift behind the cypress trees, the light going soft and golden, the kind of light photographers prayed for and poets wrote about. The musicians began to play.

And Harry Castillo—Formerly the most unshakable man in New York, the one with the steel mouth and the colder eyes, the one who had once said love is for idiots—

Stood at the altar. And waited for the woman who changed everything. The sky held its breath. The vineyard had quieted, hushed under the weight of what was about to begin. The chairs were filled, but no one was speaking. The wind moved slow. The leaves barely rustled. Even the sun seemed gentler, like it was trying not to interrupt.

Harry stood still. At the top of the aisle, near the arch they’d built together with quiet hands and too many revisions, he stood in his dark suit, one hand curled loosely in front of him, the other brushing the edge of his watch. His brow was tense in that familiar way—creases drawn deep between his eyes, like he was already enduring something. But his mouth was soft. No scowl.  Softer than anyone had seen it in years.

The first to walk were his nieces. Yvette and Shiv. Small flower crowns, bare feet in the grass, baskets held too tight in their small hands. Yvette looked unimpressed, carefully sprinkling petals like they were tax documents. Shiv took the whole thing more seriously than anyone—biting her lip with concentration as she scattered pink and white blossoms across the aisle like breadcrumbs in a storybook.

Harry blinked hard.

Then harder when Shiv grinned at him as she passed and whispered, “You look nervous.”

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Maya followed. Chin up, eyes bright, holding a small bouquet like it owed her rent. She looked proud. Not of herself. Of the moment. Of her best friend. Of the history she’d lived through to get here. She nodded once at Harry as she passed, as if to say don’t fuck this up. Then Isidora. She moved like a woman who knew her brother had spent his whole life angry and finally wasn’t. She gave him a look that meant nothing and everything, then took her place beside Maya near the front isle..

And then. Then—Her. 

The dress wasn’t extravagant. Not like the ones you see on Bridezillas. It didn’t glitter. Didn’t pull the eye with beading or boning or a train meant to make a statement.

It was silk. Ivory. Slipped like water across her skin. Sleeves to the wrist. A subtle, impossible plunge at the front that made his chest seize. The back was low. Low enough to see the line of her spine. The dip of her waist. She walked with her ballet heels, hair pinned but loose at the edges, skin glowing like the moment belonged to her.

Which, of course, it did.

He exhaled once—too sharp. Tried to catch it. Failed. Then blinked. Then blinked again. His throat went tight. His jaw twitched. He hadn’t cried in thirty years. Not when his mother died. Not when his father left. Not when he’d made his first million or his first hundred. Not when he burned the business down and rebuilt it again from ash. But this? Watching her walk toward him—He broke. Quietly. Without fanfare. Just a single tear that slid down the sharp cut of his cheek. She saw it. Of course she did.

Because when she walked, she didn’t look around. Didn’t wave. Didn’t scan the chairs. She walked like she had a target. Like he was gravity. Like she didn’t believe in aisles or arches or ceremony but still—somehow—believed in him. And he watched her the way men watched miracles. She stopped just in front of him, bouquet clutched in both hands like it was anchoring her.

“Hi,” she whispered.

“Hi,” he rasped, voice broken glass and breath.

They didn’t touch. Not yet. But it was like their bodies leaned, instinctively, as if the air between them wasn’t enough anymore. The officiant cleared her throat—gently, politely, like she’d seen a thousand of these and still understood how sacred the beginning was.

“If you’re both ready,” she said, smiling.

They nodded. The ceremony wasn’t long. They’d agreed on that. Just what needed saying.

The officiant began with something simple. A few words about love, about timing, about the way people come into each other’s lives not to fix them but to hold them steady while they fix themselves. About how choosing someone every day is a decision made quietly and relentlessly.

Then it was vows. She’d insisted Harry go first. And he had. He pulled the paper from his pocket. Smoothed it once. Cleared his throat. Then looked at her. Not at the crowd. Not at the trees. Just at her.

“I wrote this so many times I forgot what the first version said. You remember. You found it.”

Laughter stirred behind them. She smiled, eyes glinting.

“But this one—I meant this one. Every word. Every pause. I don’t believe in soulmates. But I believe in choice. And I choose you. Every morning. Every minute. I choose the way you look at me like I’m not broken." Harry sniffles softly.

Another tear comes down his eye. She wipes his softly with the back of her hand. 

"I choose the way you burn toast and then claim it’s on purpose. I choose the way you let me be quiet. I choose the way you don’t let me stay there too long. I choose the night you found the ring. I choose the look on your face when you said yes. I choose the version of myself that only exists when you’re near."

She gets choked up with tears. If she hadn't decided to work that party at the Met, she wouldn't have met him. Her husband. 

"I choose you. I will always choose you. Even when I forget how to say it.”

He folded the paper. Hand shaking slightly. And stepped back. She was still staring at him like she was memorizing something. Then she reached into her bouquet. Pulled a small folded card from between the stems. And began.

“I wrote this in a journal. Then on a napkin. Then on the back of an old receipt. I didn’t think I’d ever get it right. But maybe that’s the point. There’s no right way to say, you saved me. You didn’t fix me. You didn’t try. You just made space."

Harry smiled tearfully.

"You made it okay to be someone who lost things. A father. A mother. A brother. You never asked me to stop carrying them. You just offered to carry some of the weight with me. You did it by refilling my coffee without asking. By letting me yell about spreadsheets. By tucking the blanket around my ankles without waking me. By brushing my hair back when I pretend to be asleep." 

So many nights where she would fall asleep on the couch and wake up in bed. Wrapped in his arms. 

"You did it by loving me like I’m something worth staying for. And I will stay. I will choose this. You. The morning breath. The quiet. The stubbornness. The loyalty. The attitude. I will take all of it. I will hold it in my palms and call it home."

Sniffles were heard throughout their limited guests. 

"Because that’s what you are. You are home.”

When she looked up—Harry had stopped blinking again. But he was still breathing. Barely. The officiant smiled. Wiped at her own cheek.

“By the power vested in me—”

Harry stepped forward. Hands at her face. Mouth against hers. They kissed. Not hard. Not hungry. But full. Anchored. Like something settled. Like a promise made without needing words. The crowd laughed. Soft. Startled.

The officiant raised a brow. “I wasn’t done.”

Harry pulled back just enough to murmur, “I was.”

She laughed. Shaky.

The officiant sighed, half-smiling. “Then let it be known—before I could say it—that you are husband and wife.”

Maya cheered. Francesca whooped. James clapped once, solemn and proud. Isidora didn’t cry, but her jaw trembled. Harry didn’t look at any of them. He looked at her. And only her. She pressed her forehead to his, fingers sliding up to his jaw.

“You cried,” she whispered.

“Shut up,” he murmured.

“I’m keeping that forever.”

“Put it in your vows next time.”

She kissed him again. Gentle. Final. Everyone stood. Chairs scraped softly. Champagne popped somewhere off to the side. The sun dipped behind the hill just slightly, brushing everything in a layer of light that looked painted.

And Harry Castillo—once the coldest man in any room—wrapped his arm around the woman he loved and walked down the aisle like the only thing that had ever made sense was her hand in his.

Because it was. And it always would be them.

Mr and Mrs. Castillo.

TAGLIST @foxfollowedmehome @glitterspark @sukivenue @hhallefuckinglujahh @wholesomeloneliness @bebop36 @maryfanson @aysilee2018 @msjarvis @snoopyreadstoday @woodxtock @lasocia69 @jakecockley @just-a-harmless-patato @romancherry @southernbe @canyoufallinlove @aomi-recs @ivoryandflame @peelieblue @mstubbs21 @eleganthottubfun @justgonewild @awqwhat @xoprettiestkat @prose-before-hoes @indiegirlunited @catnip987 @thottiewinemom @rainbowsock4 @weareonlygettingolderbabe @hotforpedro @petertingless @lemon-world1 @jasminedragoon @algressman16 @la-120 @totallynotshine @joelmillerpascal @inesbethari @peedrow @escapefromrealitylol @mrsbilicablog @lunpycatavenue

[dior-luxury]

how would bllk react to reader making them lunch for their practice?? would love to see it <3

Making Them Lunch For Practice

( ✧ ) ────── boyfriend stories . fluff - she/her .

- [𝐜𝐡.] bllk 11 . isagi . rin . nagi . bachira . reo . barou . yukimiya . otoya . karasu . niko . aryu . chigiri . gagamaru . raichi . hiori . nanase .

- [𝐩:𝐬] long writing . cute headcanons . boyfriend blue lock >>>>

Note: These stories came out much cuter than I had expected 😭Also I LOVE the idea of giving the boys food before/after practice. And they honestly deserve it so much too!!

Isagi Yoichi

The morning sunlight poured through the kitchen window in soft golden rays as you packed up the final touches of Isagi’s lunch. The bento box was filled with all his favorites—grilled teriyaki chicken with sesame seeds, a neat pile of tamagoyaki, sticky white rice shaped into little soccer balls with nori patterns, and even a tiny corner for strawberries you’d carved into roses. You’d woken up extra early to get it all just right.

The moment he shuffled into the kitchen, hair still messy from sleep, your heart gave that little flutter it always did when he looked at you like you were his whole world.

"Good morning, Yoichi!" you chirped, hiding the bento behind your back.

He blinked blearily, then smiled when he saw you. “Morning, babe. You’re up early... whatcha hiding?” His tone was playful, suspicious.

You pulled the bento out like a magician revealing their final trick. "Ta-da! Lunch for my star striker."

His eyes widened, then softened into the kind of expression that made you melt—a warm, slightly crooked smile, the kind he wore only when he was overflowing with affection.

“No way,” he whispered, stepping closer. “You made that… for me?”

You nodded. “You’ve been working so hard lately. I wanted to make sure you had something homemade today. Fuel for the future World Cup hero.”

He looked at the bento, then at you. Then again at the bento. “This looks… insane. It’s so perfect I almost don’t wanna eat it. Almost.”

You handed it to him, and he cradled it like it was something precious. He leaned in, kissed your forehead, then your cheek. “You’re the best, you know that? I’m gonna score today with this energy. For you.”

Later that afternoon, when the team took a break, Isagi sat down, popped open the lid, and was immediately the target of jealous stares.

“No way—Isagi, that’s homemade?” Bachira peered over his shoulder like a curious raccoon. “Can I marry them too?”

Isagi shielded the lunch protectively, cheeks red but proud. “Back off. This is power-up food. You don’t mess with power-up food.”

As he ate, he took slow, thoughtful bites, tasting every little effort you'd poured into it. In that quiet moment, surrounded by teammates yelling and the distant thud of soccer balls, he felt grounded, loved. Reinvigorated. Every bite reminded him what he was fighting for.

That night, he sent you a selfie with a thumbs up and grass in his hair.

“Scored twice today. Guess who I was thinking about every time I aimed?”

Rin Itoshi

Rin wasn’t the kind of boyfriend who asked for much. He was quiet, intense, and fully immersed in his obsession with becoming the best striker in the world. But you saw the cracks in the armor—the subtle signs of stress, the dark circles under his eyes, the way his jaw clenched after practice when he thought no one was watching.

So, today, you decided to do something for him.

You made his bento with a quiet kind of love. Rin liked clean, balanced flavors—nothing too heavy. So you cooked salmon with lemon and herbs, roasted vegetables on the side, and soba noodles with a light sesame dressing. You added two little onigiri with umeboshi, shaped into tiny hearts. He would roll his eyes at that… but not really. Deep down, he’d like it.

You made your way to the training facility just as the sun started to climb. The field was already buzzing with movement. You found Rin stretching on the sidelines, alone, headphones in, brows drawn tight. Even in the chaos, he always seemed a little apart—untouchable.

You approached slowly and tapped his shoulder.

He turned, pulling out an earbud, and his expression shifted instantly from stern focus to a more relaxed surprise. “What are you doing here?”

You smiled, holding up the lunch bag. “Thought I’d drop something off before practice.”

His eyes flicked to the bag, then back to you. “You made that?”

You nodded. “Didn’t want you running on vending machine sandwiches again.”

He reached out for the lunch, fingers brushing yours just slightly longer than necessary. His voice was low. “Thanks. You didn’t have to.”

“I know,” you said. “But I wanted to.”

For a second, Rin didn’t say anything. He just looked at you, the corners of his eyes softening. He wasn't good with words, but this was one of those moments where the silence between you both said everything.

At break time, when he sat down alone near the bench and opened the bento, he actually paused.

Heart-shaped onigiri.

He gave the tiniest huff of a laugh, barely audible. Anyone else would’ve thought he was annoyed. But he wasn’t. It made his chest feel warm in a way that almost hurt.

He ate in peace, thinking about you. Thinking about how much steadier he felt today. How the food reminded him of something he didn’t often let himself dwell on: comfort, and care, and a sense of home. You were becoming all of that to him.

Later, when he got back to his apartment, you were already there, curled up on the couch.

He placed the empty bento box beside you and sat wordlessly next to you, his arm sliding around your waist.

After a while, he said quietly, “You made me feel... full today. Not just the food.”

You rested your head against his shoulder. “Good. That was the point.”

And in the rare warmth of his post-practice peace, Rin didn’t need to say he loved you. It was in the way he leaned into your touch, relaxed for once, just breathing you in.

Nagi Seishiro

Practice was brutal today. The sun loomed high, scorching the field, and sweat clung to every player's skin like a second layer. Nagi was sprawled lazily across the grass during break, one arm slung over his eyes to block out the light.

Everything felt like such a hassle — running drills, playing scrimmages, even standing up felt like climbing a mountain.

Until he heard the soft crunch of shoes against the grass nearby.

Peeking from under his arm, he saw you, standing there awkwardly, a shy smile on your face and a small, neatly packed bento box cradled in your hands. You knelt down next to him, the scent of something warm and savory immediately teasing his senses.

“Sei… I made you lunch for practice,” you murmured, holding it out toward him.

For a second, he just stared. His silver hair clung slightly to his forehead, and his golden eyes widened — not dramatically, but enough that you caught the rare flicker of surprise there.

"You made this... for me?" he said, voice low and lazy as always, but laced with something different — a softness that made your heart flip.

He sat up slowly, as if in a daze, and accepted the box from your hands. His fingers brushed yours — clumsy, warm, and lingering longer than necessary.

He opened the lid and blinked.

Inside, it wasn’t anything fancy: rice shaped into little onigiri, some grilled chicken, rolled omelet slices, and even a few heart-shaped carrot pieces tucked carefully at the side.

"...Such a hassle," he muttered under his breath — but there was no bite to it. None at all.

In fact, he looked at the lunch as if it was the most amazing thing he’d ever seen.

Nagi leaned back against the grass, pulling you with him so you sat between his legs. He rested his chin lazily on your shoulder, poking at the food with his chopsticks.

"You're... really nice to me," he mumbled, a bit drowsily, "Too nice."

He fed himself a bite, and his eyes closed immediately as he savored it. A low, pleased hum rumbled from his throat, like a cat curling into sunlight.

“Mm… tastes better ‘cause it’s from you.”

He tilted his head against yours, letting his heavy body lean almost completely on you, as if he trusted you to hold him up.

Nagi didn't need grand words. His affection lived in small things — the way he fed you a bite next, murmuring "open," or the way he let you steal his water bottle later, pretending not to notice how his cheeks turned the faintest shade of pink.

That lunch break, you weren't just his s/o.

You were his comfort, his peace, his favorite kind of "not a hassle."

And he made sure you knew it, even if it was only through the lazy way his hand never left yours for the rest of the day.

Bachira Meguru

The training grounds buzzed with energy — players laughing, balls thudding against nets, coaches barking instructions. Bachira was, as always, a chaotic blur, weaving between players during scrimmage with that wild, fearless grin that made him seem half-dream, half-nightmare to anyone trying to block him.

When the break whistle finally sounded, he jogged toward the benches, sweat sticking his messy hair to his forehead. He looked around immediately, almost instinctively searching for you.

When he spotted you standing there — lunch bag dangling from your fingers, eyes bright and excited — his face lit up instantly.

"Y/N!!!" he called, waving his arms dramatically over his head as he sprinted toward you, practically knocking over a cone on the way. A few of his teammates chuckled at his antics.

You barely had time to brace yourself before Bachira threw his arms around you, spinning you in a little circle before setting you down, laughing.

"You brought me something??" he asked, eyes gleaming with pure childlike wonder.

"Yeah," you said, a little breathless from his enthusiasm. You held out the bag. "I thought you might need some fuel!"

Bachira gasped as if you'd handed him a treasure chest.

"You’re the best! The BEST best!!" he sang, bouncing on his toes as he grabbed the bag. He dropped to the grass immediately, cross-legged, unpacking it with all the care of a kid opening presents on Christmas morning.

Inside was a box packed with fun, colorful foods — little sandwiches with funny faces drawn on them with seaweed, mini skewers of fruit, tiny octopus-shaped sausages. A lunch full of surprises, just like him.

"Woaaah!! Look!! They’re smiling!!!" he giggled, showing off one of the sandwich faces to his teammate as if it were a trophy. "Y/N made it!!!"

He grabbed a sandwich, took a huge bite, and immediately threw his head back with a loud, delighted groan.

"SO GOOD!!! IT'S Y/N-FLAVORED!!!" he shouted.

You nearly choked on your own spit. "That's not — that’s not how you say it—!"

But Bachira just laughed and patted the grass next to him until you sat down too.

As he ate, he kept sneaking glances at you, eyes soft and glittering, lips curled into the most genuine, easy smile. Every few bites, he'd lean against your shoulder, humming happily.

After he finished nearly the whole box in record time, he turned to you, sandwich crumbs still stuck to his cheek.

"You know," he said, voice softer now, "when you do stuff like this... it makes my monster real happy."

You blinked. "Your monster?"

He nodded seriously, tapping his chest. "The part of me that wants to play, that wants to keep moving forward — it gets even louder when you're around. 'Cause you're my favorite person. You're the one who sees me."

You didn't even have time to respond before he tackled you into a messy hug, knocking you both into the grass, laughing.

The afternoon sun burned golden above you. And in that moment, in Bachira’s arms, hearing his laughter rumble through your back, you realized something:

You hadn’t just given him food.

You’d given him joy. You'd become part of the very thing that made him run so fearlessly across the field.

Reo Mikage

At first, Reo hadn’t even noticed you arriving. He was too busy — barking plays at teammates, that sharp glint in his eye, moving with a natural grace that made it clear: Reo Mikage didn’t just play soccer, he commanded it.

But when his gaze swept across the field mid-break and landed on you — standing there in casual clothes, holding a sleek, pastel-colored lunch box in your hands — everything else faded into static.

He immediately jogged over, ignoring the coach's call for a quick team huddle, towel slung over his neck, sweat shining on his forehead. His violet hair was messy, sticking to his skin in a way that made him look both devastatingly handsome and ridiculously approachable at the same time.

"You... came?" he said, breathless, a tiny, rare note of uncertainty in his voice.

"I made you lunch," you said simply, lifting the box.

Reo stared at it, blinking once. Twice.

"You made it yourself?"

You nodded, a little shy. "Yeah. Thought it might help you out."

He exhaled a low, almost disbelieving laugh — like he couldn’t believe someone would choose to do something so earnest for him.

“God, you’re incredible,” he murmured under his breath, before taking the box from your hands like it was made of glass.

He led you to a bench in the shade, wiping his hands with his towel before peeling open the lid. His eyes widened — you had packed everything meticulously: truffle rice balls (you remembered he liked a little luxury), grilled teriyaki chicken, pickled vegetables, and a few tiny sweets tucked into the corner for afters.

"You… remembered all my favorites," he said, voice thick with something heavier than gratitude. "You’re gonna spoil me."

He picked up a bite with his chopsticks, chewing thoughtfully. As the flavors melted on his tongue, his head tilted back slightly, and he let out the softest, most genuine sound you’d ever heard from him — a sound of complete bliss.

Then he turned that dazzling, megawatt grin on you.

"You’re dangerous," he said, resting his elbow on his knee and leaning toward you with lazy, flirtatious ease. "If you keep doing stuff like this, I’ll have to marry you."

He was joking — kind of. But you caught the way his cheeks flushed slightly pink under the midday sun.

Before you could answer, Reo leaned in, kissed your forehead, and whispered:

“Thank you, princess. I’ll make it up to you after practice.”

Later that night, he sent you dozens of texts planning your next date, determined to outdo your thoughtfulness with something that would leave you speechless instead.

Because Mikage Reo didn’t just receive love. He matched it, multiplied it, and sent it back tenfold.

Barou Shoei

Barou was the picture of intensity on the field — a storm wrapped in a man’s body, every move sharp and decisive. His presence was so overwhelming, sometimes people flinched just trying to meet his gaze.

You stood at the edge of the practice grounds, lunch bag clutched to your chest, heart hammering. How would he react? Would he even accept it?

When break was called, Barou stalked toward the sidelines, towel over his shoulder, glaring at the ground as if daring it to challenge him. He barely noticed you at first — until he caught your familiar scent carried on the breeze.

He stopped dead in his tracks, lifting his head.

You stepped forward nervously. "Shouei... I made you lunch."

The entire world seemed to go silent.

He stared. His red eyes locked onto yours — intense, unblinking — and for one terrifying moment, you thought you’d made a mistake.

Then, wordlessly, he closed the distance between you.

His hand — big, calloused, and impossibly gentle — took the lunch bag from yours.

He opened it without a word, revealing a sturdy bento box filled with hearty food: thick-cut beef with rice, roasted vegetables, a miso soup flask on the side, and a small, clumsy hand-written note tucked between the layers.

"Eat up, King. You deserve it."

Barou’s brows twitched. He picked up the note, holding it like it was made of precious metal.

He cleared his throat, glancing around to make sure no one was paying too much attention, before sitting heavily on the bench nearby. You hesitated, but he shot you a glare — not a mean one, but the kind that said: Don’t even think about leaving.

He dug into the food without fanfare, biting into the beef first.

A beat of silence.

Then a low, pleased rumble vibrated from deep in his chest, almost like a growl.

"This is... good," he muttered gruffly, eyes lowered like he didn’t want you to see the way they softened.

You smiled, cheeks burning.

Barou ate quickly, efficiently, every so often glancing at you like he still couldn’t believe you had taken the time to do this for him. When he finished, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, stood up, and loomed over you.

"You got guts, bringin’ somethin’ like this to me," he said, tone rough. But you could hear the pride underneath. "Good guts."

Then, awkwardly — very awkwardly — he ruffled your hair, so clumsily it almost knocked you backward.

"You’re mine," he said bluntly. "You got that?"

And before you could answer, Barou stalked off toward practice again, chest puffed out, moving like he had just scored a hat-trick — because deep down, he knew: no victory on the field could ever compare to winning your heart.

Yukimiya Kenyu

The sharp click of cleats on pavement echoed across the training center as Yukimiya wiped the sweat from his brow. Everything he did, he did with precision — from the clean dribble of his feet to the way he tied his hair up neatly after a scrimmage.

He moved with that serious, almost elegant grace that always made you want to watch him a little longer than you should.

And today, he was extra focused — his practices had been getting longer and harder, and you knew better than anyone that he pushed himself beyond exhaustion sometimes. That’s why you stood near the benches, holding a slim, stylish bento box — something you knew he would appreciate.

When Yukimiya spotted you, his steps faltered. His sharp, almost guarded eyes softened in an instant.

He approached, towel slung around his neck, posture still straight even as exhaustion weighed on him. His voice was low, a little surprised:

"You came all this way?"

You smiled and held out the bento.

"I made you something. Thought you could use a little break... and a little love."

The tips of Yukimiya’s ears turned pink — a detail so small, so fleeting, you might’ve missed it if you weren’t watching closely.

He accepted the box with a kind of reverence, like it was something priceless. Sitting down gracefully on the bench, he opened it carefully.

Inside, you had packed it beautifully: fresh salads with vinaigrette on the side, grilled fish, brown rice, slices of colorful fruit arranged like a painting. It looked healthy, but still indulgent — exactly what you knew he'd prefer.

Yukimiya set his chopsticks down for a moment, simply staring at it.

"You're... incredible," he said quietly, almost like he was speaking to himself. "Even the presentation is beautiful."

You sat beside him, a little shy.

Without a word, he picked up a piece of melon and held it up toward you.

"Say ah," he murmured, his lips curving in a soft, rare smile.

You blinked, heat rushing to your face, but you obeyed — and he laughed under his breath, his shoulders relaxing in a way that rarely happened during the tense, grueling days of training.

As he ate, he never once took his eyes off you — as if he was reminding himself that you were real, that this moment was real.

Between bites, he said softly:

"You're the only one who sees me like this... not as a player, not as a product... just me."

And when practice ended later, Yukimiya didn’t rush to leave. Instead, he pulled you gently into a hug, resting his forehead against yours, whispering:

"Stay close to me... okay?"

Because to him, you weren't just a break from reality. You were the only part of it he wanted to keep forever.

Otoya Eita

Otoya had been flirting shamelessly with his teammates during practice again — smirking, teasing, tossing careless winks like candy. It was part of his charm: that smooth, effortless charisma that could melt through defenses faster than any soccer tactic.

But the moment he caught sight of you standing near the fence, a small lunch bag in your hand, that playful mask slipped.

For just a heartbeat, his smile softened into something real.

He jogged over, running a hand through his tousled hair, his black earrings glinting under the sun.

"Yo, babe~" he drawled, flashing you that signature lazy grin. "Did you come just to watch me show off?"

You rolled your eyes, heart fluttering anyway.

"No, Eita," you said, holding up the bag. "I made you lunch."

That caught him off guard. His eyebrows shot up, a genuine, boyish surprise lighting up his whole face.

"For me?"

You nodded, pushing it into his hands. "Yeah. Thought you might need a little extra energy."

He stared at the bag, as if unsure he deserved it.

Otoya quickly masked the flicker of emotion with a smirk, but you saw it — the way his fingers clutched the handles tighter, how his gaze lingered on you with a rare intensity.

He pulled you into a quick, sneaky hug, murmuring into your hair:

"You're way too good to me, you know that?"

Otoya dragged you to sit with him on the grass, unwrapping the lunch like a kid unwrapping a birthday gift.

Inside, you had packed a bunch of fun, easy-to-eat foods: sandwiches cut into triangles, juicy karaage chicken bites, spicy mayo dip, and a few cookies you'd decorated sloppily with little hearts.

He laughed — this big, beautiful, real laugh — when he saw the cookies.

"You made these for me?" he said, mock-offended. "What if I get cavities, huh? Gonna pay my dental bills?"

But he popped one into his mouth without hesitation, chewing happily.

You sat next to him, basking in the late afternoon sun, the noise of practice fading into background static.

After a few bites, he leaned in close, bumping his forehead against yours.

"You're dangerous, babe," he whispered, lips brushing your ear. "Make me start thinking about things that aren't soccer."

His voice dropped lower, only for you to hear:

"Like how good you'd look sitting in my kitchen, making me breakfast in the morning."

You laughed, pushing him away playfully, cheeks burning — and he laughed too, catching your hand mid-air and bringing it to his lips for a quick, teasing kiss.

But behind all the flirting, you knew something real was blooming there — something a little scary, a little thrilling.

Because Otoya Eita was used to running.

And somehow, you were the one person he was sprinting toward.

Karasu Tabito

Training had been relentless today. Karasu’s shirt clung to him, black hair messy and sticking to his forehead, dark eyes sharp as ever as he lazily dribbled the ball between his feet even during breaks.

He was sharp, cocky — the kind of guy whose whole aura screamed "I don’t need anyone." And yet, the second he caught sight of you waiting by the benches, arms behind your back and a little nervous bounce to your step, something in him faltered.

He kicked the ball aside with casual precision and started walking toward you, every step slow, deliberate — the smirk playing at his lips giving nothing away.

"Yo," he said, voice low, almost teasing. "Came to see me break ankles, sweetheart?"

You rolled your eyes and held up a sleek black lunch box, matching his aesthetic a little too perfectly.

"I brought you lunch. Thought you could use it... since you're out here pretending you're invincible or whatever."

For a split second — and it was so fast you almost missed it — Karasu's cocky front slipped. His eyes widened, blinking once. Then he chuckled under his breath, that deep, rough sound you loved so much.

"You're dangerous," he muttered, more to himself than to you.

He sat down right there on the grass, patting the spot beside him without a word. When you sat, he immediately pulled the box open.

Inside, you'd packed some high-protein onigiri, grilled chicken, pickled sides, and a few extra things you knew he liked — even tucked in a mini dessert. Nothing too flashy, but thoughtful. Personal.

Karasu stared at the food, silent.

Then he said, quietly:

"You know me too well."

He ate slowly at first, savoring it — and every once in a while, he'd glance sideways at you, like he couldn't believe you were real.

"You didn't have to do this," he murmured between bites. "I mean... I can take care of myself."

You shrugged, trying to play it off. "Maybe I want to take care of you sometimes."

That shut him up fast.

For once, Karasu didn't have a smartass comment ready. He just stared at you, mouth slightly open, chopsticks frozen mid-air.

Finally, he set them down, turned fully toward you, and leaned in — not smirking, not teasing — just... looking at you with this rare, intense sincerity.

"You’re lucky I’m crazy about you," he said, voice low, rough around the edges. "Otherwise, I'd never let anyone see me this soft."

And when practice resumed, Karasu played sharper, faster — like he had something more precious to protect now. Because he did. He had you.

Niko Ikki

Niko wasn't flashy. Where others shouted, flexed, and demanded attention, he operated like a ghost on the field — quiet, tactical, always watching.

Which made him pretty good at noticing things others missed. Like you, standing by the fence, nervously adjusting the strap of the small cooler bag you brought.

His green eyes caught yours almost instantly. He hesitated, brushing the hair from his face awkwardly, then jogged over, wiping his hands on his shorts.

"Y/N?" he asked, voice soft, a little breathless.

You held up the bag, heart hammering. "I... made you lunch. For after practice. If you want it."

Niko froze. Like, actually froze.

You could see the gears turning in his head, short-circuiting. Was this some dream? A prank? Did he accidentally hit his head during drills?

"You made this... for me?"

You nodded.

Slowly — so slowly, it was almost shy — Niko reached out and took the bag from your hands. His fingers brushed yours, and his ears immediately turned a vivid pink.

He led you over to the edge of the field, sitting on the grass cross-legged, handling the bag like it was fragile.

Opening it carefully, he found a simple, cozy meal: Tamago (egg) sandwiches, some homemade rice crackers, a few veggie sticks, and a neatly wrapped banana muffin for dessert. Nothing extravagant — but every part of it screamed "I know you."

Niko stared at the food. Then at you. Then back at the food.

You watched him, worried.

"Is it okay? I didn't know what you usually eat for practice days, so I kinda guessed—"

"It's perfect," he interrupted, voice so soft it almost got swallowed by the breeze.

He took a small, careful bite of the sandwich, chewing slowly.

And then — The tiniest smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Barely there. Fleeting. But real.

"This... feels like a dream," he muttered, half to himself. "No one's ever done something like this for me before."

You blinked. "Really?"

He shook his head, still smiling that barely-there smile that made your chest ache a little.

"...You're special," he said simply. "You always make me feel like I'm worth noticing."

And as the other players called him back to drills, Niko stood slowly, setting the box aside for later, but not before gently — awkwardly — patting your head in thanks.

He jogged back onto the field with a little more spring in his step. Like somehow, your lunch had fueled more than just his body. It had fueled his heart.

Aryu Jyubei

Even in the middle of grueling practice, Aryu was… well, Aryu. Perfect posture. Every movement clean, elegant, as if he were modeling instead of sprinting drills.

You stood off to the side, nervously holding a gorgeous, ribbon-wrapped bento box you had painstakingly designed to look good — because you knew, with Aryu, it was always about beauty.

When he finally caught sight of you, his silver hair catching the sunlight like a halo, his entire demeanor shifted.

He slowed down, almost like he was gliding across the field rather than walking.

When he reached you, he smiled — dazzling, flawless — brushing imaginary dust off his jersey before he spoke.

"My lovely," he said smoothly, voice like honey. "Is this a gift for me?"

You nodded, a little breathless, and held out the lunchbox.

"I made you lunch. I tried to make it... you know... aesthetically pleasing, too."

Aryu's lavender eyes widened ever so slightly — a flicker of real surprise. He took the box from your hands with exaggerated care, like it was an ancient artifact, holding it delicately between long fingers.

"You tailored it... for my beauty standards," he said softly, his voice dropping a few octaves. "You're too perfect."

He moved to a shaded bench and beckoned you to join him with a graceful tilt of his head. Sitting with one leg elegantly crossed over the other, he opened the box slowly.

Inside? You had arranged everything meticulously: — Color-coordinated vegetables, — Heart-shaped tamagoyaki, — Rice balls with edible flower petals pressed into them, — Grilled salmon cut into neat, symmetrical strips.

It looked like something out of a high-end magazine shoot.

Aryu's lips parted slightly in amazement.

"This..." he whispered. "This is art."

You sat down beside him, heart hammering.

He took a bite, still poised and elegant — and then he actually closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the taste. When he opened them again, his gaze locked onto you with something deeper than gratitude — something raw, real.

"You nourish my soul," he said seriously, resting a hand lightly over his heart. "You nourish my beauty."

Then — and you swear your heart actually stopped — Aryu reached out and gently, so gently, tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

"Perfect," he murmured under his breath, almost like he was talking to himself.

From that day on, he posted about your lunches online (with your permission) — captioning them with things like, "True beauty is made with love. #Blessed #LunchGoals."

And every time he practiced, he pushed himself a little harder — because how could he not? The most beautiful thing in his life was already cheering for him.

Chigiri Hyoma

Chigiri Hyoma was a storm bottled inside a porcelain frame. Fast, sharp, and achingly beautiful — like something that wasn’t meant for this world.

You stood near the track where he was finishing his sprints, heart pounding, clutching the small thermos and bento box you'd packed just for him.

His long crimson hair streamed behind him like a banner as he raced past — so fast it took your breath away.

And then — As if sensing your gaze — Chigiri skidded to a graceful stop, turning his head slightly, strands of hair framing his delicate, sharp-edged face.

When he saw you, something subtle shifted in his expression — a softening that few ever got to witness.

He jogged over, light on his feet, wiping sweat off his brow.

"Hey," he said, voice low and a little surprised. "You’re here?"

You nodded, shy but determined, holding out the food.

"I made you lunch. For after practice."

Chigiri blinked. His gaze flickered from your face to the lunch, and back to your face again.

For a moment, he didn’t move.

You saw it — the walls he kept so carefully built up wobbling ever so slightly.

"You made this for me?" he asked, voice dropping even softer, like he was almost afraid to say it too loud and scare the moment away.

"Yeah," you said, smiling. "I figured you'd need something good after training so hard."

Slowly — hesitantly — Chigiri reached out and took the bento box from you. His fingers brushed yours, and you felt how slightly his hand was trembling.

He led you over to a quiet corner where he could open it away from the others. Sitting on the grass, he peeled open the lid — and his eyes widened slightly.

You had packed light but hearty food — udon noodles with fresh vegetables, marinated tofu, slices of sweet rolled omelet, and fresh strawberries, knowing he loved them. It wasn’t extravagant, but it was everything he needed.

He looked at it. Then at you.

"...You know me better than anyone," he said quietly.

He took a bite, chewing slowly — and for the first time in a long time, you saw it: The way his entire body relaxed, the way his shoulders dropped from their usual tense coil.

When he finished eating, Chigiri set the box aside and leaned back on his hands, face tilted toward the sky, crimson hair catching the breeze.

Then, in a voice so soft you almost missed it, he said:

"You're my favorite reason to run."

And when he looked at you, eyes shining like rubies, you knew: He wasn’t just running for himself anymore.

He was running toward you.

Gagamaru Gin

Practice was brutal today — the kind where even the air feels heavy, and the turf sticks stubbornly to the soles of your shoes. Gagamaru had thrown himself at every shot, dove at impossible angles, muscles aching in ways he didn't even realize possible. The coach finally blew the whistle for a break, and the players scattered to catch their breath.

Gagamaru wiped the sweat from his forehead with the hem of his shirt and wandered toward the benches, his mind already halfway gone to food — anything, at this point. Maybe the vending machines still had something halfway edible.

But then he saw you.

Standing awkwardly near the sidelines, clutching a lunchbox like it was some kind of sacred artifact, you waved the moment he noticed you. His eyes lit up instantly — not in a loud, dramatic way, but in that quiet, stunned Gagamaru way, like a puppy realizing its favorite person was in the room.

He jogged over to you, hair bouncing slightly with each step, a rare grin spreading across his flushed face.

"You… made me lunch?" he asked, voice rough from shouting during drills, but so, so soft when speaking to you.

You nodded shyly, handing it over. It wasn't anything crazy — just simple food you knew he liked: grilled onigiri, karaage, some tamagoyaki, and fresh fruits tucked in the corners like tiny bursts of color. You had even slipped a tiny handwritten note between the compartments ("Eat well, dummy! ❤️").

Gagamaru took the box in both hands like he was afraid he'd crush it if he wasn't careful. He dropped onto the bench right there and ripped off the lid with boyish excitement, inhaling the scent.

"Whoa... it smells so good," he mumbled, practically bouncing on his seat. Without hesitation, he popped a rice ball into his mouth, his eyes going wide mid-bite.

"Thish ish... amazhing," he said, voice muffled through a full mouth.

You laughed, sitting beside him. He offered you a bite like it was instinct — holding out a piece of chicken with his chopsticks toward your mouth, utterly earnest.

"Eat with me," he said, grinning in that slightly dopey, infinitely sweet way only Gagamaru could.

And for the rest of the break, the two of you sat side by side, sharing bites, his knee bumping against yours every so often. He kept sneaking glances at you, a quiet, contented look on his face that said more than words ever could: Thank you. Thank you for thinking of me. Thank you for caring.

He even insisted on carrying the empty box himself after, carefully tucking it into his duffel like it was treasure.

Before jogging back to practice, he paused, turned, and with a sudden rush of boldness pressed a quick, clumsy kiss against your temple.

"I’ll score one for you today," he promised, eyes bright with the kind of simple, fierce devotion only Gagamaru knew how to give.

Raichi Jingo

The locker room still smelled like sweat and metal, even with half the windows cracked open. Raichi Jingo slammed his locker shut, his foot tapping out a restless rhythm against the tile floor.

Today’s drills had been intense — too many scrimmages, too many chances for him to lose his temper at some idiot who didn't pass when they should’ve. He was on edge, frustration bubbling under his skin, needing an outlet.

So when he stepped outside and saw you waiting by the field gates — holding a lunch bag, looking nervous but hopeful — it almost didn't register at first. He blinked, a scowl still half-formed on his face, until it clicked.

You. Lunch. For him.

He stomped over, face flushing a deep red not from the heat, but from the unfamiliar cocktail of emotions tangling in his chest.

"W-what the hell are you doing here?!" he barked instinctively — too loud, too harsh. But then he caught the slight falter in your smile and cursed himself mentally.

You lifted the bag toward him. "I, um… thought you might want something homemade before the next scrimmage?"

He stood there for a second, hands balled into fists at his sides, glaring at the ground like it had personally offended him. Then, wordlessly, he grabbed the bag from you — not roughly, but like he didn’t trust himself to be gentler.

He turned his back for a second, breathing out hard, before plopping down right on the grass. He cracked open the bag and froze.

Inside was his favorite: katsudon, hot and fragrant, with the egg perfectly runny and the pork golden-crispy. You had even packed a side of miso soup in a thermos, and a small pudding cup (with a stupid little smiley face sticker on the lid).

Raichi swallowed hard. His throat felt too tight for some reason.

"You're... really trying to kill me, huh," he muttered, not looking at you. But when you laughed — that soft, genuine laugh — he peeked up, ears red, and finally cracked a small, crooked smile.

He ate like he was starving, shoving spoonfuls into his mouth, muttering how "this was the only good thing that happened today" under his breath. Every now and then he’d glance sideways at you, trying to be subtle but failing miserably, cheeks tinted pink.

After finishing, he set the empty container down carefully. He didn't say thank you — not in words — but he shifted closer to you, bumped his shoulder into yours roughly, like a kid asking for attention.

"Tch. Next time... bring two portions," he grumbled. "You barely get any if you just sit there watching me, dumbass."

It wasn’t the smoothest thanks. It wasn’t even close. But from the way Raichi sat a little closer after that, from the way he picked at the grass nervously while sneaking glances at you — it was clear:

He was grateful. So, so much more grateful than he could ever put into words.

And when he got up to head back to practice, he ruffled your hair — quick, rough, affectionate — before stomping off, barking at his teammates like usual. But his voice had a little more warmth to it now. And every now and then, he’d shoot a cocky, almost-boyish grin back at you from across the field.

Hiori Yo

The sun barely peeked through the heavy gray clouds overhead. It felt like the whole world was weighed down, sluggish and quiet — matching the mood inside Hiori Yo’s chest.

Practice today was grueling, but it wasn’t just the drills that exhausted him. It was the constant gnawing voice in the back of his mind, whispering that he wasn’t good enough, wasn’t moving fast enough, wasn’t shining the way he should. He hated that voice. He hated that it still had power over him sometimes.

As he trudged off the field toward the benches, his head low, he saw a small figure waiting for him. You. Standing there, shifting your weight nervously from foot to foot, holding a lunch bag decorated with little blue stars — the color you knew he liked.

At first, Hiori thought he was hallucinating out of exhaustion. But when you lifted the bag shyly and waved at him, he stopped dead in his tracks.

"You... came here for me?" he asked quietly, disbelief plain in his voice.

You nodded, smiling a little, though your hands trembled just enough for him to notice. "I thought… maybe you could use a break. A good one."

For a long moment, Hiori just stared, his usually guarded expression slipping away. And then — like a dam breaking — the softest smile curled onto his lips. A real one. The kind that was rare, precious, like sunlight after a long rain.

He walked over, taking the bag almost reverently from your hands.

Sitting beside you on the bench, he opened it carefully — and when he saw the neat little arrangement inside, his throat tightened. You had packed everything he loved without being over-the-top: a homemade sandwich with fresh, crisp veggies and chicken, his favorite kind of potato salad, and even a tiny matcha-flavored sweet tucked in the corner.

You even remembered to include a tiny packet of hand wipes — because you knew how meticulous he was about not feeling "sticky" when he ate.

"You…" he started, then stopped. His voice cracked embarrassingly.

Instead, he set the lunch down, leaned toward you, and pressed his forehead gently against your shoulder.

"Thank you," he whispered, so soft you almost missed it under the breeze.

He ate slowly, savoring every bite, and he kept glancing at you — like he couldn’t believe you were real, sitting there next to him, just for him. When he finished, he carefully tucked everything back into the bag, his movements almost tender.

Then, without warning, he turned to you fully, his ocean-blue eyes clear and steady.

"When I’m on the field today," he said, voice steady, "I’ll remember this feeling. I’ll remember that someone believes in me."

And he said it like a promise — not just to you, but to himself.

Before heading back to practice, he surprised you by reaching out and taking your hand — fingers sliding between yours, gentle but sure — and giving it a small, grateful squeeze.

Nanase Nijiro

The energy on the field was electric today — shouts, laughter, the slap of cleats against the turf. Nanase Nijiro was everywhere, darting around like a bright bolt of energy, even as sweat soaked through his practice jersey.

Still, there was a tiredness under his smile. The kind you only saw if you knew him well — the kind where he pushed himself harder than he should, afraid of falling behind.

As the whistle blew for a break, he wiped his forehead with his sleeve, heart hammering in his chest. He was about to make a beeline for his water bottle when he saw you standing just beyond the field.

The moment his eyes landed on you, his whole face lit up.

"(Y/N)!!" he shouted, waving both arms above his head like an overexcited kid. He sprinted toward you, practically skidding to a stop in front of you, his grin so wide it almost hurt to look at.

"What’re you doing here?!" he beamed. Then he noticed the lunch bag in your hands.

His eyes widened comically. "Wait. Is that... is that for me??"

You laughed, handing it to him. "Yeah. Thought you might be hungry."

"Hungry?? I'm starving!" he groaned dramatically, clutching the bag to his chest like it was a lifeline.

Without any hesitation — like it was the most natural thing in the world — he plopped down cross-legged right there on the grass, pulling you down beside him with a happy tug on your wrist.

He opened the bag with the kind of reverence most people reserved for opening presents on Christmas morning. Inside was a bento box you had carefully arranged: fluffy rice topped with sesame seeds, grilled fish, sautéed vegetables, and a few carefully cut fruit slices in the shape of little hearts. You had even tucked in a tiny note that said, "For my favorite striker!" with a doodle of a tiny soccer ball.

Nanase stared at it for a second, then looked up at you, his green eyes wide and glassy.

"You made this? Like, actually??" he said, voice cracking slightly.

When you nodded, he clutched the bento to his chest again dramatically. "This is... the greatest day of my life," he announced solemnly, making you burst into laughter.

He dug in with the enthusiasm of someone who hadn't eaten in days — humming happily at every bite, practically bouncing in place. Every now and then he would pause, shove a piece of fruit toward your mouth, insisting you eat too.

"This is insane," he said between bites. "You're insane. You're amazing. I'm gonna score a hat trick today, I swear on this lunch."

After he finished (and licked the lid of the bento clean, because Nanase was nothing if not shameless when it came to food you made), he turned to you, practically vibrating with energy.

"Stay and watch, okay?" he pleaded, cheeks flushing. "I’m gonna play my heart out. For you."

He looked so earnest, so absolutely bright, you couldn't help but promise you would.

And when he ran back onto the field, he turned around once — just once — to shoot you a grin so dazzling it could’ve powered the floodlights on its own.

[neeeooon]

Hihi Elle, hope you’re okay! I just wanted to request if you could write something about reader reuniting nagi after his elimination, I dont necessarily think he’s too upset about it but i just wanted to see how ud write it and if he’d need comforting or not. Feel free to ignore ofc, Thank you

:') i gotchu bae (the 299 leaks Hurt :’))

reuniting after his elimination

nagi seishiro x gn!reader. angst, hurt-comfort

you stood at the bus stop, anxiously wringing your hands as you waited for your boyfriend to arrive. you'd been watching live when the final results were announced and received a text from him not even ten minutes later that he'd see you soon. he didn’t sound too distressed over the phone, but you weren’t sure how he’d be in person.

finally, you spot the faded blue bus turn the corner and stand from the bench, eager to reach out and hold your boyfriend. you waited for the bus to slow and felt goosebumps erupt over your arms when you spotted nagi through the window.

the doors opened, and there he was.

his hoodie and hair were slightly rumpled, as if he’d fallen asleep on the ride back. there was a blue lock bag clutched in one fist as the other hand was wrapped loosely around the strap of his personal backpack. his eyes looked a bit distracted as he stepped off the bus, and you spread your arms out wide.

“aw, baby,” you cooed when he dropped both bags onto the ground and stepped into your embrace, nearly knocking you over with how heavily he hugged you.

“‘m sorry,” you heard him mumble into your hair. you gently pulled his face away and cupped it between your hands, his arms still wrapped around your waist. “i wanted you to be proud of me.”

you hoped he couldn’t hear the sound of your heart breaking as it shattered in your chest. “sei, i am proud of you.” you brushed his white bangs from his eyes as he shook his head. “i let you ‘nd reo down. i wanted to keep playing with him and the others. sucks.”

sighing, you pulled his face into the crook of your neck so you could run your fingers through his hair and down his back. “then you get better. you practice, you find your ego, and you play. just because you aren’t playing with them now doesn’t mean this is the end for you.”

nagi nuzzled his nose against your neck. “i cried,” he announced, sounding slightly embarrassed by the confession. “after i left. reo, too. he tried really hard to fight for my spot. feels bad.”

you tightened your grip on him. you’d seen that live; you felt those emotions, too. “that’s okay. he cried because he cares about you, you know. not because he was mad at you.”

“… still.” nagi squeezed you around the middle and you fought the urge to break down right then and there. he was clearly upset and seemed conflicted over that.

stepping out of his grasp, you placed a soft smile on your face and caressed his cheek with your thumb. “you’re home, now. let’s celebrate that for a little bit! i found a place that makes really good lemon tea not far from here.”

you pulled the straps of nagi’s backpack over your shoulders as he grabbed his blue lock duffle bag. when you caught him eyeing the logo a bit longer than you liked, you reached for his hand and gave it a squeeze. the corner of his lip curled up a tad when he looked over to find you smiling at him. “come on, sei. my treat!”