A Lucky Christmas

viv jsjsjsjsjjsjsj i’m so excited for this you have no fucking idea 🙂‍↕️ i’m outside your door waiting for a kiss

With a rough exterior, it takes a certain someone to break down his walls.

this is so beautiful, that i don’t even know if i should be wet or scream doing both as we speak 🙂‍↕️

Tattoo Artist!Theo

Tattooartist!theo who is a major fuck boy, getting any woman he wants. Someone who has never been for settling down and basically lives as a free spirit. Your body is canvas and he wants nothing more than to splatter his art all over it. With a rough exterior, it takes a certain someone to break down his walls. With a naturally dominant personality, he also has sarcasm that drips from his lips in a sort of sinister way. Nothing but surprises will come your way…very soon—

Ahhhhh guuuuuys!!! I’m too excited for this AU heheh- more coming soon👀

Divider linked in my masterlist 🌙

Love my naughty nymphs 💋

leona, i wanna give you a big kiss on your forehead because you just gave me another masterpiece to read and another FEAST to eat (not surprised because you always know exactly what you’re doing) 🤲🏻

you don't even have time to think, not when mattheo's got you exactly where he wants you-sprawled out on tom's bed, your thighs trembling in his grip, his mouth pressed against your cunt like it's his last fucking meal.

first of all, he’s so nasty for doing this lmao, and i love it, he’s really eating his sister in law’s cunt on his brother’s bed 🏃‍♀️ this man has no decency, and i fucking love him for it lmao

second of all, i fucking love when you write smut, it’s already so fucking good, and it’s only the second paragraph 🙂‍↕️

"mattheo-" your voice is a strangled whisper, your fingers pulling at his curls,

this girl is living my dream life rn, i’m jealous and i’m not afraid to admit it (i want to be her so bad

"oh, now you remember my name?" […] "that's funny. thought it was 'tom, tom, tom' with you."

he’s such a son of a bitch 😭 i love love love that you made him so provocative. he’s taunting like he didn’t do anything wrong, and it makes me feel so ^%{%{%{ !!!

"mattheo, we-we can't-"

"we already are."

— 👙❌ i mean say less (i’m not complaining

all that talk about how much you love my brother, yet look at you." he presses a kiss to your inner thigh, all mockery, all smug satisfaction. "letting me eat you out on his bed."

"so fuckin' easy,"

I FUCKING CAN’T WITH THIS SON OF BITCH, i can’t even be mad because i’m too busy drooling over your amazing smut and his attitude 😔

i love the way you write him, how his attitude interferes with the sex and makes everything even more interesting. the way he talks and provokes the reader, letting her know she’s doing something wrong but still pushing her to do it—even when he’s in the wrong too and i love that he doesn’t care if his brother finds out—it’s so fucking good 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

he leans over you, caging you in, lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, "go clean yourself up, princess. wouldn't want tom to see you like this, yeah?"

the scene is so vivid in my head that i might need a doctor… or maybe a condom yk 💦💦💦

and just like that, he's gone, slipping out the door like he was never there, leaving you wrecked, panting, and stained with the taste of betrayal.

TELL HIM TO BRING HIS ASS BACK BC I NEED MORE, RIGHT NOW *{%{%]%\%\%%\%\%\

i love the way you write I LOVE THIS AND I CANNOT WAIT TO READ MORE 10/10 one more time

۶ৎ boyfriend’s brother!mattheo eating you out while tom’s in the shower

boyfriend’s brother mattheo x fem reader warnings ; 18+ mdni, oral f!recieving, fingering, cheating boyfriend’s brother mattheo moodboard

navigation. au collection. m.list. bfb!mattheo.

you don’t know how it got this far. or maybe you do. 

you don’t even have time to think, not when mattheo’s got you exactly where he wants you—sprawled out on tom’s bed, your thighs trembling in his grip, his mouth pressed against your cunt like it’s his last fucking meal. his tongue is relentless, messy and eager, flicking against your clit before dragging down to fuck into you, obscene sounds filling the room with every desperate, sloppy lick.

“mattheo—” your voice is a strangled whisper, your fingers pulling at his curls, like you’re not sure whether you’re trying to push him away or pull him closer.

“oh, now you remember my name?” he taunts, pulling back just enough to look up at you through dark lashes. his chin is glistening with your arousal, eyes gleaming with something dangerous. “that’s funny. thought it was ‘tom, tom, tom’ with you.”

“you’re a dick.”

“mm. but i’m the one with my tongue on your pussy, not him.” he punctuates his words with a slow, deliberate drag of his tongue, swirling it over your clit just to hear your breath hitch. “what does that say about you, sweetheart? you know my brother’s right there.”

panic flares in your chest, your head snapping toward the bathroom door. tom’s still in the shower, the sound of running water muffling everything, but not enough. not if you keep making noise like this. “mattheo, we—we can’t—”

“we already are.” his voice is thick with amusement, fingers digging into your thighs as he tilts his head, dragging his tongue in slow circles around your clit. “fuckin’ soaked, princess. all that talk about how much you love my brother, yet look at you.” he presses a kiss to your inner thigh, all mockery, all smug satisfaction. “letting me eat you out on his bed.”

your stomach tightens, shame curling through you, but not enough to stop you from rocking your hips against his mouth when he slides two fingers inside of you, curling them just right. your back arches off the mattress, a broken moan slipping past your lips before you can stop it.

mattheo tsks, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze. his lips are shining with you, his chin dripping, and the way he’s looking at you makes your stomach flip. like he owns you. like he’s already won. “so fuckin’ easy,” he mutters, pumping his fingers slow, deep. his thumb presses against your clit, rubbing light, teasing circles that have your thighs shaking. “thought you’d put up more of a fight.”

“fuck you,” you hiss, but it comes out breathy, wrecked, and he grins.

“yeah, we’ll do that too.” he buries his face between your legs again, tongue flicking, fingers thrusting, and your hands fly to your mouth, desperate to muffle the moans spilling from your lips. but he’s not having it. he yanks one of your hands away, pinning it to your stomach, his other hand still gripping your thigh open. “don’t you fuckin’ dare,” he growls. “i wanna hear you. wanna hear every little sound you make.”

your head tips back against the pillows, your free hand twisting in the sheets. “mattheo—oh my god—”

“c’mon, princess. cum on my tongue,” he urges, voice thick with hunger, with something darker, something possessive. he sucks your clit between his lips, and the coil in your stomach snaps, pleasure slamming into you so hard you forget everything—where you are, who you’re supposed to be loyal to. the only thing that exists is mattheo’s mouth, his hands, the low, satisfied chuckle he lets out as he watches you fall apart beneath him.

he doesn’t stop until you’re squirming away, too sensitive, your breath coming in quick, uneven gasps. only then does he pull back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his dark eyes gleaming.

he leans over you, caging you in, lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, “go clean yourself up, princess. wouldn’t want tom to see you like this, yeah?”

and just like that, he’s gone, slipping out the door like he was never there, leaving you wrecked, panting, and stained with the taste of betrayal.

© leona-hawthorne 2025. please do not copy, translate or repost any of my writing.

ok tomorrow i will concentrate on posting a new au and read all the works i’m looking forward to read!

i’m going to have a stroke, i’m about to be served

⋆˙⟡♡ THE BIRTH OF VENUS

venus [ˈviːnəs] — a roman goddess encompassing the energy of love, beauty, desire, sex and fertility. the planet of venus relates to the way one expresses their values, passions and desires, experiences pleasure and attracts others.

a twelve day celebration going through the valentine’s day up to my birthday. each of the twelve drabbles represents a certain venus placement in the natal chart, revolving around particular kinks that i, personally, associate with that placement.

18+ mdni .ᐟ read the warnings before each drabble. they contain dark topics that are not for everyone, so read at your own discretion. you’re responsible for your media consumption. no taglist.

⟡ navigation ; m.lists

⋆˙⟡♡ VENUS IN ARIES [11/02]

knifeplay, blood kink ; mattheo riddle

⋆˙⟡♡ VENUS IN TAURUS [12/02]

intox kink, dubcon ; cult leader!theo nott

⋆˙⟡♡ VENUS IN GEMINI [13/02]

cheating, sex toys ; bsf!fred weasley

⋆˙⟡♡ VENUS IN CANCER [14/02]

breeding kink, creampie ; chef!theo nott

⋆˙⟡♡ VENUS IN LEO [15/02]

voyeurism, masturbation ; brother’s bsf!lorenzo berkshire

⋆˙⟡♡ VENUS IN VIRGO [16/02]

orgasm denial, begging ; draco malfoy

⋆˙⟡♡ VENUS IN LIBRA [17/02]

oral, overstimulation ; theo nott

⋆˙⟡♡ VENUS IN SCORPIO [18/02]

brat taming, face slapping ; tom riddle

⋆˙⟡♡ VENUS IN SAGGITARIUS [19/02]

public sex, anal ; fred weasley

⋆˙⟡♡ VENUS IN CAPRICORN [20/02]

gunplay, dry humping ; bodyguard!mattheo riddle

⋆˙⟡♡ VENUS IN AQUARIUS [21/02]

cuckold, degradation ; sister’s bf!theo nott ft. mattheo

⋆˙⟡♡ VENUS IN PISCES [22/02]

double penetration, dacryphilia ; theo nott and lorenzo berkshire

can’t wait to read what i missed ari should be a published author btw ESPECIALLY THE PURGE AU MY FAV EVER 🙂‍↕️

ARI’S NAUGHTY LIST ‘24 ੈ✩‧₊˚

welcome to nottsangel’s kinkmas special ! i regretted not doing a kinktober so i am super excited to be participating in kinkmas this year ! to be honest, none of these are christmas related, i just needed an excuse to write a lot of filthy smut … so i really hope you guys will like these !!!! any feedback (reblogs, comments, asks) is highly appreciated and helps keep me motivated to write ! ♡˶

as always, please read the warnings carefully and avoid anything that might be triggering for you. you are responsible for your own media consumption. every single drabble is 18+ only so no minors allowed !

just a heads up— although very unlikely, this list is subject to change. (e.g. order or kinks)

if you want to be added to the taglist for my kinkmas, let me know in the comments !

nav. more content. // masterlist under cut

ONE .

↳ ♡˶ [10.12] cockwarming — dealer!theodore nott

TWO .

↳ ♡˶ [11.12] handjob — harry potter

THREE .

↳ ♡˶ [12.12] choking — draco malfoy

FOUR .

↳ ♡˶ [13.12] face slapping — brothers bsf!theodore nott

FIVE .

↳ ♡˶ [14.12] scissoring — pansy parkinson

SIX .

↳ ♡˶ [15.12] anal — mattheo riddle

SEVEN .

↳ ♡˶ [16.12] just the tip — bsf!theodore nott

— BREAK.

EIGHT .

↳ ♡˶ [12.01] mirror sex — george weasley

NINE .

↳ ♡˶ [13.01] knifeplay — tom riddle

TEN .

↳ ♡˶ [14.01] forced breeding — toxic!theodore nott

ELEVEN .

↳ ♡˶ [15.01] belly bulge — lorenzo berkshire

TWELVE .

↳ ♡˶ [16.01] double penetration — dragonott

THIRTEEN .

↳ ♡˶ [17.01] lap dance — love island au theodore nott

FOURTEEN .

↳ ♡˶ [18.01] face sitting — hermione granger

FIFTEEN .

↳ ♡˶ [19.01] gunplay — the purge au mattheo riddle

SIXTEEN .

↳ ♡˶ [20.01] drugging — stalker!theodore nott

SEVENTEEN .

↳ ♡˶ [21.01] spit kink — fred weasley

EIGHTEEN .

↳ ♡˶ [22.01] oral threesome — mattheodore

— SHORT BREAK

NINETEEN .

↳ ♡˶ [30.01] phone sex — ghostface!theodore nott

TWENTY .

↳ ♡˶ [31.01] thigh riding — blaise zabini

TWENTY-ONE .

↳ ♡˶ [01.02] overstimulation — ron weasley

TWENTY-TWO .

↳ ♡˶ [02.02] voyeurism — new girl au (theodore, mattheo, lorenzo)

© nottsangel 2025. do not copy, translate or claim any of my writing or works as your own.

𐙚 ˙ ⋆.˚ BOYS OF TOMMEN MASTERLIST

➳ navigation. main masterlist.

➳ GERARD GIBSON;

[…]

➳ PATRICK FEELY;

[…]

➳ JOHNNY KAVANAGH;

[…]

➳ JOEY LYNCH;

[…]

➳ AOIFE MOLLOY;

[…]

➳ HUGHIE BIGGS;

[…]

© gibsluv 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚍𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚝, 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚣𝚎, 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚕, 𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚖𝚢

i’m unwell and sick (in a good way) LEONA LEONA LEONA I’M SO FUCKING EXCITED FOR THIS YOU HAVE NO IDEA !!!!

‘offering to teach you how to ride (not just horses, sweetheart)’

he better be ready to take the pillows ✋🏻

❦ COWBOY!MATTHEO

— cowboy!mattheo ; the brooding rancher with a cigarette behind his ear and a hand always resting on his belt buckle. quick with his pistol and quicker with his sharp tongue, he’s trouble—the kind that makes your stomach knot and your knees weak. you’re just here for the summer, helping out on the neighboring ranch, but he’s always there—watching you fix fences, feed the horses, like he’s waiting for something. it doesn’t take long for the tension between you to stretch as thin as the lace on that dress you probably shouldn’t have worn around him. and when he leans close, offering to teach you how to ride (not just horses, sweetheart), you know you’re in real trouble.

navigation. au collection. m.list. cowboy!mattheo

© leona-hawthorne 2025. please do not copy, translate or repost any of my writing.

literally need a man like them

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.

—he loves her!

↪ rin is a private lover, not a secret one. but unfortunately for him, yoichi isagi still manages to figure out that his grumpy teammate has a girlfriend!

pairing: itoshi rin x fem!reader

if there was one thing all the teenage boys at blue lock were able to collectively share (besides their obsession for soccer) it would be the fact that none of them had a girlfriend. as talented as they were with soccer, their dating life wasn't exactly...on par.

at least, that's what they thought. it's late one night after practice when isagi is coming back from the showers, a towel wrapped around his hips and another thrown over his shoulders. he's yawning loudly—expecting to return to an empty room all to himself. but as he's shuffling around in the dark to find a shirt to slip into, he hears it.

the sound is soft and muffled, so quiet he almost misses it completely at first. he's not sure if his ears are playing some sort of a trick on him or what—but then he hears it again

a giggle.

albeit a little scared, isagi turns towards the direction of the sound. rin's bed is tucked into the corner of the room, and his back is facing isagi as he lays curled up under his blankets. they were draped loosely over his shoulders, and there's a dim light shining on the other side of him. isagi realizes he's on a call a second later when he hears rin speak

"i miss you."

isagi freezes, his body rigid with horror as he hears rin's tone—one he has never heard before. it was so sweet and so soft that he wondered if maybe it was someone else laying in rin's bed instead. perhaps an alien pretending to be his stoic teammate? that had to be it, right? since when did rin itoshi sound so sappy?

"i miss you too, rinnie. i still can't believe they won't let me visit you! maybe it's because they know you won't have enough space for all the gifts i want to bring you."

rin's response is quiet enough where isagi can't hear from his spot across the room—but he hears you laugh again. you have a pretty laugh, and isagi's lips twitch at the sound of it.

huh. out of all the people he deemed able to score a girlfriend, the last person he actually expected it to be was rin. the boy seemed more emotionally constipated than everyone else at blue lock combined—but you sound happy talking to him, and rin's back is relaxed from where isagi can see. curiously, he takes a step closer to rin's bed.

"soo! tell me about your new roommates! and the new guys on your team—i can't keep up with them now. anyone you like?" he hears you ask, and rin scoffs. isagi can't see rin's face, but he can imagine he's rolling his eyes. he doesn't want to admit it, but he does want to hear rin's response. praying he doesn't accidentally make a sound, isagi takes a tentative step closer to rin's bed.

"no. everyone is pissing me off—especially isagi. he has such a kickable face, y/n. you'll understand what i mean when you see him at the u-20 match." rin grumbles, and isagi doesn't even have the time to be offended by rin's words before he mistakingly perks up

"you're inviting her to the u-20 match?!"

isagi's eyes widen, and he slaps a hand over his mouth—mortified—as if he could pluck the words out of the air and quickly push them back down his throat. rin's back has gone absolutely stiff now, every muscle tensing up within a split second. he looked about a moment away from turning around before he hears your curious voice speak up

"rinnie, who is that?!" you question, and isagi can hear rin counting under his breath—a tactic he uses to calm himself down whenever shidou tries picking a fight with him—before he gently bid you goodbye.

"i have to go, y/n. i'll call you later, okay?" rin says, his voice scarily calm as you hum in response

"promise? i won't go to sleep until you do, rinnie! that bowl headed guy said i got at least an hour a day with you! who knew spamming him with so many emails a day would—"

"y/n."

"...yeah?"

"i love you. please hang up."

"...i'll be waiting patiently for your next call! please don't kill the guy who interrupted you. bye bye, rinnie!"

isagi hears the gentle ping! of the facetime call ending. rin sits up slowly from where he was once comfortably laying down, and he turns off the ipad before placing it on his bedside table. he turns to meet his teammate's gaze, and isagi swallows the lump in his throat at the sight of rin's face—holy shit he's so dead.

isagi most definitely wasn't supposed to interrupt rin's call with you—but he'd clearly intruded. honestly, he felt bad, but it was an honest mistake!

maybe it was just the sound of rin's voice that threw him off so much—isagi's never heard him talk like that. rin sounded....sad, saying he missed you. it was a moment of vulnerability for him, and the light pink dusting rin's cheekbones gave isagi a clear indicator that he was embarrassed.

"i'm going to count to five, isagi." rin says calmly, standing up slowly as isagi's eyes widen. as composed as rin was trying to appear, it looked like the vein on his forehead was about to pop with how hard he was clenching his jaw and burning a hole into isagi with nothing but his angry eyes

"h-huh?! wait—what happens when you get to five?!"

"i'm going to kill you."

"okay—if you're afraid i'm going to tell anyone about her, you're wrong! i won't, your secret's safe with me!" isagi laughs nervously, holding up his hands in surrender as rin blinks owlishly—before picking up the soccerball that had been resting idly by the foot of his bed

"i was counting to five in my head by the way."

the resounding sound of the ball bouncing off of isagi's skull and ricocheting off the walls was near comical. that night, rin doesn't try too hard to hide his ipad from isagi as he recounts the whole story for you, ignoring isagi's chirps in the background of that's not true! and how he took the soccer ball to the head like a champ!

regardless, isagi kept true to his word and kept rin's secret safe. sure, now he'd pop up behind rin every now and then in the middle of your calls, waving enthusiastically before promptly getting shoved out of frame by rin—his cameos were short lived, but pretty funny to you.

"—i'm hiding under my blankets. i wish the utensils in the cafeteria weren't plastic, otherwise i would've stabbed half the lukewarm idiots here already." rin grumbles as you laugh, watching him shuffle around in the dark

"so gory. ah, that reminds me! remember that horror game you were talking about rin-rin? right before you left? it's out! we can play together when you finish your training, okay? we can pull an all nighter on the weekend when you aren't busy—it'll be a blast!"

rin allows the smallest of smiles to grace his face. he pulls the blankets around him closer, thankful bachira had whisked away isagi for the night so he could talk to you freely once again—that idiot really liked popping into his calls, but rin managed to make a bunch more while unsuspecting isagi was out and about the facility.

"okay." rin says softly, blinking back the water building up in his eyes as he turns up the brightness of his ipad in the dark—your face shows up more clearer and brighter on the screen, and he listens to you talk about your day while you get ready for bed.

you're too busy putting on some sort of a face mask to see the hearts for eyes rin has while he watches you—he'll ruin his eyesight and gladly go blind if it means he can watch you through his screen like this. it was one of the reasons he called you on his ipad rather than his phone—so your face could be projected on a bigger screen for him to admire.

"rinnie? are you tired?"

rin yawns quietly with a nod, rubbing his eyes with a hum

"yeah. but don't hang up, we can just..."

"stay on call again?"

he nods quietly, rolling onto his side and closing his eyes. he hears you shuffling around before you're all tucked into bed too. you hold your phone close to your face—and rin bites the inside of his cheek at the sight.

no one knew it, but rin had trouble falling asleep at the blue lock facility the first night he arrived. the beds weren't too his liking and he was having trouble finding his way around the hundreds of halls that surrounded him—it was a maze, and his body would be tense with unease just about all the time.

the moment he scored enough goals to get electronic privileges, he ignored the weird stares he got and opted for his ipad rather than his phone—the first night he fell asleep soundly was when he fell asleep on a facetime call with you. while it was purely accidental, it worked out for both of you—and now it was your new mini ritual until he was out of here

"night, rinnie. dream of world domination and me, 'kay?" you whisper, and rin smiles with his eyes closed

"goodnight."

isagi wanders back into the shared room an hour later, quietly kicking off his cleats and slipping into his pajamas. he's about to go to sleep when he sees the telltale sign of the dim ipad light glowing from rin's side—he'd fallen asleep on call with you. again.

with a grin, isagi taps the end call button on the dark screen and carefully plugs rin's ipad into the charger, making sure not to wake his sleeping teammate. once that's done, he crawls into his own bed on the other side of the room with a yawn.

isagi was definitely going to tease rin about this in the morning, no doubt. but...it was nice to know his teammate wasn't as heartless as he once thought.

blue lock masterlist :P

🤭🤭🤭🤭🤭

https://x.com/sensualarchives/status/1892277877170696505?s=46

peacekeeper coryo

🔗 (plink)

mmmm peacekeeper!coryo who’s obsessed with his pretty slut from district 12. he’d make fun of the way you practically beg for it, pleading snow—that’s how he orders you to address him, never by his first name—to make you feel good. he didn’t expect anything else from district scum, though. you’re useless anyway, except when it comes to giving him pleasure. the way he degrades you, fucks you and slaps you until you’re all bruised up and sore causes him to relish the power it gives him. you’re his. his toy to use whenever he wants to. and he won’t hesitate to hurt, or maybe even kill, whoever touches what’s his. “you’re mine now, you understand? mine to kiss, mine to touch, mine to use.”